“Hey, how’s it going?” asked Jake. “You two look hot and bothered.”
“Tristan’s car doesn’t have aircon,” said Kate, waving a copy of GQ magazine in front of her face.
“She should pay me more, don’t you think, Jake?” said Tristan.
“I should be first in the queue for a pay rise,” said Jake with a grin. “We should form a union!”
Tristan laughed. The group of young guys and girls had stopped on the other side of the road, waiting for Jake.
“I’m just taking this lot out on the boat. I’ll be back at five,” he said, and patted the car door. “The old dude, Derek, came and put the new window in the Airstream . . . Does he always do that thing with his false teeth?”
“Yes,” said Kate. “How much was it?”
“Two hundred and fifty. I paid him cash from the kitty.”
“I’ve asked him to come and fix the glass in my back kitchen door,” said Tristan.
“Be prepared for his long pauses,” said Jake. “At one point, he left such a big pause in a sentence, I thought he’d died.”
“My housemate, Glenn, will have the pleasure of dealing with him,” said Tristan with a smile.
“Oh, a courier just delivered a letter addressed to you both. It’s on the desk in the office,” said Jake. He patted the car door again and went to leave.
“Thanks, love. Be careful diving,” said Kate.
“I will. I think it’s going to be stunning out there,” said Jake, shielding his eyes from the sun and staring out over the glittering sea. Kate wished that she could go with them. She’d love to just jump in the sea and cool off for a carefree afternoon of diving.
“See you later, mate,” said Tristan. Jake waved, and they carried on up the road to the office.
A cardboard DHL envelope was waiting on the desk. Jake had propped it up against a pile of case files. Kate picked it up. The sender’s address was a law firm in Utrecht, Netherlands—Van Biezen Attorneys. She tore it open, and there was a thick envelope inside.
“It’s an official letter from Famke van Noort, care of her lawyer,” said Kate, unfolding the thick, heavy stock paper. Tristan came over to join her.
“‘I’m writing with regards to your email query care of Nordberg apartments. My client, Famke van Noort, spoke to Devon and Cornwall police on September tenth, 2002, with regards to the missing persons investigation for Joanna Duncan,’” said Kate, reading. “‘I enclose a copy of the official signed statement she gave to the police, where her UK solicitor, Martin Samuels of Samuels and Johnson, Exeter, was present. Ms. Van Noort has no further comment.’ . . . It’s signed by the lawyer.”
Kate found the second page. Tristan took it from her.
“This is a copy of the statement we already have. She was with Fred between two p.m. and four p.m. on Saturday, September seventh. She went to visit him on foot, using the footpath running along the bottom of the plots of land from the doctor’s house to his,” he said.
Kate sighed and took two cold cans of Coke from the minifridge in the corner of the office. She handed one to Tristan and put the other against her forehead to try and cool down.
“We’re getting closer to the truth,” said Tristan, opening his can and taking a long drink.
“Are we?” said Kate, enjoying the feeling of the cold metal against her hot forehead. “Famke won’t talk to us.”
“I don’t think Fred had anything to do with Joanna going missing.”
“I don’t think isn’t helpful . . . Ashley and Juliet Maplethorpe are slippery . . . I don’t know if there’s something just out of reach that we’re not seeing. One of our potential victims has turned out to be alive . . .”
“Jorge gave us a gold mine of information,” said Tristan.
“He confirmed what we knew or guessed at, but he left the country a couple of weeks before Joanna went missing.”
“I really hope he finds those photos. Why would Joanna have taken the negatives? There must have been something important in them.”
The weather was hot for the rest of the week. Tristan had to go into work at the university on Wednesday and Thursday for the last two days before the semester ended for the summer. Kate wrote up reports on their investigation so far and tried to find more information about the body that had been found on the moor, but the police had issued little to the public. The task of finding staff for the campsite changeovers drained a lot of Thursday and Friday, taking her away from the case. By Friday evening, Kate and Tristan had spent most of the day calling agencies and other contacts from Myra’s old records, but they couldn’t find anyone.