‘How long were you and your wife married?’ Eastwood asked, leaving Larry’s question unanswered.
‘We met in school, but we didn’t get married until we were in our early twenties. We were about to celebrate our fortieth wedding anniversary when that woman murdered Sherri.’
‘Have you ever been to the Ashcrofts’ home or their place of work?’ asked Eastwood as Stanford stood up and walked over to the mantelpiece. He picked up Sherri Durant’s funeral programme, the edges dirty and curling as though it’d been picked up and read numerous times.
‘No, I haven’t been to their house or anywhere else,’ Larry stood up, took two long strides across the living room and snatched the funeral programme out of Stanford’s hand. ‘Tabitha Ashcroft killed my wife,’ he said through gritted teeth as though her name was cauterising his flesh.
‘We’re not expecting you to like the questions we ask,’ said Stanford, eyeballing Larry.
Larry turned his back as he carefully placed the programme back on the mantelpiece.
‘I don’t like them and I’m not answering any more. So, if you want answers, you’ll have to arrest me and speak to my lawyer.’
‘Do you believe him?’ asked Eastwood as they walked away from Larry’s house. ‘That he got the injuries on his hands from gardening?’
‘The only thing he didn’t lie about was marking exam papers,’ Stanford replied.
‘Maybe we should— Where on earth are you going?’ Eastwood asked as Stanford left her side and jogged across the road. She turned to follow, but had to stop as a bus drove past.
‘Why did you run off like that?’ Eastwood asked once she’d joined Stanford.
‘Something caught my eye when I picked up his missus’s funeral programme from the mantelpiece.’ Stanford took out his phone and opened his email. ‘Explain to me why you would have a resident parking permit, if you don’t own a car.’
‘You wouldn’t,’ Eastwood said.
‘And why would a Skoda Octavia that you said you don’t own be parked on the other side of the street.’
‘The lying little—’
‘Read out the number plate. I’ll check it matches the DVLA records.’
‘SB12 LKW.’
‘Snap,’ said Stanford, walking to the front of the car. ‘Eastie take a look at this.’
‘I think the old man in there did more than just lie,’ said Eastwood as Stanford took photos of the large spider-webbed crack on the windscreen and the dented bumper.
24
‘This is a very nice building,’ said Ezra as he and Henley stepped into the lift that would take them to Soteria’s offices on the twelfth floor.
‘Are you thinking of leaving us?’ Henley asked. She looked stressed and could easily have blamed her appearance on the cause and effect of working an intense case, but it was more than that. The internal debate that Eastwood, Pellacia and Stanford had a right to know the truth about Rhimes’s death was exhausting her.
‘Why, do you want me to leave?’ Ezra replied.
‘Fishing for a compliment much,’ Henley said in jest as they exited and began to walk down a carpeted hallway. ‘Didn’t think you cared.’
‘I do have a heart,’ Ezra replied.
‘Of course you do and, for my own selfish reasons, I would hate for you to leave,’ Henley admitted, heading for the empty reception desk. ‘Let’s be honest, you’re brilliant. You could be working somewhere like this and earning double the money the SCU pays you.’
‘Triple and benefits.’
‘Triple! Are you serious?’
‘Serious as a heart attack. Every couple of months I get an email from a head-hunter or the NCA cyberunit wanting to talk to me about exciting opportunities. You’d think they’d give up asking.’
‘They want you because you’re good, Ez. Best of the best.’
