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‘Sometimes, but sometimes not. In fact, he told me more than once that he liked the fact that I was always here in plenty of time. I think he felt it meant he didn’t have to worry if he was running a bit late.’
‘Look, what is this all about?’ Sarah Russell was angry now. ‘He lef
t early today. He said he had paperwork to catch up on. I’ve told you. So why all the bloody questions?’
‘If you spend Saturday mornings lying in, Mrs Russell, how come you can be so sure your husband left at 7.30 this morning?’ Holden too was getting angry, and she wasn’t convinced that Sarah Russell was being straight with them.
‘God, you do ask a lot of questions!’ came the snarled reply. ‘He dropped a bloody glass in the bathroom, when he was doing his teeth, and he shouted when he did it, so I had to get up and see if he was all right.’
‘And was he?’
‘He was. The glass wasn’t. Mind you, it was his bloody fault. I’ve told him not to take glasses in there.’
Holden nodded. ‘Can you tell me the registration of his car?’
There was a sign of irritation. ‘No, it’s not the sort of information I carry in my head, but all his documents will be in the desk at home, in his study.’
‘Thank you, we need it now, if you don’t mind.’
‘Excuse me.’ It was Francesca Willis. ‘Actually, there’s a copy of his car insurance here, just in case he had an accident.’
‘Even better.’
Lawson, taking notes and watching from the sidelines, wondered if there wasn’t some friction between the two women. Francesca was mid thirties, and attractive enough without having the sort of face that might launch a thousand ships. But from Sarah’s point of view, she might be seen as a rival. She certainly had a better figure.
‘Can we have his mobile number too?’ Holden was talking to Sarah Russell again. A tactful move, Lawson decided. No doubt Francesca had that too – in fact she’d already told them she’d rung his mobile, so she must have got it – but there was no reason for Holden to provoke Sarah unnecessarily.
‘Of course. Mind you, it’s turned off, so I doubt it’ll be much use. Anyway, what are you going to do?’ Sarah demanded.
‘For, a start, we can check what calls he made with his mobile since he left home.’
‘And the car?’ Anger and bitterness, or a very good impersonation of the two, were evident in every clipped syllable that issued from Sarah’s mouth. ‘You think he’s done a runner?’
Holden didn’t reply immediately. It was the question she had tried hard not to frame or even hint at. What had happened to Dominic? Was he dead or on the run? Why did Sarah think the latter? Was it because it was easier to think your husband had buggered off, rather than face the possibility that he had been murdered too? Or did she know, and was she playing games? ‘I try not to speculate without good evidence,’ Holden said. ‘Whatever has happened, there is a good chance that his car was caught on CCTV somewhere. Unfortunately there’s quite a wide time-frame during which he might have left here and driven off. And then, of course, there are several ways he could have gone from here. On to the A34 heading north or south, or the A40 towards Witney, or back round the northern ring road, towards London, or even under the A34 and off on the Eynsham road, or into Kidlington. Or if he wanted to avoid detection, maybe he used the lanes, through Wolvercote and Wytham. The chances are that he’ll turn up somewhere on CCTV, but you can see our difficulties.’
‘Here’s one of Dominic’s office cards,’ Francesca Willis said, holding out her hand. ‘It’s got his mobile and the office phone number on it, and I’ve written his car registration on the back. It’s a silver Renault Scenic, by the way.’
‘A Grand Scenic, actually,’ Sarah corrected.
If looks could kill, Lawson reckoned Francesca Willis’s brains would have been spattered all over the magnolia office wall.
Holden and Lawson pulled into the station just after 5.00 p.m. and bumped into Fox in the corridor, near the hot drinks machine. ‘Sorry, Guv, I left my mobile at home,’ he said. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Five minutes in my office. And mine’s a black coffee, thanks.’ Holden disappeared into the ladies.
‘White tea, no sugar, if you don’t mind, Sarge,’ Lawson added, taking her chance, and then rapidly following her boss through the nondescript lime-green door.
Fox muttered ungraciously in response as she disappeared, and pressed the button for a black coffee.
The two women and Fox had barely sat down together before hurrying steps in the corridor announced the arrival of Detective Constable Wilson.
‘Sorry, Guv.’ His face was flushed, and his voice slightly hoarse. ‘I was at the game. Had my mobile turned off.’
‘Well, we won’t hold that against you. Did we win?’ The word ‘we’ popped out automatically. Holden had only ever been to watch Oxford United once, when they had beaten Swindon in the FA Cup, and she doubted she ever would do so again, but as a resident of Oxford she felt nevertheless it was her team. She had occasionally read a match report in the Oxford Mail or Times, in the hope that this might somehow offer her an insight into what drove people like Wilson and a number of otherwise sane people of her acquaintance to troop along on wet and cold Saturday afternoons to watch such a fatuous pastime, but enlightenment had failed to come.
Wilson, excitement still evident, was answering her question. ‘Just. One nil. Last-minute goal. But three points for us, that’s what matters.’
‘Good!’ Holden said firmly. ‘Very good!’ The football conversation was over. ‘Sorry to drag you in on a Saturday, but Dominic Russell has disappeared.’
