She got out of the car, taking the list from the young DC as they crossed the street and walked up the short drive to the house. It was their second day of driving around, knocking on doors, ticking names off a list. She was starting to suspect that their search area was not large enough. If these addresses were all duds, they’d have to expand to take in the whole of west and north London, and so on, and so on. The Bayley hit-and-run had been kicked up the priority list since the boy’s death, with more media attention and more pressure from the powers that be to get a result. Luckily, a closer re-examination of the victim’s bicycle by forensics earlier this week had revealed microscopic fragments of dark blue paint, embedded in the frame. Further analysis had matched the paint to a Volvo V40.

The paint fragments had been missed on first examination.

There were a total of sixteen matching cars registered in Ealing, Acton and Wembley, in the immediate vicinity of the incident and the starting place for renewed police enquiries.

DS Foster consulted the list in her hand and rang the doorbell.

A bearded man opened the door, late forties, unkempt and red-eyed.

‘Yes?’

‘Alistair Marsh?’

‘Yes?’

She held up her police ID in its wallet.

‘My name’s DS Foster and this,’ she indicated her colleague, ‘is DC McKevitt. Would you mind if we came in for a few minutes?’

‘Why?’

‘We’re carrying out an investigation into a hit-and-run. A teenage boy was knocked off his bike and killed not far from here. You may have read about it, seen it on the news?’

‘Indeed.’ He stood up a little straighter. ‘What’s that got to do with me?’

‘Are you the owner of a blue Volvo V40?’ She read out the registration.

Alistair crossed his arms.

‘No.’

DS Foster checked her list again.

‘It’s registered at this—’

‘It’s my wife’s car.’

‘Jennifer Marsh?’

‘Correct.’

‘Is the vehicle here?’

‘In the garage.’

‘We’re going to need to look at it.’

For a moment she thought he was going to argue, but then he just gave a quick nod. ‘I see.’

‘Is your wife here? We’d like to talk to her as well.’

‘She’s . . . no, she’s not here. Not at the moment.’

‘Can you tell us when she’s due back?’

Alistair shook his head.

‘No,’ he said, his voice lowering. ‘Jennifer’s . . . in France. It could be some time before she’s back.’

‘A holiday?’

‘It was a holiday, at least to begin with. But it’s turned into a rather extended stay.’

‘Really? Why’s that, sir?’

Alistair looked from one detective to the other, his shoulders sagging.

‘I think you’d better come in, officers.’

He ushered the two detectives inside and shut the door softly behind them.

Acknowledgements

Acknowledgements