‘Would a Morris Minor have alloy wheels?’ asked Sarah. She was shining the light of her phone at the stack of four wheels piled up behind the car.
‘Probably not.’
‘It looks very much like a Fiat 500 to me, and our occupational therapist drives one.’
Cole knew that. He’d been reading the intranet since the incident at the bungalow in Berrow.
Sarah unhooked the cover at the back of the car, the elastic pulling tight and dragging it clear of the rear window. ‘There’s no number plate either.’
She shone her light at a bench against the back wall, where several number plates were stacked in a pile, alongside a screwdriver and four screws. ‘There are loads here,’ she said. ‘All different registration numbers.’
‘Best not touch,’ said Cole. ‘We’ll need to get Forensics over here.’
Sarah was dialling a number on her phone, but stopped abruptly, her eyes wide and fixed on something behind Cole. He spun round, seeing the gun butt swinging towards his head – it was definitely a gun butt.
Then it all went black.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Last call on a Saturday. Louise had taken a long overdue afternoon off, so it was Jane in the passenger seat grumbling about his parking, baggy coat done up to hide her bump. Monty was grumbling too, but that was aimed at another dog being exercised off the lead on the far side of the grass area in the middle of the crescent.
‘Off the lead on a public road,’ muttered Dixon.
‘I think we’ve got more important things to be worrying about, don’t you?’
He would have parked across the drive, but someone had beaten him to it.
‘Is that his?’ asked Jane.
Red, with the unmistakable badge.
‘Let’s hope we don’t get involved in a car chase,’ said Dixon.
‘His monthly insurance payment must be more than I earn.’
A twenty-one-year-old in a Ferrari. It didn’t bear thinking about.
It was Dixon’s turn to grumble. ‘I’m in the wrong business.’
‘You’ve always known that.’
Double-glazed windows, but the sound of a baby crying still carried to the pavement. It was something he would need to get used to, if such a thing was possible.
‘She’ll know by now, if he’s here,’ said Jane.
‘I want to talk to her alone, so we’ll need to get rid of him somehow.’ There had been movement in the upstairs window, but he rang the bell anyway.
‘Is it true?’ asked Freya, opening the front door. ‘Is he my brother?’
There were tears, but Dixon would reserve judgement on whether they were genuine or not.
‘Jos has so far refused to give us a DNA sample,’ replied Dixon.
‘So he might not be?’
‘He is, according to Diana Hope-Bruce. And she should know.’ He took his chance and stepped in through the open door.
‘We’re upstairs,’ she said, closing the door behind them.
‘Do I need my solicitor again?’ demanded Jos, when Dixon appeared on the landing.
‘We’ve come to talk to Freya, actually,’ replied Dixon. ‘So, you’re free to leave.’
‘I’ll stay.’
‘Let me rephrase that then.’ Dixon was looking along the mantelpiece, fake and over an electric fire. There wasn’t even a chimney. ‘Go.’
‘I’d rather he stayed,’ said Freya. She had followed Jane up the stairs. ‘How far gone are you?’ she asked.
‘Six months.’
‘Is he the father?’ she asked, nodding in Dixon’s direction.
‘Yes.’
‘Oh, God. I was joking, sorry.’
Her son was sitting in a high chair, trying to feed himself with a plastic spoon.
