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TWENTY-NINE
Penn had removed the headphones just long enough to wolf down the sandwich Stacey had generously shouted him for lunch. It wasn’t that he hadn’t wanted something warm like the cottage pie his colleague had eaten, but he needed something quick that he could eat while continuing to work.
He had a lot to thank John Montagu, the 4th Earl of Sandwich for, except the earl had wanted a hand free to continue gambling, instead of trying to identify a John Doe. Although, he could see the irony that the man he was seeking had liked a bet or two.
Jericho had told him that Dan had appeared approximately two years ago, so he’d worked chronologically backwards from around eighteen months. So far he’d ruled out more than twenty possibilities.
‘Next,’ he said to himself as he clicked to the next record. He stared at the screen. ‘Shut the front door.’
Stacey looked up.
He dropped the headphones on the desk. ‘I think I’ve got my man.’
Stacey got up and came around to look over his shoulder.
He took out his phone and scrolled to the photo he’d shown Jericho.
Stacey took a look with him.
‘Oh yeah,’ she said, returning to her desk. ‘That’s your guy.’
Penn studied the two photos and saw very little had changed. Yes, the man’s skin looked a little more weathered, he had stubble, the circles beneath his eyes were a little darker and there was just a shade more salt and a bit less pepper in the hair. Penn had once been told that you age at twice the rate on the streets. He wasn’t sure if he believed it and definitely not in the case of Barry Sharpe, he thought as he was finally able to give John Doe a name.
Penn hadn’t been far off in the age department. Sharpe had been fifty-four years of age when he went missing.
‘It’s not a long report though,’ Penn said, in case Stacey was still interested.
She waved her arm to indicate she’d moved on, and he supposed he’d be able to do the same soon.
He read the report and learned that Barry had gone missing twenty-two months earlier. The report had been made by his wife, who hadn’t registered him missing until five days after he’d last been seen. A bit strange, but if he’d been working away it could have been unclear when the last sighting had actually been. His job as regional operations manager for one of the top fuel suppliers may well have taken him on the road.
The report filed by Janice Sharpe, his wife, only contained the bare minimum of facts: visual description, age, dates and times. Further investigation by the officers had turned up nothing in addition, but judging from the thickness of the report, he wasn’t sure how hard they’d tried. There were no rumours of affairs and all had been well the last time his wife had seen him. His love of gambling had been mentioned a couple of times, and his details had been logged with all the local bookies and casinos. All of whom he was known to.
The more he read, the deeper he felt the frown forming on his face. Something wasn’t adding up. A prolific gambler didn’t just stop like that, unless he’d received some kind of specialised treatment. The fact he’d still been trying to bet on anything that moved until his death said the treatment, if received, had not worked.
He scrolled through the sparse information again, and something else struck him. His wife had given the leanest of information and there were no follow-up logs. No further calls or visits from his wife chasing progress, wanting updates. In his experience that was virtually unheard of.
It was almost like she’d reported him missing because she had to.
He shrugged the thoughts away. He had an identity for the man and all that was left was to inform the family.
And then his work on this case was done. He was sure of it.
THIRTY
The news of her son’s murder was barely an hour old when Azim’s mother opened the door to them. Her eyes were red and bloodshot, and Kim could hear crying from beyond the door.
The woman stepped aside for them to enter and pointed to a door on the left. Two girls were seated on the sofa. Their hands met across the divide that Kim guessed had been occupied by their mother prior to answering the door.
The room appeared to have been two reception rooms now knocked into one large lounge, with an archway into the kitchen. A dining table bridged the gap between the two spaces, which looked as though it doubled as a workspace for the family; a laptop at one end and textbooks at the other. Kim nodded at the two girls. She guessed one to be mid-teens and the other early twenties.
Mrs Mahmood re-took her seat on the sofa. Both of her daughters immediately clasped one of her hands and held on tightly.
‘We are desperately sorry for your loss, Mrs Mahmood,’ Kim offered, taking a seat on the single chair. Bryant lowered himself onto a foot stool to the right of her.
‘Meera, please,’ she said. ‘This is Navi and Satya,’ she added, pointing to the older and then the younger sister. Meera’s orange and red sari was a splash of colour between her daughters’ Western wear of jeans and T-shirts.
‘He’s a good boy,’ Meera said. ‘A nice boy,’ she repeated, clutching her sari and touching her forehead with the fabric as though it would ease her pain. ‘Who would do this?’
