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‘The shoes. The woman in all the American footage is wearing dark-coloured sneakers with white soles. As is Kate when she first arrives in Birmingham.’
‘OK –’
‘And Daisy isalsowearing very similar shoes on the footage from Holyhead.’
‘This is sounding worse, not better.’
‘Ah, well, that’s where the plot thickens. Morris has got out his Detecting For Boys magnifying glass and thinks they’re different brands. Daisy’s are Converse.’
Even I’ve heard of those, and as Alex is always reminding me, when we first started seeing each other I was still wearing the last functioning plimsolls in the western world.
Quinn whips out his phone and shows me a screen from JD Sports. ‘See that white circular logo on the ankle, with the star? If you zoom in on the shot of Daisy leaving the ferry port in Dublin you can just about see it. They’re Converse All Stars and they’re not cheap.’ He raises an eyebrow. ‘Something else she was no doubt paying for by blackmailing that poor old dear in Belfast.’
‘And Kate’s are definitely different?’
He nods. ‘No logo on those. But thereisa logo on the shoes the woman in America is wearing.’
I take a seat and gesture for him to do the same. This case is giving me whiplash.
‘So either the woman in the US is not Kate at all but Daisy, or for some reason I can’t fathom right now they swapped shoes.’
He nods towards me. ‘In one. Though like I said, this is all down to Morris, not me.’
Creds to him for admitting that, at least.
‘I’m starting to wonder if they split up,’ he continues. ‘Dumped Tierney’s stuff at that place in Evesham, got rid of the car, then went their separate ways.’
Which, to be fair, wouldn’t be such a bad idea, not if you’d just killed someone.
‘Maybe Kate took a leaf out of her old playbook and sodded off back to Ireland.The longest way around is the shortest way home,blarney blarney blarney.’
I look at him in surprise and he gives a grim smile. ‘My grandad was Irish too. Did I never tell you that?’
A knock. Stillwell. ‘DS Asante called, sir.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘They heard back from Santa Monica PD. The woman who was staying in the motel? She was alone. And it wasn’t Kate, it was Daisy.’
And as so often happens with cases like these, if something happens to break the stalemate you can suddenly find yourself on a very fast-moving train. I think that may have been a mixed metaphor but you get the picture.
And why do I say that? Because when Quinn and I go back out to the incident room there’s the sort of buzz you only get when the pieces start to fall together.
‘We heard back from Nick in Digital Forensics, boss,’ says Gis, anticipating my question. ‘They’ve cracked the burner phone – the one Daisy was using that they found at the house. Hesays the last page she opened on the web was the location of the Crone Oak. It was at five fifty on the night of the murder. That can’t be a coincidence.’ His face looks grim now. ‘But it’s not just that. Apparently there’s some app for something called Shadow Journalling on it. Nick only read a page or two but he said you’re going to need to hold on to your hat.’
He’s not wrong. I’ve never even heard of Shadow Journalling – Jung, yes, but not the rest. But a quick google confirms that it’s become quite a thing, mainly because of some book that went viral in the States last year. And now there are dozens of apps and online trackers to help you ‘work through your confrontation with your Shadow’ and ‘take control of it, rather than have it control you’.
And this, incredibly, terrifyingly, is what we have in front of us.
We’re all reading separately, like journalists who’ve just got their hands on some hotly anticipated government document, a head raising every now and again to see if others have reached the same bombshell, the same stupefying revelation.
‘Holy shit,’ says Quinn eventually, sitting back and running a hand through his hair. ‘She planned the whole fucking thing – the TV, the money, the new life. She was going to throw Kate under the bus without a backward glance.’
‘Just like she did to Sharon,’ says Ev. ‘Whatever else she is, she’s bloody consistent.’
‘So where the hell’s Kate?’ says Baxter, paid-up member of the awkward squad, as usual. Thankless task but every team needs one.
Quinn takes a long breath. ‘I thought before that she might have buggered off back to Ireland, but after reading this, I reckon she’s dead.’