The Kill Call

weedy-looking youth peering at the camera through round, wire-rimmed glasses. TinTin maybe, but not Romeo.
    Fry placed a finger on another face. ‘I think this one could be Michael Clay, though,’ she said. ‘A lot younger, of course. But there’s something about the shape of the face that’s very distinctive.’
    ‘What else is in the envelope, Diane?’
    ‘Just these –’
    Fry held out a tie with a small logo on it, and a badge identical to the one Cooper had seen in the drawer in the other bedroom.
    ‘“Forewarned is forearmed” – but what does it mean?’
    Before Fry could reply, the front door of the house opened cautiously. They heard a nervous voice downstairs.
    ‘Who are you? What are you doing here?’
    * * *
    Her name was Pauline Outram, and she seemed to be permanently on the verge of bursting into laughter. What Fry had at first taken for a nervous cough was actually a sort of constant half-snigger, as if she didn’t want to be considered lacking in a sense of humour if someone made a joke that she didn’t understand. Fry wanted to tell her to stop it, that she wasn’t about to make any jokes.
    ‘We’re here because we’re looking for Michael Clay,’ said Fry.
    ‘That’s funny, because so am I.’
    ‘You don’t know where he is?’
    ‘He should be here. But I guess …’
    ‘You know who we are,’ said Fry, after identification had been shown. ‘Now explain to us who exactly you are.’
    Fry was genuinely curious to know. She didn’t think Pauline Outram looked much like a secret mistress. Not even the right age, really. A fifty-one-year-old man going through a mid-life crisis was likely to go for someone about half his age. Or so she’d heard. But Pauline must be in her late thirties, and there was nothing sexy or glamorous about her. Nothing about Pauline Outram suggested she’d come here to meet a lover.
    But the question didn’t seem easy for Pauline to answer. She looked from one detective to the other, struggling for words.
    ‘We won’t be shocked,’ said Fry. ‘You can tell us the truth. We only want to locate Mr Clay. It doesn’t matter what your relationship was, as long as it helps us to find him.’
    And then it dawned on Pauline what Fry was suggesting.
    ‘Oh no, you’ve got it wrong,’ she said, shaking her head, that nervous half-laugh setting Fry’s nerves on edge.
    ‘Are you not having an affair with Michael Clay?’
    ‘No, no. You don’t understand. I’m not his lover. That’s not why he leased this house for me.’
    ‘Who are you, then?’
    Pauline Outram looked her in the eye, her face calm and serious for the first time. And it was only then that Fry saw the faint family resemblance to Michael Clay.
    ‘I’m Michael’s niece. His brother Stuart’s daughter.’

28
     
     
    Back at the office half an hour later, Cooper went to his PC and Googled the motto on the badge he’d found in Eden View. Forewarned is forearmed . It was a common enough phrase, an old adage that he must have heard his parents use time and again.
    Google presented several sources for definitions. ‘ Praemonitus, praemunitus . Knowledge of imminent danger can prepare us to overcome it.’ There was even a link to George W. Bush using the phrase in a speech about Iran. Corporate intelligence, cancer research, travel tips on avoiding pickpockets … Not much use.
    Cooper clicked through three or four pages of links without success, and was about to give up looking when he saw a different reference. It was a book title, advertised by a seller on ABE, the second-hand book dealers’ site. He clicked on the link and found himself reading a description of the book being offered. A history of the Royal Observer Corps, evidently some branch of the British armed forces. Could that be right?
    A fresh search and a few more clicks found a picture of the ROC logo. The figure on the badge was apparently based on an Elizabethan beacon lighter, who used to watch the coast and warn of approaching Spanish ships. And, yes, that was the Corps motto: Forewarned is forearmed .
    So there had been a Royal Observer Corps cap badge in Michael Clay’s briefcase, along with the tie and the photograph. Had Clay served in the ROC? And what about the identical badge in Pauline Outram’s jewellery box? Sentimental value, presumably. A former boyfriend? Or had there been women in the ROC? Did it still exist, in fact? Too many questions. But Cooper had an idea there was someone he could ask, who