‘May we take a look?’ she asked Baird.
‘I suppose so.’
She nodded at Irvine, who began to open a few drawers. They contained nothing but stationery supplies, fresh notebooks, a selection of pens, a copy of a book called Birds’ Modern Insurance Law.
‘No personal items,’ said Irvine.
‘He must have had a computer,’ said Fry. ‘Mr Baird?’
‘Of course. He had a rugged laptop, with armoured casing. Standard issue for this job. They’re vital on site.’
‘But it’s not here,’ said Fry.
Baird shrugged. ‘I suppose he must have had it with him. It might be in his car.’
By the time they returned to Nathan Baird’s office, the cubicles were empty and the line of work stations deserted, a headset abandoned on each desk. No more claims would be handled at Prospectus Assurance tonight. Policyholders would have to wait until tomorrow to be dealt with sensitively.
‘Ralph Edge?’ asked Irvine as they walked down the corridor towards the exit.
Fry surveyed the empty rooms on either side. ‘It looks as though everyone’s gone home.’
‘We could visit him at home.’
‘It’ll do tomorrow,’ said Fry. ‘We should have some initial post-mortem results in the morning. At least then we might have a better idea what sort of questions we should be asking.’
Their DI, Paul Hitchens, was waiting to hear from them when they returned to West Street. Fry brought Hitchens up to date, and he promised to keep the bosses in the loop. It was a makeshift briefing, though. No one wanted to believe they had a murder on their hands. Without Hitchens having to say as much, Fry knew that he was far happier to believe they were looking at an incident of accidental death, or suicide.
Those incidents happened, of course. Some of the methods of suicide people worked out for themselves were bizarre enough. And when you thought about them, you realised they could only have been devised by someone whose mind was disturbed.
Charlie Dean heard about the discovery of a body on the local news that evening. As soon as he’d listened to the sparse details, he knew he needed to contact Sheena. They had emergency code to use, a signal by text message to indicate if one of them felt they need to speak urgently.
Barbara was on the phone to a friend again. She was grumbling about not having any new clothes and never going out anywhere. Nothing was ever right for her. But at least it meant she was totally absorbed in her own affairs, and wouldn’t notice what he was doing.
When he got the return text from Sheena, he knew it was safe to call her. He stepped into the garage and closed the door. The sight of the BMW reminded him of what he’d found on the boot yesterday morning, and he turned his back to whisper into his phone, as if the car itself had ears.
‘Sweetheart, have you heard the news? They’ve found a dead body. In those woods, you know—’
‘Yes, I heard.’
‘We can’t say anything.’
‘But, Charlie, there was that man—’
He cut her off. ‘If we so much as mention it, we’ll have to give statements to the police. They’d ask endless questions. Full details, Sheena. We’d have to explain what we were doing there at that time of night.’
‘Oh, God. Jay would murder me.’
‘Exactly.’
‘We can’t do that, Charlie.’
‘That’s what I’m saying.’
‘I suppose I’d say something stupid, wouldn’t I?’
‘Well, we can’t risk that, can we? Think of Jay.’
‘And Barbara.’
Dean sighed. ‘Yes, and Barbara.’
‘I’ll see you soon, won’t I?’
‘Yes, tomorrow. Just as we arranged.’
‘That’s great, Charlie.’
Irritably, Charlie ended the call and went back into the house. He hated it when Sheena talked about Barbara. It seemed wrong, hearing his mistress mention his wife. It was as if she’d called out the wrong name when they were having sex. It was just wrong.
Barbara had become really odd about sex in the last few years. So it was her own fault, really. She’d never recovered from the day she encountered a naked rambler on the roadside at Priestcliffe. He’d been dressed only in a rucksack and bush hat.
For many people, he wasn’t just a naked rambler but the Naked Rambler, who had been on TV, but appeared far more often in magistrates courts charged with indecent exposure. He’d been rambling on a chilly November day too, so the shock factor ought to have been pretty small.
But an excuse was an excuse. Charlie supposed he ought to take it as a compliment that she even bothered to think a justification was necessary. He’d feel better about the whole thing when he’d sunk a few drinks tonight.