Tony Hill u Carol Jordan 08 - Cross and Burn

of God had Tony managed to get the narrowboat from Worcester to Bradfield? A man who could barely navigate from his own front door to work?
    Even as she stared, a stocky man with a shaved head and a tight suit made from an unfortunate shiny grey material backed out of the main hatchway. He was carrying a laptop, its connection cable trailing behind him. He stumbled ashore and put the computer in the boot of a Toyota saloon. Then he returned to the boat. Either Tony was being burgled or this was Fielding’s search team. She didn’t mind which, but it might be fun to freak them out.
    She untied the dog and the pair of them crossed the cobbles to the boat. The dog was reluctant at first, but with Carol’s encouragement she jumped aboard, followed by her owner. ‘Hello?’ Carol called.
    Almost immediately, the bald head reappeared, a frown on his pink face. ‘Who the —’ And then recognition dawned. He looked over his shoulder. ‘Harry?’
    ‘What are you doing on my friend’s boat?’ Carol demanded. Flash obligingly gave a couple of brusque barks.
    ‘We’re —’ This time his shout was more frantic. ‘Harry?’
    ‘What?’ The voice came from below.
    Baldy’s face creased with the effort of working out what to say. ‘It’s DCI Jordan,’ he finally settled on.
    ‘Ex-DCI Jordan,’ Carol gently reminded him. ‘You still haven’t explained who you are and what you’re doing on Dr Hill’s boat.’
    ‘We’ve got a warrant,’ a nasal Scouse voice said.
    ‘Might I see it?’ Carol said sweetly. ‘And your ID?’
    Baldy turned away from her and held a brief muttered exchange with his colleague. He swung back to face her and presented two sets of ID and a search warrant. Carol gave them a quick once-over and handed them back. ‘Thanks. You can’t be too careful these days. Shame you’ve had a wasted journey,’ she added.
    ‘What do you mean, a wasted journey?’ Baldy was wary.
    Carol smiled. ‘She’ll have to release him. Her case is falling to bits around her ears.’ She shook her head. ‘They should never have disbanded the MIT.’ Then she turned away and leapt ashore, dog at her heels. Pathetic, really, but she’d enjoyed herself. A pleasant interlude before heading back to the library.
    By half past three, she had added one more possible to the pile. Another natural-looking blonde who’d died from cancer aged thirty-three. Unmarried but with a partner, according to the death notice. Three sisters and two brothers, a slew of nieces and nephews. Carol checked she’d copied the page to her laptop then packed up.
    The question now was what to do with the results of her inquiries. There wasn’t any point in sharing them with Bronwen or even Paula; this was something for Tony to ponder. She wondered whether the custody sergeant at Skenfrith Street would allow her to speak to Tony, in her assumed role as assistant to his lawyer.
    There was only one way to find out.

62

    S tradbrook Tower had been the city council’s final mistake of the sixties. Paula reckoned they must have been the last local authority in the country to commission a tower block for council tenants. It had been the destination of last resort for residents for over ten years, but in the early eighties the council gave up trying to force their tenants into the damp-ridden condensation-plagued flats. The block had stood empty for a few years, then a bright spark in the housing department had realised it was relatively close to the mushrooming campus of Bradfield University. A deal was done, six months of remedial work was carried out and now the flats were home to hundreds of students.
    It was still a sore point with the locals, who felt, not unreasonably, that the flats could have been made habitable for them rather than the privileged scions of the middle class. Or spoilt rich bastards, as they preferred to think of them. And so the area around the tower block had become the perennial site for the ceremonial burning of stolen cars. From where she was standing, Paula could see three burnt-out wrecks. The one nearest to her had belonged to Bev McAndrew.
    The ANPR system had picked it up a little after two in the afternoon, careering out of the car park at Bradfield Central station. By the time they’d alerted BMP, it had traversed the city centre, heading out past the university towards Stradbrook Tower. Control had scrambled the nearest Traffic car, which had arrived in time to see two lads, heads covered by