Faraday 01 The Gigabyte Detective (3 page)

“Within a fifteen-mile radius there are about a hundred and fifty thousand.” The inspector assumed a lugubrious expression. “But that’s in the winter. In summer the number probably peaks at over a quarter of a million.”

“You can forget the visitors,” said Lasham dismissively. “This isn’t a casual relationship.”

Paulson took a breath. “Well, sir. I don’t think the murderer’s a local man. If it is - it’s someone who’s managed to keep a pretty low profile so far.”

“It’s got to be someone she knows.” The chief superintendent waved a vague hand. “Are you sure you’ve checked all her contacts?”

“Everyone we can think of - her family and friends of course; then just about every man employed by the council - past and present; we’ve even tested her seventy-three year-old gardener and the husband of her daily help; in fact just about anybody who might have known her, up to top business acquaintances and the higher echelons of the Tory party.”

“The Tory party?” Lasham blinked at him. “What’s the bloody Tory party got to do with it?”

Paulson allowed himself a half-smile. “She was president of the local party and attended the last national party conference before she died. A hundred and eight of the men we tested were ones who she might have met there - including the deputy chairman.”

“Christ!” Lasham put his hand over his eyes. “No wonder we had a complaint from the House of Commons.”

“That’s the least of it,” the inspector sniffed. “Torbay upper class society is quite tight. My wife and I don’t get invited to social events anymore so I can’t keep an eye open for anyone we might have missed.” Not that he minded. All he wanted was to be left alone to enjoy his garden and his boat and his bit of fishing. It was his wife who complained.

“Hmm. That’s just something you’ll have to put up with. A copper can’t afford to be friends with all and sundry.” Mark Lasham paused for a second to let his annoyance build up again. “The question is - have you the guts to carry this investigation through in the teeth of local opposition?”

Paulson stiffened. “I believe I’ve always done my duty, sir.”

“And I believe that isn’t enough.” The chief superintendent leaned forward. “It’s no good trying to run in the local popularity stakes. You’ve got to get your head down and force your way through, no matter how little the members of the public may like it.”

“Are you trying to say, sir, that you want to replace me?” For an absurd moment the thought flitted across his mind that he could be free of all this stress and sense of failure.

“No, I am bloody not suggesting that,” barked Lasham. “We need your local knowledge and contacts. But we also need somebody with some new ideas - somebody who’s going to produce some results. The DCC thinks the same as me.”

Stafford Paulson looked at him carefully. “What are you saying, sir?”

The chief superintendent sighed. “I’m sorry Paulson, but you’re going to have someone stuck over the top of you.” His hand fluttered an excuse. “Lord Harry’s heard of a bright bird up at New Scotland Yard who’s dreamed up some sort of new computer system. He’s decided to borrow her for three months.” He raised a hand as if to ward off his assistant’s objections. “Don’t blame me. I didn’t want some clever, bloody woman coming in here and telling us how they do things up at the Met. But the DCC met her at some conference where she was giving a lecture. He grabbed her like a drowning man clutching at a life jacket. He booked her without so much as a word to me.”

“A woman?,” said Paulson, almost to himself. “That’s all we need. What age is she then?”

“I don’t know. Somewhere in her late twenties, I think. Still wet behind the ears and she’s already a bloody DCI.” He shook his head at the injustice of it. “It seems to come easy to these university graduates.”

The inspector grimaced. “The staff won’t like it, sir. It’ll be like a slap in the face to them after all the extra time they’ve put in on this one.”

“Fuck the bloody staff,” Lasham burst out. “When will you get it into your head, Paulson, that all the patient plodding in the world is no bloody good if you don’t get results. This Chief Inspector Faraday,” (he accentuated the words) “gets results, and you and your bloody staff don’t. That’s all there is to it. Of course,” he added with a little smirk, “she might find it’s different when she’s working with a bunch of country yokels.”

Stafford Paulson was quiet for a moment as he digested the latest bombshell. This really was the last straw. There were going to be a lot of problems between his team and this aggressive woman from London. And how would the local people react as they again started stirring up all the old mud they had raised during the last year. It was all right for her. He had to live with these people afterwards.

He shook his head. One thing was certain. If she was successful, he wouldn’t get any of the credit and, if she failed, everybody would want his guts for garters because she would allege he hadn’t given her the sort of support that she’d received in the Met. However he realised it was a waste of time trying to argue when the decision had already been taken.

He sighed. “Well,” he said mildly, “when do we get to meet this lady?”

“Monday morning.” Lasham smiled. “The DCC was going to call you straight in to his office to meet her, but I suggested that I got you up here this afternoon to break it to you a bit gently first.”

Paulson couldn’t help a wry grin at the thought that his boss considered the last fifteen minutes had been gentle.

The chief superintendent catapulted himself out of his chair in his usual aggressive manner. “Right. Here’s the article. You’d better get all your paperwork up together. No doubt this bloody woman will be looking for ways of telling us you’ve dropped plenty of clangers. Well - that’s all. You’d better get back to your comfy patch.”

As Paulson made his way back to the car he contemplated his ruined weekend as he prepared for this new woman to descend on them next week.

* * * * * * * * *

Susannah Blake put the phone back in its cradle and went back on to the terrace to join her friend. She paused at the patio doors to watch the setting sun as it plunged into the earth, putting a couple of the Tors on Dartmoor into black, cut-out relief. Below her the marine drive was already plunged into shadow, the little waves washing gently against the sea-wall. She was unaware of her natural pose which accentuated her still-slim figure with the carefully coiffured fair hair falling towards her left shoulder.

“Who was that, dear?” enquired Moira.

“It was Stephen.”

“What? Not coming down for the weekend again?”

Susannah twisted her face into a smile. “Apparently he has to go to some important conference in Switzerland.”

“Oh, dear. That must be the third weekend in a row that he’s been too busy to get down here. We’ll soon be forgetting what he looks like. You don’t think he’s taken up with some sexy little secretary, do you?” One could almost hear the woman’s claws being sharpened. “Thank goodness Andrew’s taken early retirement. I don’t know what I’d do if I saw him as seldom as you see Stephen.”

“Oh, it’s not so bad.” Susannah shrugged. “I have everything I need here.”

“I’m sure you do. But it’s not the same if you can’t share it with someone. You must join us tomorrow night for dinner.”

“That’s not necessary, Moira. I shall be perfectly happy on my own.” In fact she didn’t fancy a whole evening of Andrew’s clumsy flirtation while Moira looked daggers at her as though it was Susannah’s fault.

Her friend changed tack. “What do you think of this disclosure about the murders?”

“What murders?”

“My dear, don’t you read the local rag?”

“Do you mean the Advertiser? I’ve got it here somewhere but I haven’t looked at it yet. Is there something in it about some murders?”

“Susannah - it’s sensational! It’s not just some murders. This is getting very close to home.”

“Really? How exciting. Tell me more.”

“It’s more terrifying than exciting. Do you remember the murder of poor Cynthia Adams about a year ago?”

“Of course. But there was nothing frightening about that. Wasn’t the word that it was probably some sex experiment that had gone wrong? Apparently some guy had just bonked her brains out and had obviously gone a bit too far.” Susannah smiled bitterly. “Nice way to go.”

Moira looked shocked. “Really, Susie! You can be crude at times. Must you use the type of language you picked up in your time in the theatre?”

“You know that everybody was saying the same thing, Moira.”

“Yes, well, that theory seems to have been knocked on the head. Apparently she was the fifth victim of a serial killer who comes to Torquay every June and bumps off some rich woman living on her own. The next one is due in a few days.”

“What?”

“That’s right. I can tell you that we’re all in right panic. Alison and Vera and Betty have all arranged to leave this weekend and not come back until the end of July. There are dozens of others who are doing the same thing. Andrew has forbidden me to go out on my own. I only defied him to come round here this afternoon to warn you and I shan’t repeat it, I can tell you.”

“Goodness.”

“I think you ought to ring Stephen back and insist you go to Switzerland with him. You should be safe there.”

“I shall be perfectly safe here, Moira. Stephen’s had the place surrounded by so many security devices that I feel as though I’m living in Fort Knox.”

“But this man must be ruthless, Susie.” Her friend leaned forward with a worried frown on her face. “He’s already killed five times. He won’t worry about a few flashing lights. What would you do if he came over the wall?”

“It would take a brilliant cat burglar to get over this wall and avoid the security alarms and the lights. Then there’s Mollie and Geoff who are here most days. I don’t feel I can move without them knowing all about my movements. I really do think I’m perfectly safe here, Moira.”

“Well,” said her friend reluctantly, “If you insist. But promise me you’ll be very careful.”

“I promise.”

“We don’t want anything to happen to our most beautiful local celebrity.”

Susannah laughed modestly, as expected of her.

Her friend continued. “Of course, you are very lucky to have such a lovely place here. And these wonderful sea views. I’m really jealous of this beautiful terrace of yours. It could easily be the Cote d’Azur on a day like today.” She stretched like a wary cat. “Stephen spends such a lot on you. And now you’ve got the new car. What is it - a BMW four-wheel drive? That should be safe.”

“Bless him, he’s very generous.” Except with his time, Susannah thought.

Moira pushed herself reluctantly to her feet. “Well, I must be getting back to my man to see what he wants for supper. Are you sure you won’t come tomorrow night?”

“Absolutely. I shall enjoy eating out here on my own.”

“I shall worry about you, you know.”

Susannah chuckled. “There’s no need. I’m surrounded by security.”

“That’s true - but still.” She took a breath as she turned to the door. “Well, I’ll call in sometime next week - with Andrew, of course.”

“I look forward to it.”

She saw her friend to her car and activated the remote gate controls to let her out. Then she went in to the dining room, poured herself a glass of white wine and returned to the terrace full of her thoughts and her memories.

* * * * * * * *

Charlotte had everything ready for Mitch when he came back from the pub. The room had been tidied and she had run the vacuum cleaner over the somewhat threadbare carpet. The electric fire was on low. She had lit candles on the table and the central light was turned off. She’d changed into a soft sweater and skirt and put on some perfume, had brushed her hair thoroughly to make it shine in the candle-light. She was sitting on the settee and there was gentle classical music playing.

He came in hesitantly, almost as though he suspected a trap.

“You’ve been a long time.” But she kept her voice deliberately light and friendly.

“Yes.” He cleared his throat. “I - er - I bumped into Dominic Yates. Do you remember him?”

“Of course I do. What did he have to say for himself?”

“Not a lot.” He hung his head.” In fact we mainly talked about us.”

“About us? Do you mean about you and me?”

He transferred his weight from one foot to the other. “Yes. I was telling him about how we seemed to have drifted apart in recent months.”

“You discussed that with him?” She couldn’t keep the anger completely out of her voice.

“Let’s face it, Charlie, the old magic seems to have gone. You and I are always rowing nowadays. We never seem to agree on anything any more.”

His comments seemed to make her freeze inside. This was serious and unexpected. But she was careful when she said, “If that’s the way you feel, don’t you think you ought to have discussed it with me first instead of some bloke you hardly ever see.”

“I felt I needed to talk to someone who wasn’t emotionally involved - to be able to test my thoughts on someone who wouldn’t blow up in my face. Besides, I reckon I see him more than I see you these days.”

The cynicism in his voice hurt. She was quiet for a long time, thinking through the meaning of the twist that the conversation had taken. “So what is this leading up to, Mitch? What have you and Dominic Yates decided to do about it?”