Trust Me - T.M. Logan Page 0,69

is another unwelcome surprise. ‘On his own? You’re absolutely sure it was him?’

‘Yes.’

Gilbourne’s face darkens and I can almost see the gears turning, surprise turning to disbelief. Disbelief turning to suspicion. He’s about to say something else when his phone rings and he snatches it from his jacket, answering in monosyllables.

‘What?’ he says, turning away from me. ‘You sure? Where? Give me that again.’ He flips open a notebook with his free hand and scribbles something on it. He ends the call and stands up, checking his watch.

‘Stuart—’

‘I have to go.’ He hesitates for a moment, then places a hand lightly on my arm. ‘Look after yourself, Ellen. And please remember what I said.’

My head pulses with unanswered questions. But he’s already gone, striding down the drive and onto the dark street outside.

34

DI Gilbourne

Gilbourne watched from a safe distance, the smoke of his cigarette curling up into the evening sky. He was out on the station’s fourth-floor fire escape again, taking the opportunity of a short break from phone calls and interview notes and spooling through hours of CCTV footage. He had watched Holt pull into the car park five minutes ago, choose a space in the far corner and sit in his Ford Focus, mobile glued to his ear. His partner was gesturing with his free hand as he talked but he wasn’t getting out of the car, just talking, talking.

Gilbourne’s first cigarette was burned almost down to the filter so he shook out another one from the packet and lit it off the burning butt, grinding the first beneath the heel of his brogue. Why was Holt skulking out here in a dark corner of the car park where his colleagues on the second floor couldn’t see him? Maybe a personal call? A girlfriend? But Holt had never been shy of bringing his personal life into the office before; in fact he seemed to revel in it, wanting to let it be known that he was a player with two or three women on the go at any one time.

There was something else going on with him. And why was he going rogue, going back out to interview Kathryn Clifton’s boyfriend without telling him? Without telling his DI, his partner, the senior investigating officer on this case?

Gilbourne watched as Holt finished his call and held the phone against the steering wheel, now two-thumb typing a message or an email. Gilbourne dialled the young detective’s number and put the phone to his ear, listening as it connected and started to ring. He watched, from his vantage point on high, as Holt reached into his jacket and pulled out another phone, his normal phone, looked at the display for a second and then touched the screen. Gilbourne’s ear filled with the sound of his partner’s recorded voice.

‘Hello, you’ve reached the voicemail of Detective Sergeant Nathan Holt, please leave a message and I’ll—’

Gilbourne ended the call and watched as Holt slipped the handset back into his jacket, returning his attention to the other phone. Two phones. His regular mobile and . . . what? A burner phone that couldn’t be traced?

His own mobile rang in his hand and he checked the display before answering.

‘Rhodri,’ he said, flipping the half-finished cigarette away. ‘How’s life treating you?’

‘Can’t complain.’ The pathologist’s voice was slow and deliberate, soft Welsh vowels that always seemed at odds with the cold scientific facts of his profession. ‘I’ve got some preliminary findings on your PM, Kathryn Clifton. Is now a good time?’

‘Of course.’

Gilbourne stepped back inside and headed for the lifts. He wedged the phone between his cheek and his shoulder and pulled his notepad from his jacket pocket, flipping it open to a clean page.

‘Right then,’ the pathologist said. ‘I’ve estimated time of death at between 4 p.m. and midnight on Tuesday.’

‘Don’t suppose you can be more specific than that?’ Gilbourne always asked, and the answer was almost always the same. ‘It would really help if we could narrow the window down a little.’

‘Afraid not, Stuart. The location of the body in the stream, plus various other factors related to the temperature gradient between body temperature and ambient temperature, make it impossible to give a more precise determination. She’s received three stab wounds to the back, injury depth consistent at around thirteen centimetres with some bruising around the entry wounds suggestive of a blade being pushed in right to the hilt. One weapon. Two of the wounds penetrated the heart – either one of them could have been