‘I hate these new dolls’ house estates.’ He knew this would be his girlfriend Suki’s view. She’d prefer a converted church or stable block—something centuries old and unusual. ‘I don’t mind ’em,’ said Gibbs. ‘They’re better than your place. Debbie was after me to buy her one a while back. I told her to dream on. The four-bedroomers go for about half a million.’ Sellers’ mobile phone started to ring. Gibbs began to mutter beside him, ‘All right, love, wipe yourself, your taxi’s here . . .’ His crude impression of Sellers had become a regular performance piece. ‘Will you give it a rest? Sorry, Waterhouse.’ Sellers turned away. ‘Yeah, no problem. If they know.’ ‘Know what?’ ‘He wants us to find out Amy Oliva’s dad’s first name.’ ‘Why doesn’t he ring St Swithun’s?’ ‘School’s closed, dickhead.’ Sellers rang the doorbell. A man’s voice yelled, ‘Coming!’ They waited. He was red-faced when he opened the door, pulling off his tie.
