‘No, wait,’ said Edward, lifting a hand like a traffic policeman, his mind going a million miles a minute. ‘I’ve got an idea of someone we need to see who might be able to help us.’
‘Who?’ asked Barbara. ‘There’s no one interesting around here.’
‘I can say, can’t I?’ Edward asked Kim.
‘You haven’t told me yet.’
‘Of course you can say,’ said Stevie, who was crying again. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t cry often, I’m just gutted for the mum. That poor, wee girl.’
‘Tell us.’ Barbara directed the words at Edward. Her tone was flat. She, too, appeared teary.
‘The biker spilled something that Nina then ate. Or maybe the “something” was part of a deliberate attack. Whatever it was, they have to test it – the obvious place is the government labs. We can’t get anywhere near that. But there’s an old scientist who might just be in the loop. She’s in Sidmouth, pretty much retired, but does overflow forensic services for the police, low-key stuff, prints and blood testing when they need it done fast and they can’t do it themselves. I’ve interviewed Flo a couple of times for my show. I’m pretty sure we passed her house on the way here. Let’s go.’
Chapter Twenty-Two
‘Name is Florence Veitch.’ Edward spoke as Kim drove the three of them. ‘Mature lady, let’s say, at least seventy, wants to be called Flo, glamorous like Mary Beard. Bushy eyebrows are all I really remember. She’s super-smart and she set something up called “Forensics Incorporated” or “Forensics Limited”, one or the other, which she basically runs out of her house. And she came on my show because there was a bit of a hoo-ha at the time about whether you could have a private firm doing drink-drive evidence. And also, by the way, she came over as a little … on the spectrum.’
Edward’s description was interrupted by Stevie in the back seat. ‘You can’t say that. That’s me you’re talking about.’
‘Okay, Stevie, sorry, eccentric. But she’s made a living because the official service is so backed up. And that got privatized too so it’s just a free market. She won’t get this case, most likely, but she might have some ideas I can put on my show.’
‘Her address?’
‘I know it’s around here …’
‘You don’t even have an address?’ asked Stevie. ‘Hey, I’m a bit jammed in here. If I don’t get out soon I’ll have to hang a leg out of the window.’
‘Kim can use it for signalling.’
‘I need an address,’ said Kim.
‘Turn down Dotton Lane, here.’ Edward heard a slight impatience in his voice. He wanted to get to the radio station because there was so much to say. ‘I think we’ll see the house on Dotton. I went here about five years ago. She’d been on my show and invited me for Christmas drinks. Her wife had recently passed, I think.’
Kim looked doubtful at the idea that you could find a place without an address, but in Devon following hedgerows often worked better than following satnav. A jogger from out of town had died tragically ten years ago, holding a phone to find their way in the fog and failing to see that the narrow line between land and sea was a hundred-metre drop.
As if to prove Edward’s intuition, a house appeared exactly where he said it would. White chimney, thatched roof that looked in need of restoration, the rest hidden behind the high hedges that lined the narrow road.
They turned into the drive. The gravel welcomed them. ‘If she’s in, she’ll hear us,’ said Edward. ‘Having gravel is the same as having a burglar alarm fitted.’
The three of them went to the front door and rang the bell. There were two garden gnomes on the doorstep. One of them held a diploma and wore glasses. ‘That’s her,’ said Edward, pointing at it.
‘Oh! I thought she’d be taller,’ said Stevie.
‘Ssh,’ said Kim.
‘I’m thinking about that kid,’ said Edward, the wait stretching on. His eyes pricked and he blinked them rapidly. ‘What the actual fuck? What happened in that pizza house?’
‘We’re going to find out,’ said Stevie. ‘This place is isolated, isn’t it? Absolute burglary target. High hedges, lives alone. You could be in here for a day and no one would notice.’
‘Well,’ said a voice, ‘the dogs would.’
The three were silent on the doorstep.
Kim pointed at a small camera and microphone by the doorbell, not a known make like Ring or Blink, but more of a lash-up by the homeowner. The DIY doorbell-camera was as much a clue to the person inside the house as the academic gnome. She was already filling in all the blanks.
‘On a Sunday? Must be urgent,’ crackled the voice. ‘Do I know you? Stand in the light.’
That required the three of them to step back from the doorstep, onto the gravel, where the sun lit them up. Edward raised his voice to make up for their distance from the microphone. ‘This is Edward Temmis. You and I have spoken on the radio.’
