Staring at us through Ramesh’s widescreen monitor, Will remained silent. He put one hand on his plain black tie and smoothed it down from top to bottom. “We? I don’t suppose that would be Ramesh and Izzy would it? Nice try, losers.”
“You’re wrong. We–” Ramesh was too nervous for a scary-voiced blackmailer. He really wasn’t great at this subterfuge stuff.
“I tell you what, how about I let David know that you’ve been running around playing Scooby Doo? Or that you’re using P&P equipment to harass your colleagues?”
If we were the plucky teenage detectives, then he was the cartoon villain, complete with a scowling lip and hard stare. I signalled to Ramesh to keep his mouth shut and turned off the ghostly disguise so that my own voice crackled through the airways.
“He was your mate. Why would you care if we try to help the police work out who did it? I mean… if you weren’t involved?” It wasn’t exactly table turning stuff but at least I’d wiped the smile off his face.
He looked about the empty office before replying. “You said it yourself, he was my mate. What nobody gets about Bob is that he was a good laugh. You all wanted to believe that he was some kind of monster when really he just loved trolling you. It gave him a kick but deep down he was a good bloke. And sure, we argued, like all friends do, but I didn’t have some long-burning grudge against him if that’s what you think. Now piss off and let me eat my lunch in peace or I’ll get you both fired.”
He grabbed the webcam and the feed went dead.
Ramesh was smiling for some reason. “You know what? That went better than I’d expected.”
Chapter Thirteen
My brilliant investigative gamble had turned up more questions than answers and I was beginning to think I might never understand who Robert H. Thomas really was. To be honest, I didn’t even know what the H. in his name stood for. Our supposedly anonymous interviews had done nothing to prove Ramesh was the killer, and there were still so many threads to tie up.
I hated the idea of the police getting there before me. I constantly imagined them walking into the office to reveal that they’d caught the culprit and that it was someone I’d never even considered – Pauline from accounts maybe, or Len the building security guard.
At the same time, I really had to wonder how they’d manage it without me. I’d been to Croydon police station. If their tea making facilities were any reflection on the standard of their murder investigations, I very much doubted their resources were up to scratch. Would they really have accessed all the suspects’ computers and been able to find out what we had? Wouldn’t there be issues with privacy and data protection?
I liked to think I was following in the imaginary footsteps of Christie’s detectives but there was one big difference between us. More often than not, the police share what they know with Poirot and rarely object to the presence of interfering old maid Jane Marple at the crime scene. D.I. Brabazon, meanwhile, had sneered at me when I’d offered to help and yet, even without all the forensic evidence and witness statements they could access, I was hot on the heels of Bob’s killer. Not that I was getting cocky or anything.
At the end of lunch, Amara and David made another announcement. Well, David did the speaking. Amara stood next to him looking respectful.
“Good afternoon, everyone.”
He was wearing a sexy navy suit with a checked tie. Well, the suit itself wasn’t particularly sexy but the man inside it was. His bright blue eyes were like torch beams in the already floodlit office.
I’d like to unbutton his shirt.
All right, brain. Take it easy.
“I’ve heard from Bob’s family that, as per his instructions, they’ll be holding a memorial service on Thursday morning at the Addington Hills viewpoint. I’ll definitely be attending and if any of you would like to say goodbye to a long-standing member of our team, I’m sure he would have appreciated your presence.”
Trust Bob to leave instructions for how he wanted his funeral to go. No doubt he couldn’t stand the thought of missing out on one last shot at relevance in our lives. It still seemed strange for him to plan something like that in his fifties though.
David mouthed his thanks and everyone went back to work. Well, everyone except me. I was still looking through the data dump that Ramesh and Dean had hacked. With Bob not around to complain, I really could get away with doing very little. I suppose my deskmate Suzie should have been the one checking up on me but she had an aversion to words and rarely squeaked more than a few syllables in my direction per day.
As co-deputy director of the whole company, Bob wasn’t officially my supervisor. But being the self-inflated, micro-managing Fagin that he was, he loved taking us waifs and strays under his wing. This was not because he had any desire to impart his wisdom or guide us through the labyrinth of the working world, he simply enjoyed having people around to shout at.
I had another look through Jack’s files in case there was something I’d missed. From what I could tell from his browsing history, he had a serious thing for videos of baby donkeys. He must have watched hundreds of them. Which made me feel slightly less lazy after doing so little work that day.
It was surprising how singular he was in his browsing habits. There was no sign of any work-related topics – and there were definitely elements of his job that would have needed a bit of online research. He wasn’t supposed to just sit in his cupboard watching animal videos all day, he had reports to write and systems to check. There was a bunch of word documents in a folder on his desktop but the only one that stood out was a list of about three thousand names and addresses from across London. They mainly appeared to be individuals, rather than businesses, but I could find no other clear connection between them.
I left behind his personal files and looked through the apps he used most on his computer. YouTube was number one, of course, but after that was a weird looking web browser that I’d never heard of, so I noted down the name to ask someone cleverer than me. By the end of the day, I’d found nothing particularly useful on Jack and was coming to the conclusion that he was just as harmless as he seemed.
The afternoon passed in a flash and, all of a sudden, I was the last one in the office. The tippy-tapping of computer keys had been replaced by the sound of a vacuum and I could see a couple of cleaners hard at work in the conference room and another going from desk to desk emptying the bins. I shut my computer down and went to collect my coat from the hooks by the photocopiers. There were always discarded bits and pieces left behind there; hats, scarves, forgotten shopping bags. A host of umbrellas rested against the wall and a few summery jackets that no one had removed since an unexpected two-day heatwave a month earlier hung limply. There were only two coats remaining. My shabby, blue woollen one that I’d had forever and couldn’t bear to part with and Bob’s black rain mac.
I might have emitted a yelp of excitement as I put on a pair of men’s leather gloves from a pile of unclaimed items and carefully prised one side of his coat from against the wall. The stale scent of Bob’s cigarettes instantly attacked my nostrils. In the inside, right breast pocket, I found absolutely nothing of any interest. There were a couple of two pence coins and a very sticky mint humbug but no wallet, no phone.
Wishful thinking. The police would have noticed that kind of thing was missing and scoured the office for them.
I didn’t give up. The other inside pocket was more promising. I found a fiver in change and the receipt for Bob’s lunch on the day he died. He’d spent sixty quid and appeared to have consumed half the food in Croydon. There was more still to find though. His outside pockets held a treasure trove of receipts and scraps of paper, bundled with a blister pack of medicine and all tied together with an elastic band. I had a quick flick through them and, besides more evidence of Bob’s unhealthy appetite, there was a business card for someone renting audio-visual equipment and the address of Croydon Animal Experts. The pills were the same kind I’d seen splashed with blood on Bob’s desk. They had
tiny white logos printed all over them but, not speaking Russian, it was impossible to say what Тымудак might cure. It wasn’t even as if I could type it into a search engine.
I thought that my great haul of evidence might not be so great after all until I put my hand into the last pocket and came out with a single train ticket from Norbury to East Croydon. It had been bought on the Wednesday that Bob was murdered but the most interesting thing about it was written in thick black letters on the back.
OKAY, LET’S DO IT.
TONIGHT AT EIGHT.
B.
Nothing about the ticket made sense. Bob lived in Norbury but, to my knowledge, never took the train. And, if he’d written the note to give to someone, why was it still in his possession? At the very least, it told me that he’d planned to meet somebody on the night he was killed. It had always struck me as odd that there was only one wine glass on Bob’s desk. Perhaps the killer removed the second glass.
Sadly I wasn’t the only person who’d want to know about it so I put everything back in the pockets of the raincoat and called the police.
If they make me late for the date with David, I will not be a happy bunny.
I had to wait about twenty minutes but Irons and Brabazon soon showed up with evidence bags and surgical gloves.
“I told you not to interfere.” He wasn’t happy with me.
“And I told you, I could be helpful.”
Irons stepped in before we could get into a fight. “We appreciate your assistance, Miss Palmer. We’ll be in touch if we have any further questions.”
I couldn’t believe it. If I hadn’t had somewhere far more interesting to get to, I would have stuck around for an argument. Talk about ungrateful. Any chance they had of solving the crime was surely down to the evidence that I’d uncovered.
It took me the whole tram ride and most of the walk home to get over my bad mood. I almost turned back to the office to tell them what I really thought of their detective skills.
When I got home, I didn’t have time to share the new evidence with my family so I went straight upstairs to get changed. Just in case I’d got the wrong end of the stick and, instead of a date, David wanted me to help paint the ceiling or install a bird house, I didn’t dress up too flashy. My blue sequin-infested mini-dress was out and some sensible black trousers and a white blouse took its place.
“You look like a proper grown up,” Mum told me as she, Danny and Greg came to see me off in the hall.
“I am a proper grown up.” I shuffled through them like a bride greeting her guests. This was hardly standard practice when I went on a date. I imagine they were desperate to discover what I would find out about their prime suspect.
“Try to make sure he’s not the murderer.” Greg had a posh voice which made everything sound incredibly simple.
Danny had no words for me. He held his hands out and sized up my outfit then pulled me in for an excessively long hug.
“Thanks, mate,” I said when I’d recovered.
“Am I too late?” Just in time, my father peered in through the front door. “Good, I’ve caught you. I thought I’d give you a lift over.”
I’d always imagined David living in the residential equivalent of the Porter & Porter office. I saw him in a completely white apartment with no decoration of any kind and a confusingly located bathroom. In reality, he had a maisonette in Shirley that was more of a post-war family housing unit than a chic, executive shag pad. It had a little front garden with a cherry tree in and there was a sunburst stained glass window above the door.
I made sure my dad had driven off before I rang the doorbell but then felt nervous and wished he’d stayed to hold my hand.
We lied! We’re not a grown up at all. Who on earth thought it was a good idea to send us off into the night to meet an actual man?
Brain, for once I agree with you.
“Hi Izzy. Thanks for coming.” David opened the door and his lovely smooth voice and lightly stubbled charm made everything okay again. And yes, he still sounded like he was welcoming me into a meeting and I was even less sure if this was a date or not, but I no longer minded. As long as I got to enjoy the sparkly blue of his eyes – like twin photographs of a distant solar system – nothing else mattered.
Oi. You’re doing that thing again where you forget to speak. Say something!
“You look lovely.”
Not that!
David smiled despite the fact that my opening line had been stolen from my dad in the car. “Oh... thanks very much.”
At least I hadn’t called him darling.
He guided me into the house and I walked through a corridor lined with photos of wild-looking beaches; all green hills and jagged cliffs. I came to a stop beside one.
“Is that Wales?”
“Yep, it’s the Gower. I like to make sure that anyone who steps into this house gets a healthy dose of Welshness right off the bat.” His smile became a grin. “I considered painting a huge red dragon up there but decided it would be a bit obvious.”
I let out a laugh that turned into a snort. “I’ve only been to Wales once. It was when I was a kid, but I remember it being very pretty.”
“I’m not going to argue with you. It’s the greatest country on earth. If only Mr Porter would open an office in Swansea, all my dreams could come true.” He stopped and looked guilty. “Sorry, I could talk about Wales all night but I probably shouldn’t.”
He showed me into the front room which was divided up into a lounge and dining area. The dinner table was laid with two place settings, proper serviettes, red wine and even candles. That’s right, people; candles! Okay, they were just tea lights on a tasteful glass platter, but they were real, physical candles and that could only mean one thing. I wasn’t there to replace the batteries in his fire alarm or get something down from a high shelf. I was on a date!
“I’ve got a couple of things to do in the kitchen, why don’t you make yourself at home for a minute?”
Woohoo! Perfect chance to nose about.
The main thing that possible boyfriends and possible murderers have in common is that they both need looking into extremely carefully. Once David had gone, I did a circuit of the room. It was very homely with big puffy sofas that had tartan blankets draped over the arms. In one corner was a flashy set of golf clubs which, if you ask me, lowered his boyfriend potential but massively increased the likelihood that he’d recently killed someone.
On top of a chest of drawers in the bay window, there were several framed photos. David by the sea with – I had to assume, thanks to their matching jumpers – his parents, David in front of a castle by the sea, David surfing on the sea, David with his whole family in front of an NCP car park (weird location for a photo but they all looked very happy.)
I scanned the smiling faces, looking for any family similarity. He was the spitting image of his mother and aunt. They had the same light brown hair and striking eyes, the same permanent smile to their faces. The woman who I skilfully deduced was his older sister looked more like the father, their features harder and darker but their faces still jolly and bright.
Clinging on to this central group were two grandchildren aged around fifteen and twenty. The young boy was wrapped around David’s sister while the twenty-year-old leaned casually against her grandfather. She was horrifically pretty, with the perfect mix of her grandmother’s soft features and her grandfather’s dark hair. She was the kind of person who was impossible to forget which is why I instantly recognised her as one of a gaggle of giggling interns who’d spent the summer at P&P two years earlier. Her name was Chloe.
There was one more person in the photo who looked quite different from the others, with a high forehead and a pale, freckled face. There was half a width between her and the rest of the group but her smile was just as huge.
“Were you married?” I asked when David returned with a chopping board covered in cut meats. No beating about the bush with me you’ll notice.
He put the
board down and walked over to see the photo. “Yes, that’s Luned. Most people at work don’t know about us. It’s a bit weird to keep her photo there, but it was such a happy moment.”
“On a family daytrip to a carpark?”
He gave me a playful shove. “Not exactly. That carpark is in front of the office where we signed our divorce papers. Everyone in my family adores Luned, so we went out for lunch and made a day of it. Sadly, she and I were no longer quite so in love.”
His cheerful tone faded out and it made me want to smack myself for being an idiot. “Sorry if I sounded pushy.” I searched for something to change the topic. “That’s Chloe, right? I didn’t know you were related.”
“Yes, my niece. That’s another secret I’ve kept. I suppose I didn’t want to be accused of nepotism.” He picked the photo up and let his eyes explore it like he hadn’t noticed it there in years. “It’s odd being the boss, you know? I’ve always kept so much distance from my staff. It’s like David Hughes is a totally different person to the Dai I am back home.” He put the photo down and rushed back across the room as if it had given him an electric shock. “How about a drink, eh?”
“David, there’s something I have to ask you.” I finished my tour and joined him at the table. “Why did you invite me over?”
He immediately launched into a defence. “Oh no. You would have preferred to go to a restaurant. I thought this might be too much.”
“No, that’s not what I mean. I mean, why ask me out now? We’ve been working together for years and, be honest, right after a colleague gets murdered isn’t the obvious moment for it.”
“Fair question.” He uncorked the bottle of wine and took a deep breath before continuing. “I’ve tried not to show it at work, but I really haven’t taken Bob’s death well. It’s not that he was such a great guy, I think we all know that’s not the case. But no matter what sort of person he was, nobody deserves what he went through.”
It was my turn not to grasp what he was getting at.
A Corpse Called Bob Page 11