Chapter 25

In the end the waiting got to Reid. He'd come home to give himself a break because he couldn't stand staring at the walls of the office any longer, but there was only so long he could chain-smoke and stare at a silent telephone. Grabbing up his jacket he went across to the answering machine, turned it on and pressed the "record new message" button. When the tone sounded he barked into the microphone: "Ring the mobile!" stuffed the Nokia into one pocket and his Rothmans into the other and went out for a walk, leaving the red light on the answerphone gleaming steadily in the dark.

It was late, it was raining and the streets were emptying, which suited him fine. Head down, collar turned up, he walked quickly, almost hammering his feet down on the paving stones. He wasn't heading anywhere in particular, just keeping on the move, trying to stay one jump ahead of the explosion which he could feel slowly gathering inside him.

Only in the last few days, with the pressure of the case suddenly gone, had he really had time to take stock of the situation he'd arrived back in. For months, every atom of his being had been focussed on recovery and rehabilitation to get back to the kids, back to work and prove to himself and BB (and everyone else at Northcote, and to Louise, if he was honest with himself) that he could do the job well, and do it sober.

And when there was a job to do, he was proving that he was more than capable. The difficulty, he was beginning to realise, was the quiet times when there were no questions to answer and no moral outrage was driving him forward. Because then there was nothing to fill up the spaces inside him except what he put there himself. If he was going to stay straight he needed to find something – anything – to keep his mind filled up with white noise, and at the moment he had no idea what.

Stopping to light his umpteenth fag of the night, sheltering under the overhanging walkway above a row of shops, he found himself wondering if coming back had been the right thing to do. The kids were nearby, that was the main thing. There had been a barbeque at Louise and Paul's over the weekend and he'd been able to go round and spend the afternoon there. But the job? For all BB's politically correct noises, Reid knew his chances of career advancement at Northcote were minimal. And he had a nasty feeling that his reputation had probably preceded him in most of the rest of the Met, too.

He threw the tab end on the floor and stepped on it, not even registering yet that he was staring up at the lighted windows of the pub opposite. It would be dry inside, his subconscious reasoned. He wouldn't stay long. Just a pint. He was on the point of beginning to form the thought "Sod it!" in his mind when his mobile rang.

"Sarge?" It was Leo Gent, landed with waiting in the office for any responses to the TV appeal. "Nothing direct about the DI's whereabouts, but we've had a call from a lady and I thought you'd want me to tell you. She said she works – worked – with Tom Ainslie, and she thinks Mr Pyle might have been murdered."

Reid was back in motion, retracing his steps at double speed. "What's her name, Leo? Where does she live? Ring Boydeau and tell her I'm coming to pick her up." Cramming the phone back in his pocket he swerved round a bunch of tipsy girls on a works night out and half-ran round the next corner. Given the outlet it needed, the roaring at the back of his brain faded away to be replaced by the sudden notion that he was turning into an adrenaline junkie. Nothing for it, then, he decided as he reached the end of his street and accelerated along the empty pavement. Going to have to take up bungee-jumping…

*********************************

"Sorry to arrive on your doorstep so late, Mrs Anderson…" Reid began, and was cut off by a briskly raised hand.

"Nonsense. If you hadn't come to see me following my making such a telephone call I would have been most upset, although I confess I was a little taken aback by the speed of your response."

Boydeau, who'd been a little taken aback herself and had been about to step into a lovely hot bath when her phone had rung, smiled at the elderly woman as they stood a little awkwardly in the front hall. "DS Reid takes his job very seriously."

"Well, I should hope so. Come through, do." Straight-backed and swift-moving, Mrs Anderson ushered them into her comfortable lounge and produced tea in cups and cakes on plates before perching herself on the edge of her chair.

Boydeau produced her notebook and pulled her reading glasses out of her jacket pocket as Reid said: "I know you've spoken to DC Gent earlier, Mrs Anderson, but if you could just tell us what you told him…"

Clasping her hands neatly on her knee, the old lady thought for a moment. "Well – I should start by apologising for not telling you about this earlier. I work in the hospice shop down on the Parade as a volunteer, and as you're probably aware, one of my co-workers was poor Tom Ainslie." Breaking off, she sighed and shook her head a little. "He was a nice boy, and he really was trying very hard to put his past behind him. When he went missing, I confess I did fear the worst. But then it appeared from the newspapers when he was found that his death had been an unfortunate accident, and so I thought I must have been mistaken…" she paused again. "I'm terribly sorry. I'm not making a great deal of sense, am I?"

Boydeau glanced briefly at Reid, who was leaning back in his seat wearing the impassive look which meant that he was watching and listening intently and expecting her to ask the questions. "Let's start with Tom, if we may, Mrs Anderson." Sheila gave her an encouraging smile. "What did you mean exactly when you said you "feared the worst" when he went missing?"

Mrs Anderson looked at her frankly. "I thought he'd got involved with drugs again. I'm a retired nurse, DC Boydeau, and I've seen enough addicts in my time to recognise one when I'm working beside him three days a week. Although Tom really was trying to stay on the straight and narrow. Anyway – the day before Tom went missing, he had a long conversation with one of our regular customers. A little Scottish gentleman with a terrible personal problem."

Bingo! Sheila thought. You can run, McVey, but you can't hide. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Reid stiffen like a hunting dog catching a scent. "Do you know what they talked about, Mrs Anderson?"

He was answered with a shake of the head. "I'm sorry," Mrs Anderson said, "but I really wasn't taking much notice. I'm afraid" – she leaned forward with a confidential air – "Mr Whyte is the sort of chap who'll keep one talking for ever if you let him, and I was really rather glad to have avoided him."

Sheila caught Reid's eye and they both grinned. "That's quite understandable," Boydeau said in a suitably professional tone. "Can you think of anything Tom said afterwards that might be of any importance?"

The elderly woman frowned, tapping a forefinger against her lower lip. "Not that I recall," she replied eventually. "The only thing I remember him saying later on was that he'd need to leave at lunchtime to run an errand and could I manage to shut up the shop without him at the end of the day. And of course I said that was fine and he was to get himself off." She gave a little sigh of frustration. "I do wish I'd realised it was going to be important. But it wasn't until the next time that…" she trailed off, shaking her head.

"The next time?" Shelia prompted. She and Reid exchanged brief glances again.

Mrs Anderson sat very still for a moment, her eyes closed as she ordered her thoughts. "The day before yesterday," she said, slowly, "Mr Whyte had come into the shop, as he does two or three days each week, and I saw him talking to another gentleman." She looked up at Boydeau. "The second man was your Mr Pyle, the one who's gone missing."

Reid bolted upright in his chair as if his spine were spring-loaded. "Two days ago?!" he snapped. "Are you sure?"

"Quite certain." Mrs Anderson's reply was firm, and very slightly affronted.

Resisting the temptation to flap a reproving hand at her boss, Sheila stepped in hastily. "If you can go over the whole incident bit by bit, Mrs Anderson," she said, "any details you can give us – anything at all – will be very useful."

Again there was a lengthy pause; the older woman was clearly replaying the events in her mind's eye before she spoke. As she waited, Boydeau considered whether Reid might literally explode with impatience, and, if so, how long it would take to get the stains out of the green-and-cream carpet.

At length, Mrs Anderson began. "I was serving a customer," she said in the same, slow, careful manner, "when I saw Mr Whyte come in and start browsing the shop. As I said, he's a regular customer and he comes in two or three times each week and looks to see what new stock we have on display. And he does like a chat, if he has the opportunity. He's obviously quite a lonely little man."

No surprise there, Sheila thought, scribbling notes, and then realised she was being unnecessarily obnoxious and felt a tiny twinge of guilt.

"I always keep one eye on him," Mrs Anderson was saying, "because if I don't he occasionally pops something into his pocket without paying for it. So I saw everything that happened. Mr Whyte was looking through a box of CDs that had just been put out, and Mr Pyle came up behind him. When Mr Whyte turned round and saw him, he jumped a bit and looked surprised, but they obviously knew each other. I heard Mr Pyle call him "Gordon" as they went outside, and I could see them through the window talking to each other. It looked as though it was turning into an argument, and then Mr Pyle walked off. Mr Whyte stood looking a bit lost and then he came back in, but he didn't stay long and he didn't talk to anyone. He sort of… drifted about for a few minutes and then he left." She gave a little nod as though satisfied that she'd covered everything she needed to say. "And then I put the news on this evening, and saw Mr Pyle's wife on the television appeal, and I was quite horrified. Young Tom talks to Mr Whyte and disappears, and of course is found dead, and now your Mr Pyle talks to the same person, and he's missing. His poor wife. It doesn't bear thinking about."

"How did Mr Pyle look as he walked away?" Reid asked. Mrs Anderson looked confused, and he rephrased hurriedly: "Did he look pleased, or…"

"Oh, I see!" Mrs Anderson cocked her head to one side, but this time the pause was mercifully brief. "The word I would choose is "frustrated", Sergeant Reid. He looked angry and frustrated."

***********************

"Talk about a model witness!" Boydeau riffled through the pages of notes she'd taken in the hour they'd spent with Mrs Anderson. "Dotted the I's and crossed every tee."

"I nearly bloody dotted her once or twice," Reid grumbled round the side of his Rothmans. A thin drizzly rain had begun to fall and they were sitting in a bus-shelter round the corner from the old lady's house whilst Reid topped up his nicotine levels, Sheila having flatly refused to get in the car with him whilst he had a lighted cigarette in his hand.

"Don't be ungrateful," she told him, waggling her notebook in front of his eyes. "We've probably got enough here to convince BB to keep the case open."

Reid drew thoughtfully on his fag. "So Pyle's not just still in the country, he's still in the area," he said. "Sounds to me like there's something he wants to clear up before he leaves and he wants Minger McVey to give him a hand again."

"And it sounds like he didn't get much joy," Boydeau added. "Which means…"

"…he's probably lurking around somewhere even as we speak!" Reid pronounced dramatically. He dropped the tab end on the pavement and crushed it with his foot, registered Sheila's level stare, picked it up and flicked it at the nearby bin. "I'll go and see Brocklehurst first thing in the morning. Even if he won't let me put the whole team on it, I think I can persuade him to let me have you, Claire and Leo. Right." He stood up and looked down at her, hands in pockets. "I'll drop you back home."

"Too right you will." She put away her notebook and rose to her feet. "Some of us have a life."

"Which of us is that, then?"

Boydeau gave him an old-fashioned look and headed for the car.