new ones, five of which looked as if they could safely be ignored; the other two were from DC Ian Grint and Olivia Zailer, Charlie’s sister. Sam opened the one from Grint, who’d been trying and failing to get hold of him. Sam wasn’t sure he had the energy to ring him back after his exhausting session with Connie Bowskill; he felt like an unpaid shrink – another meeting like that and he’d need to see a shrink himself. Grint had probably called with a current phone number for the Beaters, the couple who had owned 11 Bentley Grove before Selina Gane; Sam had requested it at one point, thinking he might ask them about the Christmas tree stain on their carpet. He smiled to himself. Grint probably thought he was crazy; Sam wouldn’t have blamed him if he did.
The email from Olivia contained a string of confusing instructions, double negatives and veiled non-specific accusations – ‘I’m not saying you should or you shouldn’t . . .’, ‘please don’t, or rather, only do if you feel you have to . . .’, ‘after I’d mulled it over, I decided I just couldn’t not give you the number . . .’, ‘clearly no one else was going to tell you . . .’ – and provided Sam with a means of reaching Simon, which put him in a position he’d have given anything not to be in. Unforgivable to disturb someone on their honeymoon, even with a quick phone call. Which, Sam had to admit, wouldn’t be especially quick. There was so much he wanted to ask Simon, and tell him, he wasn’t sure he’d know where to begin; the honeymoon would be over by the time he’d filled him in, and Charlie would be marching towards the CID room to bash Sam unconscious with a heavy suitcase.
The phone on his desk started to ring. Sam prayed for it to be Simon: bored, killing time while Charlie had a nap, calling in the hope of a long chat.
It was Ian Grint. He launched in without preamble. ‘Looks like your lady’s telling the truth. I’ve had a woman turn up this morning, saw exactly the same thing. Do you believe in synchronicity? I never have, but I might have to start.’
‘That’s . . .’ What was it? Sam didn’t know. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected to happen, but it certainly wasn’t this.
‘Same description,’ said Grint. ‘Of the woman and the room. Framed map, coffee table, the works. Woman: slim, petite, green and lilac patterned dress, dark messy hair fanned out around her head, large pool of blood, darker around the stomach. The timings coincide too. They must have pressed the virtual tour button within seconds of each other. Probably the only two people in the country who did, as it was past one in the morning.’
‘Maybe not,’ said Sam. ‘Maybe other people are on their way to you – or aren’t, because they’re not sure how to prove they saw it.’
‘It disappeared from the website almost immediately after the two known sightings, there’s no doubt about that,’ said Grint. ‘Jackie Napier – that’s the lady here – she says she shut the tour down, then started it up again and the body wasn’t there. That’s exactly what happened to your Mrs Bowskill, right?’
‘It is,’ Sam told him.
‘How soon can you and she get down here?’ Grint asked.
‘Me and . . . me and Connie Bowskill?’ He’d extricated himself from her barely controlled hysteria less than five minutes ago, and had no desire to seek her out in the near future. She’d ordered a taxi to pick her up, since her husband had taken the car and left her without a means of transport. She was probably long gone by now. As for dropping everything and heading for Cambridge, Sam could imagine Proust’s reaction. ‘I’m not sure I can.’
‘Oh, you can, believe me.’ Grint’s chuckle made it clear that he was unamused. Sam heard the underlying seriousness, the hint of threat. ‘There’s quite a bit more to it, and I can’t go into it over the phone – you need to hear it for yourself. We’ve got a mess on our hands, the like of which you’ve never seen before. I know I haven’t. I need you both here, you and her.’
A few seconds later, Sam was sprinting along the corridor, in case Connie Bowskill was still waiting in the nick car park for a cab that hadn’t yet arrived.