The Moor (DCI Ryan Mysteries, #11)(73)

He might listen, but Lowerson didn’t always think things through before deciding to act.

While Yates took herself off to find out why the description of their unknown assailant was so familiar, Lowerson placed a call to their new informant, this time using her work number which he’d found on a Google search.

“Rochelle Interiors, how may I help you?” A voice tinkled down the line, but it was not the lady herself.

“May I speak with Ms White, please?”

“What is it regarding?”

“I, ah, met her the other day to talk about the décor for my study, and I’ve had a change of heart,” he improvised. “I just wanted to run my ideas past her.”

“Ms White will be leaving the office soon,” the receptionist told him. “But I’m sure she can spare a couple of minutes. What name shall I give?”

“Mr—ah, Mr Lowerson.”

There was a brief pause, then a click on the line as the receptionist transferred the call.

“Rochelle?”

“How dare you call my office,” she whispered furiously. “Do you have any idea how stupid that is?”

Lowerson swallowed.

“I wanted to call and let you know that there’s been another murder with the same MO, which makes it less likely that Dan Hepple was murdered because of you,” he said. “I thought you’d want to know; in case it puts your mind at rest.”

At the other end of the line, Rochelle let out a long breath.

“Thank you,” she said. “What was the name of the other one?”

Lowerson hesitated.

“Parker. Evan Parker.”

Rochelle made a small sound of recognition, and he jumped on it.

“If you know anything about what happened, you need to tell us,” he said.

“I don’t need to do anything,” she replied coolly. Now that the danger had passed, she felt stronger.

But Lowerson had other ideas.

“Don’t you have any kind of conscience?” he muttered.

“Don’t start that crap with me,” she hissed. “If Bobby finds out I’ve talked to you, I’ll be the one lying down at the mortuary, next time.”

With hindsight, that was the turning point in their conversation. Up until then, Lowerson might have walked away; he could have left Rochelle and wished her good luck.

But he didn’t.

He’d come too far to let his only chance of unveiling the criminal underworld slip away, like sand between his fingers. In the back of his mind, he saw himself uncovering widespread corruption, as Ryan had done. He saw himself toppling criminal overlords, as Ryan had done.

He wasn’t about to let that opportunity go to waste.

“Listen, Rochelle,” he said tersely. “Unless you meet me at the petrol station tonight, I’ll bring Bobby Singh in for questioning. I can’t promise I won’t ask him whether he killed Dan Hepple because he was having an affair with you.”

He heard a sharp intake of breath.

“You—you wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

“Fine,” she said, quickly re-working her schedule to cover it. “But I can’t stay long, or I’ll be missed. I could meet you on my way back from work.”

“Okay,” he agreed. “I’ll be at the petrol station at five-thirty, sharp.”

There was another short silence, then a cynical laugh.

“When I first met you, I thought you were sweet,” she said mockingly. “I was wrong, wasn’t I? You’re not a sweetheart, at all.”

Lowerson hardened his heart.

It would be worth it, he told himself. The ends justified the means.

“Five-thirty,” he repeated, then hung up, feeling sweat trickle down his neck.

He leaned back against the taupe-coloured wall of the corridor outside CID. Several out-of-date posters hung limply from a noticeboard on the opposite wall, as well as an open copy of the police newsletter and a large, plain black and white A4 sheet of paper from the police chaplain with two simple words: ‘HEAL THYSELF’.

With an angry expletive, he pushed away from the wall and hurried off, already planning his next move.





CHAPTER 42


By the time Ryan and Phillips made it back to the house in Kingston Park, Gregory had finished his session with Samantha and was enjoying a bowl of MacKenzie’s excellent fish chowder and soda bread, a recipe that had been handed down from her Irish mother, and her mother before that.

When she caught sight of her husband’s face in the doorway, MacKenzie turned to Samantha with a smile.

“Would you like to watch a movie for a while, darling? Just while we talk over a few things to do with the case.”

She had no intention of lying to the girl, but neither did she want to speak of things unless they were certain.

“Have you got Chitty Chitty Bang Bang?” Samantha asked, and MacKenzie’s face was a comical mask of confusion.

“Chitty Chitty What Now?”

“Why don’t I help you look for it?” Gregory suggested. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

After they left, MacKenzie took a seat at the table beside the others, who had since helped themselves to a bowl of her soup.

“What have I missed?” she asked, after the first couple of spoonfuls. “You were gone a while.”