‘Where’s your Bulgarian?’ asked Murfin.

‘C Division. He’s assisting on the Zhivko bombing, too.’

‘Busy man.’

‘When he comes back, I’m taking him down to Foxlow. He wants to see Rose Shepherd’s house.’

‘Does he know anything about her?’

‘I don’t think so.’

Murfin answered the phone and held it out to Fry.

‘Speak of the devil,’ he said. ‘It’s Boris.’

Fry took the phone. ‘Hi, Georgi.’

‘Diane, alo. I’m returning to Edendale. I need to talk to you.’

‘Has something come up?’

‘I have to talk to you about the assassination of Rosica Savova.’

‘The assassination of who?’

‘The woman you know as Rose Shepherd.’

27

Standing in the sitting room at Bain House, Fry thought of the heaps of flowers and cards piling up outside the Mullens’ house in Darwin Street. Last time she’d been there, teddy bears and other children’s toys had been added to the pile. There was talk of opening a memorial book at the community centre. This morning, the local papers had been full of photographs of the Mullens, tributes from people who’d known them, and poems from children at the school Jack had attended.

But there was none of that for Rose Shepherd. No one in Foxlow had left flowers at her gate. No one had talked to the papers about her. Even Eric Grice had decided against that.

‘So who was Rose Shepherd really?’ asked Fry.

‘She was a woman by the name of Rosica Savova,’ said Georgi Kotsev, staring at the grey walls. ‘She had a Bulgarian father, but her mother was an Irish national, from County Galway.’

‘She could put on an Irish accent, if she felt like it?’

‘It might have been natural. We don’t know much about her past history, so which country she spent most of her time in is unclear. But she had been working in Bulgaria for several years before she came here. Our police department has an intelligence file on her, due to her association with Simcho Nikolov and Dimitar Iliev.’

‘What crime was she involved in?’

‘None that we know of,’ said Kotsev. ‘There has never been any evidence against her. However, Savova was connected with the wrong people. That in itself causes us suspicion.’

‘Did she have a job?’

‘She worked as an advisor for an adoption agency.’

‘And you’re quite sure she and Rose Shepherd were the same person?’

‘I noticed the photographs of her in your incident room. I wasn’t entirely sure then – I had to do a little checking.’

‘I see.’

Kotsev admired the TV set and the stereo. ‘What money did she have? You’ve examined her financial affairs?’

‘We’ve been through all her bank statements. Rose Shepherd had one current account and three savings accounts.’

‘But not much cash in them, perhaps?’

‘No, but –’

‘It’s not surprising. Rosica Savova must have lived in Bulgaria through the time of the 1996 bank collapse. That was when more than a third of our banks closed down, and much of our money simply disappeared.’

‘Disappeared?’

Kotsev shrugged. ‘Who knows where it went? Many say it was sent to Switzerland for a holiday and returned after a nice rest. Like a faithful dog, the money came straight back to the pockets of the people who looked after it before, and those people became suddenly wealthy again. Our beloved credit millionaires.’

‘What has that to do with Miss Shepherd?’

‘Everyone who lost their money in 1996 also lost their faith in banks. Have your people searched the house properly?’

‘What do you mean by “properly”?’ said Fry, bridling.

‘Inside the walls, under the floorboards? The chimney?’

‘Why would we do that?’

Kotsev turned slowly. ‘To find her money.’

Fry took a call on her mobile. When she’d finished, she discovered Kotsev upstairs, tapping the walls of the main bedroom.

‘Good news, Georgi. The blue Vauxhall Astra we’re looking for was seen again in Foxlow last night. This time we have a registration number, and the PNC gave us a name and address to go with it. The vehicle is registered to a Mr Darren Turnbull, of South Wingfield.’

‘Is that nearby?’

‘Not too far. But we wouldn’t get there first, Georgi.’

‘We could try.’

‘There’s no point. DI Hitchens is already on his way there.’

‘Pity.’ He tapped the wall again. ‘It sounds hollow here. But it could just be the chimney. You should get your people back to examine the structure of the house.’

‘Oh, I don’t know about that, Georgi. It sounds like a major exercise. I can’t see how we’d justify ripping the house apart.’

‘You need Savova’s personal information? Her private contacts? Where else would she keep them, but in her secret safe, with her money?’

‘She used the internet, Georgi. We think she might have had some free web storage space that she used for information like that. We just haven’t found it yet.’

‘The internet? Gluposti. Find her money, you find her heart and soul.’

‘That’s very cynical.’

‘Take a look at the real world, Diane.’

Fry was thoughtful as they returned to the car and drove out of Foxlow.

‘Georgi, what do you think of our methods so far?’ she said.

‘Very interesting. But your enquiries are in the wrong direction, Diane.’

‘What do you mean?’

He waved a hand out of the window at the cottages they were passing. ‘You are wasting your time with these Albanski reotani.’

‘Who?’

‘These … slow-witted country people.’

‘Hold on, I’ve got another call.’

This time, it was Hitchens himself. ‘Where are you, Diane?’

‘Just approaching Matlock.’

‘Great. We’re at Darren Turnbull’s house in South Wingfield, but his wife says he’s driven down into Matlock to go to the bank. His car should be parked by the railway station.’

‘OK, we’ll be there in a couple of minutes.’

‘It’s a blue Astra. You’ve got the reg?’

‘Yes, leave it to us.’

A few minutes later, Fry coasted her Peugeot into the station car park at the bottom of Dale Road. They found the Astra almost immediately.

‘OK, now we have to wait for him to come back.’

She parked where they had a clear view of the vehicle, looking along a line of parked cars towards the station.

‘Tell me again why we want to talk to this man,’ said Kotsev.

‘Darren Turnbull’s car was seen in Foxlow on Saturday night, at about the time Rose Shepherd was shot. I mean –’

‘Rosica Savova.’

‘Yes. Well, Turnbull doesn’t live in the village, so we need to know what he was doing there, and what he might have seen. And why he didn’t come forward in response to our appeals.’

Kotsev eased his legs with a sigh. ‘If I had seen Rosica Savova’s assassin, perhaps I would not come forward and tell the police either.’

‘Why, Georgi?’

‘It could be dangerous.’

Fry looked at him, surprised all over again. He was like some oversized alien sitting in her car, a visitor from another world.

‘He can’t possibly have known it might be dangerous,’ she said. ‘Turnbull is just an engineer in an aircraft engine factory.’

‘It depends what he saw,’ said Kotsev. ‘In my experience, many people see things that they keep quiet about, for their own safety.’

‘Maybe.’

Kotsev suddenly sat up straight. ‘Is this the man?’

‘Let’s see which car he goes back to.’

A man was strolling along the line of vehicles. He was in his thirties, sandy-haired, wearing a black parka. The hood was down, which gave them a good look at his face. He stopped, hesitated as if he wasn’t quite sure which was his car, then pulled a key from his pocket and approached the blue Vauxhall.

‘Yes, that’s him. Let’s go.’

Turnbull looked up nervously and saw them coming. He mouthed a curse, then turned and began to run towards the station. God knew where he thought he was going.