Let Me Lie(71)

Only Sean’s workstation was in use, a dark green parka hung over his chair. On the desk were three storage boxes, each filled with clear exhibit bags, their red plastic seals protruding at all angles. Beneath his desk were another two boxes, both full. In each bag was a mobile phone.

‘We’ve got a bit of a backlog.’

‘No kidding.’

Sean pulled up a second chair and flipped open a large black project book. At the top of the page was the mobile number of the caller who had given the name Diane Brent-Taylor.

‘The SIM card was pay-as-you-go, so we’ll need to work on the handset itself. It was active for six months after the incident, although no calls were made.’ Sean spun his pen like a baton through his fingers.

‘Is there any way of finding out where the handset is now?’

‘Not unless your witness – or whoever has it now – turns it on.’ An over-enthusiastic twirl sent the pen flying across the room, where it skittered under a filing cabinet. Absentmindedly, Sean reached for another pen and began the same well-practised movement. Murray wondered how many pens there were under the cabinet. ‘Now, what we could do is extract the call data and find the IMEI—’

‘In English?’

Sean grinned. ‘Every device has a fifteen-digit unique number: the IMEI. It’s like a fingerprint for mobiles. If we can trace your witness call back to the handset, we can work back from that to the point of purchase.’

And from that, Murray thought, he might stand a chance of tracing the caller, particularly if they used a bank card to make the transaction. ‘How soon could you get me a result?’

‘You know I’m always happy to do a mate a favour, but …’ Sean looked at the rammed storage boxes in front of them and rubbed his face, forgetting his bruise and wincing at the oversight. ‘What’s the big deal with this job, anyway?’

‘No big deal.’ Murray spoke more casually than he felt. ‘The daughter came in to report some concerns over the verdict, and I’m looking into it for her.’

‘In your own time? I hope she appreciates it.’

Murray looked at the desk. He was trying not to dwell on his phone call to Anna. He had caught her at a bad time, that was all. It was bound to be distressing; it was only natural she’d have doubts. Once he had hard evidence that something suspicious had happened to her parents, she’d be grateful he had pressed on regardless. Nevertheless, the sharp click as she hung up the phone still echoed in his ears.

Sean sighed, mistaking Murray’s expression for disappointment in him. ‘Look, I’ll see what I can do.’

‘I appreciate it.’

‘More importantly, get your diary out, and let’s get that beer sorted. You know it’ll never happen otherwise.’ Sean opened a calendar on his laptop, firing off dates then instantly realising they were already booked. Murray patiently turned the pages of his National Trust pocket diary until Sean found a window, then he borrowed a pen and wrote on the pristine page.

He hummed along to the radio as he drove away from the industrial unit, the winter sun low in his eyes. With any luck, Sean would get back to him later today. The holidays were providing a legitimate reason for Murray’s delay in writing up the job for CID, and if he could get a result on the phone before he did so, he might be able to hand it over with a suspect attached.

Besides getting the phone looked into, there was something nagging him about his visit to Diane Brent-Taylor’s house. It wasn’t Diane herself – Murray prided himself on being a good judge of character, and if the twin-set-and-pearls pensioner was a murderer, he’d eat his trilby.

But there was definitely something.

Something he’d seen on the noticeboard by the front door. A leaflet? A card? It was infuriating not being able to remember, and as Diane had been packing to go away the day Murray had visited her, there was nothing he could do to jog his memory.

At home, he paused with his key in the lock, feeling the familiar anxiety fill his chest. The pause represented the last few seconds where life was under control; where he knew which way was up. On the other side of the door anything could be waiting. Over the years Murray had perfected a neutral greeting while he waited to see how Sarah was – what she expected from him – but he had never stopped needing those three seconds between the two halves of his world.

‘I’m home.’

She was downstairs, which was an improvement. The curtains were still drawn, and as Murray pulled them open, Sarah winced and covered her eyes with her hands.

‘How are you feeling?’

‘Tired.’

Sarah had slept for twelve hours, but she looked as though she’d pulled an all-nighter. Heavy circles ringed her eyes, and her skin was grey and dull.

‘I’ll make you something to eat.’

‘I’m not hungry.’

‘Cup of tea?’

‘I don’t want one.’

Gently, Murray tried to take the duvet to shake it out, but Sarah clung on to it and buried herself deeper into the sofa. The television was on mute, playing a kids’ cartoon featuring animals in a zoo.

Murray stood for a while. Should he make something anyway? Sarah sometimes changed her mind once the food was actually in front of her. Just as often, though, she didn’t. Just as often, Murray ate it, or tipped it away, or covered it with cling film in the hope she might fancy something later. Murray looked at the pile of duvet, at his wife, who had manoeuvred herself as far from him as it was possible to get without actually leaving the sofa.