The Whole Truth

Somer opens what he’s sent her, then sits back. ‘This is the one? This is definitely the username?’

Baxter glances up and frowns. ‘Yeah. So? Didn’t mean anything to me.’

‘No,’ she says softly, almost to herself. ‘But it means something, all the same.’

* * *

It’s Ev who picks up the call. ‘Asante?’ she says, looking up. ‘Line three for you.’

He recognizes the voice straight away.

‘Ms Monroe, what can I do for you?’

A slight pause. ‘What you said before, when you were here –’

Asante reaches for his pen. ‘Oh yes?’

‘You were asking about any of our clients who might have had a motive – some sort of grudge? I’ve spoken to my colleagues and even though it goes against all our professional instincts, we’ve agreed that the circumstances justify making an exception.’

She stops, takes a breath. Asante says nothing. He knows the value of silence.

‘There was someone. A couple she was assessing as potential adopters. Unfortunately, they didn’t turn out to be suitable.’

‘I see.’

‘And they were in their forties. It was probably their last chance. The gentleman – he was very angry. Shouting, making threats –’

Asante frowns. ‘Physical threats?’

‘Oh no,’ she says quickly. ‘Nothing like that. He said he had “contacts”, that he’d ruin her career, that sort of thing. It was very unpleasant. We were on the point of calling the police.’

Asante gets out his notebook. ‘And can you tell me why they were rejected?’

‘Not “rejected” – “not considered suitable”,’ she says quickly. ‘And no. I’m pushing it as it is.’

‘But that makes it difficult for us to –’

‘It was only two or three weeks ago,’ she says, cutting across him. ‘Couldn’t you just say you’re speaking to all the clients who’d seen her recently?’

She’s shrewd, this woman.

‘Fair enough. We can probably get away with that. Can you give me the address?’

He starts to write it down, only to find himself stumbling at the postcode and checking his prejudice. Because it’s not Cowley or Blackbird Leys or Littlemore, but sought-after OX2.

‘Thanks,’ he says. ‘I’ll do my best not to land you in it.’

She sighs. ‘I still feel bad about it. But I’d never be able to forgive myself if it turned out to be him and I hadn’t said anything.’

‘I’ll let you know how it goes.’

‘I’d rather you didn’t,’ she says quickly. And then, after a pause, ‘But do pop in if you’re passing the Iffley Road.’

When he puts down the phone a few moments later Asante is smiling.

* * *

‘OK,’ says Baxter, leaning back in his chair and looking up at Quinn. ‘I’ve done a sweep of all the CCTV around Walton Well bridge but I’ve got bugger all to show for it.’

Quinn frowns. ‘I don’t believe it – there must be something –’

Baxter makes a face. ‘Nope. The nearest cameras are on Walton Street. He could easily have got to the bridge and out without passing either of ’em.’

Quinn’s still frowning. ‘You’re absolutely sure there are no cameras on the actual bridge?’

Baxter takes a heavy breath. ‘I do know what I’m doing, you know.’

‘What about Shrivenham Close?’

Baxter shakes his head. ‘Nearest footage is from the ring-road roundabout. I gave up counting the number of dark saloons when I got past sixty. Without a make and model we’re sunk before we start. And that’s assuming he actually went in that direction. There are at least a dozen other ways he could have gone.’

‘Yeah, yeah,’ mutters Quinn. ‘No need to rub it in.’

* * *

‘Mr Cleland?’

‘Yes, what do you want?’

The man on the step is wearing a pair of white tailored shorts and a bright-pink striped shirt. The shirt is untucked. Behind him, the building looms, florid, immaculately maintained, and rather larger than strictly necessary. If there was ever a contest for Owner Most Like His House, this bloke would walk it.

Asante holds out his warrant card. ‘DC Anthony Asante,’ he says in his best public-school voice, making sure to pronounce the ‘h’. He finds it helps, in OX2.

The man frowns. ‘Oh yes?’ He glances quickly down the drive and looks relieved to find the Range Rover is still there. ‘What is it?’

‘May I come in? It’s a little complicated.’

The man hesitates, looking Asante up and down, but evidently decides it’s safe to allow him on the premises. It’s probably the Burberry tie. That tends to help too.

The sitting room reminds Asante of his parents’ house in Holland Park. Expensive furniture, framed antique prints, coffee-table books. But there’s an ease about his parents’ place, a naturalness, that he doesn’t sense here. He looks around, trying to figure out why. Perhaps it’s the too-many decanters (Three perhaps, but five? Who needs five?) or the fact that all the prints seem to show people killing things; or perhaps it’s just that everything is a little too tidy, a little too arranged. He can’t picture a kid in here. Out in the garden, there’s a woman sitting under an umbrella on what Cleland no doubt refers to as the ‘terrace’.

‘Is that your wife?’

Cleland frowns again. ‘Yes. Why?’

‘Perhaps she could join us? It would save me saying everything twice.’