It was a pensive DS Shields who swung her Marina to a halt in the station car park following her trip out to Dunwick. Her head brimming with uncertainties and misgivings, she began heaving her way up the entrance steps, only to be obstructed by a figure launching himself out in front of her.
"Sergeant, is it true that you've pulled someone in for the murder of Joanne Renshaw?"
The crime correspondent from the Wymnouthshire Evening Echo she'd run into a time or two during her CID career - short, sneaky-looking, terrible breath. Redfern, his name. Word had obviously got out.
She manoeuvred herself around him. "Can't comment, sorry."
"Some Indian guy I've heard," came the call behind her.
Her palm prodded open the entrance door. "Can't comment," she repeated.
As she nodded a greeting to Sergeant Brown at the front desk and sloped off along the main corridor, she wondered if any of the national press were lurking in the vicinity too. Oh, there was no mistaking it - this was high-profile alright. The biggest case to hit the rural county of Wynmouthshire in decades. One which given the dynamics of its white female victims and male Indian chief suspect would stoke the basest instincts of the tabloid press. She could already feel it in the pit of her stomach: not just locally but on a national level too, all hell was about to break loose.
She found Gooch and Bridcutt near the coffee machine, polystyrene cups in their hands. Upon becoming aware of her approach, the inspector directed her an inquisitive gaze.
"Well?"
She shook her head. "Nothing sir. Absolutely nothing."
Gooch seemed neither particularly surprised nor disappointed. "Probably dumped it somewhere straight after he wrote the letter. Tossed it off a bridge into the river Wyn."
Shields fished into her shoulder bag for her purse, rooted out a ten pence piece. "Maybe," she conceded, slipping the coin into the slot. "But there's another possibility too, don't you think?" She waited for the machine to rattle out her cup of drinking chocolate before turning back to Gooch. "What if it wasn't Gupta who wrote the letter?"
At this, Gooch almost spluttered into his tea. "You're kidding, right?"
She glanced across at Bridcutt, then back at the inspector. "Not really, no."
Bridcutt downed the last of his tea, crunched the cup into his fist and tossed it into the nearby bin. "But sarge, by saying that it wasn't him who wrote the letter, you're effectively saying it wasn't him who killed Joanne and Kirsty. Only the murderer himself could have been so precise with the geographical details."
Shields blew onto her drinking chocolate, took a first sip. "Well yea, that's exactly what I'm saying, I guess. I don't think it was him. Us women, we're not stupid. We understand the non-verbal much better than you men, believe me. His wife and daughter would have had suspicions, not clumsily tried to cover for him like they did."
Gooch too had meanwhile downed the last of his tea; the toss of his cup towards the bin was less successful than Bridcutt's however. He wasn't the sort of man to worry about such trifling matters though; given his paunch, would anyway have struggled to reach down and pick it up.
"You heard Professor What's-His-Face earlier. The chap clearly stated that it was his belief the letter was written by an Indian."
"No sir, he said it was possible an Indian person had written it, that's all. I mean, all this business about the missing a's and the's - how many times have you read through a report you just typed up to find you've skipped a few short, basic words?"
Shields had worked with Gooch long enough to know that his way of conceding that someone else may have made a reasonable point wasn't through an admittance of the fact, but by immediately changing the subject.
"Listen sergeant, you haven't been there in the interrogation room with us. I'm telling you, it's like Foreman versus Frazier in there. Guy's on the ropes, knockdown after knockdown after knockdown."
Beside him, Bridcutt arched an eyebrow in surprise. "Didn't know you were into boxing, sir."
"Back in my national service days, was barracks champion, lad. Middleweight."
The constable couldn't resist a smile. "Middleweight?"
"Yes," came the hissed response, "middleweight." Gooch turned his attention back to Shields. "You know how it finished, Foreman versus Frazier?"
Her shoulders tossed out a shrug. What the hell did she care about bloody boxing?
"Technical knockout, second round. Guy had hit the canvas so many times the ref just couldn't let it go on. Bet you a week's wages the same thing's about to happen here." His tone then took on an added earnestness. "The Chief Constable's hopeful of a successful resolution this very afternoon. The guy's family, I'm thinking. That'll be the key. His weak point."
Shields observed her superior with something approaching a scowl. "Bit below the belt, isn't it?"
Gooch half-smiled, as if impressed by her continuance of the boxing theme. "Joe Louis, Sugar Ray Robinson, Muhammed Ali - even the best were prone to a sly one in their opponents' private parts now and again." He turned then, tapped Bridcutt on the shoulder. "Come on then constable, let's get back to it."
"But sir," she called after him. "I was hoping to get in there myself."
He paused his step, twisted her an apologetic grimace.
"Perhaps better if not, don't you think eh sergeant?"
*
Willis returned from the corridor outside with two polystyrene cups in his hands. With an attempt at an encouraging smile, one was placed in front of Shivay.
"Caffeine, Gupta. We need to keep our wits about us. Sly old bastard, that Gooch."
Shivay took a dutiful sip: some vague approximation of coffee perhaps, but he wasn't quite sure.
The legal aid collapsed down into his seat. "Listen, if you can't tell them where you were on Tuesday morning, maybe you could at least tell me."
But no, this wasn't a valid option either.
Further down the corridor, they could hear the approaching boom of the inspector's voice like a tsunami bearing down upon a shore.
Willis leant across, directed a hushed voice into Shivay's ear. "It's not looking good, Gupta, I have to admit. But if that's it - if they've already shown their cards, let's say, and the ID parade didn't work out how they expected - then there's still hope. Oh, you'll remain under their spotlight, have no doubt about it, but as things stand they haven't got enough to charge you with. Sooner or later, they're going to have to release you."
But Shivay had lived longer than his legal aid. Had suffered more. Was confronted each morning in the bathroom mirror by a face scored with worry and disappointment and circumstance. A visage shadowed and spent. Too darkly hued to be just a summer tan.
Oh, no-one knew it better than him: optimism was the realm of white people and fools.
*
After pressing his finger to the remote control on the dashboard, Bryan Dixon watched the smooth upward glide of the garage door. Even several months after its installation, the sleekness of the mechanics involved was something which imbued him with immense pleasure. He didn't know anyone else who had a remote-controlled self-opening garage door. Didn't know many who could even afford one. That particular afternoon, however, there was no lingering tingle of self-satisfaction, just a hellbent urgency to get the bloody Alfa Romeo inside and hit the whisky.
Though Melanie's Renault was in its usual immaculately parked position, repeated calls of his wife's name as he shuffled through into the house brought no response. After grabbing the whisky decanter and a glass from the tray in the living room, he found her out in the back garden. She was seated at the wrought iron patio table, a crossword book and biro beneath her. Her soft-featured face was tilted skywards, her eyelids closed, enjoying the gentle caress of the sun.
Even as he scraped out a chair beside her, such was her state of tranquillity that her eyelids remained closed.
"You're back early."
"Not damn early enough."
"Bad day?"
"You can say that again."
As he sloshed a hearty triple measure into the glass, Melanie finally opened her eyes, directed him a disapproving wifely glare.
"Already?"
He found himself repeating the same line as moments earlier: "Not damn early enough."
Melanie flickered a fleeting grin, as if amused by some thought passing through her head.
"I'll have to remember that one. Have them put it on your gravestone." She sat herself upright then, her expression changing to one of dutiful concern. "What happened exactly?"
Bryan gazed out over the sunlit lawn and flower-dripping borders for a moment. Reached for his glass, grimaced it all down in a single swig. Sloshed out another triple measure. Lit himself a cigarette.
"I can't believe it. Just can't bloody believe it."
From the raised tone of her voice, it was clear that Melanie's interest was by this point genuinely piqued.
"What happened, Bryan?"
He dangled his head over the back of his chair, peered across at her. "I think you met him once. You know, at the Christmas do last year. Paki guy, tall. Shivay, his name."
Melanie squeezed her eyelids in recollection, gave a nod. "Yea, seem to vaguely remember the chap. Didn't he tell me he was Indian though, not Pakistani?"
Bryan shrugged. "Same thing, isn't it?"
Melanie's face took on the expression of a primary school mistress forced to explain some fundamental concept of the universe to a five-year-old. "Not at all, no. Bit like saying you're German."
"God no."
"Or French."
"Even worse."
"So what's he done, this Shivay guy?"
Bryan exhaled a sigh. "That young woman who went missing. The police found her dead body in some woods just up the road near Southwold."
"God no!" With a solemn swoosh of the head, Melanie took a moment to absorb the tragic news. "But I still don't understand. What's it got to do with---"
"Cops swung by at the factory," Bryan interrupted. "Checked he wasn't at work on Tuesday. Checked he wasn't at work that day last June when that other woman went missing too. Cuffed him up, dragged him off to the station."
"But that's... that's just..." But whatever the nature of the thought passing through her head, Melanie seemed unable to verbally express it.
"If the company name makes it into the tabloids, Dixon's Wool'll be tainted forever," continued Bryan. He wriggled uneasily in his seat, directed a sheepish glance towards his wife. "But that's not the only thing, Melanie. Shivay... he had a... a gambling problem. Risked having his house repossessed. So I... I took pity on him, see. Gave him a loan. About eighteen months ago it---"
"A loan!" Melanie shook her head incredulously. "You gave him a loan! How much Bryan?"
But he didn't want to get into the specifics of it. "A significant sum, let's say."
His wife wasn't the sort to scream or wail, raise a shrill, piercing voice to the heavens. No, Melanie expressed her anger in an altogether more surreptitious and unsettling way.
The scrape back of her chair.
The fading pad of her footsteps.
Wordless. Silent. Brooding.
*
"Set off for work a little earlier than usual yesterday morning, didn't you, Mr Gupta?"
And with that strange and unexpected question, the bell sounded for the start of round two.
Shivay fixed Gooch firmly and unflinchingly - a feigned courage that belied the renewed fizz of fear in his stomach. Where exactly was the sod going with this? What the hell had yesterday got to do with anything?
"No, I left at my usual time. Quarter to nine."
"But if you hadn't wanted to risk being late, surely you'd have set off much sooner. Heading all the way into Branstead town centre then turning back round towards the factory must have added what? - a good quarter of an hour or so to your journey time."
Shivay's frown was genuine, unaffected. "But why would I go into Branstead first?"
"Oh, I'm sure you can remember, Gupta."
There being no further response, Gooch opened up the cardboard file which had once more been slapped menacingly to the table as he'd taken his seat.
"Needed to go to the Post Office, didn't you? A Dunwick frank would have been far too risky."
"I have no idea what you're talking about, inspector."
But Gooch was unperturbed. "Oh yes you do, oh yes you do." A sheet of paper enclosed in a transparent plastic bag was shoved in Shivay's direction.
As he peered at the opening words, Willis shuffled his seat closer to also take a look. Following a quick skim, the legal aid glanced back up at Gooch.
"A direct communication from the murderer?"
"A direct communication from Mr Gupta, yes."
"But have you taken any prints from it?"
The fact that Gooch ignored the question seemed significant somehow.
"We have a very distinguished expert - a university professor who specialises in this type of thing - who would be prepared to testify in a court of law that it was written by an Indian man." The inspector heaved himself round to face Bridcutt. "What was that fancy term he used, constable?"
"Definite and indefinite articles, inspector."
Gooch nodded. "A's and the's basically. A lot of them are missing."
"If you look closely," indicated Bridcutt, "paragraph two has a particular proliferation of skipped articles. Dr Heyward informed us that this is a distinguishing feature of Indian English. Then of course there's the general, highly formal---"
"Really?" interrupted Willis. "Your only means of connecting it to Mr Gupta are a few missing articles?" He allowed himself a smile, shook his head. "Incredible."
Shivay felt encouraged. After an indifferent start, the boy seemed to be gaining confidence, had landed something of a counter punch.
"It's written on a typewriter," Shivay himself added. "I haven't got a typewriter."
Again, it felt significant that Gooch was unprepared to engage with this particular aspect. Shivay wondered if they'd paid a visit to the house, was saddened by the mental image of drawers and cupboards thrown open and turned upside down in futile search. Even more troubling was the thought of Advika and Prisha's huddled, sobbing forms. So vulnerable, so alone. It shamed his soul to have put them through this, forced them to suffer so.
Gooch had meanwhile turned towards Willis. "In answer to your question, Mr Wallace - no, the language aspects aren't the only thing which connect the letter to Gupta." A chubby finger jabbed at the sheet - the second paragraph down, the one with all the skipped articles he and Bridcutt were claiming to be so incriminating. "The geographical details right here are an exact match not only of where the poor women's body was found, but also of where a witness saw an Asian man re-enter the central woodland track in the aftermath of the terrible act."
And thus in an instant the dynamics changed, veered upside-down. A lightning strike from a serene sky. A sniper bullet to the head.
"The same witness," Gooch clarified, "who we brought in earlier for the ID parade. He had no hesitation in indicating that it was you he saw, Mr Gupta, needless to say."
Shivay felt an overwhelming swell of rage crashing through his being.
"But they were all shorter than me! Not even chin high most of them. I stood out like a sore thumb."
Gooch swished a placating hand. "As I'm sure both judge and jury will be aware, given the limited timescale they work under, our officers do a sterling job at gathering together ID parade volunteers as close as possible to the suspect descriptions they're provided with."
Shivay's voice grew ever shriller, louder. "But I wasn't in those woods, I swear to you!"
As if in direct competition, the inspector too shrieked out a yell.
"Then tell us, Gupta! Where the bloody hell were you?"
*
Stepping through into the living room, Melanie Dixon lowered herself down onto the chair at the telephone table, dialled Direct Enquiries.
"Could you put me through to Branstead police station, Wynmouthshire, please."
As she waited, her gaze caught the framed photo on the wall above her. She, Bryan and a pre-school Oliver out in the Cranwell Tors, the peachy glow of sunset behind them. Late-60s it must have been, their clothing sinuous and brightly coloured, Bryan and Oliver's hair tumbling down to their shoulders. That sunhat Melanie herself had been wearing, pure Audrey Hepburn - whatever had happened to it, she wondered?
They'd asked a hiker passing by to take the shot, she recalled, had perched themselves down on the crest of a hill. Looking at the image now, she could almost feel the glow of fulfilment which had characterised the state of her soul at the time. The recent fact of motherhood - a continuous dizzying adventure rather than what in recent times had been reduced to wearyingly infrequent calls from a distant university town. Bryan had yet to turn into his father, both he and Melanie still young and rebellious and foolish enough to expect more from life than their parents had settled for.
That feeling, that joyous thrum of vitality - how foolish she'd been to believe it would last forever.
A sudden voice now rasped onto the other end of the line. "Branstead police station. How may I help?"
But no, she realised - this wasn't about her. Wasn't something she could just barge her way to the centre of.
All she could do was remain silent. Stay patient. Pray that things would turn out the way they should.
"Sorry," she murmured. "I must've...must've dialled the wrong number."