‘No, it wasn’t a stray, the owner was there too. He wore a big overcoat with a hood or something, I’m not sure. I wonder if he saw something.’
‘No one came forward, Helen,’ said Wilcox.
‘Maybe we could track them down.’
‘If they didn’t come forward back then, they’re not likely to now, are they? No, I think—’
There was that thought again, and this time she managed to pin it down. ‘Something else has actually just occurred to me. A cyclist nearly ran me over outside this building, that’s what made me think of it. There was a cyclist there that morning. I remember him quite clearly now. He was dressed all in black, with gloves and a hat, and something across the lower half of his face, a scarf perhaps, I don’t know. And his bicycle was one of those racing bikes with curved handle bars, quite low down so you’re sort of crouching over the bike, if you know what I mean.’
Wilcox sighed. ‘If those men were there, why didn’t Fay Cooper mention them? She was facing a murder charge.’
‘She was high, she could’ve forgotten. It’s worth a try, isn’t it?’
He regarded her thoughtfully. She stared back without saying anything, gave him time to process what she’d just said in the hope he would agree it was worth following up on. The only sound in the room was her own breathing which came in short bursts from her excitement at being this close.
Then he frowned and crossed his arms. ‘Are you under the influence of any kind of substance?’
‘No!’ The sudden rage at having her hopes dashed made her clench her fists, and she saw from his smug smile that he’d noticed. Immediately she put a lid on it. Blowing her top at one of Scotland Yard’s finest would get her nowhere. ‘I don’t drink. It interferes with epilepsy medication. That’s a well-known fact. Weed can help, but I’m not doing that either.’ Not any more, but he didn’t have to know.
‘I wasn’t aware of that, but I’m learning all the time.’
He flashed her the smile she remembered from that day at the police station twenty years ago. It was a smile that said ‘I know something you don’t’. Her five-year-old gut instinct didn’t trust it back then, and she didn’t trust it now either. What did he know this time that she didn’t? Had he and the DI discussed her before she came?
She could almost hear them. ‘An interesting case … a child witness, unreliable … making up stories in her head … can’t come to terms with what happened … an epileptic, you know … blah blah blah’. She imagined them laughing at her, and bit down hard on the inside of her mouth.
‘There’s something else. My mother …’ Helen stopped. What could she say? She had no proof that something was going on with the company back then, only what Bill had said which wasn’t much. No proof of Moody’s involvement either. ‘I think my mother might’ve been involved in something which got her killed,’ she said instead. ‘She had a bag with her when she died. With papers and computer discs in it. I’ve mentioned that before as well.’
Wilcox sent her an exasperated smile. ‘You’ve mentioned the bag, yes. You never said anything about any papers or computer discs. And I’ve tried to tell you, there was no bag.’
‘What sort of papers?’ asked Whitehouse.
‘Just papers. I remember finding them boring.’
‘“Just papers”,’ the detective repeated. ‘Can you be more specific? Business documents, leaflets? Closely typed or with lots of pictures?’
‘The company’s logo was on them, but that’s all I know. I was only five.’
‘What company?’
‘The family company that my mother worked for. Ransome & Daughters.’
Assessing her, Whitehouse said, ‘Why would papers from your mother’s own company make you draw the conclusion that she was involved in anything? It seems, well, tenuous.’
Helen hesitated. ‘In the world of auctioneering …’ she began, then stopped. She felt a certain loyalty to the company, which was unexpected. ‘Well, let me put it this way, not everyone who trades through an auction house has a clear conscience. Sometimes art and antiques are sold without a provenance. There’s usually a good reason for that, like if it’s been in your Auntie Edna’s attic for fifty years, or else it …’ she shrugged.
‘Could be stolen.’ Whitehouse finished the sentence for her.
Helen nodded and realised, stupidly, this was like preaching to the converted. Wilcox and Whitehouse were police officers and knew more about the shady side of business than she did. ‘I think my mother was a whistle-blower.’