The Trawlerman, стр. 14
‘No. It doesn’t.’
Jill took her time before she spoke again, and when she did so, her voice was cautious. ‘One really bloody weird thing’s come up, though. That’s what I need to talk to you about, Alex. You had that funny question. You asked what they ordered.’
‘Yes?’
‘Why precisely did you ask that?’
‘Tell me what they ordered.’
‘I asked first. Come on. I need to know.’
‘You tell me. Then I’ll tell you why I asked the question.’
Jill made a face, considered this for a minute, then reached down, picked up her bag and pulled out a notebook. ‘Here we go. This is exactly what they ordered. Dishwasher tablets. Four bottles of wine. Dog food. Gin.’
‘That all?’
Jill looked up. ‘Exactly. You’d have thought that you’d order more than that if you’re going to go to all the trouble of an online order.’
‘Did you check the cupboards?’
Jill smiled. ‘I did actually. No shortage of gin – or dog food.’
‘How much did it come to?’
‘Total value, £41.65.’
‘Is that all?’
‘Not much for a weekly shop, is it?’
Alex didn’t answer. Opposite the pub was the New Romney railway station. She watched someone walk past with a set of golf clubs.
‘So?’
‘Right. The Younises didn’t need the food on the list. They already had gin, at least. What’s the minimum amount for a delivery? I’d guess about forty quid?’ Alex let that sit for a second. ‘That’s why I asked.’
‘Oh. Wait. I got it.’ Jill’s eyes went big. ‘You think whoever put in the order did it only because whoever killed them wanted the delivery driver to find the dead bodies?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Oh my God. Oh-my-God-oh-my-God. Why didn’t I see that?’
Alex took a sugar cube, dropped it into her cup and stirred it, hoping sugar would give it something, at least.
‘And that’s why the murderer left Mrs Younis at the bottom of the stairs for them to see when they rang the bell?’
‘So who ordered the delivery, Jill?’
‘Mrs Younis ordered it online. But it’s hardly likely to have been her, is it? It’s like an invitation to see a dead body. It’s all super-weird.’
Alex looked down at her feet. Butterflies danced around the dandelions that cracked through the paving stones of the patio. ‘Yes. It is.’
A young couple joined them in the garden, both drinking lagers, lighting up cigarettes. Alex lowered her voice. ‘What about money? Have you looked at their bank accounts?’
‘We’re looking. Because there’s no sign of anything having been taken from the house.’
‘Still no suspects? Nothing?’
‘No relations we’re worried about. No lovers or colleagues. Just one report of Ayman Younis having a heated argument four days before the murder but we’ve been unable to work out who with. The postman heard shouting coming from the garden behind the house. He thinks he heard the words, “You’re going to fucking kill me, you know that?” He’s pretty sure that was Mr Younis’s voice but he can’t be absolutely certain.’
Alex thought about the layout of the house. The front door was on the left, by the driveway. Behind the house, out of sight if you were at the front door, was a large rear garden. ‘Could it have been an argument with his wife?’
‘No. There was a second voice, he said, talking less loudly, and it was definitely male. We’re asking friends if they have any idea of who it might have been.’
‘You’re going to fucking kill me?’
‘Yes. McAdam has been calling him the Unknown Male. It’s got a ring to it, don’t you think? Mind you, pretty much all males are unknown to me.’
‘What about time of death?’ asked Alex.
Jill frowned. ‘Why are you asking me that?’
‘Just wondering, that’s all.’ She thought about Kenny Abel and his souls. If she explained why, she might sound madder than she already did. ‘Do you know?’
‘Come on, Alex. Why do you want to know?’
Alex shrugged.
‘Actually, we might be in luck there.’
‘How?’ Forensics were increasingly reluctant to name precise times of death these days. Bodies decayed at different rates; temperatures fluctuated from place to place. What had been assumed to be an exact science had proved not to be. It was rare for anyone to hazard even an approximate time of death these days.
‘As it turns out, Mary Younis had a pacemaker. It’s gone for analysis. The pathologist says if we’re lucky, we will be able to discover the exact second it stopped working.’
She drove Jill back, parking fifty metres from the house. A BBC news team was parked just outside the gate now, setting up a camera.
‘What are you doing now?’ asked Jill.
‘Nothing.’
‘Perfect. Go home. Put your feet up. Get some rest.’
Alex nodded. ‘Yes. Maybe that’s what I’ll do. Let me know if it was around seven minutes past ten.’
‘If what?’
‘The time when Mary Younis died.’
‘Seven minutes past ten. That’s just too weirdly specific.’
‘It won’t be, then, I promise. It’s . . . it’s too nuts. Just tell me if it is. OK?’
Instead of turning around to head home, Alex returned to Littlestone. It took a little driving around before she found what she was looking for.
The golf club’s main building was a huge Edwardian arts and crafts hulk, red brick, pebble-dash, black beams and white balustrades.
Alex parked on the road close to the front of the clubhouse and walked past it onto the course. Her father had been a police officer in an era in which senior officers had all played golf. He had never played a round in his life; neither had she. But then, nor had he ever been diagnosed with PTSD.
A golf course, she thought, should have rolling hills and trees. This one didn’t; like everything around here, it was flat. Today, in the midsummer sun, it was at its flattest.
As she walked towards the first tee, three jolly-looking women strolled past