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“When you spoke to PC Longmore, you did not say that you had dealings with the murder victim in the past.” He leaned forward, eyes fierce, eyebrows arrowed down in a frown. He tapped a finger on some papers on the desk, and she glanced at them.
Copies of the FPNs she had issued Johnny McLad.
“I only found out about them when we ran the car license. Why is there no name on these tickets?” His tone was not pleasant, and she leaned back slowly in her chair and crossed her arms over her chest.
“Most FPNs have no name, because the person is often not there when we issue them. The fine is attached to the car registration by design, not the person.” She stared at him, eyes cool.
“So you never interacted with him?” He seemed startled by the idea.
“As it happens, I did interact with him. Twice.” She tucked her legs primly beneath the chair, angled to the right with feet together.
He raised a large hand and ran it through his sandy hair. She noticed his tie was askew, and he looked harried. He could be a farmer, with his rugged good looks and his sunburnt cheeks. He had the broad-shouldered build of someone who worked hard lifting heavy things, and his gentle accent made her think of shepherds on green hills, surrounded by sheep.
“But there is still no name.” He spoke more calmly this time. As if he had checked himself—was prepared to take a more amicable tone.
“That’s right. The first time I found him in the loading zone, I asked him if he was delivering something to the gallery, and he told me to get lost, but in ruder terms, and that he had never set foot in the gallery in his life. He refused to give his name, and when I issued him a ticket he ripped it up in front of me. The second time was a similar encounter, and the third time I never saw him, I just left the ticket on his windscreen.”
“So this morning was the fourth time you’d seen his car there in the loading zone?”
She gave a nod. “Got right up my nose, to tell you the truth.”
Archer’s lips turned up in a quick smile. “Can’t say I blame you.”
He leaned back in his chair, as if he had finally relaxed. “Notice anyone hanging about when you were issuing your tickets?”
She shook her head. “I’m on the early shift. There usually aren’t that many people about.”
“What about what he was wearing? Was it similar to what he had on this morning?”
She lifted her shoulders. “I didn’t pay any attention to what he was wearing this morning, but previously he was wearing what I think of as psychedelic cowboy.”
“You thought he was on drugs?” Archer leaned forward again.
She shook her head, then paused. Lifted her shoulders. “It was more to do with the crazy colors and the blue cowboy boots, but maybe.” She thought back to their interactions. “He was certainly unreasonably angry at getting the tickets.”
They lapsed into silence for a few moments.
“I just realized why you didn’t pay attention to his clothes this morning.”
Gabriella was looking at her hands, which were on her lap, fingers entwined. She lifted her gaze to find Archer watching her with steady gray eyes.
“The blood,” she said.
“I’m sorry. I hope you’re alright.”
“What happened to him?” She suddenly realized she didn’t even know. “Was he shot?”
His gaze sharpened on her face. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you that.”
She gave a nod, and rose to her feet. “I have to be going.”
Archer got to his feet and opened the door for her. “I’ll walk you out.”
When she got out on the street, she stood in the late afternoon heat and thought about Detective Sergeant Archer.
He had mellowed between meeting her and wishing her a good afternoon in front of the duty sergeant on the desk a moment ago.
There was an intensity about him, a calm focus that made her think he was probably a very good detective.