24
Alvin Ambrose skimmed yet another report that took the search for Jacko Vance no further forward. DI Stuart Patterson dropped into the chair opposite and sighed. His expression reminded Ambrose of his younger daughter, Ariel, a child who appeared to be working up to taking ‘sulking’ as her specialist subject on
Patterson ignored the request. ‘We’re going to look like bloody bumpkins. Can’t even catch a one-armed man as familiar to half the country as Simon Cowell. Carol Jordan’s going to be laughing up her sleeve at us.’
Ambrose was shocked. He was used to a different Patterson, a man who wore his Christianity with subtlety, a man who wasn’t afraid of showing compassion. His bitterness at being passed over had stripped away all his admirable qualities. ‘Carol Jordan had a front-row seat the last time Vance went on the rampage. She’s not going to be doing any kind of laughing any time soon,’ he growled. He wasn’t even going to dignify his comment with the usual, ‘With respect, sir.’
Patterson glared at him. ‘I know that, Sergeant. All the more reason she’ll be on our case.’
Ambrose was spared having to reply by the arrival at his desk of a weary-looking uniformed constable clutching a bundle of paper. ‘I’ve got something on the taxi,’ he said, too tired for enthusiasm.
Patterson sat upright and beckoned the constable. ‘Let’s see it, then.’
‘We’ve found it here in the city,’ he said. ‘It’s turned up in the Crowngate car park.’
‘Good work,’ Patterson said. ‘Alvin, get a forensics team over there to give it the once-over.’
‘That’s already been actioned,’ the constable said, flushing at Patterson’s glare. ‘The chief super was in the control room when the report came in. He actioned it, sir.’
‘Typical,’ Patterson muttered. ‘The one chance we get to look like we’re doing something and the brass nick it.’
‘As long as somebody’s chasing it up,’ Ambrose muttered.
‘We’ve been backtracking it on the cameras,’ the constable carried on uncertainly. ‘We found it entering the parking structure at 9.43 p.m. So we worked back through the road and traffic-light cams. We think whoever drove it into the city nicked it from the car park on the M42 services. Because, see, we checked back on their cameras, and it was parked there mid-morning. It’s hard to see much of the driver, but it could be Vance with a baseball cap on. You can see he’s got tattoos on his arms … ’ As he spoke, he splayed camera stills over the desk. ‘Then he puts on a jacket and walks away. Hours later, a completely different bloke comes down the line of cars. See? It’s hard to be sure, but it looks like he’s trying the doors. And he’s a completely different height and build to the guy who parked it.’
‘Lovely,’ Ambrose said. ‘Cracking job. Can we see where Vance went after he parked the car?’
‘Not so far. He either went to another car, or inside the services building or to the motel. That’s his only choices. We’re working on all the footage right now. Everybody’s being really helpful for once.’
‘Nobody likes a serial killer,’ Ambrose said. Re-energised by the new information, he jumped to his feet. ‘I’m going out there right now with a team. Print me out a sheaf of those shots. And keep me posted with whatever you find out about Vance.’ He looked a question at Patterson, who shook his head.
‘Just send a team, Sergeant. You need to be here, keeping an eye on things.’
‘But sir—’
‘You’re wasted out there. That’s a job for foot soldiers, not for anybody who wants to make a good impression on the new regime.’
Ambrose felt the urge to punch Patterson on the nose, to knock some sense into a man who had taught him much of what he understood about being a good detective. If this was what thwarted ambition did to a man, God spare him from that particular lust. Deflated, he sat down again. ‘Good job,’ he said to the constable. ‘Keep me in the loop.’ Then he reached for the phone. ‘I’d better get a team organised, then.’
‘You better had,’ Patterson said, getting to his feet. ‘I’ll be in the canteen.’
There were two lap-dancing clubs within easy cycling distance of Bradfield International Airport. Both denied ever having employed Leanne Considine. Both managers were stony-faced, clearly well-practised in the art of giving nothing away to law enforcement. After the second knock-back, Sam and Kevin sat in the car grumbling at each other, neither coming up with anything more constructive than waiting in the car park till the girls started coming out. ‘They won’t talk to us,’ Sam said gloomily. ‘We’re going to be sat here for hours, all for nothing.’
‘That’s even supposing it was this club she worked at. We could be totally wasting our time here. There’s a burger van about a mile down the road. We could fuel up to keep us going while we wait.’
Sam sighed. It wasn’t his idea of a good time, but anything was better than sitting here doing nothing. Kevin started the engine and headed for the exit. Sam kept his eye on the club and just as they were about to turn on to the main road, he yelped, ‘Wait! Back up!’
Kevin jammed on the brakes, throwing them both against their seat belts. ‘What the fuck?’
‘Just back up, slowly.’
‘What is it?’ Kevin said, easing the car back towards a parking slot.
‘We’re idiots,’ Sam said, flicking through the photos Jamie had printed for them.
‘Speak for yourself.’
‘Her bike,’ Sam said, pulling out the shot of Leanne with her bike. ‘She rode her bike to work. Remember what
