The Fourth Friend (DI Jackman & DS Evans #3)(42)

‘Wilco.’

*

Robbie Melton was deep in conversation with Max.

‘So, considering all the people you’ve spoken to about Suzanne Holland, what would you say was their overall attitude to her?’

Max didn’t even stop to think. ‘Wary, mate. Dead wary.’

‘Me too. I know my “interview” with her first husband was somewhat unorthodox and totally off the record, but he seemed to be consumed with hatred for her. He said she hurt people, and he meant it.’ He chewed on the end of his pen. ‘I think what he actually meant was that she destroyed people.’

‘I saw a film about a woman like that once. All sweetness and light on the surface but really a cunning, evil bitch. Do you mean that kind of woman?’

‘Well, it was her who seduced him to begin with. Then she married him, took him to the cleaners, and then accused him of robbing her. So I guess the answer is yes.’

‘Was she going to do the same to the next husband, Tom Holland?’

Robbie scratched his neck with the pen. ‘If that was her plan, she hadn’t got the ball rolling yet. The pictures of them together show a happy couple.’

‘Perhaps Tom Holland was her one true love, and she turned over a new leaf when she met him?’

‘You know what they say about leopards and spots.’ He frowned. ‘And if they were so blissfully happy, why is no one telling us that?’

‘Search me. And where the hell is this half-brother that your pissed-up travel rep told you about? I’ve been trying to track a Ralph Dolan all morning, but I’m damned if I can find him.’

‘How are you spelling it?’

‘D-O-L-A-N. As you’ve written it.’ Max pointed to the memo Robbie had given him. ‘And I tried it with a E, and with two L’s as well.’

‘It’s an Irish name, I’m sure.’ Robbie remembered an old school friend. No one could spell his name correctly because it was pronounced so differently. ‘Let’s Google it.’ He clicked the mouse and pulled up variations of Dolan. ‘Here we are. I’ve got a few more suggestions for you to try. There’s Doland, Dooley, Dowling, Doolin, Doolan, O’Dooley and a whole load more.’

Max pulled a face. ‘Thanks a bunch.’

‘Sorry, but it might help to check the sex offenders register too. Harvey swore he was weird and he didn’t trust him any further than he could throw him.’ He stood up. ‘I’m going to get my head stuck into Suzanne and Tom’s financial history. If she was squirrelling away money from their accounts, maybe she did have a master plan for her beloved husband.’

‘But a bloody great storm got him first.’

Robbie couldn’t think of an answer.

*

Alan Pitt returned looking much more rested. Jackman hoped the treatment was working.

The worst thing about what they were about to do was that it involved Orac, and Jackman had foolishly let Marie go out with Leah. Marie was always there to act as a buffer between himself and the scary IT manager. Today he had to face her alone.

The truth was, he found her fascinating, but had no idea what to say to her.

Orla Cracken, Marie had assured him, was not the intimidating cyborg that he believed her to be. Her appearance told him otherwise.

Orac had white-blonde hair, cut in a GI Mohican style, and she wore mirror contact lenses. They glinted at him like polished steel. That alone was enough to make Jackman delegate anything IT to one of the others. The other thing was that Orac took great delight in paying him an inordinate amount of attention, which made him ten times more uncomfortable.

For Alan Pitt’s sake, Jackman took the lift down to the basement, where the IT unit was housed. He paused in the doorway, took a deep breath and entered.

‘DI Jackman! You came in person. I’m honoured.’ Orac sat in front of a bank of computer screens and flashed those disconcerting eyes at him. ‘Please, do come in.’

Jackman swallowed and tried not to stare. How did she do it? Already he seemed to have lost the ability to speak coherently. And where did that stammer come from?

‘And you must be our witness.’ She held out a hand to Alan Pitt. ‘Mr Pitt, I’m Orla, but my friends here all call me Orac.’

Alan Pitt smiled. ‘Blake’s Seven, wasn’t it?’

‘I’m just as valuable as that supercomputer. I’m probably also just as terse, short tempered and unhelpful.’

She gave Jackman a disparaging look. He swallowed.

‘Please take a seat, Mr Pitt, and we’ll begin. It’s a simple process, and the computer does most of the work.’

‘I wondered if this might help.’ Alan passed her a head shot photo of a fair-haired man of around forty. ‘It’s my cousin. The man I saw has so many of the same features that I thought we could work from that.’

‘Clever idea, Mr Pitt.’ Orac took the picture, scanned it, and brought up the image in the identification program. ‘Now, talk to me about your man.’

It took only ten minutes to arrive at an image that Alan Pitt declared to be “as near as damn it.” Jackman stared at a serious-looking man wearing glasses with fashionable dark hipster frames. His long, ash-blond hair was tied back in a full ponytail. He looked vaguely like a footballer.

‘And that is all I can tell you, I’m afraid.’ Alan seemed quite sad that his session with the enigmatic Orac was coming to an end.