LITMIR.BIZ

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on it was aimed towards a screen on the far wall. Stillwell went around to the far side and took a seat, the windows behind him. ‘So, what’s this about?’

      ‘A young girl went missing yesterday,’ Pete told him. ‘Her best friend is the daughter of a friend of yours, Neil Sanderson, so we need to ask you about him.’

      Stillwell relaxed visibly. ‘OK. No problem.’

      Pete saw Sophie readying her notebook from the corner of his eye. ‘First, as a matter of protocol, where were you yesterday morning, between eight and nine o’clock?’

      ‘Me? I was on the way here, I suppose. At least part of that time. I leave home around eight-fifteen, get here about ten to nine, as a rule.’

      ‘And that was the case yesterday?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Can anyone verify that?’

      ‘Yes, I suppose. I thought you wanted to ask about Neil?’

      ‘We do, but we have to establish reliability. Who can verify where you were? Do you drive in with someone?’

      ‘No. My wife saw me off from home. Bridget out there saw me arrive. What do you mean, “reliability”?’

      ‘And was Mr Sanderson here when you arrived?’

      ‘Uh . . . No, in fact, he was late yesterday. He didn’t get here until just after nine-thirty. Said he’d had a flat tyre.’

      Pete glanced at Sophie, who was writing swiftly.

      ‘I see. And how well do you know Mr Sanderson?’

      ‘Pretty well, I guess. We hang out together sometimes. Go to the pub on a Friday night, or bowling. Play five-a-side. The odd barbie.’

      ‘You know his family, then?’

      ‘Yes. We were over there on Sunday.’

      ‘We?’

      ‘My wife and I.’

      ‘I see. Who was there, apart from you and your wife?’

      ‘Neil, Geraldine, Becky, her friend Rosie and her parents, Alistair and Jess. Then there was another couple, Derek and Polly Howe, and their daughter Karen. I think she’s at school with Becky and Rosie. They were off on their own most of the time, of course – the three girls, I mean. And Jerry and Linda Bateman.’

      Alistair had included the Howe family on his list, but Pete didn’t recall the Batemans. He wrote the name down, followed by the note: ‘Party Sunday’. ‘How do the Whitlocks know the Batemans?’

      ‘I think Jerry and Alistair were at school together or something. It goes back a lot of years, anyway.’

      ‘And Neil and Alistair?’

      ‘Uni, I think.’

      ‘OK. And you just know Neil through work, yes?’

      ‘Yes. We met when I started here five years ago.’

      ‘And you share a number of interests.’

      ‘Yes. Look, what’s this all about?’

      Pete drew a breath. ‘How’s Neil around Becky and Rosie?’

      ‘What? Fine. What is this?’

      ‘The girl who went missing is Rosie Whitlock, Mr Stillwell. You’ve confirmed that Mr Sanderson wasn’t at work at the time. We need to make sure he’s not involved in her disappearance. We’re looking at all known associates of hers and her parents. It’s standard procedure. So I’ll ask again. Have you ever noticed Neil take anything other than a normal interest in Becky or Rosie, or the girls to have any reluctance or excessive keenness to be around him?’

      ‘No. He has a perfectly normal father–daughter relationship with Becky, as far as I’m aware. Why would you ask these things?’

      ‘As I said, Mr Stillwell, elimination. OK. I think we’ve taken up enough of your time for now. Sophie, do you want to go with Mr Stillwell and send Mr Sanderson in here?’

      He had planned to leave talking to Sanderson until later, when he’d had a chance to corroborate his alibi, but Stillwell’s comments had blown that out of the window. With Sanderson having no alibi, it was essential to talk to him now.

      ‘OK, Sarge.’ She snapped her notebook closed as Stillwell stood up and headed for the door.

      ‘And Sophie?’

      ‘Sarge?’

      ‘When you’ve sent him here, have a word with Richards. Get any password that might be needed and have a quick shufty through Sanderson’s computer, all right?’

      ‘Is that legal?’ asked Stillwell.

      ‘It is, if we’ve got your boss’s permission,’ Pete told him.

      As they left the room Pete moved around to the far side of the table then made a few notes while he waited for Sanderson to come through.

      He had just finished writing when the door opened and he looked up to see the tall, slim architect enter and close the door behind him.

      ‘You wanted to see me?’

      ‘That’s right. Take a seat.’ Pete waited for Sanderson to sit opposite him.

      The sun had come out and Sanderson squinted slightly against the brightness although the window was facing west and it was still not yet noon. ‘We’re looking into the disappearance of Rosie Whitlock. We understand you know her.’

      ‘Yes, of course.’

      ‘Where were you between eight-fifteen and eight-forty yesterday morning?’

      ‘Uh . . . On my way here. I was late getting in because I had a flat tyre. Why?’

      ‘Where exactly did you get this flat?’

      ‘Between Marsh Green and the airport. We live at West Hill.’

      ‘So, a minor road with very little traffic.’

      ‘That’s the idea. Better for getting here in the rush hour.’

      ‘Did anyone see you while you were dealing with your flat tyre?’

      ‘As you said, it’s a minor road with not a lot of traffic. So, no, I don’t think so.’

      Pete pursed his lips. ‘Anybody see you leave your house?’

      ‘Why? Am I a suspect here?’

      ‘Everybody who knows Rosie is a suspect until we eliminate them. Did anyone see you leave home?’

      ‘No. My wife leaves before I do.’

      ‘So you have no one to corroborate your whereabouts from – what time did your wife leave the house?’

      ‘Eight.’

      ‘From eight o’clock to nine-thirty-ish, when you arrived here, then?’

      ‘I suppose. But that doesn’t mean I had anything to do with whatever happened to Rosie. What did happen, anyway? Alistair couldn’t tell me much last night when he rang.’

      ‘What’s your relationship like with her? I understand she’s your daughter’s best friend.’

      ‘What’s my . . . ? Wait a minute. What is this? It sounds like you’re accusing me of being some sort of paedophile.’

      His answers were all perfectly reasonable but, with the victim being his daughter’s best friend, he had been just a bit too offhand until the last question. Pete decided to push him a bit, now the opportunity had arisen. ‘Not at all. But she is a pretty girl. And they grow up fast, don’t they? Look sixteen when they’re thirteen, given half a chance. And the fashions these days . . .’

      Something flickered in Sanderson’s

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