Free Rollover by James Raven Page A

lived in a small block of modern flats close to the city’s football stadium. Each flat had a balcony and a bay window overlooking the road out front. Some of the balconies had pot plants. Others had small bistro tables and chairs.
    Before going inside Temple phoned Angel for an update. She told him they’d got Danny Cain’s mobile number and had called it, but there was no answer.
    ‘Keep trying,’ he said. ‘Has DC Patel got anything new to report from the cottage?’
    ‘I just spoke to him,’ Angel said. ‘There’s nothing yet, but he has it under control. I’ll call you as soon as I have something.’
    ‘So what have you turned up at the Cain house?’
    ‘I checked the garage,’ she said. ‘There’s a second car inside. A Mini. Probably the wife’s.’
    ‘That’s curious,’ Temple said. ‘The family vanish but without their own transport. What about neighbours?’
    ‘The uniforms are doing the rounds now, but so far there’s been no joy.’
    ‘All right, keep at it. We’ll talk later.’
    Jennifer Priest’s flat was on the second floor. Her father, Superintendent Priest, answered the door to Temple and showed him into a compact living room that had off-white walls and was packed with trendy Ikea furniture, including a huge crimson rug and a round glass coffee table.
    Priest looked pale and worried. His features were taut and his brow was deeply furrowed. He was a heavy set man in his mid fifties with broad shoulders and a thick neck. He had receding grey hair and a prominent brow.
    Priest was an old-school copper. Gruff, cynical, dedicated to the job. Temple was able to relate to him for that very reason. He considered that they were from the same mould, shared the same values and fought the same battles with bureaucracy.
    Priest was essentially a private man and Temple was one of only a few officers who socialized with him outside work. Neither of them was into big, raucous CID get-togethers down the pub, preferring instead a quiet chat over a glass of Chablis in the nearest wine bar.
    They both liked football and occasionally went along to the St Mary’s stadium to see the Saints play. And they were both interested in firearms. Priest had an impressive collection of replica guns, including a valuable Western revolver that he’d bought at auction for £3,000. Temple just liked firing the things down at the range. They gave him a buzz and had earned him the nickname Billy , as in Billy the Kid.
    Over the past year, as Priest went through a bitter divorce, their get-togethers had become more frequent: two fifty-something men putting the world to rights and dreading the prospect of retirement. Priest was still recovering mentally and financially from a long-drawn -out and bitter divorce. Temple was still trying to come to terms with being a widower and having no kind of life outside work. They found a curious comfort in each other’s company.
    Temple knew that Priest would be badly shaken by what had happened. He often talked about his daughter and clearly worshipped her. He would take Vince Mayo’s murder personally, that was for sure.
    ‘You want tea or coffee?’ Priest said.
    Temple shook his head. ‘I’m fine, sir. Mind if I sit down?’
    ‘Go ahead. Jennifer will be out shortly. She’s in the bathroom. I’m afraid there have been a lot of tears.’
    Temple sat on a black leather sofa while Priest, dressed in loose-fitting jumper and Wrangler jeans, stood in front of the fire, his face gaunt with concern, his cheeks flat. The air of authority that always commanded so much respect had disappeared.
    ‘What’s your take on this, Jeff?’ he asked, his tone sombre. ‘Was this a premeditated murder or what?’
    Temple leaned forward, elbows on knees. ‘It’s too soon to call, sir. However, there were no obvious signs of a break-in at Mayo’s cottage, and his belongings appeared to be in order. It doesn’t mean, of course, that we should rule out a burglar or burglars.’
    Priest