Fractured(81)

I looked up at him. He was right. This could get him in serious trouble with his bosses. I couldn’t be responsible for that. I couldn’t jeopardise his career.

‘OK. You wait for me down in the car. I’ll do this by myself. It won’t take long.’

He sighed deeply.

‘You really are hell-bent on a life of crime, aren’t you?’

Then, despite his words, he gently pushed me to one side and took hold of the sill. It lifted easily from its resting place in one smooth move. Little flurries of plaster dust puffed up at the removal of the wooden base, which for a second or two obscured the bricks upon which the sill had sat. As the dust settled, we both leant forward as though to take a closer look. But really there was no need. A front door key, safely encased in a clear plastic bag, was plainly visible, nestled in a gap between two bricks. Jimmy gave a small exclamation of surprise.

My hand was already halfway towards the key when behind us came the unmistakable sound of a latch being released and the rattling of several door chains. In one hurried manoeuvre Jimmy replaced the sill upon the bricks, thumping down firmly on the wood to secure it in position, just as the front door to my old flat opened behind us.

‘Hello there,’ trilled a male voice. I spun around, hoping my features were devoid of guilt, to face the tall, slimly built man standing in my doorway. ‘Sorry I couldn’t get to the door straight away. I was on the phone. Can I help you?’ He was smiling engagingly but I noticed it was being directed at Jimmy and not me. He really was proving to be a big hit today.

‘Good morning, sir,’ began Jimmy, his voice adopting a smooth professional tone. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you but I wondered if we could have a moment or two of your time.’ As he spoke, Jimmy slipped his hand into his jacket pocket and produced his warrant card for the young man to peruse.

His reaction was interesting to observe, for his face paled a little under the expensive fake tan, and he ran his hand nervously through his immaculately highlighted hair. I wondered what he might have been involved with to make him so uncomfortable at finding a policeman at his door.

‘May we come in for a moment?’ Jimmy asked, still the consummate officer of the law.

‘Oh yes, of course, of course,’ flustered the flat’s new occupant. ‘Please excuse the mess. I wasn’t expecting visitors; the place is an absolute tip!’

We followed him through the hallway which I had painted bright yellow to lighten it. It was now covered in smart blue and white striped wallpaper. The lounge too was far from being the disgrace its owner had described, being stylishly and minimalistically furnished in sleek white and navy blue. It really did look so much bigger with all my furniture removed.

‘Please, sit, sit,’ flapped the man. ‘Can I get you something to drink? Or eat?’

‘No, thank you, sir. This really won’t take more than a few minutes.’

The man was beginning to relax slightly now at Jimmy’s encouraging smile. He was really quite good at this policeman stuff. If he had been here to question the man about some misdemeanour, he would totally have lulled him into a false sense of security.

‘Could I have your name please?’ asked Jimmy smoothly, even withdrawing a small notebook to complete the illusion of an investigation. God, he was really good.

‘Maximilian MacRae,’ informed the man, perching on the edge of a white settee which contrasted strikingly with his black leather trousers. He leaned towards Jimmy with a twinkle. ‘But everyone just calls me Max.’

Could he be any more blatant? I bit my lip which was threatening to quiver slightly. Jimmy, on the other hand, seemed impervious to anything inappropriate.

‘Mr MacRae,’ he began, putting the interview back on a more formal footing, ‘we are making enquiries today about a missing person. Do you know anything of a Miss Rachel Wiltshire?’

My head flew up at my name.

‘Nooo. I’ve never heard of her, I’m afraid. Why, has something happened to her?’

There was an almost ghoulish curiosity to his tone; a desire to hear every last grisly detail. If I really was missing, this guy would be high up on my list of suspects!

‘We hope not. We’re just trying to trace her whereabouts. We have this flat listed as her last known address.’

I almost applauded then at the skilful way Jimmy had manipulated the conversation to find out what we wanted to know.

‘Really? That’s very odd. You see, I’ve lived here for three years now, and before me there was some young American man, who’d been here for even longer. So if this – what was her name? – Rachel girl did live here, it must have been a really long time ago.’