Eye Contact by Fergus McNeill Page A

knowing nod ‘. . . I thought I’d better roll my sleeves up and help you out.’
    Harland stared at him coldly but said nothing.
    ‘The murder on Severn Beach?’ Pope prompted him. ‘I’ve been hearing all about it ever since I got in this morning.’
    ‘I’m not sure that would be the best use of your time,’ Harland began. ‘Mendel’s up to speed on it already and the team are making progress.’
    ‘Didn’t sound like it from that phone call,’ Pope said. ‘Strangulation, wasn’t it?’
    ‘That’s right.’
    ‘It’s probably a sexual assault gone wrong,’ Pope decided. ‘They had something similar happen over in Newport a few years back – although I think they caught the guy who did that, I’ll have to check – but this’ll turn out to be either a boyfriend or most likely an opportunist pervert, you’ll see.’
    Harland put down his pen again.
    ‘I think Mendel can manage for now,’ he said, firmly. ‘Go and see what else he had on before this cropped up; see if there’s anything you can take off his plate.’
    Pope assumed a puzzled frown.
    ‘Well, it’s up to you, I suppose—’
    ‘That’s quite correct,’ said Harland.
    Pope gave him an appraising nod then shrugged and turned to the door.
    ‘If it
is
a failed sexual assault, we should be trawling through the database, looking for someone who fits the profile—’ He caught Harland’s eye. ‘But I’ll go and check if there’s anything that Mendel needs me to wrap up for him.’
    Harland waited until the door closed, then looked down and sighed. Staring at his notes, he wondered what he could scrape together for yet another unsatisfactory report.
    The photographs of the scene told him nothing new – just that same ghostly silhouette sprawled on the dark mud. He’d been there, seen the body
in situ
, studied the ground around her, and walked the beach. Nothing. He turned his attention to the list of clothing and personal effects: T-shirt, shorts, sports bra, briefs, sports socks and trainers – proper running ones apparently – and a few keys on a key chain. They’d retrieved several pieces of what seemed to be a cheap digital watch – the kind with a stopwatch timer, ideal for runners. He pondered the pictures of each item, willing something to jump out at him, haunted by a feeling that there was something there but he lacked the wit to see it.
    A little after midday, there was a knock on the door and Mendel leaned into the office.
    ‘You sent Pope to tidy up after me?’ he asked, with a grin.
    Harland smiled. ‘Have you eaten yet?’
    ‘I was going to grab something in a minute.’
    ‘Come on.’ Harland stood up. ‘Let’s go across the road and I’ll get you a drink.’
    The light drizzle eased as they walked along Wyndham Way, but the pub was still quiet when they entered. Harland set a half-pint of beer in front of Mendel, then eased himself in at the table, sipping from a tall glass of Coke as he did so.
    ‘So, you tracked down the former boyfriend then?’ he asked.
    ‘That’s right,’ Mendel nodded. ‘Simon Matthews. He’s a lucky boy actually. Turns out he was away on a stag weekend in Amsterdam – flew out of Heathrow early on the Friday, back late on Sunday – so he’s got a whole group of lads plus the Passport Control people as his alibi.’
    ‘Oh well,’ Harland reflected, ‘I wasn’t really expecting a signed confession from him. If he’s not in the picture he might as well be
completely
out of it. What about that guy she liked at her work, the married one?’
    ‘That’d be Phil Teyson – he’s the only married bloke there under fifty – although we spoke to everyone in the firm. Same reaction from all of them –
can’t believe it
, tearful – just what you’d expect. We did a bit of digging, and I got Sue to have a quiet word with one or two of the girls in the office to see if she could pick up any gossip, but there’s nothing there, I’m sure of it.’ Mendel shrugged, then