by Keith Dixon
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
LATER THAT MORNING Laura and I drove in convoy to Waverley, with me following behind at a respectful distance. I could see her blonde head sitting up pertly in the driver’s seat, her eyes occasionally wandering to the rear-view mirror and smiling at me when we were close enough to exchange glances. I wasn’t sure how I felt about this shift in the relationship. She was vulnerable and probably not making the best judgements she could. I hadn’t exactly made it easier for her to keep a distance from me.
Over breakfast she’d asked me to talk about what I’d learned to date. I told her I was sure that what had happened to Rory and Tara was done by someone they knew. Rory was in the office early—probably for a pre-arranged meeting. I didn’t tell Laura that there was nothing in his diary for that day. I said that I guessed the murderer had let himself in beforehand using a swipe card that he’d stolen or kept or got hold of in some other way.
Plus, my gut told me something else was going on. There was the person in the BMW that I’d heard arguing with Tara, and then driving off so quickly I could only swallow his dust. There was the man Melissa Ball was convinced Tara was seeing. Were all these the same person? It seemed likely.
Plus I didn’t believe this was an unmotivated murder, but neither of the usual motives for kidnapping Tara seemed relevant—sexual assault or ransom. So it must have been motivated by something else.
I believed Rory and Tara knew the person responsible for their fates, and he might know me. So I had to do something. Going from one interview to another was one thing—but it wasn’t the same as throwing down a gauntlet. That’s why I’d asked Carol to collect the swipe cards. There was no way I could read any data from them to see when or where they’d been used, but that wasn’t the point. The point was to raise a doubt, to show that someone was thinking things through.
Laura asked me whether there were any potential suspects.
‘Take your pick,’ I said. ‘The disgruntled programmer, Andy Braithwaite. The sacked Operations Director, Gerald Finch.’ I went on to list various unhappy consultants, including Eddie Hampshire and Mal O’Donovan. Maybe Tara had had Rory murdered and someone had then paid her back. Maybe Champion, the investors, had taken out a contract on Rory for squandering their money—
‘Now you’re being silly.’
‘Nothing ever surprises me about human beings,’ I said. ‘Read the papers. Every day, something new and bizarre. I’m not ruling anything out.’
‘But you have a theory.’
‘As it happens.’
‘But you’re not going to tell me anything.’
‘There’s nothing concrete yet, so no.’
I did tell Laura about the visit of Tara’s father—the man I still thought of as Major Hoyt. But I didn’t think the timing was right to tell her that I’d produced a child by Tara eighteen years before. I still didn’t know what to think about this person who was apparently my son. The feelings I had were strange, but not as uncomfortable as I might have expected.
Laura and I arrived at Brands within a couple of minutes of each other. She met me in reception and led me into one of the small rooms and shut the door. This was part of the plan we’d put together. To look as though we were plotting.
After half an hour or so, she went and spoke quietly to Carol, and the pair of them came back with a carrier bag filled with swipe cards. We shut the door again and tipped the cards on the table. They were credit-card size, dark blue, with the name of the company who leased the building written in capitals on one side and nothing but a black magnetic strip on the reverse. Carol had written the names of their owners in felt-pen on each one. They slid and clattered on the table like chips in a casino.
‘There are still half a dozen or so to come,’ Carol said. ‘But I’ve spoken to everyone and they say they’ve put them in the post.’
I picked up the cards in handfuls and began to put them back in the carrier bag.
‘What are you going to do?’ Laura asked me.
‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘Carol, give them back tomorrow. I’ve got another e-mail for you to send out.’
She looked at me grimly, then pulled a writing pad from the table towards her. I said, ‘Tell everyone thanks for responding so quickly. And tell them that I said it’s been a great help in the investigation. Make sure you mention my name.’
She looked up. ‘How has it helped?’ she said. ‘You haven’t done anything with them.’
‘We’ve thrown out some bait. Let’s see if anyone has a big enough mouth to swallow.’
