as suddenly?’
‘My partner made a detailed examination of Mrs Singh’s house. He said that apart from one or two odd patches of damp, it was bone-dry. Yet ten hours earlier, it was so full of water that a woman drowned in it? I’m sorry, Mr Wilton, it’s an interesting theory, but a little far-fetched.’
‘I knew I wouldn’t be able to convince you,’ Oliver sighed, folding away the map. ‘But you’d be surprised. I know about these things. The movement of water far exceeds anything you can imagine.’
28
* * *
SPOILS OF THE FLEET
‘I’m Mr Bryant. Do you remember me?’
The elderly detective was standing on the Wiltons’ front step with rainwater pouring from the brim of his battered brown trilby. May’s encounter with Oliver Wilton the day before had given him an idea.
Brewer nodded. ‘You came to our party.’ The boy spoke at the floor. He had the look of a child who had rarely been allowed outside alone.
‘I decided to dig up a little local history, part of an investigation, and thought you might like to come along, if you weren’t doing anything. I’d be glad of the company.’
It was hard to tell whether Brewer was flattered or horrified by the idea. He was probably intrigued at the prospect of accompanying a police inspector, but the pleasure was offset by the embarrassment of being seen with an elderly man. Either way, it had to be more fun than watching other kids have battles in canoes.
‘You see, Brewer, I’m starting to think there’s something very peculiar going on around here, and I could really use a little help. I need someone who knows the area, someone who’s been keeping their eyes and ears open. I thought that person might be you.’
‘Dad’s at work. Mum’s out. I’m not allowed to go anywhere. And she says don’t talk to strangers,’ said Brewer uncomfortably.
‘Oh, you’re not a stranger,’ said Bryant airily. ‘I know a little about you. I saw you at the party, watching everyone. I bet I could tell you something about yourself.’
‘You couldn’t.’
‘A challenge, eh? I’ll make a deal with you. If I can, you have to give me a hand and put in a full day’s police work with me. I’ll clear it with your mum.’ Bryant narrowed his eyes and studied the boy. ‘I know something you probably haven’t told anyone. You really hate your name. You wish you’d been called something else.’
The boy’s continued silence betrayed him.
‘In fact, it isn’t even your first name.’ From the corner of his eye, Bryant could see the nylon football bag hanging in the hall. The initials printed on it were D.B.W. Nobody was called Derek any more, and middle-class parents were unlikely to have opted for Darren or Dale. Damien had passed the peak of its popularity. ‘Your first name is David,’ Bryant told him, ‘which is good enough for David Beckham, but apparently not for your dad. He wants to move you to a private school, where they play rugby.’ This was a combination of intuition and common sense. Tamsin was Oliver’s second wife, a fair bit younger and more of a trophy than his first. Oliver was clearly trying to pull the boy up a few social rungs to please her. He held down a decent job, was making money, and had mentioned the poor quality of the local schools at the party. On the morning of Ruth Singh’s death, Bryant had seen the boy leaving his house with football boots slung over his shoulder.
‘You’ve talked to him.’
‘Not since your party, and never about you. Grab yourself a coat, David, while I call your mother. I won’t come in—I don’t want to fill your house with water.’
Brewer hesitated for a moment. Hanging out with a disreputable-looking policeman could prove dangerous, and would probably get him into trouble with his father. The offer was worth accepting for that reason alone. He scampered off down the hall.
It was unorthodox, Bryant knew, but he needed some deeper attachment to the residents of Balaklava Street that went beyond question-and-answer, and looking after the boy was a good way of making friends.
As they splashed off along Balaklava Street a few minutes later, David felt comfortable enough to fall into step beside Bryant. ‘Where are we going?’ he asked.
‘First we’re looking up an old colleague of mine who’s moved in just a few roads away. She knows all about the area.’
‘Is she a teacher?’
‘Sort of,’ Bryant smiled. ‘She’s a witch.’
‘What do you think of the new place?’