No Name Lane (Howard Linskey) (5 page)

‘But we’ve got photos of Grady coming out of his apartment and pictures of her going in,’ Tom protested.

‘Not the apartment,’ the Doc corrected him, ‘the apartment
block
. She could have been shagging anybody in those flats, or so his lawyers will claim,’ countered his editor. ‘I told you we needed a recording of them screwing or at least negotiating the terms of the shag in advance.’

‘And I told you there was no chance of that,’ said Tom, ‘it was his flat and he wasn’t daft. He used to just point at the bedroom when a girl arrived and she’d go in and strip off. There was nowhere to conceal a mic on her. He just did the bizzo and handed her the cash. You told us to write it anyway.’

The
Doc shot him a warning look and Tom realised he would be expected to erase that little exchange from his memory, which had occurred when Alex Docherty was in one of his egotistical, print-and-be-damned moods.

‘Our lawyers are saying it’s flimsy,’ said the Doc, ‘it looks like a tabloid set up and he can just say he has never even seen her or her mates before, much less given them one.’

‘He has given her several!’ Tom argued, ‘and her mates – and they are all willing to swear it was him.’

‘They are hookers!’ the Doc shouted and he waved his arms in frustration. ‘Which means their word counts for a bit less than a cabinet minister’s!’ He seemed to force himself to calm down then. ‘And there’s something else.’

‘What?’

The Doc seemed pained, ‘his lawyers are asking for the exact times and dates we are claiming he was shagging Miss Sparkle and her mates.’

‘So?’

‘Our lawyers reckon it’s so they can go back to Grady and ask him if he has alibis for those times and dates.’

‘Well he hasn’t,’ said Tom, ‘has he?’

‘Well let’s see, shall we?’ The Doc made a great show of pretending that he was thinking. He placed a hand to his chin and wrinkled his forehead in a mock frown. ‘He’s a wealthy, powerful individual who might one day become Prime Minister, which means he can generously repay a lot of favours. There have been rumours of dodgy dealings surrounding him for years, so we already know he’s bent. What do you think, Tom? Reckon he’ll have any trouble coming up with those alibis?’

‘But
this is …’

‘Unfair?’ offered the Doc, ‘to hell with fair. This tosser is fighting for his political life right now and most probably his marriage as well. He ain’t gonna fight fair, is he?’

Tom was feeling bewildered now. Faced with his editor’s certainty, he suddenly ran out of arguments. ‘What are you going to do?’

‘About this? I don’t know. I’ll probably develop an ulcer and have a heart attack as well but you worry about yourself, not me.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘We can’t have you in the office writing more stories while we are being sued because of your last one. The lawyers would have a fit. I need you out of the building. Take a holiday,’ Docherty told Tom. ‘Don’t look at me like that. You’ll still get your money. I’d kill for some paid holiday right now.’

‘What about my contract? You know I’ve only got six months and it expires soon.’

‘We’ll have to wait and see, won’t we?’ he told Tom.

‘Are you throwing me out? Is that what you’re doing here? Just tell me if you are.’

‘No, I am not throwing you out, so don’t give me any more grief!’

‘So why can’t you tell me what’s going to happen at the end of my contract?’

‘Because I don’t actually know if I’ll be there then, let alone you! I might not even survive the day. Nobody likes to lose a libel case, son; they are way too expensive, even for us.’

Jennifer
chose that point to put her head round the door.

‘Sorry, Chief, you said you wanted to write that letter to Cryptic Ken.’ And when he blinked at her in something like recognition she added, ‘I could come back later.’

‘No, Jennifer, come in,’ he told her, taking a deep breath, ‘I’m done here,’ He left Tom under no illusion that their conversation was over.

Cryptic Ken was the paper’s resident astrologer, a man whose days were constantly rumoured to be numbered because his horoscopes were too mundane for the Doc’s tastes. Their last row had been loud enough for half the office to hear every excruciating detail. Alex Docherty wanted to see dreams, wealth and steamy love affairs in each horoscope, every day.

‘But that’s not how it works,’ protested Cryptic Ken, ‘life isn’t like that.’

‘Who cares how it works?’ demanded the Doc. ‘It’s all a load of wank anyway! Horoscopes are bullshit. How can one-twelfth of the population experience exactly the same level of good or bad fortune on the same bloody day, just because they were born during a random positioning of the stars? I’m selling dreams on every twatting page here. I want each and every reader to think it could happen to them; whether it’s playing for England or ending up in a threesome with Sharon Stone and the bird behind the bar at their local pub and you, pal, are letting the fucking side down!’

Now Jennifer sat on the edge of the couch and crossed her legs primly, holding a pen close to her notepad, ready to transcribe the editor’s latest death warrant.

But
first the Doc turned to Tom. ‘Do me a favour, son, leave my office now will you, like a good little boy – and don’t ever have the temerity to go mentioning your contract to me again or I’ll terminate it on the spot.’ And he turned back to Jennifer.

‘I want you take this down word for word, exactly as I speak it,’ he told her. ‘Dear Cryptic Ken … as you no doubt will have foreseen … you’re fucking fired … fondest regards, the Doc,’ then he glanced to one side and realised Tom was sitting there in mute shock. ‘Why are you still here?’ he demanded.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The team was so large they had to go the training room so their senior officers could address them all. The twenty-five detectives assigned to the investigation into the murdered girls filed into the room. DI Peacock was already there and DCI Kane, so too was Chief Superintendent Trelawe. A fourth man Bradshaw had never seen before was standing to one side of the top brass.

‘I’m sure you’ve all heard by now,’ Kane began, ‘we have another missing girl.’ He looked around the room to let that one sink in. ‘Now, I’m going to give you the bare facts as we know them,’ he continued, ‘then I’m going to hand you over to Chief Superintendent Trelawe.’

DCI Kane waited to ensure he had their full attention then continued, ‘the latest girl is Michelle Summers, aged fifteen, from Great Middleton. She disappeared last night, her last known whereabouts being the bus shelter at the foot of the hill at the eastern end of the village. She was seen there by a number of witnesses, presumably waiting for the last bus that would take her through the village to her home at the opposite end of Great Middleton, right by the main arterial road. Michelle lives there with her mother and stepfather, no siblings. None of our witnesses saw her walk away from that bus shelter or get into a car with anyone. The driver has already been questioned and swears that nobody boarded his bus from that stop last
night. We are looking for passengers who can confirm this.’

‘There’s a boyfriend, Darren Tully, same age as Michelle, but he got a lift home from a friend’s mother. The mother confirmed she saw Michelle alive and well, so we can rule him out. We’ve spoken to Michelle’s mother. She fell asleep on the couch downstairs and didn’t hear her daughter come home but there was a light on in the girl’s room when she went to bed, so she assumed all was well. It now looks as if it may have been left on when the girl got ready to go to the youth club earlier that evening.’ Then he added, ‘We’re not sure how reliable a witness the mother is.’

‘Meaning she’s a pisshead,’ whispered the officer next to Bradshaw.

Either Kane didn’t hear this comment or he chose to ignore it. ‘Now it is of course entirely possible that young Michelle is a runaway but she only had the clothes on her back and a few coins in her purse. From the M. O. alone and the assurances of the family that the girl had no reason to run off, we have to accept that this is likely to be the work of the man the tabloids have taken to calling The Reaper. We think it is very possible therefore that Michelle Summers is Girl Number Five.’ The room was immediately filled with the low humming sound of twenty-five detectives all offering each other an opinion at once. Kane held up a hand to silence them. ‘Like the other victims, she’s been snatched from the street. Two were walking home from school, one was waiting by the side of the road for her ride home and another, like Michelle, was taken from a bus stop.

‘As
you know when a youngster goes missing, the first couple of days are vital. If she
is
a runaway, we’ll find her soon enough or she’ll be picked up in London and they’ll pack her back up here but we can’t wait for that; not while there is a killer out there targeting young girls, so we need you to be all over this one – and I do mean all over it. Now the Chief Superintendent has an important announcement.’

‘Thank you, David.’ Chief Superintendent Trelawe was young for his rank and always struck Bradshaw as a man in a hurry. ‘Five children,’ he told them sharply, ‘five young girls taken from their families in eleven weeks, lifted off the streets they once considered safe.’ He paused for effect, ‘and not a single lead worth a damn from any of you.’ He looked around the room. ‘Not one worthwhile scrap of information that has led us anywhere but back here to this briefing room, as we once again contemplate how these atrocities could be committed in our own backyard. You may feel I am being harsh and if you do, you can tell that to the parents of the last victim.

‘Now I expect you all to redouble your efforts. I want you to get out there, find this man and bring him to justice but I have come to realise you are unlikely to achieve that on your own,’ added Trelawe and Bradshaw knew that statement wouldn’t go down well, ‘which is why I have asked Professor Richard Burstow to join us here today.’ All eyes turned to the civilian standing next to the senior officers. ‘The professor is an expert in the relatively new field of forensic profiling, having worked with, amongst others, the Metropolitan Police and the FBI. He has
kindly offered us his assistance and we have asked him to draw up a psychological profile of the man we should be looking for. Professor …’

The Chief Superintendent turned to the professor and stepped to one side, allowing the older man to come to the front. He looked every inch the academic, sporting items of clothing – a tweed jacket, blue striped shirt, grey trousers and red tie – that failed to match.

‘If there is one thing I want you to keep today,’ he told them all confidently, ‘it’s an open mind.’ And his eyes roamed the room. ‘Some of you may be familiar with the science … for it is a science … of psychological profiling … and some of you will have doubts about the validity of the notion that by observing the scene of a murder and analysing the evidence contained therein, one can detect consistent patterns of behaviour and, thereby, deduce characteristics the murderer is likely to possess.’

‘Bullshit.’ The word wasn’t shouted but nor was it whispered. Instead, DC Skelton uttered it just loud enough for Bradshaw and his immediate colleagues to hear. Whether the professor heard or not, he chose to continue.

‘I have worked with America’s Federal Bureau of Investigations in Langley, Virginia on a number of high-profile cases. The FBI is at the forefront when it comes to applying modern technological and scientific methods to crime detection. You might doubt the effectiveness of psychological profiling as an investigative tool but they do not and if it’s good enough for the FBI …’ He left the sentence unfinished but the inference was there, thought Bradshaw. The professor thought the members of this small north eastern police force were all dinosaurs by
comparison. ‘Remember also that there were those who once doubted the use of fingerprinting or forensic analysis in solving crime. No one queries that now.’

He waited to see if anybody was going to challenge him, asking ‘Any questions?’ and when none were forthcoming, continuing his lecture. ‘Good,’ he said, ‘the man you are looking for is white …’

‘In the North East?’ hissed DC Bob Davies incredulously, ‘never.’ And there were a couple of low chuckles. Even Bradshaw had to concede he had a point. It wasn’t that migrants were more or less welcome in the North East than any other part of England but they tended to follow the jobs, and there was always a shortage of those around here.

‘… He’s never had a meaningful relationship,’ the professor went on, ‘he’s inexperienced sexually, possibly a virgin or, if he has had sexual relations with a woman, it was a traumatic episode that left him scarred in some way.’

Behind Bradshaw, Trevor Wilson muttered, ‘He must have been shagging your missus,’ causing the guy on the receiving end of this bit of banter to stifle a laugh by turning it into a fake cough.

‘So he’s single, lives alone or possibly with an elderly mother. Look for the absence of a father figure, probably from a young age.’

‘What makes you so sure about all this?’ asked a voice from the back. Bradshaw didn’t bother to turn to identify the man. He was more interested in the professor’s answer.