the forensic front, what Selina Gane had said when Grint had interviewed her, as Sam assumed he must have. He’d have liked to know if the former owners of the house, Mr and Mrs Beater, had identified the stain on the carpet as being the same one made by their Christmas tree, or if Grint was content to take Lorraine Turner’s word for it. Sam wouldn’t have been; a couple of times he’d opened his mouth to tell Grint as much, then changed his mind. Not his patch, not his problem.
It was time to extricate himself and return to his own far duller caseload. The more he discussed 11 Bentley Grove’s disappearing dead woman with Grint, the deeper he’d be drawn in. Interviewing Jackie Napier had been a step too far; he should have refused. Why didn’t you, then? his wife Kate would say – the most pointless question ever to be formulated, and one Kate asked regularly.
I didn’t because I didn’t.
As he followed Grint and Jackie up a narrow flight of grey stairs, Sam admitted to himself that he had no choice but to put Grint in touch with Simon, who, if nothing else, would be able to confirm that Connie had told the truth about the conversations she’d had with him. Simon would have formed an impression of her character, positive or negative. He wouldn’t be afraid to take a position, or several: reliable or dishonest, crazy or sane, victim or victim-maker. Good or evil. Simon dealt in larger concepts than Sam felt comfortable with, and trusted his own judgement; he was the help Grint needed. Someone who didn’t constantly equivocate. It often seemed to Sam that, while most people’s minds were like manifestos, foregrounding their beliefs and commitments, his own was more of a suggestion box, with every side of every argument stuffed into it, all clamouring for attention, each demanding equal consideration; Sam’s only role was to sort through the competing claims as impartially as possible. Maybe that was why he felt tired nearly all the time.
He’d have to contact Simon in Spain and warn him that Grint would be in touch; it was only fair. Great. Offhand, Sam couldn’t think of anything he wanted to do less than interrupt a honeymoon, especially not one that belonged to Charlie Zailer. Charlie wasn’t known for her forgiving nature.
Sam got a shock when Grint opened the interview room door and he saw the Bowskills. Both seemed out of breath. Connie looked as if she’d been crying non-stop for the whole time she’d been alone with her husband. There were grey streaks on her trousers that hadn’t been there before. What the hell had happened? An unpleasant, sour smell hung in the air, one Sam could neither describe to himself, nor match to anything he’d smelled before.
‘Sam?’ Connie’s voice was thick. Her eyes were on Jackie Napier, but there was nothing to suggest she recognised her. ‘What’s going on? Is this the woman who saw what I saw?’
If she’s lying, Sam thought, then by now the lie is as necessary for her survival as her heart and lungs are; she’ll cling to it no matter what, because she can’t envisage a life without it. Most of the liars Sam’s work brought him into contact with favoured the disposable variety – they’d put a story together and trot it out in the hope that it might net them a lighter sentence, but they knew they were talking rubbish; that was how they defined it to themselves. They weren’t emotionally attached to their invented scenarios; when you pointed out to them that you could prove they weren’t where they said they were at a particular time, they normally shrugged and said, ‘Worth a try, wasn’t it?’
Sam steeled himself for confrontation. He sensed a powerful latent aggression in Jackie Napier, always on the lookout for a legitimate outlet. That she would lay into Connie Bowskill, verbally if not physically, seemed beyond doubt. So why the delay? Why was she staring at the Bowskills, saying nothing?
Jackie turned to Grint, her mouth a knot of impatience. ‘Who’s this?’ She gestured towards Connie.
Grint took a second or two to answer. ‘This isn’t the woman who showed you Selina Gane’s passport?’
‘I did what?’ said Connie.
‘What the fuck are you talking about?’ Kit turned to Sam. ‘What does he mean?’
‘No,’ Jackie Napier said irritably. ‘I don’t know where you got her from, but you can put her back. I’ve never seen her before in my life.’