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‘No,’ she said, and turned back to Wilson. ‘While we interview Ratcliffe, can you do me a timeline of everything we know about Sarah Johnson’s last hours, starting from 7.00 p.m. when Dr Ratcliffe visited Anne Johnson’s house in Reading. Sightings of her Mini. Phone calls, et cetera.’
‘Yes, Guv.’
‘It’s Sam.’
‘All right?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I’m busy.’
‘Have you heard from Martin?’
‘No.’
‘He’s not answering his mobile.’
‘Oh!’
‘Got your ticket?’
‘Yeah. Look I’ve got to go.’
‘Okay.’
‘See ya!’
‘I do hope this is important. I spoke to someone over the phone – name like a carpet, Constable Wilton or Shagpile or something – and I can’t for the life of me see what else there is to say.’ Dr Adrian Ratcliffe spoke aggressively. He was damned if he was going to be pushed around, and in the circumstances attack seemed the best form of defence. Take charge, throw the enemy off balance, cover his tracks.
‘Would you like a coffee?’ the woman asked. Trying to lull him into a sense of security, was she? What sort of idiot did she take him for?
‘No!’
‘Tea?’
‘No!’
‘Water?’
‘Does it come with whisky?’
The woman looked down at the papers in front of her, turned the top sheet over, and frowned. She looked up. ‘Why did you lie to Constable Wilson?’
‘I didn’t.’ He said it without blinking, looking straight into her face.
‘You said Anne Johnson’s car had broken down.’
‘That’s what she told me.’
‘When?’
‘When she rang me, that morning.’
‘Oh,’ the woman said. ‘I thought maybe this was an excuse that you’d arranged the night before, while you smoked your post-coital cigarette.’
Ratcliffe’s eyes opened wider for a second. He wasn’t surprised that Anne had talked about their relationship, but he was disappointed. However, ‘I don’t smoke,’ was all he said.
‘That evening, did Anne Johnson intimate that she might be late the next day?’
