‘I’ve already told you much more than I should have.’
‘Have you found Kathryn yet?’
He ignores my question. ‘She should never have involved you in this.’
‘But she did.’
‘Yes,’ he says quietly. ‘She did.’
I think for a moment. ‘The case those two men were suspects in, Church and Markovitz, did it have anything to do with Kathryn’s sister?’
He stops and his head turns toward me again, his eyes finding mine. ‘What?’
‘Her sister. It’s connected, isn’t it?’
His voice is flat, neutral, some of the warmth leached away. ‘What makes you say that?’
For a moment, I consider lying to him. Keeping this to myself. But he’s gone out of his way to help me, to tell me things he probably shouldn’t have, and I feel bad holding anything back from him.
‘I went to Kathryn’s flat,’ I say. ‘Talked to her boyfriend.’
‘What . . . ?’ He frowns in exasperation. ‘This is what I’m talking about, Ellen. You do things like this, it will put you in more danger. How did you even . . . know where to find her? When were you there?’
‘Earlier today. I saw DS Holt as he was leaving and—’
He puts both palms up like he’s stopping traffic. ‘Hold on,Nathanwas there?’ He sits back down again, his frown deepening. Clearly, this is another unwelcome surprise. ‘On his own? You’re absolutely sure it was him?’
‘Yes.’
Gilbourne’s face darkens and I can almost see the gears turning, surprise turning to disbelief. Disbelief turning to suspicion. He’s about to say something else when his phone rings and he snatches it from his jacket, answering in monosyllables.
‘What?’ he says, turning away from me. ‘You sure? Where? Give me that again.’ He flips open a notebook with his free hand and scribbles something on it. He ends the call and stands up, checking his watch.
‘Stuart—’
‘I have to go.’ He hesitates for a moment, then places a hand lightly on my arm. ‘Look after yourself, Ellen. And please remember what I said.’
My head pulses with unanswered questions. But he’s already gone, striding down the drive and onto the dark street outside.
34
DI Gilbourne
Gilbourne watched from a safe distance, the smoke of his cigarette curling up into the evening sky. He was out on the station’s fourth-floor fire escape again, taking the opportunity of a short break from phone calls and interview notes and spooling through hours of CCTV footage. He had watched Holt pull into the car park five minutes ago, choose a space in the far corner and sit in his Ford Focus, mobile glued to his ear. His partner was gesturing with his free hand as he talked but he wasn’t getting out of the car, just talking, talking.
Gilbourne’s first cigarette was burned almost down to the filter so he shook out another one from the packet and lit it off the burning butt, grinding the first beneath the heel of his brogue. Why was Holt skulking out here in a dark corner of the car park where his colleagues on the second floor couldn’t see him? Maybe a personal call? A girlfriend? But Holt had never been shy of bringing his personal life into the office before; in fact he seemed to revel in it, wanting to let it be known that he was a player with two or three women on the go at any one time.
There was something else going on with him. And why was he going rogue, going back out to interview Kathryn Clifton’s boyfriend without telling him? Without telling his DI, his partner, the senior investigating officer on this case?
Gilbourne watched as Holt finished his call and held the phone against the steering wheel, now two-thumb typing a message or an email. Gilbourne dialled the young detective’s number and put the phone to his ear, listening as it connected and started to ring. He watched, from his vantage point on high, as Holt reached into his jacket and pulled out another phone, his normal phone, looked at the display for a second and then touched the screen. Gilbourne’s ear filled with the sound of his partner’s recorded voice.
‘Hello, you’ve reached the voicemail of Detective Sergeant Nathan Holt, please leave a message and I’ll—’
Gilbourne ended the call and watched as Holt slipped the handset back into his jacket, returning his attention to the other phone.Twophones. His regular mobile and . . . what? A burner phone that couldn’t be traced?
His own mobile rang in his hand and he checked the display before answering.
‘Rhodri,’ he said, flipping the half-finished cigarette away. ‘How’s life treating you?’
