happy to have come up to the flat.”
“Yes, but … of course there were—but not anyone who would kill her. Not anyone with a gun.”
“She wouldn’t know, would she? She wouldn’t know that the person ringing the doorbell had a gun.”
He shook his head again.
“I’d like you to go on thinking back … we need to know the slightest thing that might come to your mind as seeming relevant. Or odd.”
“What sort of thing?”
“Something she may have said. A person she may have mentioned. Or it might be an incident she referred to.”
“I don’t know.”
“Keep thinking, Craig.”
“Where’s your office?” Whiteside asked.
“Ship Street.”
“There all that afternoon, were you?”
“Most of it. I’ve told them this.”
“You haven’t told me. Were you there all afternoon?”
Craig Drew looked across at Serrailler now, like a child looking to a parent to rescue him.
“Craig, please understand that we need to know everything—if only to get it out of the way. Did you have lunch in your office?”
“Yes. I went out to Dino’s, the café in the next street. I got a sandwich and a coffee. I bought a banana as well if you want to know. I took them back and ate at my desk.”
“Anyone else there with you?” Whiteside asked.
“Yes. Three—no, four of us. We generally stay in the office over lunch … occasionally someone is out showing a client round a property … Stephen was. The rest of us were in.”
“Later on?”
“I caught up—I’d been away from the office, I’d missed what had been sold, what had come on … you have to keep up. Your own properties, other people’s …”
“All afternoon? You’re telling us you were there all afternoon?”
Why the aggression? Serrailler wondered. Why was Whiteside treating Craig Drew like a prime suspect?There were times for belligerent questioning. This was not one of those.
“No. I went out to meet a client—to show a property. It was on the new estate at Ciderholes.”
“What’s his name?”
“She—it was a Miss Bradford …”
“And Miss Bradford will confirm this?”
“I don’t know … I suppose so … I don’t know what happened.”
“Happened?”
“She didn’t show. I went there and waited half an hour and she didn’t turn up. I couldn’t get hold of her on the phone, so I went back to the office—it was getting on for half past five then. I just picked up my bike—I cycle to work—and went home.”
“How did you get to Ciderholes?”
“I borrowed one of the cars—we have a couple of company cars. I couldn’t cycle all that way and back, and anyway, it doesn’t look professional.”
“I bet. Funny this Miss Bedford—”
“Bradford.”
“Ah yes, Miss Bradford—sounds like she might be going for Miss UK, doesn’t it? Funny she didn’t show, didn’t leave a message, you couldn’t get hold of her. Odd that. Don’t you think?”
“No. It happens. We get time-wasters.”
“Ah, I see. So this is what she was? This invisible woman?”
Simon Serrailler had never in his senior police career shown up a junior officer in front of a member of the public. He tried not to do so even in front of colleagues,though occasionally it was necessary. But he came as close as he ever had by nearly giving Graham Whiteside a dressing-down now, in front of Craig Drew and Craig’s father who had come to offer them more coffee and to hover in the doorway when they refused.
Craig looked across at his father. He had tears in his eyes. His face was flushed. But above all he looked bewildered. He did not understand why he was being harangued, what the questions meant, what he had done wrong.
Nothing, the DCS wanted to say, you have done nothing wrong at all. Because he believed it. Craig Drew had not killed his wife. If there had been any doubt in Simon’s mind earlier—and it had been a shadow of a doubt only—there was none now. Craig Drew was not a killer.
He got up. For a moment, Whiteside remained
“Yes, but … of course there were—but not anyone who would kill her. Not anyone with a gun.”
“She wouldn’t know, would she? She wouldn’t know that the person ringing the doorbell had a gun.”
He shook his head again.
“I’d like you to go on thinking back … we need to know the slightest thing that might come to your mind as seeming relevant. Or odd.”
“What sort of thing?”
“Something she may have said. A person she may have mentioned. Or it might be an incident she referred to.”
“I don’t know.”
“Keep thinking, Craig.”
“Where’s your office?” Whiteside asked.
“Ship Street.”
“There all that afternoon, were you?”
“Most of it. I’ve told them this.”
“You haven’t told me. Were you there all afternoon?”
Craig Drew looked across at Serrailler now, like a child looking to a parent to rescue him.
“Craig, please understand that we need to know everything—if only to get it out of the way. Did you have lunch in your office?”
“Yes. I went out to Dino’s, the café in the next street. I got a sandwich and a coffee. I bought a banana as well if you want to know. I took them back and ate at my desk.”
“Anyone else there with you?” Whiteside asked.
“Yes. Three—no, four of us. We generally stay in the office over lunch … occasionally someone is out showing a client round a property … Stephen was. The rest of us were in.”
“Later on?”
“I caught up—I’d been away from the office, I’d missed what had been sold, what had come on … you have to keep up. Your own properties, other people’s …”
“All afternoon? You’re telling us you were there all afternoon?”
Why the aggression? Serrailler wondered. Why was Whiteside treating Craig Drew like a prime suspect?There were times for belligerent questioning. This was not one of those.
“No. I went out to meet a client—to show a property. It was on the new estate at Ciderholes.”
“What’s his name?”
“She—it was a Miss Bradford …”
“And Miss Bradford will confirm this?”
“I don’t know … I suppose so … I don’t know what happened.”
“Happened?”
“She didn’t show. I went there and waited half an hour and she didn’t turn up. I couldn’t get hold of her on the phone, so I went back to the office—it was getting on for half past five then. I just picked up my bike—I cycle to work—and went home.”
“How did you get to Ciderholes?”
“I borrowed one of the cars—we have a couple of company cars. I couldn’t cycle all that way and back, and anyway, it doesn’t look professional.”
“I bet. Funny this Miss Bedford—”
“Bradford.”
“Ah yes, Miss Bradford—sounds like she might be going for Miss UK, doesn’t it? Funny she didn’t show, didn’t leave a message, you couldn’t get hold of her. Odd that. Don’t you think?”
“No. It happens. We get time-wasters.”
“Ah, I see. So this is what she was? This invisible woman?”
Simon Serrailler had never in his senior police career shown up a junior officer in front of a member of the public. He tried not to do so even in front of colleagues,though occasionally it was necessary. But he came as close as he ever had by nearly giving Graham Whiteside a dressing-down now, in front of Craig Drew and Craig’s father who had come to offer them more coffee and to hover in the doorway when they refused.
Craig looked across at his father. He had tears in his eyes. His face was flushed. But above all he looked bewildered. He did not understand why he was being harangued, what the questions meant, what he had done wrong.
Nothing, the DCS wanted to say, you have done nothing wrong at all. Because he believed it. Craig Drew had not killed his wife. If there had been any doubt in Simon’s mind earlier—and it had been a shadow of a doubt only—there was none now. Craig Drew was not a killer.
He got up. For a moment, Whiteside remained
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