As Lizzie goes back into the kitchen for the drinks and Philip cooks, Moira picks up the marker pen on the table and steps over to the patio doors. She adds a column with the heading ‘Person of interest’ and lists out the description of the guy she’d caught watching her three times earlier that day: Male. Approx five foot 8 inches. Slim. Blond, short hair. Black-framed glasses. Navy hoodie. Maroon and gold scarf. Silver VW Beetle.
Then, from the column headed ‘Killer’， she makes a sub-column branching off below headed ‘Suspect 1’ and lists out the things she remembers: Male. Six foot? Medium build. Hoodie. Binoculars. Wild Ridge Trail （Moira）。 ?Manatee Park （Lizzie）。 Buried mobile?
‘What about the colour of the hoodie?’ says Rick.
It’s a good point. As Moira turns to answer, she notices Philip looking at her and what she’s writing from where he’s standing at the grill. There’s a frown on his face. ‘You okay, Philip?’
‘Yes, yes, all good.’ He looks flustered for a moment. Like he’s been caught out doing something he shouldn’t. ‘I just . . .’
Lizzie laughs. ‘It’s because you’re writing on the glass – the board.’
‘I usually hold the pen in my investigations,’ says Philip.
Moira gives a tight smile. She knows she’s a guest in this man’s house, and agreed to help the group with their investigation, but Philip’s bossy, listen-to-me tone is really grating on her. She won’t defer to him. Stays put beside the patio doors. Grips the marker pen a little harder. Meets his gaze. ‘So do I in mine.’
Rick raises his eyebrows. ‘Is that right?’
Moira realises her mistake too late. She curses silently inside her mind. Knows that she’s blown it.
Philip frowns, looking half-irritated, half-confused. ‘And what investigations do you usually do?’
She looks from Philip to Rick to Lizzie, trying to think of a way to persuade them they misheard, or she meant something different; anything to put them off the scent. Fails. She’ll have to brazen it out. ‘I was an investigator, of sorts.’
‘Exactly what sort?’ says Philip.
Tell them enough truth to be plausible, Moira tells herself, but not too much. She clenches her jaw. Who is she trying to kid? Telling them anything is a risk. She has to keep details to a bare minimum. ‘I was a DCI. Undercover.’
Rick’s pointing at her, smiling. ‘I knew it. You had to have something going on. Your instincts are way too good for a first-timer.’
‘I thought so too,’ says Philip. His tone is curt. He’s obviously pissed off. ‘Shame you didn’t think to tell us before, it would have stopped me looking like a fool every time I explained things for you.’
I doubt knowing I was a DCI would have stopped you, thinks Moira.
‘Why didn’t you mention it when we were talking earlier?’ says Lizzie. She sounds hurt and Moira can see the distrust is back in her eyes.
Damn. Moira gives Lizzie an apologetic look. ‘I’m sorry. When I first came here I was trying to assimilate to retirement. It was strange not to be on the job any more and I found it easier if I didn’t talk about it.’
‘But you could have told me today,’ says Lizzie, frowning. ‘We were talking about retirement and everything. I don’t get why you’d hide it from—’
‘Look, I was going to tell you earlier, but Philip and Rick got back before I could and then—’
‘It’s not really that big of a deal,’ Rick says, grinning and giving Moira a light, friendly punch on the shoulder. ‘Four retired law enforcers uniting to crack this case. Who’d have thought it? We should call ourselves the retired detectives club.’