‘So what was the hiding about?’ asks Moira.
He looks down, his cheeks colouring redder. ‘Nothing, ma’am.’
‘You were hiding behind a desk and the door was bolted. I’d say that’s a little more than nothing.’
His voice is barely audible. ‘I was afraid.’
‘Of the killer?’
The security guard meets her gaze. ‘I heard a young woman was chopped up in one of the swimming pools. Blood everywhere. I didn’t want to end up like—’
‘I get that it’s worrying,’ says Moira. ‘But you’re a security guard. Your job is to protect this community.’
‘But what if the killer wanted to get me?’
‘Why would they?’
‘Could be I saw them.’
‘Did you?’
He shrugs. ‘Maybe. I don’t know. I see a lot of people.’
Moira tries not to show her frustration with the guy – she needs him on her side. ‘I could help.’
The lanky security guard frowns. ‘How?’
‘I’ve heard from the neighbourhood patrol that a station wagon was seen over near Manatee Park on the night of the murder, and nearby a few nights before that.’
The guard looks confused. ‘Okay?’
‘So I thought if I could just get a quick look at your gate log, I could see when else the vehicle has been—’
‘I can’t let you do that.’ He’s shaking his head. ‘It’s against the rules.’
Moira fixes him with a hard stare. ‘I’d guess hiding away and not keeping eyes on the entrance is also against the rules.’
He looks down, avoiding eye contact. ‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘So if you’d want your supervisor to hear about it . . .’
‘I need to use the restroom,’ says the young guard. ‘The logs are on the computer filed by year. The password is password.’
‘Thanks,’ says Moira.
The guard says nothing. Then shuffles across the room towards the door at the back that Moira assumes must be the loo.
Once he’s gone, she gets to work. Sitting down at the computer, she jiggles the mouse to interrupt the bouncing The Homestead logo screensaver, and the password prompt appears. She types in password and the computer unlocks. It doesn’t take her long to find this year’s log. Double-clicking to open it, she finds the search function and types ‘beige station wagon’。 The results come back almost immediately: no matches.
Damn.
Moira thinks for a moment. Then she remembers. Before she’d left Lizzie and Philip’s place last night she’d taken a picture of their makeshift murder board on the patio doors – worried that a freak rainstorm might erase it overnight and they’d have to start again. At the time she’d thought she was probably being over-cautious. Now she’s pleased that she was. Pulling out her phone she finds the picture, and enlarges it until she’s able to read the car registration plate they’d got for the station wagon. Reading it off her phone, she types it into the computer.
The new results appear – one match. Better than nothing. She clicks the link to take her to that page of the log. The record is from over a month ago. It shows that the station wagon entered The Homestead Ocean Mist community at 9.32 that evening. The spaces for the driver’s name and the person in Ocean Mist they’re visiting are blank.
Moira blows out hard, frustrated. The record doesn’t give her much. All it tells her is that the beige station wagon had been here at least one more time than they previously knew about, and a few weeks earlier than they’d originally thought.