Read Online Catalyst by Michael Knaggs - Free Book Online Page A

that it was for sale. It’s as if someone timed it so we wouldn’t see it during the door-to-doors… God, what did I say about conspiracy theorists?”
    â€œYou’re not thinking, are you,” said Jo, “that this lady might be a master of disguise and a brilliant shot with a pistol?” David gave a chuckle. “Much more likely the timing’s just a coincidence, sir. Or perhaps she thinks that now there’s a real chance of a sale, what with the change of atmosphere on the estate and all.”
    â€œIt would be a bit soon for anyone to be drawing conclusions like that, and it’s not the case, anyway. It’s not the resident who’s selling the property, it’s the council. In fact, the reverse applies; it’s more likely now that the tenant would return with everything looking so much rosier, rather than choosing not to come back.”
    â€œThat’s only if her leaving was in any way linked to the problems on the estate,” said Jo. “If what Mrs Johnston heard is right, she left because she was ill, and if she moved in with friends or family, they might have simply offered her the chance to stay indefinitely. As I said, the timing is most likely just a coincidence.”
    â€œEven so, I think we need to find out a bit more about Mrs Deverall before we can rule her out of the equation. And it’s not so much about the timing issue. Think about it; if you were acting on behalf of this woman, would you want to be trekking in to the council office every month, probably to stand in a queue, to pay over some money that you’ve got, quite likely, by standing in another queue at a cash point? Surely not when you can phone the council and set up a direct debit for everyone’s convenience. Unless you didn’t want to leave a trail. And why would a carer be paying it for her, anyway, and not the people she’s staying with?”
    He sat down and thought for a few moments.
    â€œFive months,” he said. “We know that Mrs Deverall moved out at least five months ago, according to Mrs Johnston. Perhaps we’ve not gone back far enough, Jo, and been spreading our net too wide. Let’s follow this up tomorrow. Go back further and look for any incidents involving her specifically. I assume you’re going to speak to the person or people at Number 11 and see if they can shed some light.”
    â€œYes, sir,” said Jo. “Planned for this evening.”
    David looked at his watch, suddenly aware of people milling about outside his office. “Right, let’s get out there or I’ll never be able to yell at them again for being late.”
    He stepped into the operations room and the customary silence descended. “Okay, everybody, how did it go today? Have we now seen everyone we are ever likely to see?”
    DC Baxter spoke for whole team. Catherine was the MIT’s sweetheart. Five foot two, eyes of blue, she had platinum-blonde hair which she normally wore in bunches – sometimes plaits, which usually devolved to bunches anyway during the course of a day. She was slim and pretty and fragile-looking, which belied an inner toughness and confidence which always saw her at the forefront of any action, and made her a natural spokesperson for the group.
    â€œYes, sir, and I think we’ve got as much as we’re going to get. At twelve of the addresses people were on holiday when we did the first and second rounds; we spoke to someone at all of them this time. Two of the others are furnished lets, but the signs have only just gone up, which is probably why we thought they were still occupied. And,” she nodded towards Jo, “I know the sarge is picking up the one in St George’s Close.”
    â€œThanks, Catherine. Dare I ask, anything helpful forthcoming?”
    â€œPlenty of theories, sir, and reasons why we should stop trying to catch him, but nothing in the way of information, I’m