Fever of the Bone (32 page)

He’d spent a long time with the photographs, just letting them sink in. Thinking about nothing, not feeling much either. Simply accepting them into his consciousness. At last, he selected a dozen or so, from the formal presentation of some golf trophy to a casual shot of three men sitting round a pub table, glasses raised in a toast. Something concrete to have by him. And maybe to show Carol.

And now she wasn’t here to share them with. Well, there would be time for that later, if he was still in a sharing mood.

Tony got up to refill his coffee and turned on the radio as he passed it. The teeth-jarring ident of Bradfield Sound filled the room, the precursor to the news. The announcer’s voice stepped on the tail of the jingle. ‘And on the hour, all you need to know. News from Bradfield Sound, your local information station. Police have confirmed that the body found on Bickerslow Moor was that of missing teenager Seth Viner. Seth was last seen after school on Wednesday. He was supposed to be at a friend’s house for a sleepover but he never made it. Seth is the second Bradfield teen to be found dead in a remote location in the past week. Detective Chief Inspector Carol Jordan, the commander of the city’s Major Incident Team, spoke about these terrible murders to Bradfield Sound.’

And then that voice he knew as well as his own. ‘We believe that both Seth Viner and Daniel Morrison were murdered by the same person,’ she said, her voice carefully modulated to suggest respect for the dead as well as the urgency of her investigation. ‘Our deepest sympathy goes out to their families and friends. We’re asking everyone in Bradfield to think back very carefully over the last few days to see if you remember seeing Daniel or Seth on the days they disappeared. We need your help.’

Back to the announcer, who sounded far too chipper for his subject. ‘DCI Jordan also issued a warning to young people and their parents.’

Carol again. ‘We believe the killer may have made contact with both Seth and Daniel via a social-networking internet site. We urge young people and their parents to be vigilant. Make sure the people you are interacting with are who they say they are. And if you’ve got any doubts at all, block their contact with you and get in touch with Bradfield Police.’ She rattled off the number for the contact line.

That explained why she had taken off at the crack of dawn. A double murder inquiry didn’t leave a lot of time for sleep. Or anything else. She had her ticking clock now, just like Patterson and Ambrose. But still, he was surprised she hadn’t been in touch. OK, Blake wasn’t prepared to pay for his help. But she was his friend. She should know by now she could count on him.

So why the silence?

He didn’t have the chance to wonder for long. The doorbell rang, cutting across his brooding. To his surprise, he found Sam Evans on his doorstep, half-turned away from the door as if he wasn’t that bothered about getting an answer. Tony couldn’t help his spirits lifting. At last, a way in to whatever Carol was up to. ‘Nice to see you, Sam,’ he said, stepping back to let him walk inside.

As usual, Sam didn’t beat around the bush. He’d barely made it as far as the living room before he spoke. ‘I need your help,’ he said.

Tony shrugged. ‘I thought you lot couldn’t afford me any more.’

Sam snorted. ‘In my book, we can’t not afford you. But they’ve sent us some pillock from the National Faculty instead. Tim Parker.’ Tony couldn’t keep the dismay from his face. Sam grunted. ‘I see you know him. So you’ll know he’s a balloon. And I’m not dealing with the likes of him on this case. You know what we need most of all right now, don’t you?’

Another man might have felt intimidated by Sam’s vehemence. But Tony knew him well enough to read it as the bluster of a man who sees his dream under threat. ‘You need results,’ he said calmly, sitting down and adopting a relaxed pose. No need to let Sam see how mutual the need was. ‘You need to show James Blake that your way of doing things is the best way.’

‘Exactly. And that’s why I’m here. I need your help. I need some ideas about a line of questioning.’

‘I’m presuming Carol doesn’t know you’re here?’

Sam gave him a look. ‘DCI Jordan doesn’t have to know about it. Here’s what I know, Doc. This team is DCI Jordan’s life. Without it, she’d struggle.’ His mouth twisted in a dark smile. ‘And without DCI Jordan, you’d struggle.’ He perched on the arm of a chair like a big bird ready for the off at the first threat.

Tony couldn’t deny the discomfort Sam’s truth provoked in him. ‘So you’re appealing to my self-interest?’

Sam shrugged. ‘I’ve always found it a good place to start.’

‘Carol won’t like you sharing live case details with me.’

Sam frowned. ‘Who said anything about a live case? What I want to ask you about is a cold case.’

Tony tried to hide his disappointment. ‘You’re not working on the murdered boys?’

‘Well, yeah. Obviously. But I’ve got a cold case coming to the boil so I’m juggling, you know? And I’m struggling. Struggling and juggling. You know how it is.’

Tony couldn’t remember Sam ever acknowledging that he needed help. Given his ambition and drive, Tony reckoned he was only here today because it was off the books and eminently deniable. Still, a favour to Sam might pay off down the line. ‘Why don’t you tell me about it?’ he said.

It didn’t take long. Sam had always had the knack of pulling out the key points in an investigation and ordering them logically. ‘So you see my problem,’ he said. ‘I’ve no physical evidence of murder. And I’ve nothing apart from the computer to link Nigel Barnes to the death of his wife, his daughter and Harry Sim. Not to mention that I’ve no idea how Harry Sim fits into the picture.’ He slapped his hands on his thighs in frustration.

‘Harry Sim’s the easy part,’ Tony said, enjoying Sam’s irritated frown. ‘He’s Nigel Barnes’s get-out-of-jail-free card.’

‘What are you talking about?’

Tony settled deeper into his chair, comfortable and confident as he only ever was when he was navigating other minds. ‘If we know one thing about Nigel Barnes, it’s that he’s a planner. He figured it all out ahead of time. A meticulous man would make sure he already had his escape route in place before he started. And that’s exactly what Harry Sim was.’

Sam made a sharp sound of frustration. ‘I don’t understand. How is Harry Sim a get-out-of-jail-free card?’

‘Here’s what will happen when you confront Nigel Barnes with the discovery of the bodies in the lake. There’ll be some story about his wife leaving him and him going after her and finding the three of them dead in some sort of bizarre suicide pact. And he panicked because he thought he’d be blamed, so he got rid of the bodies. And by chance, it so happened that the disposal method he chose destroyed all forensic traces but left enough behind for us to identify the bodies. How very fortunate that Harry happened to have a credit card on him. I bet if you check back, it was Nigel Barnes who provided those dental records too.’ As he spoke, Sam’s aggravation grew more obvious.

‘Fuck,’ he exploded. ‘So how the hell do I nail him?’

‘He’ll wriggle out of the computer. He’ll talk about finding out she was having an affair and fantasising about what he was going to do about it,’ Tony said with conviction. ‘So all you’re left with is his word against the circumstantial evidence.’

‘I realise that. How do I break him down, Tony? You’re the one who gets under their skin. What’s going to blow Nigel Barnes apart?’

Tony leaned forward, the adrenalin fizz of the chase buzzing in his blood. ‘You’ve got one chance, and one chance only . . .’

DI Stuart Patterson read the profile one more time. He didn’t much like what it had to say, but he had to admit it made sense of the information they’d gathered. It suggested new avenues of investigation. The only problem was that they weren’t within his control. The world of ICT professionals, as far as he was aware, was populated by the likes of Gary Harcup, men who weren’t renowned for their networking skills. As Dr Hill had himself pointed out, the characteristics exhibited by a psychopathic serial killer wouldn’t exactly make him stand out among the geeks and anoraks.

And then there was the Manchester connection. Patterson couldn’t argue against the reasoning that said his killer wasn’t a local. There were plenty of places around Worcester where you could dump a body with much less risk than that lay-by. OK, its approach wasn’t covered by cameras, but it was still a busy location.

However, while cameras might not have been much use when it came to catching the killer with his victim, Patterson was hopeful that they might give him something else to work with. On the main artery from the motorway to the city, the logical approach from the north, there were number-plate recognition cameras on either side of the road. In theory, there was a record of every vehicle that drove in and out of Worcester on that road. Given the hypothetical Manchester connection, he had told Ambrose to get hold of the list from the day of Jennifer Maidment’s disappearance. Then he’d have to talk to DVLA in Swansea and ask them to go through the list and identify all the cars and vans registered to addresses in Manchester. It wasn’t fool-proof - this killer had demonstrated that he was clever enough to cover his tracks, and he might have had enough foresight to register his vehicle to another address. And sometimes people were simply slack. Vehicles changed hands and somehow the paperwork never made it to the DVLA. But at least it was a place to start. And since he was now going to have to ask Manchester for help, it wouldn’t hurt to show willing on his part.

Patterson eyed the phone as if it were his enemy. He’d asked his boss to sort things out with Manchester. But his boss was an idle sod who passed every buck he could on the alleged principle of empowering his officers. All he’d done for Patterson was to authorise his approach to the other force. Now he’d have to play phone tag with Manchester’s force control on a Saturday morning to find out who he should be talking to. The perfect use of his time.

It took the best part of an hour before Patterson was finally connected to someone who was prepared to accept any responsibility for liaising with him on Jennifer Maidment’s murder. DCI Andy Millwood, the duty SIO in their Serious Crimes Unit, was a marked contrast to the other officers Patterson had spoken to. ‘Happy to help,’ he’d said. ‘They’re a bastard, these cases. Everybody wants results and they want them yesterday. It’d drive you up the wall.’

Tell me about it
. Every time Patterson looked at his daughter, he felt a tidal wave of guilt and helplessness. Every time he saw one of the local rag’s posters of Jennifer in a shop window, it seemed like an accusation. He knew that if he didn’t resolve this case, it would turn into one of the ones that gnawed away at you, nibbling at your self-belief and pushing you ever closer to the brotherhood of ex-cops who preferred to deal with the world through the prism of a bottle. He also understood Dr Hill’s conviction that, if they didn’t stop this killer, he would do it again. And he didn’t want more guilt on his back. ‘I appreciate it,’ he said.

‘You say there’s reason to believe your killer might be from our turf?’

‘That’s right. He’d been stalking Jennifer online and we traced nearly twenty public-access computers he used to do it. When the boffins ran the details through their geographic profiling software, it put South Manchester in the middle of the picture for his base. I can email you the map with the hotspot.’

‘That’d be a start,’ Millwood said. ‘So, have you got anything else? Witness description? Anything like that?’

Patterson explained what he’d initiated with the number-plate recognition. ‘Also, we’ve been working with a profiler. He thinks the killer works in ICT. Some sort of freelance consultant, he reckons. So maybe once we’ve got our vehicle check results, you could help us narrow it down? I’m happy to send up a couple of our lads to help out.’

‘I won’t deny that’d be useful,’ Millwood said. ‘It’s a bit thin, mind. I’ll talk to intel, see if they’ve got any nonces with ICT connections.’

‘Erm . . .’ Patterson interrupted. ‘The profiler? He says it’s not a nonce. He says it’s not sexual. Even though he took a knife to her vagina.’

‘Not sexual? How does he work that out?’

‘Something to do with the killer not spending enough time with her. And not actually . . . Well, not actually cutting off her clitoris.’ It was embarrassing, having this conversation. Not because he felt uncomfortable talking about a victim’s private parts, but because he knew how daft it sounded. He knew it sounded daft because that’s what he’d thought when Tony Hill had first come out with his conclusion. But as he’d listened to the explanation, it had made a kind of sense.

Millwood made an explosive noise. ‘Tchah,’ or something like that, it sounded to Patterson. ‘And you go along with that?’ His scepticism was obvious.

‘Well, the way he explained it, I could see what he was getting at. The trouble is, we don’t have any other motive to go on. It’s not like she ran with a wild crowd or anything.’

‘So you don’t want me chasing down the nonces?’

‘Not unless they turn up on our licence-plate trawl.’

Millwood grunted. ‘That’s one less thing for us to worry about. OK, then. Once DVLA have given you the list, send your lads up with it. We’ll give them a hand.’

It wasn’t quite what Patterson had had in mind. He’d thought his detectives would be giving Millwood’s officers a hand, not the other way around. But at least it felt like a small step in the right direction.

Tony was amazed that Carol had actually agreed to meet him for a late lunch. Normally in the heat of a murder inquiry, she barely made time to snatch a sandwich at her desk. But after Sam had left, having avoided telling him anything useful about the live case, he’d rung and suggested it. She’d sighed and said, ‘Why not? The Thai on Fig Lane’s usually quiet on a Saturday, it’s all offices round there.’

She was, of course, late. He didn’t mind. He understood the pressures and knew she would be here as soon as she could be. He sat by a window in the upper section of the restaurant and watched the quiet street below, sipping a Singha beer. There were worse ways to spend a Saturday afternoon. And the football didn’t kick off till four, so he wasn’t even going to miss that unless she was horrendously late. As that thought crossed his mind, he spotted Carol striding down the street, her coat flaring out like a superhero’s cape with the speed of her movement. Something inside him quickened at the sight of her. A swift glance over her shoulder as she approached, and then she disappeared under the restaurant awning.