The Trawlerman, стр. 37
The meeting had been in the main HQ – that solid 1950s red neo-classical architecture that spoke of an era when the police went about their business unquestioned. It felt strange being in there now. She already felt like an exile. And then, descending the stairs towards the front door, she ran into DI McAdam coming the other way.
He looked up at her and smiled. ‘Glad to see you back here, Alex. How’s the new job?’
She clutched her folder. ‘Dull.’
‘Excellent. Exactly what the doctor ordered.’
‘And how’s it going with the Younis case? How did the interview with Bob Glass go?’
Toby McAdam crossed his arms; as close an expression of disapproval as he ever gave. ‘You shouldn’t even be asking about this stuff, Alex.’
‘Did he actually confess before you charged him?’
He looked a little uncomfortable. ‘No.’
They had stopped in one of the busiest places in the building. People continued around them, walking up and down the stairs. ‘I didn’t think he would. And you have him in the location that night?’
‘Of course. Multiple witnesses saw him in the area. And we have him arguing with Ayman Younis on several occasions, and one particular occasion in which threatening words appear to have been used.’
‘You have a witness who saw that?’
McAdam hesitated. ‘Overheard.’
She turned and walked on down the stairs.
She had made it to the floor below before he finally leaned over the banister and said, ‘Why are you asking me this?’
She called up. ‘Because he didn’t do it. You do know that, don’t you? He’s mentally ill.’
She was outside onto the path at the front of the building by the time he caught up with her.
‘We’re aware of his mental health issues.’
‘It wasn’t the work of a madman.’
‘You’ve been talking to Jill, then?’ His face hardened. ‘I know she’s your friend, but I’m going to have to ask her not to discuss the details of this case with you. It’s for your own good, you know, Alex. We all care a great deal about you.’
He stood looking at her for a full thirty seconds. People passed around them, busy with their own work. ‘I am aware of Jill’s theory, but it doesn’t stand up. We’ve checked the IP address. The email came from the household’s own address. It was a coincidence that they ordered so little, that’s all. Not everyone is logical all the time. Not every person suffering from delusions is illogical either.’
They stood awkwardly.
‘I miss you, Alex. You ask the right questions. But this is not the time. You need to get better first. Leave it to us now. For your own good.’
‘Right.’
‘Are you looking after yourself? You and Zoë? Perhaps you should come round for dinner some time?’
DI McAdam’s wife Colette was a brittle woman who made Alex feel anxious whenever she was around her.
‘Yes, that would be lovely,’ she said, and turned away before he could start suggesting diary dates.
Work finished earlier than she was used to. On the kitchen table, a note. Gone to Folkestone. Z. Xxx.
Without Zoë in the house she could eat meat. She cooked some sausages, looked at them on the plate for a while without touching them, then opened up her laptop and scrolled through emails until she found the one from Georgia Coaker. She clicked on the photograph, peered at it, zooming in until the shapes dissolved into pixels, trying to understand what she was looking at.
After a few minutes, she put the cooked sausages back into the fridge and pulled her car keys out of her bag.
Ten minutes later, Terry Neill was opening his front door in shorts and a blue T-shirt.
‘This is a surprise,’ he said.
‘You said you went to his birthday.’
‘What?’ He blinked at her, confused, then opened the door wide for her to come in.
Twenty-seven
‘Were there balloons?’ she demanded.
‘What?’
‘When you went to Callum’s twenty-first-birthday party at Loftingswood Grange, did Ayman and Mary bring balloons?’
He looked at her with a bemused look. ‘You don’t know how pleased I am to see you. Would you like a glass of wine? I’ve already had more than I should.’
He led her through to the back of his house again. ‘Shit day?’ she asked.
‘I’m on my third glass,’ he said. ‘Alcohol releases dopamine and serotonin. None of that is having the desired effect right now. Would you . . . ?’
‘I’ll be glad to help you in your research. Just one, though.’
‘The thing about alcohol is it’s supposed to increase the release of gamma-aminobutyric acid, which is an inhibitor. That’s why you drink to blot things out. Alcohol can literally do that. Only it’s not really working yet.’
She stopped. ‘You heard the latest about Ayman and Mary then?’
‘Yes. They’ve arrested the man who murdered them. There was stuff on the news. It’s all a bit raw.’ He made an attempt at a smile but it was less than convincing.
‘Sorry. I should have been more thoughtful. I didn’t mean to butt in.’ For once she held her thoughts in her head; now was not the time to suggest to him that they had arrested the wrong man.
‘No, no,’ he said. ‘It’s fine. I’m glad of company.’ He poured Zinfandel into a mammoth glass. ‘What was it you were saying about his birthday?’
‘I wanted to know if they brought balloons.’
‘Balloons?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s a weird question. Yes. They did. He blew them up himself. He brought all the gear with them in the boot of his car. A cylinder of gas. They loved that boy a great deal. Was that it?’
‘That’s all.’
‘Why balloons? What’s all this about?’
She ignored him and looked out towards the grass that grew between them and the sand. ‘I’ve been thinking a lot about what you told me