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‘Do you think that’s the incident that could have given her the gift?’
Penn allowed the puzzlement to show.
‘Oh come on, many psychics, mediums, spiritualists claim that they began to see or hear things after a traumatic childhood event.’
Seeing the blank look on his face, Keats continued. ‘You’re not even mildly curious about her gift or if she even had any spiritual skills?’
Penn hadn’t considered the question since learning of her career. It made no difference to him really.
‘I suppose if I was to consider it carefully I’d wonder, if she was truly gifted, why she never saw it coming,’ he said honestly.
‘Oh, Penn, I’m not sure it quite works like that, but I can see I’m wasting my time trying to engage you in philosophical debate.’
‘Maybe over a pint and a bag of scratchings. But in the meantime the boss said something about a homeless guy,’ Penn said, realising there was nothing more to learn about Sandra Deakin.
‘And did your boss ask you to grill me about him?’ Keats asked as his mouth gave a knowing lift.
If in doubt of the right answer, go with the truth was his motto.
‘Yes.’
‘Let me finish up here and you can meet him if you like.’
Penn was confused by the smile of satisfaction on the pathologist’s face. He had long since vowed never to involve himself in the dynamics between his boss and Keats. Why on earth they continued this hostile sparring when they had clearly grown to like and respect each other over the years was a mystery to him.
‘Did you deliberately tell her it was a John Doe?’ Penn asked, suddenly suspecting his deviousness.
‘It might have slipped out; but obviously your boss can’t look into it when she’s just started a major investigation. It would be wrong to even ask.’
So, of course, he hadn’t even bothered to ask. He’d just dropped the crumb that he knew the boss couldn’t resist:unidentified. Keats, and everyone else, knew the boss had a thing about people who were nameless. Everyone deserved their own name.
‘He wasn’t murdered though, was he?’ Penn asked. ‘He doesn’t need an investigation?’
Keats shook his head. ‘No, he just needs someone who cares.’
And there it was. The trust and respect the man had for his boss that he would never admit to, even if his life depended on it.
One thing Penn knew beyond a shadow of a doubt. He wasn’t the one who was going to tell the boss she’d been played.
SEVEN
Catherine Taylor lived in a semi-detached cottage on the outskirts of Kingswinford. According to Stacey’s reverse search of the electoral roll, she was thirty-nine years of age and resided with her forty-one-year-old husband and fifteen-year-old twin boys. A Fiat Punto was parked in front of the house.
Kim knocked and the door was opened quickly by a woman who was clearly on her way out. One hand held her car keys and the other a slice of toast.
‘I’m sorry but I’m late for—’
The woman stopped speaking as Kim produced her ID card and introduced them both.
‘May we come in for just a minute?’
‘Oh God, is everything okay?’
‘Everything’s fine,’ Kim said as the woman stepped out of the way for them to enter.
Kim instantly noted that the rooms were small with low, beamed ceilings, and had been furnished sparsely.
There were also quite a few of them, she realised as the woman guided them to the rear of the cottage, where a sizeable extension had added a spacious and airy kitchen that belonged in a completely different house.
