Faraday 01 The Gigabyte Detective (4 page)

“Charlie.” He moved towards her but she pulled away and he didn’t try to follow her. “We’ve got to face the facts. No partnership like ours will last unless each of the partners thinks the other is the most important person in their life. I’ve realised for some time that I’m not as important to you as your job.”

She shook her head and took a breath to reply but he hurried on. “The question I needed to ask myself is whether you’re still the most important thing in the world to me.”

“And am I?”

He looked straight into her face for the first time. “I realised, when I was honest with myself, that it was more important to me to stay here than go with you to Torquay - not that you’ve asked me, of course.”

“I see.” She was silent for a while, digesting the import of his words. “So - where does that leave us?”

“Well, Dominic said he had spare room, so I went round to look at it.” He turned away guiltily. “I can move in over the weekend if I want to.”

She gulped. “And do you want to?” Her heart was pounding in her chest. Surely things hadn’t got that bad.

“Since you’re off on Monday.” He still wouldn’t look at her. “I thought I might as well grasp the nettle, so to speak.”

“But you can stay on here while I’m in Devon. It’s only for three months, Mitch.” Charlotte thought that would give them a chance to pull back from the brink if they decided they still needed each other.

He shook his head. “I couldn’t afford this flat by myself - not on my salary.”

“You know that money doesn’t matter, Mitch. I’m going to keep the place on anyway. It’s better for it to be occupied while I’m away.”

“No,” he said, “I don’t want to be supported by you.”

“Oh, you’re so bloody proud!” She grabbed his arm and swung him round, forcing him to face her. “What’s the point of making some stupid statement of principle like that? You won’t save me anything by moving out if I’ve got to pay the rent anyway. And the Devon and Cornwall Police Authority will be meeting my subsistence costs while I’m down there, so I’ll be able to afford it.”

His eyes slid defensively away from her again. “It isn’t only that, Charlie. You know as well as I do, that if I stay here, we’ll both put our lives on hold for another period to see if anything’s changed when you get back. That’s not fair on either of us.”

“But it’s only three months, Mitch. Surely that’s not too long to wait after the best part of six years.”

“Yes it is,” he insisted. “It would be different if we thought something might change. But it won’t.”

She felt the anger begin to bubble up inside her. “What you are really saying, Mitch, is that the only way I can save our relationship is by giving up my job and saying sorry to the people in Devon. That’s what you want me to do, isn’t it?”

At last he looked into her eyes. “Well - would you?” he challenged.

“Don’t be silly, Mitch. You know I’m on six month’s notice. Also, I’ve already accepted the Torquay post and I can’t let them down at this late stage. If I did my name would stink in police forces throughout the length and breadth of the country.”

“I knew that would be your reply.” He shook his head. “I’ve been thinking a lot about this recently, Charlie. The fact is, I don’t want to spend the rest of my life with a top policewomen - always coming second to the job. And I realise that there’s no way I can earn enough as a secondary school teacher for you to be able to afford to give up your job - even if you agreed to. So,” he shrugged, “there’s no future, is there?”

Charlotte suddenly felt she couldn’t take any more, coming just at this time when she was embarking on a new set of demands for her programme. Even though she knew it wasn’t going to solve anything, she wanted to get away from the row which had erupted so unexpectedly. She turned and ran into the bedroom where she could be alone. Throwing herself on the bed she shed her first tears for more than six years. No doubt that would amuse the fellows in her section if they ever found out.

Mitch slept that night on the sofa and he moved out the next morning while Charlotte went shopping.

-
2. Monday
-

Stafford set off for Exeter early. He had been told to be present to meet the new DCI at ten, but he wanted to make sure he was there before she turned up. Beside him on the seat lay the copy of the newspaper article which he had read at least ten times over the weekend. He almost knew it word for word by now:-

WHO WILL IT BE THIS SUMMER?

Do you remember the shocking death of Cynthia Adams? She was the former lady mayoress of Torquay who was murdered in the Metropole Hotel almost exactly a year ago - on June 18th to be exact. So who was arrested and found guilty of this awful crime?

We approached the police authority in Exeter where a spokesman told us “This is still very much an ongoing investigation. We do not expect to make a further statement to the press in the near future” In other words, they haven’t got a clue who did it.

We have made other enquiries and we understand our local CID have carried out more than a thousand DNA tests on people known to Cynthia Adams without finding a match. Similar checks with the national database have been unsuccessful. It means the man has disappeared without leaving a trace. Her murderer is still out there.

But this paper may have found a set of clues which the police haven’t previously considered. How did we do this? Simple. We looked through back copies of this newspaper about a year before Cynthia Adams was murdered. And what did we find? We found a very similar death twelve months ago. On 3rd or 4th July last year the wife of rich businessman Richard de Billiere died mysteriously. However, due to a complete lack of evidence, it was decided at the inquest that her death was due to misadventure

With that information we decided to look at earlier years and what we found was deeply worrying -

In 2007Julia Hillman, wife of the then mayor died on 28th June, hung by the cord of her own dressing-gown. The coroner passed a verdict of suicide.

In 2006, on 19th June, Mariella Prince, spinster daughter of one of Torquay’s fop solicitors was drowned in a shallow pool on the River Dart. It was assumed she had slipped and knocked herself unconscious so a verdict of accidental death was recorded.

In 2005 Stella Parsons, wife of a businessman from Nottingham was drowned on 7th July while swimming off Anstey’s Cove. Stella was a brilliant long distance swimmer who represented England in the 1984 Olympics. However the inquest assumed she had been caught out by a sudden change in the weather and a verdict of misadventure was returned.

Are these five deaths which occurred in five successive years at about the same time each year simply a huge coincidence? Or is there a more suspicious explanation? What do you think?

Whatever you may think about the sequence of events it would perhaps be wise, if you are a woman, for you to be very careful for the next few weeks and to make sure that you are accompanied if you go out at night or if you visit a remote location.

Of course Stafford had spent Saturday morning looking out copies of the coroner’s findings and the evidence submitted to the inquest on each occasion. He had carefully read all the papers and could find nothing that might suggest the findings were incorrect.

Nevertheless there was a deep worry dragging at him as he drove into the city.

* * * * * * * *

Susannah Blake walked into the Harbourside Cafe and took a seat near the window. She removed her dark glasses, closed her eyes, leaned against the high seat back and let the sun soak into the pores of her still exquisite skin. It was this which had always been her greatest asset. It was the texture and colour of her flesh, rather than the beauty of her features or the slimness of her figure - or even, she had to admit, the quality of her acting, which had once had producers fighting each other to sign her for their television series.

That had been quite a few years ago, before she had turned forty. That sort of thing no longer happened. Now they only wanted youngsters with willowy figures and boobs the size of hens’ eggs. She and her generation had been consigned to the rubbish bin.

She didn’t open her eyes to acknowledge the usual cup of black, unsugared coffee which was placed before her by the waitress. She just laid her head back and thought of the past, a leisure activity in which she now often indulged. She wasn’t foolish enough to wish she was back there. She much preferred the isolated existence of being wife to Stephen Holdsworth, multi-millionaire businessman, friend of government ministers, seventy year-old seven day-a-week workaholic.

In her present life she was spared the traumas, the doubts, the terror before each performance, the catty reviews, the fearful self-doubt. She enjoyed the life she now had of pampered leisure, only asked every now and again to perform the role of adoring wife at some of the public appearances he made.

“Mind if I sit here?”

Her eyes opened to observe a man with dark curly hair in the act of occupying the chair across the table from her.

“All the other window seats are taken,” he explained with a sweep of his white, shirt-sleeved arm in the opposite direction.

Her elegant hand made a gesture of acquiescence.

“It’s such a beautiful morning.” He leaned forward in conspiratorial fashion. “You want to be able to take advantage of the sun on the few days you get it. Don’t you agree?”

She reached for her coffee cup, lifted it to her lips and took a sip. Then she closed her eyes again. Perhaps he would take the hint and move to another table.

But he wasn’t so easily dismissed. “This is my favourite harbourside restaurant,” he volunteered. “I don’t get down to Torquay very often these days, and I like to take my coffee here whenever I can.”

She tried to ignore him, to forget the people round her and let her mind slip back to her carefully nurtured and gilded memories. She liked to sit and think of the past and what might have been, if she had possessed that extra little bit of talent, or (more possibly) that driving ambition which she knew she lacked. But she wasn’t going to be allowed to escape today.

“I expect you live here,” said the man. “You’re so lucky. You’ve got the best weather in Britain and there are magnificent views along the coast.”

She sighed and opened her eyes again. As she took another long sip, she studied the man over the top of her coffee cup. She had to admit he had an interesting face. The skin, over the top of the fine bones, had a weathered quality. On closer scrutiny she guessed he was only a few years younger than herself. It was grossly unjust, the way that age seemed to favour men.

“Do you live in Torquay?” asked the man. His dark blue eyes looked directly into hers without a trace of embarrassment.

“I have a house on the Marine Drive,” she admitted. She removed her sunglasses and looked at him more openly. She had a strange feeling that she had looked into eyes just like those on some previous occasion. She couldn’t remember when it was.

He suddenly pointed at her. “I think I know who you are,” he said. “Aren’t you Susannah Blake? I saw you on the box quite recently. They had a late night re-run of the Connaught series. I thought you were superb in that.”

She smiled at him, feeling a sudden warmth for his prattling. Of course she had stayed up to see every episode, revelling in the golden glow of past achievement. She said, a little regretfully, “that was recorded more than twenty years ago.”

“It’s amazing. You hardly seemed to have changed at all.” He shook his head. “Why don’t they make series like that anymore? The modern stuff doesn’t seem to have any glamour. It’s all swearing and mucky town centres.”

“I suppose it’s what the public wants.”

“Wouldn’t they do a new Connaught series, if someone like you suggested it?”

“Someone like me?” she laughed. “I have no influence. Furthermore I’ve been out of the acting game for more than ten years - since my second marriage. My husband wouldn’t want me to take it up again, even if there was a decent offer.”

He was looking out of the window. “I suppose not,” he mused. “Your private life must be more important to you now, than any thoughts of a career.”

“Private life!” she thought to herself derisively. She probably spent less than an average of four hours a week in Stephen’s company. They slept together on average perhaps three nights a month. Her two children from her first marriage were grown up and had careers of their own. They would maybe call in to visit her briefly once or twice a year. She had a handful of local friends who she met occasionally. Otherwise she was alone - not lonely, but left to herself.

“You’re not some sort of freelance writer, are you?” she asked suspiciously.

“Me?” He chuckled and it was a pleasant, deep throated sound. “Oh no. I don’t do anything nearly as glamorous as that.”

She felt bound to ask, “So what do you do?”

“It’s much more boring than you.” He took a deep draught of his coffee and leaned back in his chair. “I’m an accountant.”

“I don’t know anything about that sort of thing. My husband’s the businessman.”

“I’m just down here on holiday,” he said. “I want to forget about business for two weeks.”

“So - what are you doing in here? - taking the sun while your wife and kids go round the shops?”