“But stayed living at home with his grandma.”
“Yup.” She reaches into her bag for a green cardboard folder, sliding out a single sheet of paper from the top but keeping it facedown. “So the place he worked had thousands of staff—still does—and before the turn of the millennium, some poor bastard there was tasked with a special project. A hardback yearbook, featuring pictures of every single UK employee. Every team, in every shop and warehouse.”
I take a sip of my coffee. “Sounds like a nightmare assignment.”
“I know, right?” She turns the sheet over, spins it around so it’s facing me. It’s a color photo of a group of people, standing in front of a large industrial building. It’s formal, posed, a few dozen people in four tiered ranks, each one higher than the one in front. The building in the background has a large corporate logo over its entrance. “Take a look at the back row.”
I scan the faces. It doesn’t take long to find the handsome, square-jawed profile of a man in his early twenties with a passing resemblance to a young Zac Efron.
“That’s Flack, isn’t it?”
“It is.” She points down to a figure on the right, a slim man with thick glasses and an awkward smile. “And this guy here, do you recognize him?”
It takes a moment for the penny to drop, for a memory to slot into place. The picture that Webber had showed me yesterday, at the pub: a young man with wavy dark-blond hair and a shy smile.
“Shit.” I stare a bit closer at the image. “That’s Edward Stiles, isn’t it?”
She points her index finger at me as if she’s aiming a gun. “Gold star for Adam.”
“So… they worked together at this place? There’s a direct link between Flack and Edward Stiles, they maybe knew each other?”
“Or at least Flack knew enough about Stiles to know that he was a loner, struggling with his own issues, who might not be missed straightaway if he dropped out of sight. An easy target. An ideal target. That’s probably why the Rolex ended up in your house.”
A chill flows over my skin, like a cold draft. “You think… Flack killed him?”
“Flack plus his sidekick, if your disgraced ex-copper is to be believed.”
I don’t tell her I’ve already got a decent idea who the sidekick is.
“Exactly.” I nod. “The two of them.”
My phone buzzes with a message from Alissa@14BG, one of the admins in charge of the neighborhood WhatsApp group.
Hi Adam, sorry for delay getting back to you, have been at Pilates. Helena’s with me now if you want me to ask her about Sarah?
I stand up from the table.
“Sorry,” I say. “Got to go. Thanks for the picture. Can I keep it?”
She hands the sheet to me. “Stay in touch, Adam.”
I give her a thumbs-up as I hurry to the stairs.
67
I spot the battered white Toyota just as it’s pulling out of the driveway of number fourteen Blenheim Gardens, and follow it on a brief journey to the other side of The Park. The driver is slow and careful, cautious at junctions and respectful of cyclists and pedestrians—as if they’re on their best behavior.
They pull over on Valley Terrace, in front of another big Victorian house with another big drive.
I guess Wednesday must be a busy day for them, with one booking after another.
Tobias gets out of the driver’s side of the pickup truck and goes to the tarpaulin at the back, lifting out a shovel and a chainsaw from the cargo bed. Helena gets out of the other side and fetches a small carrier of cleaning supplies, checking on bottles of spray and polish.
I park up close behind them and get out. Need to do this now, before she disappears inside the property.
“I know it’s you,” I say as I walk up to her. “I know what you’ve been doing.”
She looks up in surprise. She’s wearing the same pink housecoat she’d worn at our house and seems smaller, somehow, standing on the pavement.
