She checked her watch: quarter to seven.
She stepped back from the wall and looked up at the first-floor windows. Three of them were illuminated. Lawyers never went home early. There would be somebody up there for hours yet, pulling a late night. Preparing for court tomorrow.
Was Elsa in there, with Nevin?
She returned to the buzzer and pressed it again. At last she heard a voice.
“We’re closed. Who is it?”
It was a man, not the woman she’d spoken to before.
“DCI Clarke, Dorset Police. I need to speak to Harry Nevin urgently.”
“He’s not here.”
She thought of the layout of the offices. Nevin in his glass walled office in one corner. Everybody else at their open plan desks.
“Are you sure?” she asked. “Check.”
“I can see the whole office from here. He’s not here.”
Lesley tried to remember where the other end of the intercom was. Was it near the door to the offices or was it closer to Nevin’s office? Or could it be accessed from any phone up there?
“I want you to let me in,” she said. “What’s your name?”
“I’m not letting you in,” he replied. “Have you got a warrant?”
Lesley gritted her teeth. Bloody lawyers.
“If he’s not here,” she asked, “Where will he be?”
“At home, I imagine,” the reply came. “Try his home.”
She swallowed. “I will.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Dennis stood outside Harry Nevin’s house, Johnny behind him. He could feel Johnny’s nerves coming off him in waves. Calm down, son.
Nevin lived in a generous red brick house set back from the road in Canford Cliffs. This was one of the more expensive areas of Poole. Less opulent than Sandbanks, but not far off. More characterful, Dennis thought.
He pushed the buzzer, careful not to press too heavily, and stood back. On a house like this, there would be a camera. He arranged his face into a suitable expression.
A screen next to the door came to life and a woman appeared. She was blonde and looked younger than Harry Nevin.
“Hello?”
“Mrs Nevin?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“My name is DS Frampton. I’ve been dealing with your husband on a case. I’d be grateful if I could come in and speak to him.”
“What time is it?” she asked.
“Seven o’clock,” Johnny muttered in Dennis’s ear.
“Seven o’clock, Mrs Nevin. Sorry to bother you so late, it is rather urgent.”
“He’s not here,” the woman replied.
Dennis eyed Johnny.
“Maybe he’s still at the office?” Johnny muttered.
Dennis looked back at the screen. “Is he still at work?”
“Don’t ask me,” the woman said.
The screen flicked off.
“The DCI’s gone to his office,” Johnny said.
Dennis nodded. He’d heard nothing from her; he hoped that was because she was with Nevin.
Dennis watched the door. “Let’s just give it a couple of minutes.”
His phone buzzed. He pulled it out of his inside pocket. It was the DCI. No sign of Nevin at the office. Is he at home?
He showed it to Johnny, whose shoulders dropped.
Dennis went to ring the bell again, just as the door opened. The woman stared back at them. She was at least twenty years younger than Nevin, wearing an expensive-looking dress with slippers. Her hair was neatly curled, and her makeup was immaculate.
“Mrs Nevin.” He held up his ID. “Sorry to bother you at this time of the evening. Can you tell me where your husband might be?”
She adopted a look of irritation. “Not far away.”
Dennis raised an eyebrow. “What does that mean?”
“He’ll be in Studland, no doubt,” she replied. “He leaves the office at five o’clock, pretends he’s coming home to me.” She rubbed her nose and looked away. “But he doesn’t.”
“Why would he be in Studland?” Johnny asked.
Dennis gave him a nudge in the ribs. Let the woman tell us at her own pace.
“He’s with his mistress,” she said. “Fucking bitch.”
Dennis felt his cheeks redden. “Do you know exactly where in Studland she lives?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” She went to push the door closed.
Dennis took a step forward. “Please. We need to speak to him.”
She surveyed him. He could tell she was weighing up the consequences of giving them the address, culminating in the police knocking on the door of her husband’s mistress. Finally, she smiled.
“OK. I’ll get her address for you.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Lesley parked her car on the coast road leading towards the Studland ferry. The address Dennis had sent her was somewhere along here. Nevin’s girlfriend lived in one of the apartment blocks looking out over Poole harbour.
Alright for some, she thought.
She’d read that this was one of the most expensive strips of land in the world, and that the houses cost millions of pounds. They didn’t look much. But when you turned the other way and took in the view, it was easy to see what the fuss was about.
Ffion Nevin had given them the name of her husband’s girlfriend: Priscilla Evans. Lesley wondered what the woman did for a living, how she made enough money to live in sight of that view. She closed her car door and opened up Google Maps on her phone, trying to work out which building she wanted.
A few houses along, she spotted Dennis’s car parked at the side of the road. He was inside still, Johnny beside him. She knocked on the window and Dennis lowered it.
“You waiting for me?” she asked him.
“You told me to, boss.”
“Thanks,” she said, her eyes roaming the flats opposite.
She wanted to be there when they interviewed Nevin. She wanted to see the look in his eyes when he was asked about Ameena Khan’s death. She also wanted to check if he was wearing that ring.
“Come on then,” she said. “Let’s get him.”
“I didn’t think you had a warrant?” Dennis said.
“You know what I mean.” She started walking towards the apartment building she’d identified as the one in which Priscilla Evans lived.
She heard two car doors slam behind her. Without turning to check her colleagues were with her, she strode ahead and found the buzzer for the correct flat. She pushed it long and hard.
They waited for the buzzer to be answered. Lesley turned to Dennis and Johnny.
“As soon as we get in there, we separate them. We need to know if she can give him an alibi without them having the chance to confer.”
“Right, boss,” Johnny said. Dennis nodded.
The intercom crackled behind her. “Hello?”
Lesley turned to it. “DCI Clarke, Dorset Police. We’re here to see Mr Harry Nevin.”
“He’s not here,” the voice replied.
Lesley eyed her colleagues. If not here, then where the hell was he?
“Who are you?” she asked.
“Priscilla Evans, his friend.”
“Friend.” Johnny smirked.
Stop it, Lesley thought. She pictured Julieta, her own husband’s new woman, standing in her kitchen. She couldn’t get the woman out of her head. Even if she was in the process of moving on herself.
“Hang on a moment,” said the voice. The intercom crackled again and the buzzer sounded.
Lesley pushed on the door and the three of them went inside. Ahead was a broad stairway, carpeted and cleaned to within an inch of its life. They walked up one floor and found the door to the apartment already open, waiting for them. A woman stood in the doorway. She was tall and black, dark wavy hair scooped up on top of her head. Subtle makeup. Not what Lesley had been expecting from Dennis’s report of what Ffion Nevin had told him.
“Sorry to bother you, Ms Evans,”
she said. “We need to speak to Mr Nevin urgently in connection with a murder inquiry.”
The woman’s eyes widened. “Whose murder?”
So he hadn’t told her about Ameena Khan.
“A colleague of Mr Nevin.”
“Harry hasn’t been here for days,” Priscilla said. “Sorry, no idea where he is.”
“Would he normally be here in the evening?”
The woman shrugged. “Sometimes, sometimes not. Depends.”
“On what?”
Priscilla folded her arms. “It depends what kind of mood I’m in.”
Lesley smiled. She liked this woman’s attitude. “Can we ask you a few questions?”
“Of course you can. Come in.”
They followed the woman inside. The flat was light and airy, with broad windows giving a view over the harbour. The furniture was pale and understated, everything focused on that view.
The woman gestured towards a glass-topped dining table and the three detectives sat down, Priscilla joining them.
“What can I help you with?” she asked.
“We need to know if you were with Harry on Sunday morning,” Lesley said.
“Sunday morning… Why?”
“His colleague was killed on Sunday morning. We need to find out where he was.”
“You think Harry killed them?” The woman frowned. “No way, Harry wouldn’t say boo to a goose.”
“Were you with him?” Lesley asked.
“Hang on a moment.” Priscilla went to a bookshelf and grabbed a diary. She flicked through its pages.
“Here you are,” she said. “Saturday night, we went to see a play in Bournemouth. He came back here afterwards, stayed the night. Left at about ten in the morning, went straight to the office, or that’s what he told me.” She looked up. “He always says that, but I know he’s often going home to his wife. You can check with his secretary.”
“Can I take that, please?” Lesley said.
The woman clutched her diary. “How long will you need it for?”
“Not long,” Lesley replied. “We’ll get it back to you as soon as we’re done with it.”
The woman didn’t let go of the diary. “It’s got all my appointments in.”
“Like I say, we will return it as soon as we’re finished with it.”
She wondered if there was anything in this diary the woman wanted to hide. She looked at it, her gaze flicking between the diary and its owner.
Slowly the woman released her grip on the diary. She pushed it across the table.
“Send it back as soon as you’re done with it, yes? And there’s no way Harry could have killed someone.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Lesley, Dennis and Johnny sat in Dennis’s car. Lesley was in the passenger seat, Johnny in the back. They stared out at the harbour.
“So where on earth is he?” Lesley asked, noticing Dennis’s approving look. A few weeks ago, she would have said where the hell is he, and earned her sergeant’s disapproval. It wasn’t always easy, but she was learning to tone down her language.
Dennis shook his head. “Hiding from us, maybe.”
“He could just be out somewhere,” Johnny suggested. He leaned forwards, putting his head between the two front seats. “Dinner, cinema, a walk?”
Lesley shook her head. “Wherever he is, he’s alone. He hasn’t taken his wife with him, or his girlfriend. I’m worried he suspects we’re onto him.”
“I’m not sure onto him is the right word,” Dennis said. “All we’ve got is that ring.”
“It’s enough for me to be suspicious. To want to talk to him.”
“So where is he?”
“Maybe he’s with a client?” Johnny said.
Lesley turned in her seat. “It’s a thought. If one of Ameena’s clients has got something to do with all this, he might have gone to see them. Steven Leonard, maybe?”
“It’s a possibility,” said Dennis. “You think we should go round there?”
Lesley shook her head. “Nevin will be in his office early, if I know lawyers. Dennis, you meet me there at eight am. Wait round the back, I don’t want them seeing us.”
“No problem.”
“What d’you want me to do?” asked Johnny.
“You and Mike follow up this Rogers bloke. I want to know why Ameena’s PA was so scared of him.”
“Will do,” said Johnny.
“And then there’s the DNA we might be getting tomorrow,” she said. “If it belongs to Nevin, then Carpenter won’t stop us arresting him.”
Dennis raised his eyebrows, his eyes still on the harbour. The sun was going down and boats were drifting in from the sea. “If that happens,” he said, “we’ve got our man.”
She opened the car door. “All the more reason to speak to him as soon as we can. Eight o’clock tomorrow morning, don’t be late.”
She got out of the car and walked to her own. Sure enough, there was a parking ticket on it. She cursed and ripped the ticket into pieces, then regretted it. She’d need to tell somebody in the admin team to sort it out.
She shoved the pieces into her pocket and got into the car, slapping her hands on the steering wheel. She felt tight, frustrated, hot.
Where the hell was Harry Nevin? Why hadn’t he been in any of his usual places? Was he hiding, or was it coincidence?
She turned the ignition. Back to Wareham, she thought. She’d take the ferry over, drive through the countryside. It would take longer than the land route, but would delay the return to that empty house and the reheated take-away that awaited her.
Chapter Thirty
Elsa parked her car at the beach near Sandbanks. She slammed the door and turned to look out at the sea. It was tranquil this morning, hardly a breeze touching the water. Boats were already making their way out to sea, small white dots moving over the blue.
She envied them. Her life was dominated by work, barely a day off. Weekends were spent catching up on emails and reading files in preparation for the week. She longed for the free time to take a boat out. She’d learned to sail when she was a girl, her dad teaching her on the weekends he wasn’t working. He was a lawyer too, working long hours, but not as long as hers. Times had changed.
She checked her watch. Five past eight: she was late. He was particular about these things. She hurried to the usual café and ordered a latte. She found a table outside, checking her watch again. Odd that he wasn’t already waiting.
She got her phone out of her bag. No messages, no new emails. Nothing from him, nothing from anyone in the firm. She frowned and scrolled through her emails again, more slowly this time. Nothing.
She stood up and looked around her. She was sitting on a small terrace overlooking the beach. The interior, beyond the tall windows, was empty. And he always sat outside when it wasn’t raining.
She checked her messages again. She flicked through WhatsApp, Facebook and Twitter. He never used social media to contact her but she was beginning to worry.
She dialled.
“Nevin, Cross and Short, Harry Nevin’s office, can I help you?” said his PA.
“Amanda, it’s Elsa.”
“Hello, Ms Short. How are you this morning?”
“Is he in yet?”
“I’m not expecting him until half past eleven, he’s got a court appearance first thing.”
Elsa gripped the phone. He hadn’t messaged her to say he wasn’t coming. The last time she’d spoken to him had been yesterday afternoon. They’d made a firm arrangement, even if it wasn’t in either of their diaries. She checked her watch again, eight twenty. He was never late.
“Can you ask him to call me when he gets in?”
“Certainly,” replied Amanda. “You might want to try texting him too. Or I can do that for you?”
“I’ve already tried. He’s not answering.”
“If the session has started, he’ll have turned it off.”
If he was due in the magistrates’ court, they didn’t start until ten
. So where was he?
“Can I do anything for you, Ms Short?” asked Amanda. “Where are you?”
Elsa frowned. Their colleagues didn’t know that she and Harry had these private meetings on Sandbanks Beach. There were certain cases and certain clients they preferred not to discuss in the office.
She scratched her cheek. “I’ll try him again on his mobile. It’s not urgent.”
She hung up and opened her email app again. She dragged the screen down to refresh it. Where are you, Harry?
She called his mobile number. No answer.
She downed the last of her latte and left the café, walking towards the beach. Maybe he was out here on the sand. He liked to watch the boats, too.
But there was no sign of him. A young woman was watching a toddler digging in the sand with a plastic shovel. A middle-aged couple ran after a dog that was playing in the waves. This was one of the few beaches locally that allowed dogs.
She turned back towards the café. She ducked inside and walked around the space one more time. He wasn’t here. He hadn’t been here in the first place. So where the hell was Harry Nevin?
Chapter Thirty-One
It was quarter past eight in the morning when Johnny and Mike arrived at Danny Rogers’ house in Ringwood. He lived in a flat above a newsagent, accessed via a door squeezed in next to the shop. The door was scuffed with mud staining on the lower part and a long crack running vertically down the wood. A bag of rubbish sat outside, a tear in its side revealing the remains of a chicken carcass and empty McDonald’s cartons.
Johnny banged on the door, wrinkling his nose at the smell of rotting food. No answer.
A man emerged from the newsagent’s. He was heavily built, middle-aged and he looked annoyed. “What’s going on?”
Johnny held up his ID. “Dorset Police. We need to speak to Danny Rogers. Does he live in the flat above here?”
The Clifftop Murders (Dorset Crime Book 2) Page 10