‘This is a lovely place. Do you live here alone?’
‘I do, yes. Property is always a good investment.’
Something sinks inside Franklin. A house is something to be loved, he thinks. It’s a home, not a way of making money.
‘You must make a decent wage. Didn’t you say you were a hotel manager?’
Parker looks surprised again. Perhaps even a little concerned about the amount of personal information he must have imparted.
‘That’s right. At the Lansing, down at the docks.’
‘Is that a nice hotel?’
‘Not bad. It’s four star.’
‘Four star? Fancy. Will you be working there this weekend?’
He puts the question casually. Idle chit-chat. But it could become important. Franklin likes to know his parameters.
‘Nope. I’ve got the whole weekend off.’
Parker brings two mugs of tea across, one much weaker than the other.
‘Thank you,’ Franklin says. ‘That looks the perfect shade. Would it be cheeky of me to ask if you have any biscuits? I don’t take sugar, but I do love a biscuit with my tea.’
‘Biscuits? Er, yes, of course.’
Parker opens a cupboard near the sink and takes out a packet of biscuits. Franklin is disappointed to see that they’re a cheap supermarket own-brand variety. He is even more disappointed when Parker places only two on a plate before bringing it across.
Parker takes his place opposite Franklin, his eyes on the manila folder.
‘So…’ Parker says, ‘you mentioned something about evidence?’
‘Oh. Yes. I’m only at the beginning stages of the investigation, you understand, but it’s looking promising. You mind if I dunk?’
‘Sorry?’
‘The biscuits. I like to dunk. Some people find the practice distasteful.’
‘No. That’s fine. Go ahead.’
Franklin indulges, and it’s as he feared. These biscuits have next to no fortitude. One quick dip and they give up the will to survive.
‘And this evidence,’ Parker reminds him. ‘It’s…?’
‘Of a photographic nature, yes. I’ve done some printouts. Would you like to see them?’
‘Please.’
Franklin opens up the folder, takes out the photographs, lines them up in front of Parker. He’s pleased with his handiwork and the story these pictures tell. Cody at Webley’s side, entering her house at night. In one of the faked images, he managed to make it look as though Cody was placing his hand on Webley’s waist.
Parker studies them in silence for a long time while Franklin continues to dunk.
Parker clears his throat. ‘How… how did you get these?’
‘I was in my car. I staked out Megan’s house. That man – I assume he’s the detective you were telling me about?’
‘Cody. Yes.’ Another pause. ‘What time was this?’
‘Just after nine o’clock.’
‘Okay. So they could have just got together for a coffee or to talk about work.’
‘Hmm. The lights went off at about eleven.’
Parker blinks at him. ‘The lights?’
‘In the house. I saw Megan close the bedroom curtains and then the lights went out.’
‘And Cody…’
‘Was still in there, yes.’
‘What… what time did he leave?’
‘I didn’t see him leave. I hung around till three o’clock in the morning, but he hadn’t come out by then.’
‘I see. That’s late.’
