Page 131 of Making a Killing

Stillwell shrugs. ‘Maybe they didn’t. Maybe they got another car. Though Kate would have had to show her driver’s licence to do that.’

‘Asante says there’s a local hire place in Evesham, which his team will cover off,’ says Quinn. ‘Meanwhile, Baxter, I’d like you to check with all the big national firms whether anyone called Kate Madigan hired a car from them in the last two weeks of June, anywhere in the UK.’

‘Couldn’t she have used fake documents for that too?’ offers Ev.

‘It’s possible, but getting a driver’s licence would have been yet more hassle and expense, so my guess is she wouldn’t have bothered. Another reason why I doubt she hired a car at all.’

‘They could have hitched?’ asks Sargent.

Gis grins. ‘Yeah, like that old joke, right?’

She looks puzzled.

‘You know – bloke picks up a hitch-hiker and the first thing he says is, you’re brave, how do you know I’m not a serial killer? Whereupon the hitchhiker says nah, what are the odds of there being two of us in the same car.’

Ev comes up and rejoins them. ‘That was Asante – he’s sending over some CCTV from a builders’ merchants in Evesham. They’re next door to the Hertz depot.’

The atmosphere in the room ticks up a notch – surely Asante wouldn’t bother sending something unless it was significant? Baxter puts the footage up on the main screen.

According to the ticker on the bottom it’s 22.06 on the night of 15th June; Robin Tierney has been dead less than five hours. The camera is angled down the street so they can see both the entrance to the builders’ merchants’ yard and the Hertz office, though it’s at least twenty metres away. As Baxter fast-forwards through there’s barely any proof of life, a dark shadow that’s there then gone and is probably a rat (by the look on Ev’s face she suspects so too), but as the ticker on the bottom clicks over to 22.23, headlights come round the corner and a light-coloured Fiat Panda turns into the street, then pulls up behind a large white transit van, disappearing from view.

It’s too far away to see who’s inside and now they can’t see anything. There’s an agonizing pause and then a woman emerges from behind the van, walking quickly towards Hertz. She’s wearing a grey hoodie pulled up over the top of a baseball cap and low over her eyes, a small holdall over her shoulder. She walks down towards Hertz, pushes the car keys into the box at the gate, then goes back the way she came, vanishing again behind the van. There’s no way of knowing if there is anyone standing by the car waiting for her or if she is alone.

They’re no further forward than they were before.

***

‘You really think this could be it?’ asks Holloway, looking across the road at the building. The Tranquil Haven Guesthouse is two knocked-together thirties semis; pebble-dashed walls painted pale green, leaded-light windows, tubs of flowers either side of the door.

‘Well, according to DS Everett, all the kid could remember about it was that it “wasn’t very nice”,’ says Bell. ‘And it was next to a petrol station because that’s where he parked. So all in all, that Asante bloke thinks this is our best bet.’

They get out of the car and have to jaywalk to get through the traffic. It’s the main road into Evesham and must be noisy even at night, rather belying the promise of peace and quiet.

The woman who opens the door is surprisingly chatty, and even more so when she realizes she’s been catapulted into the middle of a murder investigation. She insists on offering them tea, which comes in pink cups with plastic-wrapped shortbread in the saucer. Holloway sees Bell slip his into his jacket pocket.

‘I do remember we had a young lady staying on her own around then,’ says the landlady, adjusting the cushion behind her back. ‘Booked on the website, as I recall. Means you get the money up front, which is, of course, always a bonus.’ She smiles at them conspiratorially. ‘I’m sure you know what I mean.’

‘Do you know exactly what dates she was here?’

‘I’d have to check on the computer for that, love.’

There’s a pause, and then she twigs. ‘Oh, of course. Silly me. I’ll just go and get my laptop.’

‘Dozy cow,’ mutters Holloway as soon as she’s out of the room. Bell looks around at the room. The pictures of animals in tuxedos and ball gowns, the collection of china poodles, the signed photo of Barry Manilow. He’s struggling not to be weirded out.

‘OK, here we are,’ says the landlady, bustling back into the room and edging the door shut with her backside.

She sits back down and puts on her glasses. ‘Okey-dokey, here we are. June 14th for two nights. Gave her name as Sabrina Madigan and her home address as Belfast.’ She looks up at them over her glasses. ‘Is that your girl?’

‘Sounds like it, Mrs Gale. So she stayed two nights?’

She sits back. ‘That’s what I meant about it always being best to get the cash up front. She checked in that afternoon, stayed the one night, had breakfast, and that was it.’

‘You didn’t see her after the morning of the 15th?’

‘Well, she must have gone out at some stage because there was nothing left in the room, but I never saw her go.’

‘And she didn’t come back after that?’ says Bell. ‘A longer stay, maybe?’

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