room might have been dark and gloomy, if it hadn’t been recently decorated with bright floral wallpaper and dazzling white gloss on the woodwork. Somebody, presumably Sandra Birley, had arranged mirrors and a multi-faceted glass lamp to catch what light there was from the windows and spread it around the room. Fry found herself seated in an armchair with a chintz cover, facing the windows. Normally, she disliked the fussiness of chintz intensely. But in this room it seemed to work, softening the crude lines of the stone walls.
Geoff Birley had stopped speaking. He licked his lips anxiously, as if he’d forgotten what he was saying. He seemed to know they were expecting something of him, but wasn’t sure what it was. He looked up at his sister, who was standing over him like an attentive nurse.
‘Well, I’m just saying, Trish,’ he said. ‘About the car park.’
Trish Neville sighed and folded her arms across her chest. She looked at the two detectives. Over to you, she seemed to say.
‘Despite that, your wife used the multi-storey car park regularly, didn’t she, sir?’ said Fry.
‘Yes, she did,’ said Birley. ‘But she always tried to get a space on the lower levels, so she wouldn’t have to go up to the top to fetch her car if she worked late at the office. Only, you have to get there early, you see. You have to be there at seven o’clock, or you’ve had it for the rest of the day.’
‘And she was late yesterday morning?’
‘She got held up by a phone call as she was leaving the house. It was only her mother, mithering about nothing as usual. But Sandra always has to spend a few minutes listening to the old bat and calming her down. Sandra is like that – if she cut her mother off short, she’d have felt guilty about it all day. So she made herself late because of it. By the time she got to Clappergate, the bottom levels of the car park would already have been full. A few minutes make all the difference, you see. And when that happens, you have to go up and up, until you’re on the bloody roof.’
‘Her car wasn’t quite on the roof level, in fact,’ said Fry. ‘It was on the one below, Level 8.’
‘She was lucky, then. She must have nipped into a space.’
Fry and Hitchens exchanged a glance. The fact that Mr Birley should still be describing his wife’s actions as ‘lucky’ told them that reality hadn’t sunk in for him yet. The one thing Sandra Birley hadn’t been last night was lucky.
‘Mr Birley,’ said Hitchens. ‘When your wife went back for her car, we think she used the stairs to get to Level 8, instead of the lift. Yet the lift was working. Would that have been her usual habit, do you think?’
The question seemed only to confuse Geoff Birley. ‘How do you mean?’
‘Would your wife normally have used the stairs to go up eight floors, rather than take the lift?’
Birley hesitated. ‘It depends. What did it smell like?’
Now it was Hitchens’ turn to look puzzled. ‘I’m sorry, sir?’
‘The lift. What did it smell like? Did anyone open it and have a smell inside?’
Fry had been present when the lift was examined. Even now, she had to swallow a little surge of bile that rose to her throat as she remembered the stink.
‘Yes, it smelled pretty bad.’
‘Like somebody had thrown up in there, then pissed on it?’
‘Those smells featured, I think.’
Birley shook his head. ‘Then Sandra wouldn’t have gone in it. She might have pressed the button and opened the doors. But if the lift smelled as bad inside as you say it did, she wouldn’t have used it. No way. She couldn’t stand bad smells in an enclosed space. It made her feel sick.’
‘So you think she’d have used the stairs, even though the lift was working?’
‘Yes, I’m sure she would. You can count on it.’
Trish put her hand on her brother’s shoulder, perhaps detecting some sign of emotion that Fry had missed. She left it there for a few moments, while Birley breathed a little more deeply. The two detectives waited. Fry noticed that Trish’s arms were broad and fleshy, yet ended in surprisingly small, elegant hands with long fingers, as though the hands had been transplanted from someone else.
‘I’m fine, really,’ said Birley at last.
‘Your wife was late leaving the office too, wasn’t she, sir?’ said Fry.
‘Yes, she was. There was a late meeting, and then she had some work she had to finish. She’s done very well for herself at Peak Mutual, you know. She’s an account executive.’
‘Did you know she’d be late?’
‘She rang me just before five thirty to let me know, and told me not to wait for her to get home before I had something to eat. I got a pizza out of the freezer and left half of it for her. Hawaiian-style. She likes pineapple.’
Fry saw Trish’s hand tighten on his shoulder in an affectionate squeeze. She was anticipating Birley’s realization that the five-thirty phone call was the last time he would ever speak to his wife, that Sandra would never come home to eat her half of the pizza. But the moment didn’t come. Or at least, it didn’t show on Geoff Birley’s face.
‘When Mrs Birley called, you were already home, sir?’ asked Hitchens.
‘Yes, I was on an early shift.’
‘Your wife didn’t happen to say what the work was she had to finish?’
‘No, she didn’t often talk about her work. She told me about the people in her office – little bits of gossip, you know. But she didn’t bring her work home. She was good at her job, but she liked to keep the two halves of her life completely separate, she said.’
It was a good trick if you could do it. Fry glanced at Hitchens, who nodded.
‘Mr Birley, we have to ask you this,’ she said. ‘Can you think of anyone who might want to harm your wife?’
He frowned and shook his head. ‘No, not at all. Everybody liked her. She wasn’t the sort of person to get into arguments. She hated upsetting people. If there was someone at work she didn’t get on with, she would just try to avoid them.’
‘I see.’
‘It wasn’t somebody Sandra knew, was it? Surely it was one of these lunatics who prey on women? She was a random victim. She was in the wrong place at the wrong time.’
‘Most likely, sir,’ said Hitchens. ‘But we have to cover all the possibilities.’
Geoff Birley looked up at his sister again. It seemed to Fry that it was Trish he was talking to now, as if the police had already left his house.
‘Only, I’d hate to think it was someone Sandra knew that attacked her. I couldn’t bear the thought of that. It had to be a stranger, didn’t it? That’s the only thing we can cling to. It’s some consolation, at least.’
‘What time did you first try to call your wife’s mobile, sir?’
‘About eight, I suppose.’
‘And it was already off then?’
‘Yes.’
Hitchens leaned forward in his chair, as if about to leave.
‘Would it be all right if we take a look around while we’re here, sir?’ he said.
‘What for?’
‘Anything that might help us find your wife.’
Puzzled, Birley looked at his sister, whose face had set into an angry expression. ‘I suppose it’ll be all right,’ he said.
The Birleys lived in a detached limestone cottage with an