Page 37 of Twisted Lies
‘You know, it doesn’t matter how many times I search the database for this vehicle, it’s simply not there. The neighbour must have got it wrong,’ Stacey said, interrupting his thoughts. ‘If I’ve got any chance of trying to track down where the family has gone, I’m gonna need to at least start with the correct registration number.’
‘Boss was pretty sure the woman was switched on,’ Penn answered, taking the headphones from his drawer.
‘So how do you explain it?’ Stacey asked.
Penn paused with his own task. Ferreting through every vehicle that had entered the trading estate was a daunting task that was unlikely to yield any results this side of Christmas.
‘Okay, Stace. Either she was right or she was wrong.’
‘Jesus, Penn, I’d worked that much out myself.’
‘You’re convinced she’s wrong, so go with that.’
‘How does that help?’
‘Okay, what’s the registration number?’
‘HL87 0RB.’
He wrote the registration number down on a plain piece of paper and held it up. ‘So what did she get wrong? What letters are easily mistaken or confused? What letters could have been written in the wrong order? Don’t be defeated by it. Treat it like a puzzle.’
Stacey regarded him silently for a moment.
‘Penn, I may have a little crush on you right now.’
It was his turn to laugh out loud as he reached for his headphones again.
He would return to the vehicle-sorting task until the official post-mortem report came through.
Because he was convinced there was something there that didn’t make sense.
Twenty-Eight
Bryant pulled into the small street just as a smartly dressed man got out of a silver Lexus.
He appeared perturbed by the officer guarding the door.
As Kim exited the car into the bottle-necked street, she wondered what Rachel was making of the continued activity outside her front door.
‘Mr Jenner of Wilson Fairbanks?’ Kim called, holding up her ID.
He nodded and changed direction, heading her way.
After being given the name by Rachel, Kim had taken the time to research the landlord the night before.
In his late fifties now, he had started his own property management company at the age of twenty-four. With a small amount of inheritance money, he’d bought a run-down terraced house in the middle of Lye, taught himself different trades, renovated the house and rented it out. By the time he was forty, he had amassed a personal fortune in excess of ten million by doing what he was good at.
The last article she’d read had listed him as one of Britain’s top ten wealthiest men, with over three hundred properties nationwide.
More interesting to her was the fact that he and his team actually took care of every one of those properties. This man was no slumlord, providing run-down properties for extortionate prices to vulnerable people. He charged the market rate for a decent place to live.
‘Pleased to meet you,’ she said, offering her hand briefly. ‘But you can’t have your house back yet,’ she added to answer what she thought would be his first question.
‘I can wear it, Inspector,’ he said with the hint of a smile. The expression turned to concern. ‘Is everyone okay?’
‘Unfortunately not,’ she answered. ‘Which is why we need to ask you some questions. Did you know the family well?’
He shook his head. ‘I have many tenants. Some are more time-consuming than others, but the Phippses never gave me any trouble. They were polite, not particularly demanding, were pleasant enough to the maintenance guys and were just a normal family. I would use the term unremarkable but not in a negative sense. Just seemed to keep themselves to themselves. I’ve never received one complaint from the other neighbours, which is not bad going,’ he said, raising an eyebrow to indicate that wasn’t the case in other properties.
