Free The Advent Killer by Alastair Gunn Page B

looks to sell papers, with his chiselled physique and shoulder-length black hair. ‘You hide your grief very … professionally.’
    ‘I’m used to the attention.’
    Hawkins arrived at the centre pages, where another large, flatteringly lit photo of De Angelo accompanied his account of the affair.
    She laid the tabloid on the table and sat back. ‘Just give us a brief summary of what you told them.’
    De Angelo sighed, dropped his head back and stared at the ceiling, as if weighing his options. Then he began to talk, in a tone that suggested he was repeating himself for the hundredth time.
    ‘My company installs air conditioning. I met her about two months ago when I gave her a quote for some work on their other gaff in Surrey. Apparently, good old Charlie was off giving some speech about how good the Olympics were. She was bored.’ He grinned. ‘So I asked if her old man took care of business at home. Ten minutes later, we were at it.’
    Hawkins nodded. It seemed Jessica had been suffering from underappreciated housewife syndrome, despite the Anderton’s happy-couple image. She wrote herself areminder to check the intelligence team’s progress chasing up the other ‘business’ contacts on Jessica’s phone records.
    ‘And how many times did you hook up after that?’ Mike asked.
    ‘Not many. Four or five.’
    ‘Where at – her place?’
    ‘No, they never did have that work done. Well, not by me, anyway – I only went there the one time. After that she came to mine. Safer that way, with no nosy neighbours watching out for her all the fucking time.’
    ‘So why’d you show up at their home in Hampstead on Sunday?’
    De Angelo tried to hide a look of surprise, but his smirk dissolved.
    ‘All right,’ he said, after a few seconds. ‘We’d arranged to meet that morning, my house, ten o’clock. But she never showed. Usually if something came up she’d let me know, but this time I got nothing. I tried calling, just kept getting the answer phone. Anyway, I knew she was in London and that Charlie boy was away, so I went round there. But there was no answer when I knocked on the door and the curtains were closed, so I left. Wasn’t till the next morning I found out she’d been murdered, or whatever.’
    ‘And then you decided to contact the papers rather than the police,’ Hawkins said.
    De Angelo shrugged.
    Hawkins couldn’t escape the thought that it wasn’t just artists whose true value was often only realized posthumously: Jessica was dead; soon to be followed by her husband’s career, and all this arsehole cared about wasmoney. But as she drew breath to ask another question there was a knock at the door. It opened, and Connor’s head appeared.
    ‘Sorry to interrupt, ma’am. Could I have a minute?’
    Hawkins paused the session, then she and Mike stepped out into the corridor to join him.
    The interview suite at Colindale Police Station was unusually quiet even for a Wednesday afternoon in Christmas week, but Connor kept his voice low nonetheless.
    ‘Hope this doesn’t mess things up in there’ – he held out an A4 sheet – ‘but your man has an alibi.’
    The faxed image was grainy black and white, but Hawkins realized straight away that it wasn’t the topless young woman on the sun lounger she was supposed to be looking at; it was the guy rubbing lotion on her.
    Mike beat her to it. ‘That’s De Angelo.’
    ‘Points for you.’ Connor prodded him. ‘Ian sent this over just now. The photo never made it to print, but apparently she’s the next Jordan or something. It was taken on Bondi Beach in Australia last week – he checked with the photographer. Last Sunday, as it turns out.’
    Hawkins studied the bottom corner of the image, and just made out the date signature. The day Tess Underwood was killed.
    Mike said, ‘So, unless De Angelo is Superman, he can’t get back to the UK in time to be our perp.’ He turned to Hawkins. ‘Looks like your boy isn’t the one.’
    ‘It’s