‘Dunno. Wallace didn’t say.’
‘Charli,’ says Jonny, swivelling his screen and licking his fingers at the same time. ‘Charli Ray, previously Harcourt, beforethatCharlotte Raymond. Married twenty-six years ago, divorced seven years ago. They have one daughter, Lulu, who’s studying textiles in Brighton.’
‘Amazing. Where is Charli right now?’
‘Looks like she’s migratory.’ He taps a bit more, and an Instagram feed fills the screen. ‘Look at this. Mustique, Verbier, Fiji …’ Charli appears to have visited almost every luxury resort in the world, and from the look of her feed she buys a new kaftan each time. In close-up shots of her face she’s an equal blend of sunglasses, skin cream and surgery. Imagine a sentient set of cheekbones and you’ve got the vibe. ‘Dunno where she is now. Last post was a week ago in the UAE.’
‘All right, well, let’s put her and the daughter on the list.’
I’ve been a bit worried ever since the index cards came out, but I’ve bitten my tongue until now. I’d better say something. ‘Guys, are we sure weneedto do more of this?’ They all look at me. ‘I mean, I don’t want to sound like a …’ I fumble for the word.
‘Coward?’ That’s Elle.
‘Pussy?’ That’s Em.
‘Faintheart?’ One nice thing about Jonny, I decide, is that you have no idea what word he’s going to say next.
‘I don’t want to soundlame, but we’ve been to Dead ManDavy’s workplace and found out there was a lot going on with him – rows with colleagues and family life and all that. Are we sure this is a good idea? Now we know there’s lots for the police to get their teeth into?’
‘Thinking of going somewhere, Al?’ Em throws me a wicked little glance.
Elle and Jonny look blank, and I suddenly feel a bit grateful to Em for not telling them about what happened last night, which is obviously insane. Is this how Stockholm syndrome starts? She continues: ‘Still got that notebook I showed you?’
‘Yeah, I think so,’ I say, as casually as I can manage.
‘What did you do with it after our chat?’ I get it out, and she nods. ‘Take a closer look.’
I look again, and realise it’s a page-per-week diary for the year.
Inside the first page:
If lost, please return to:
Reward: £15
Jonny asks, ‘What is this?’
‘It was on the desk in Davy’s home office, next to my phone,’ Em says. ‘I thought it might be useful.’
‘You appropriated an item that explicitly links us to the murder location?’
‘We’re already linked to the place about four different ways, Jonny. If they catch us, this won’t make any difference.’
‘I still think it’s a grave error.’
Em leans forward and taps the diary. ‘Let’s just let Al look inside.’
I flip through the diary, and notice a couple of things. Firstly, what a skinflint. £15 for the convenience of recovering a year’s diary? The main thing, though, is that there are hardly any appointments, across the entire year. One isPen Bday, one isWed Ann, another isDiv Ann, but in the coming month there are just two events. The first is in two days’ time, and it says215 Feathers. The second is two days after that:BB AGM.
‘OK. This is clearly his personal diary, not work. So he was boring. So what? That’s just being in your fifties, isn’t it?’
‘Come on. Two appointments in the next month? He was hiding away in that house, Al, you said so yourself. He was waiting, with a gun, for whoever turned up because he thought they’d be coming to kill him. And he was right. These appointments are relevant somehow.’
I look at them.BBrings a faint bell. ‘I’ve seen those letters before. Recently, I mean.’
‘Where?’
