‘Nine times out of ten it’s for money, love or revenge. Isn’t that what they say?’
‘In films and books, maybe. But this is real—’
‘Promise me you won’t come after Iris.’
‘I can’t promise you that. You know I can’t promise you that. We’ll have to go where the investigation takes us. We’re going to have to talk to a whole bunch of kids who knew him, Iris included.’
‘Jesus, Roly.’ Ash rakes his fingers through his hair. ‘This is such a mess. Canyoutalk to her? Don’t let someone she doesn’t know interrogate her, will you?’
‘It won’t be an interrogation, Ash. More like a wee chat. She doesn’t have to come in to the police station or anything. Not unless we need a statement. But, yes, I can talk to her personally, if that makes you feel better. She’s a minor. She’ll need a parent present, so you can be there too.’
Ash nods.
‘Look, for all we know, there’s DNA on Knoll’s body,’ Ian says. ‘Or on his clothes. We should find out soon enough.’ Seeing Ash’s blue eyes widen, Ian adds hastily, ‘I didn’t mean Iris’s DNA. I meant the murderer’s. I’ll keep you posted. You know, unofficially. OK?’ He’s not sure why he promises this. He can’t tell Ash anything. He’s not even supposed to share anything with Jo.
Ash drains the rest of his pint. Ian has never seen him look so scared. Ash gets up to go. Ian stands, grabs Ash’s arm, retains him.
‘Hang on. I’ll drop you home,’ Ian says, although Ash’s house is just a stone’s throw from the pub.
Ash pulls away and walks off without saying goodbye.
Ian sits back down and smokes another cigarette. He’s consumed with guilt. Guilt for smoking a fag when Jo so badly wants him to quit. Guilt for running over Tracey. He has his Catholic upbringing to thank for all the guilt. (The fact he’s a lapsed Catholic only makes it worse.) Above all, he feels bad about not helping his best friends and his goddaughter more when they were having such a shit time. He tried to be there for them, but he wanted to do more than just show support. But cybercrime isn’t his field.
Murder, now thatishis field. This time he can do something. He’s the fecking SIO on the case. But he can’t possibly do what Ash has asked him to do. He’ll feel bad about not doing it, though. It’s a damned if you do, damned if you don’t situation.
On the table, next to the ashtray, is the knotted glove containing the roach. Honestly, it’s like the bloody thing is staring at him. He gets up and scissors over the bench. Then he pulls his keys out of his pocket, grabs the plastic glove and strides across the car park to his car.
Chapter 12
Carla
NOW
I’ve spent the morning so far procrastinating – something I’m a natural at, especially when I have a tight deadline – and I’m finally booting up my laptop when the doorbell goes. The noise impinging on my concentration makes me jump. Cheddar barks and leaps up from where he was sleeping on the rug. I swear under my breath. It must be a delivery, although I can’t remember ordering anything online recently. It’s gone midday, but I haven’t had a shower yet and I’m still wearing my PJs and an old, shapeless cardigan over the top.
I zip up the cardie and push my feet into the slippers I kicked off under the desk, go through the sitting room into the hallway and open the front door. I’m surprised to see Ash. He’s dressed smartly, so he’s obviously come from work.
‘I’ve brought lunch,’ he says, thrusting two M&S salads, a loaf of fresh bread and a packet of Red Leicester into my arms. ‘Can’t stay long. I’ve got an appointment with a customer at two.’
Ash doesn’t normally show up unannounced or uninvited. Or when the kids are out. And it’s a long drive from Barnstaple – an hour’s round trip – just to pop in for lunch. I look over my shoulder. I’ve had more work come in over the past couple of days and I really want to type up my editorial report and get it sent off today – before tomorrow’s deadline. ‘Your timing’s bad, Ash.’
‘Oh. Have you got someone …?’ He leaves the end of his sentence unsaid, his eyebrows shooting into circumflexes as he looks past me into the house. Then he frowns and blushes, no doubt hearing how that sounded.
‘No, Ash. That’s the sort of thingyou… Sorry. I was working. I haven’t taken the time to get dressed yet.’ My tummy rumbles and I realize how hungry I am. ‘It’s fine. Come in.’ I step back and let him step inside. ‘I’m just going to grab a shower. Make yourself at home.’ I point towards the open door to the kitchen.
Ash is in a bit of a hurry, I’m hungry and I’m keen to find out why he’s come, so I make sure my shower is a quick one. I don’t bother to wash my hair, just scrape it back into a ponytail. I’m only gone a few minutes.
When I enter the kitchen, Ash is sitting at the table. His long legs are sticking out from under it. He hasn’t taken off his shoes, forgetting, or perhaps flouting, one of Daniel’s rules.
‘I’ve always loved this room,’ he muses, scanning it.
I described my dream kitchen to Ash long before we even bought Crooked Oak Cottage. A rustic country kitchen with a long wooden table. An Aga with large copper pans hanging above it and tantalizing smells emanating from a cast-iron casserole dish on the hob. Big windows, lots of light. Terracotta tiles on the floor. Warm, cosy, inviting. The heart of the house, where I pictured myself learning to cook all sorts of delicious meals for my family. Ash and I tiled the floor and put up the shelves and cupboards ourselves. It really is my dream kitchen, minus the copper pans. And the tempting aromas, at least, when I’m the one cooking. It was once our kitchen. Ash knows his way round it. He has laid the table for our lunch.
We eat in silence. It’s a comfortable one, but I sense Ash has something to tell me and I’m not sure I want to hear it. He waits until we’ve finished eating and he has made coffee.
‘I saw Joshua’s two little brothers – Jordan and Jackson the other day—’
‘Jordan and Jasper.’
