Death in the Sunshine (Retired Detectives Club, #1)(72)



‘Good morning,’ he says cheerfully, as he turns towards her.

Moira gives him a quick smile, and watches as the smile fades from his face.

‘I . . . I should . . .’ He moves back from the counter. Looks as if he’s going to run.

‘Don’t,’ says Moira, her tone strong, authoritative. It’s definitely him. She recognises him from his picture on the community Facebook page, from their encounter by Manatee Park, outside her house, and in the street outside Lizzie and Philip’s place. He’s got a name badge pinned to his polo shirt beneath The Homestead logo. ‘You owe me an explanation, Brad Winslow.’

The Disney prince-type smile is gone. Maybe it’s because he recognises her, or maybe it’s due to the bruising on her face. Maybe it’s both, because now he looks more like a frightened deer in headlights. Still, even though his voice has a quiver to it, he seems to be sticking to his script. ‘How can I help you today?’

‘Why were you following me two days ago?’

‘I wasn’t—’

‘Don’t lie to me, Brad.’ Moira looks across at his colleagues, and then peers back behind the counter towards the back room. ‘Or maybe I should speak to your supervisor. Tell them about you spying on me, and how you were very bad at it.’

He shakes his head. ‘Don’t. There’s no need, I . . . I was told to watch you. And I was told I mustn’t let you see me. They wanted me to make sure you were doing okay. Nothing more.’

Moira crosses her arms. ‘And I’m supposed to believe that?’

‘Honestly, it’s the truth. You’d discovered that poor young woman. The management were worried, especially as you’re a new resident. They asked me to watch you for a little while and make sure you were okay.’

It sounds like bullshit to Moira, but he seems to believe it. ‘Why did you stop watching me then?’

He looks down. ‘Because you spotted me that third time.’

‘So you didn’t care about my well-being after that?’

‘No . . . no, I . . . you scared me. All that shouting and banging on my car window like that. I thought you were going to hit me. You were so angry.’

‘Yes, because you were spying on me.’

‘Well, it seemed like you could take care of yourself okay, so I told management you were fine and that you’d got your friends supporting you, and I stopped. I kind of had to anyways, because my cover was blown.’

Moira shakes her head. Stifles a laugh. ‘Your cover was blown from the first time, outside Manatee Park, when I saw you crouched down beside your car watching me and you took the picture.’

Brad’s cheeks flush red. He sounds defensive when he speaks. ‘I’m an administrative and social media manager. I don’t know how to do surveillance.’

She holds his gaze for a long moment. His story is plausible – odd but plausible. And he doesn’t seem to be a credible threat. She decides to continue with her other questions. ‘As you clearly know, I live over in Ocean Mist and I want to know why you delete residents’ posts on the community Facebook page?’

He looks more concerned. ‘I—’

‘Early this morning there was a post asking about the murder at Manatee Park. Why delete it?’

Brad glances in the direction of his colleagues. Lowers his voice. ‘It’s company policy. We can’t let hearsay or rumours spread through the community page. We’re authorised to delete any posts breaking rule eight.’

‘I don’t know what rule eight is, but that post wasn’t spreading hearsay, it was talking about something that actually happened.’

He shakes his head. ‘No, it was misinformed. Yes, there was an accident in the pool at Manatee, a tragedy, but not a—’

‘That’s bullshit, Brad, and we both know it.’

Frowning, he turns to the computer on the desk and clicks through a few screens. Reads something and then turns back to Moira. Gives her a fake-looking smile. ‘With all due respect, I think you’re mistaken, ma’am. I’ve got the incident report right here and it’s telling me there was a tragic accident when a swimmer—’

‘Just stop.’ Moira holds up her hands. ‘Your incident report is wrong. As you know, I found the woman’s body in the pool and called the cops. She was murdered. I saw the blood from the gunshot wound myself.’

Brad gulps at the air like a landed fish and fans his hands at his face, which is getting redder by the second. His smile is non-existent. ‘But I . . . I wasn’t told . . .’

‘Who filled out the incident report?’ asks Moira.

His gaze flits to the screen, then back to her. ‘That’s above my pay grade. I’m afraid I can’t . . .’

‘I didn’t think so.’ The two other assistants behind the counter are watching her and obviously listening in. And Brad’s looking increasingly uncomfortable, shifting his weight from side to side and glancing towards his colleagues. Moira senses she’s got as much information from him as she’s going to get, for now at least. ‘But thanks, you’ve been helpful.’ She leans in closer. Lowers her voice. ‘And don’t even think about spying on me again.’

Brad tries to give a Disney-prince smile. It doesn’t work and the result is a flaccid half-grimace. ‘No problem. Have a great day.’

Steph Broadribb's Books