Or maybe not…

37

Dave Boakes looked up at Bailey from the dog-eared science-fiction novel he’d been reading. His messy beard was perhaps a little longer than it had been in the police interview room, but it was definitely him. And he was still wearing that Rolex on his wrist.

‘Spare some change?’ he asked nonchalantly.

It was a cold but sunny February morning, and Dave was reclining outside on a worn yoga mat in front of a red mountaineering tent that had definitely seen better days. His worldly belongings, including various items of clothing, an umbrella and a number of tatty paperbacks, were piled in a nearby shopping trolley.

A few metres above them, traffic roared along the busy elevated road known as the Westway. Down here among the graffiti-covered concrete stanchions and the weeds resided a small community of homeless people. It had taken Bailey a good hour of driving around the area in her BMW before spotting their impromptu campsite.

She knew it was a bit of a long shot, but Dave Boakes was really all she had left to go on. Although the murder investigation had uncovered absolutely no connection so far between Adrian’s death and Mister Snigiss, Bailey had taken it upon herself to probe into it a little further, aware at the back of her mind that a certain amount of desperation on her part was pushing her down this avenue.

Reviewing the CCTV footage of the bomber that had been taken on the night of the explosion, she’d seen that the figure had been wearing some kind of hat which concealed their face. The images had been somewhat indistinct, but the more she’d looked at them, the more she’d convinced herself that it kind of looked like a fedora…

Was it a case of wishful thinking? Was she just clutching at straws in a vain and desperate bid to find anything that could lead her closer to Mister Snigiss? Or was she actually onto something?

The only way to try and solidify her conjecture was to talk to someone who’d been there in person.

Dave Boakes.

Kneeling down in front of him, she flashed her warrant card, trying not to inhale his rank odour of unwashed body. Acting overtly as a police officer whilst she was still working undercover didn’t worry her too much in this instance as she figured that Boakes and the Molloys were highly unlikely to move in the same circles.

‘I’m a police officer,’ she said, in as non-confrontational a manner as she could muster.

His face twisted into a suspicious frown and he shrank back defensively.

‘I’ve come to talk to you about the car bomb,’ she said. ‘I was there at the police station. Behind the one-way glass. But we were never introduced. My name’s Detective Constable Bailey Morgan.’

Dave gave her a suspicious scowl and cupped the Rolex protectively.

‘Don’t worry,’ she assured him. ‘I’m not interested in your watch.’

‘I’ve already talked about the bomb,’ he declared grumpily. ‘I told them everything.’