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“Linda Lofthouse’s murderer was caught, and Merchant’s drowning was ruled death by misadventure, right?”
“Right. And Linda’s killer was stabbed in jail, so it’s not as if we can ask him to clear anything up for us. Sounds as if he was deranged in the first place.”
“But ruling out the angry husband or passing tramp theory, that’s the default line of inquiry?”
“Pretty much so. Chris Adams said Barber had a coke habit, but we can’t find any evidence of that. If he did, it obviously wasn’t big-time.”
“Have you got Barber’s phone records yet?”
“We’re working on it, but we don’t expect too much there.”
“Why not?”
“There was no landline at the cottage where he was staying, and he was out of mobile range. If he needed to phone anyone he’d have had to use the public telephone box, either in Fordham or in Eastvale.”
“What about Internet access? You’d think a savvy music journalist would be all wired up for that sort of thing, wouldn’t you?”
“Not if he didn’t have a phone line, or even wireless access. Blackberry or Bluetooth, or whatever it is.”
“Aren’t there any Internet cafés in Eastvale?”
Banks glanced at Blackstone, ate another mouthful of sausage and washed it down with a swig of beer. “Good point, Ken. Apart from the library, which is as slow as a horse and cart, there’s a computer shop in the market square, Eastvale Computes, and I suppose we could check there. Problem is, the owner’s only got two computers available to the public, and I should imagine the histories get wiped pretty often. If Nick Barber used either of them, it’d have been a couple of weeks ago, and all traces would be gone by now. It’s still worth a try, though.”
“So what next?”
“Well,” said Banks, “there are a few more people to talk to, starting with Tania Hutchison and Chadwick’s daughter, Yvo
A
Before A
Templeton had just got back from Fordham, and A
A
A cool wind gusted across the market square and the sky was quickly filling with dirty clouds, like ink spilled on a sheet of paper. Luckily, A
Eastvale Computes had been open a couple of years now, and the owner, Barry Gilchrist, was the sort of chap who loved a technical challenge. As a consequence, people came in to chat about their computer problems, and Barry usually ended up solving them for free. Whether he ever sold any computers or not A
Barry was one of those ageless young lads in glasses who looked like Harry Potter. A
“Oh, hello,” he said, blushing as he looked up from a monitor behind the counter. “What can I do for you today?”
“It’s official business,” A
“Oh, I see.” He straightened his glasses. “Well, of course… er… whatever I can do. Computer problems at the station?”
“Nothing like that. It’s Internet access I’m interested in.”
“But, I thought…”
“Not for me. A customer you might have had maybe a couple of weeks ago.”
“Ah. Well, I don’t get very many, especially at this time of year. Tourists like it, of course, to check their e-mail, but most of the locals either have their own computers, or they’re just not interested.” Not to be interested, the way Barry Gilchrist said it, sounded infinitely sad.
A
“Yes,” said Barry Gilchrist, turning a little pale. “I remember him. The journalist. That’s the man who was murdered, isn’t it? I saw it on the news.”
“What day of the week did he come in?”
“Not Wednesday. I think it was Friday morning.”
The day he died, A
“He told me. Said he needed a few minutes to do a spot of research, that there was no access where he was staying.”
“How long was he on?”
“Only about fifteen minutes. I didn’t even bother charging him.”
“Now comes the tricky part,” said A
Gilchrist shook his head. “I’m sorry, no. I mean, I said I don’t get a lot of customers this time of year, but I do get some, so I have to keep the histories and temporary Internet files clean.”
“They say you can never quite get rid of everything on a computer. Do you think our technical unit could get anything if we took them in?”
Gilchrist swallowed. “Took the computers away?”
“Yes. I hardly have to remind you this is a murder investigation, do I?”