Page 64 of Making a Killing

She should have guessed he’d guess. He’s not stupid, and the only time the police have ever been in his life it was about her.

‘Yes,’ says Sargent. ‘I’m afraid it is.’

He looks curious now, a little confused maybe.

‘I don’t get it. It was years ago.’

‘I know,’ says Ev. ‘And I wish we didn’t have to bring it up again, but I’m afraid we have to.’

He sits back. Ev can see Jean watching them from the kitchen. Giving them space but careful, all the same.

‘So what is it?’

‘Have you seen the news about a grave being found in Gloucestershire?’

He shrugs. ‘Not really. It’s not my sort of thing.’

And who can blame him.

‘Well,’ continues Ev, keeping a steady tone, ‘the police up there are doing an investigation, and they found some evidence that they couldn’t explain.’

He frowns again. ‘Oh yeah?’

‘There was some hair in the grave, Gary. Not from the victim. Someone else. A girl.’

He must sense the undercurrent, that something feels wrong about this.

Ev sits forward a little. ‘It’s Daisy’s, Gary. The hair is your sister’s.’

He stares at her, blinks, then breathes. Jean appears at the doorway and he glances across at her, then turns back, stronger now.

‘I don’t have a sister.’

***

The briefing goes as well as it could. Some good questions, some slightly snarky undertones, but Asante thinks that, on balance, most of them have now shifted from ‘Stupid up-themselves Thames Valley fuckers’ to ‘Poor bastards, this could have happened to anyone’.

Back in the incident room he has to ask someone where he’s supposed to sit, which is a bit infra dig, and what with hot-desking and the holiday season, sorting that out takes rather longer than it should, but in the end he’s set up opposite Triona Bradley. He hadn’t realized until that point that she was a DS, but it makes sense, given most of the good questions in the meeting came from her. He’s also pretty sure – though how, he has no idea – that she knows all about his abortive fumble with Tate. Not that she’d be so crass as to mention it. Just that look she gave him, and a couple of sidelong amused glances since. He likes her, though, based on impressions so far. She’ssharp, and he guesses probably very funny, outside a work environment. He also suspects her off-to-a-pheasant-shoot look is cryptic colouration, donned for maximum camouflage in rural Gloucestershire; he finds himself wondering what she wears at home.

‘Anything I can help you with?’ she asks now. ‘With the obvious exclusion of anything techy, needless to say, for which you will most definitely need a nerd.’

‘I think I’m OK, thanks,’ he says, connecting up his laptop. ‘I’m pretty good at this stuff, usually.’

‘Lucky you. I don’t so much have Computer Support on speed-dial as hourly drive-by wellness checks.’

He smiles. ‘Protesting too much, I’m sure.’

Her turn to smile. ‘Maybe, just a little. Purely for effect, obvs.’

She has red lipstick, something else he suspects is quite deliberate.

Her phone rings. ‘DS Bradley.’ A pause. ‘He requested that, did he? OK, tell him I’ll meet him there.’

She finishes the call and looks up. ‘Your boss has asked for a GPR survey of the Hescombe site this afternoon. To rule out the possibility of another grave. And with added cadaver dogs, no less.’

‘I see.’

‘You’ll be more than welcome to join me. And in the meantime I’m going out to get a coffee that has been at least proximate to a bean at some stage in its existence, unlike the hot brown liquid on offer here. You’re more than welcome to join me for that too.’

---