‘Miller!’
Ellie jumps to her feet, annoyed by the muscle memory of obedience. One thing she won’t miss is being summoned like a soldier. She narrows her eyes across the room at his office. There’s still time to piss in that cup.
‘Forensics from the hut,’ he says, pen tapping at his monitor. ‘Boot print in the mud up the hill, match with a print they found inside. Man’s, size ten.’ He spins his screen. ‘What’s Nige Carter’s shoe size?’
Ellie checks the notes on her desk. ‘Ten,’ she says with a shiver. ‘So what, Susan did see Nige?’
The case has blown open again.
‘Are we missing something?’ says Hardy. ‘What if more than one person was involved?’ They have asked each other this question a hundred times. They are back to square one after all. Hardy picks up his mug, takes a sip of cold tea and makes a face. ‘By the way, your boy and Danny. Did they fall out?’
Ellie is wrong-footed: where the hell is this going? ‘No…’
‘Paul Coates, the vicar, says they did. There was a fight. He mentioned it to you.’
‘What? No, he didn’t!’ This is what Hardy does when he’s on the back foot, he lashes out and she is sick of being his punchbag. ‘Hang on, what’re you saying, you think I’ve been covering for my son?’
‘When was the last time Danny came round to your house?’
‘It’s two in the morning! I don’t know!’ She barely knows her own name any more. As she struggles to remember, she slowly realises that Danny’s visits had been growing fewer and further between. She keeps this to herself until she has time to examine it.
‘Can we borrow Tom’s computer?’ he asks. ‘Would you bring it in tomorrow?’
Anything to shut him up. He probably won’t even be here tomorrow. ‘Fine,’ she says. ‘Good night.’
Then, on the drive home, it hits her with such force that she finds herself slamming on the brakes. There was that time Tom and Danny fell out at computer club. She’d forgotten it because she thought it was an innocent scrap. It was an innocent scrap. She stalls the car, angry that Hardy’s poison has infected her. This is what the case is doing to them. Making little boys’ fights out to be something they aren’t. The sooner they get Tom’s computer checked out, the better. She’s no techie, but maybe she can have a quick root around in his documents and history, see if there’s any cause for concern before she hands it over to IT.
Tom’s asleep under his stripy duvet when Ellie gets in. His hair is damp with sweat and his lips slightly parted. There’s a little-boyness to him that she never sees when he’s awake any more. How long will he still look like this? He starts secondary school in a couple of weeks. He’ll be a teenager soon. She bends to kiss his forehead before beginning a silent search of his bedroom.
The laptop isn’t on his desk where she expects it to be. Neither is it under his bed, or in his bag. She tells herself that the cold current of panic travelling up her spine is just a symptom of exhaustion.
In Tom’s desk drawer, she finds the mouse and the power cable from his laptop. She’s holding it in her hand and wondering if this is significant when the light from the landing is blocked. Joe stands in the doorway, bleary-eyed in pyjamas.
‘Ell, it’s half two in the morning,’ he whispers. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Where’s his computer?’
For a former paramedic, Joe has never had much concept of urgency. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know where it is. If we go through his room now, we’ll wake him up.’
Reluctantly Ellie follows him into the bedroom and flops on the bed. Still in search mode, she notices the peeling wallpaper and the unpainted plaster that she hasn’t seen for months. Joe tries to snuggle into her. ‘Do it tomorrow,’ he mumbles into her neck. Ellie shoves him so hard he nearly falls off the bed.
‘That’s your answer to everything! Do it bloody tomorrow!’
‘What have I done?’
‘Yes, what have you done? You can’t even finish decorating this room! Six months!’
Joe’s hurt turns to anger. ‘For God’s sake. Go to sleep, Ell.’ He flicks the light off.
Ellie has never been so tired, but sleep won’t come. Where is Tom’s computer? Where the hell is it?
It is three o’clock in the morning. Hardy is in his office, refreshing his inbox every minute as if that will make Ruth Clarkson’s email arrive sooner. The empty CID is in darkness before him. There is no point in going back to the Traders. There isn’t even much point trying to doze on the sofa in the corner. He’s got, what, seven hours until he’s off the case – off the force – for ever.
The email entitled Tom Miller Email Transcripts finally lands in Hardy’s inbox at 3.14 a.m.
Hardy clicks it open and reads. He compares it with the data from Danny’s laptop. The connection is made, so obvious that he’s furious with himself for not seeing it before. There is a brief bright burst of euphoria, swiftly followed by dread.
This is going to break as many hearts as it heals.
For the first time in his career, DI Alec Hardy hopes desperately that he is wrong.