TOUCH: A DI Charlotte Savage Novel. Mark Sennen

have the obscene publications law to deal with.’

      Simbeck giggled and the noise and the way her cute little nose wrinkled caused butterflies in Tatershall’s stomach. He wished they had parked somewhere a little more remote and he wasn’t married with three kids. Maybe then she would say ‘yes’ if he asked her for a shag.

      Driving somewhere remote wouldn’t be a problem. Within five minutes they could be out of town. Within fifteen Tatershall knew dozens of places quiet enough. The wife and kids were more of an issue though, and the chance of a pretty twenty-something girl saying ‘yes’ to an early fifties guy like him were in the arena of having a winning lottery ticket. Of course, if he’d won the lottery he wouldn’t be on some stupid mispers goose chase involving an elderly couple DI Peters had chosen to push his way. No, he’d be on a golden beach somewhere hot, rubbing suntan oil into Kate’s glorious—

      ‘Kevin?’ Simbeck pointed out through a patch of window where she had smeared a circular hole in the condensation. A well-filled uniform stood some way up the street looking wet, miserable and not a little angry.

      ‘Bugger.’ Tatershall sounded the horn, wound down the window and waved at the PC. ‘Over here mate.’

      The PC jogged down the pavement, dodging umbrellas, baby buggies and a group of disgruntled tourists. The latter glowered at him as if the local police were responsible for the weather as well as crime. The officer arrived at the car puffing and leaned in, dripping rain and a palpable hostility.

      ‘You’re late. I was told half past.’

      ‘You got the keys?’ Tatershall ignored the jibe. ‘Only I’d hate to have made a wasted journey.’

      He heard Simbeck stifle a laugh which the PC didn’t catch. The PC nodded and explained he had managed to track down a spare set held by a neighbour in case of emergency. The couple owned a gallery with a flat above, and it only became apparent they’d gone missing when the water company needed access to the rear of the property.

      ‘I’d noticed the gallery was closed in July,’ the PC said, ‘which I thought a bit odd considering we were at the height of the season. I forgot about it until yesterday when the neighbour called about the water people. I went in with the neighbour to check the flat just in case. Nobody. Fridge empty, place clean, nothing untoward. Well, they have been gone four months now so I thought—’

      ‘To call in the experts?’ Tatershall heard Simbeck snigger again. ‘You did right, lad. This sort of investigation can be incredibly complicated, but never fear, the Simbeck House Investigation Team Squad are here.’

      The PC stared in the window, bemused, but Simbeck had abandoned any semblance of decorum and was laughing her head off.

      Tatershall and Simbeck got out of the car and the three of them walked up the road to the gallery front. Tatershall glanced in, noting the usual watercolour rubbish typical of galleries all over the West Country.

      ‘Shall we?’ The PC opened a door next to the gallery entrance and went into a small lobby, beyond which stairs led up to the flat. A fan of mail lay spread on the doormat and Tatershall told Simbeck to grab the letters and bring them up.

      With the posh gallery below Tatershall had been expecting the flat to be something one step up from the grotty spaces often found above shops, but he was surprised by the luxury as he broached the top of the stairs. The interior of the place had been gutted to make a huge open plan area like something out of one of those TV makeover programmes. A floor-to-ceiling window in the rear wall of the property looked out over the town to Porthmeor Bay and even on a miserable day like today the view was stunning. The furnishings were expensive and the style more swish London riverside flat than an old couple’s retirement home.

      ‘In their seventies?’ Tatershall said, shaking his head.

      ‘Yes. From London. With money.’ The words came out with resentment attached and Tatershall was tempted to stir the PC up some more, but Simbeck had arrived with the stack of letters.

      ‘Quiet couple by all accounts,’ the PC continued. ‘Moved here ten years ago, but not many friends and no one who knows where they might have gone to.’

      ‘Family?’ Tatershall asked.

      ‘None that we know of.’

      ‘OK. You can leave it to us now, Constable, I’ve got your notes. We’ll drop the keys back at the station when we’ve finished.’

      The PC stared out of the window for a moment before grunting and making his way down the stairs, slamming the door as he left.

      ‘That was a bit harsh, Kev. He was itching to stay out of the rain.’

      ‘Yeah? Well, I’ve got to take my frustration out on someone haven’t I? We’ve got plenty of stuff to be getting on with back home without having to come over here.’

      ‘You wouldn’t be moaning if it was a nice summer’s day!’

      ‘No, but it isn’t a nice summer’s day. That’s the point and DI Peters knows it. I bet he is sitting back at the station with coffee, a plateful of doughnuts and a bloody big grin on his face.’

      ‘Well, we are here now so we might as well get on with the job.’

      Simbeck began sorting the letters on a white oak sideboard while Tatershall slouched into one of the chairs and took in the impressive view.

      ‘Anything?’ he said after a while, more out of hope than expectation.

      ‘I’ve found a bank statement. Joint account.’ Simbeck was leafing through the pages. ‘Three months to the end of September. Regular stuff to start with, a supermarket, some other local shops. Then I’ve got a transaction at Tesco Lee Mill for forty quid exactly. Fifteenth July. Petrol.’

      ‘Where the hell is Lee Mill?’

      ‘No idea, but it’s not round here.’

      ‘Anything else?’ Tatershall asked.

      ‘A cashpoint withdrawal same day. Fifty pounds. Dartmouth.’

      ‘Dartmouth? Well that’s this one sussed. They’re on bloody holiday! Case solved, closed, finito. I’ll buy you lunch in the pub and then we can get back, and if you are a good girl I’ll let you do the paperwork.’ Tatershall struggled to push himself upright from the embrace of the soft leather sofa.

      ‘I don’t think so, sir. There are a couple more standing orders but no more EPS transactions. The cash withdrawal was over four months ago now. Since then nothing.’

      ‘They are using the cash.’

      ‘Fifty quid, boss? You’re joking, right? Think about how far fifty quid would go if you were on holiday here. Can’t see Dartmouth being much different.’

      ‘Could be they lost the card and are using another bank account or a credit card.’

      ‘Could be. But why, when you live here, would you go on holiday in Dartmouth? It’s a hundred miles away, but not much of a change. And for four months? What would they be doing over there all this time? You are forgetting the gallery too. They wouldn’t leave it unattended.’ Simbeck was looking through the rest of the mail. ‘I don’t buy that. Call it women’s intuition, superior detective ability or whatever you like, but I think something has happened to them. I don’t think this story has got a happy ending. Here, look at this.’