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‘When was this?’ Wilson tried unsuccessfully to keep the sense of excitement out of his voice.
‘Big case, for you, is it?’ the man chuckled. ‘Catching the man who stole a mooring spike.’
‘When?’ Wilson said, this time sharply. ‘I need to know when.’
‘Last night. When I was out getting some supper.’
‘Can you be more precise?’ Wilson pressed. ‘Please.’
The man scratched his head in an exaggerated fashion. ‘Well, let me think. I must have left the b
oat about 7.15, maybe a bit later. I walked up to the main river, then up to the town, and had a pie and chips and peas and a couple of pints in that pub by the bridge, and then I walked back. Must have got back to the boat maybe a bit after 9 o’clock. The stern was out across the river. And the mooring spike was gone.’
Wilson inspected the area where the mooring spike had been. The man had replaced it with another (‘I always carry a spare’), but if Wilson had hoped to find some object carelessly dropped by the murderer when he removed the spike, by now his luck had run out. Five minutes later, having declined a cup of tea but taken the man’s name and mobile number, he set off back towards Iffley, softly whistling as he went. He felt sure that Susan – that is to say Detective Inspector Holden – would be very pleased with him. He did hope so.
‘Nice flat you’ve got here,’ Holden said brightly, keen to avoid jumping straight into questions. She walked three paces across the spacious minimalist room, and took in the wide sweep of the river through the large picture window. It was 8.30 on Saturday morning and, directly below, a flotilla of mallards made its way from left to right across her vision, down river. ‘I wish I had a view like this,’ she said with feeling. She herself lived only a few hundred metres away as the crow flew (not that crows are often seen traversing Grandpont), but the view from her flat (the bottom floor of a two-storeyed Victorian terraced building) was merely of other terraced houses. Les Whiting lived on the third and top floor of a relatively new development of flats close by Folly Bridge. Holden remembered them being built, and remembered, too, envying those people who could afford to buy them.
‘Thank you, my dear,’ Whiting said. ‘Kind of you to say so, though I prefer to think of it as an apartment. The word flat has such, such—’ He paused, and ran his right hand through his streaked hair while he tried to conjure up the precise word he was looking for. ‘Such uninteresting connotations. Don’t you think so?’
Holden smiled. ‘Thank you for seeing us. I appreciate you’ve got a gallery to run, and I guess Saturday is a busy day for you, so we’ll try to keep it short and then—’
‘Please!’ said Whiting, waving her to a halt. ‘I could hardly refuse to help the police with their enquiries, now could I? But before we get down to business, how about a coffee? Espresso, cappuccino, or Americano? Or I’ve got a very nice jasmine tea, or a selection of herbal infusions.’
‘Cappuccino, please,’ said Holden, impressed by the choice.
‘Black coffee for me,’ said Fox uncompromisingly, refusing to be drawn into the world of fancy hot drinks. ‘With three sugars,’ he added, before slumping heavily onto one of the two white sofas.
Whiting smiled the indulgent smile he often had to employ in his gallery in the High Street when customers tried to knock down his prices. ‘Three sugars it is,’ he said softly, turning towards the archway that led through to the kitchen.
‘Sorry,’ said Holden, ‘but could I use your loo. Bad planning as my mother would say, but it’s—’
‘Woman’s stuff?’ Whiting interrupted. ‘Don’t you worry,’ and he tapped his nose with the forefinger of his right hand. ‘Mum’s the word. Follow me!’
She followed, but he stopped in front of the door lavatory, blocking her way. ‘Just to get this out the way,’ he said firmly. ‘I know Jake was bonked on the head, and I know he was fished out of the river. That’s enough for me. More than enough. Are you with me?’
‘Of course,’ Holden said quietly. ‘I understand.’
‘Well, I hope that orang-utan of a colleague does too,’ he said moving to the side. ‘Anyway, I’ll leave you to it.’
‘Thank you.’
Five minutes later and they were sitting down around a low rectangular table which consisted of aluminium tubes of varying diameters and a sheet of glass. Holden took a sip from her cappuccino, and then waited for Whiting to take one from his.
‘I’d like you to tell us about your relationship with Jake,’ she asked.
Whiting took a second sip, before carefully placing his cup and saucer on the table. Fleetingly, his right hand touched the small silver cross hanging around his neck. ‘He came into my gallery about six months ago. That’s Bare Canvas, in the High Street, in case you’re interested. Anyway he asked a lot of questions, but he didn’t buy anything. You soon get a feeling when someone comes into the shop whether they are curious, or serious, or just trying to avoid the rain. He turned up again later that week, just before I was due to shut up shop, and we ended up going out for a drink. Well, to cut things short, we got into a relationship.’ He paused again, and picked up his cappuccino, but this time just cradled it in his hands.
‘Did he move in with you?’
‘Not permanently. He’d stay over most weekends, and sometimes midweek, but we both liked our personal space.’
‘And when did you split up?’
He lifted the cappuccino up close to his lips, but made no attempt to drink from it. ‘Three weeks ago,’ he said quietly. Holden thought she could detect a tear straining to form in the corner of his eye. ‘Three weeks yesterday, to be precise.’ There was another pause. Holden waited. ‘He’d been seeing someone else.’
‘Seeing someone else,’ Holden echoed, a question mark almost visibly attached to it.
‘Buggering someone else, if you prefer it, ma’am!’ He spoke forcefully now, all nostalgic emotion now put firmly on hold. ‘Not my scene. Wanting a bit of space is one thing. Fucking someone else on the side is quite another.’
