‘That’s what a parachute is,’ said Stevie. ‘Long story. She told me.’
‘Okay, I’ll do the two referees, it’s not a problem,’ said Edward. ‘I’ll go and see the flat. Might help.’
Kim said, ‘Have you got the photo of those tubes? I had an idea of how to find out what they are.’
He pulled out his phone and WhatsApped it to her.
‘If we find out anything, it’ll be more than Devon Police have done,’ said Edward. ‘I don’t think the local cops even spoke to the referees. JC never mentioned them.’
‘And when I meet Lord Bufton-Bottomstead—’
‘Richard Cammell-Curzon,’ Edward corrected Stevie.
‘—can I do a little class war at him?’
‘No V-signs, no effing-and-blinding please. Just get him to give you anything he can on Lev.’
‘You spoil all my fun, Edward.’
The other two swept their plates quietly. A minute later Edward said, ‘Do you want to see my wall?’
‘That sounds dodgy as hell,’ said Stevie. ‘Is that some sort of code between you two?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ said Kim. ‘I’ve never seen his wall.’
‘Let me show you.’
Chapter Thirty-Six
On the first floor of Edward’s house was a long room with no furniture and a smell of damp. The windows faced the sea. The carpet was white-stained-grey. The setting sun made the interior glow orange.
‘Beautiful view,’ said Kim. ‘You could do a lot with this.’ The garden was visible below, thirty feet of lawn and then the cliff edge and the black sea.
‘Ever the estate agent,’ said Edward affectionately, and touched her hand with his. ‘I love you.’ Stevie rolled her eyes.
Edward dropped the Venetian blinds, pulled the slats vertical to close off the sun and turned on a big spotlight resting on the floor which illuminated the wall to their right.
‘Where did you get that?’ Kim asked.
‘The antiques shop in Newton Poppleford,’ he said. ‘Old movie light. It’s great with the slats closed, but look,’ he bent down and moved the slider on the side. For a second the metal slats opened. The room was filled with blinding white light.
‘Turn it down, you lemon!’ shouted Stevie.
‘Sorry.’
‘Sensitive eyes.’
‘Ah, sorry Stevie.’
He slid the slats almost closed and twisted the light to face the wall. The surface had been peeled back to plaster. It was covered with Post-it notes, thirty or more. The women moved left to see better. The shadows cast upwards by the spotlight elongated the corners of the notes, creating an optical illusion, as if a square wall had been pulled outwards into the shape of a trapezium.
On the floor opposite was a beanbag and a shoebox with notepads, biros and markers, and unused blocks of different-coloured sticky notes.
‘What are these?’ asked Stevie, fishing in the box. ‘They look like laser pointers.’
‘I bought a couple off Amazon to help me concentrate.’
‘Concentrate?’ Kim repeated. ‘Do you shine them in your ears or something?’
