‘There was no evidence of sexual intercourse, no body fluids or traces of DNA. But the profilers talk about a “disorganized” killer, and for that type the killing is a sexual act in itself. On the evidence, the profile was definitely that of the disorganized type, with a sudden attack, and no attempt being made to hide the body -on the contrary, it seems to have been put out on display. That might also explain the stripping of the lower half of the body. A symbolic sex act.’

‘That’s rather academic for the average vigilante to figure out, Stewart.’

Tailby sighed. ‘I know.’

‘Bevington does have a history, though. Can he be linked to Weston?’

‘It must have been Bevington who wrote his name on the ground in the stone circle. But that could have been days earlier. It means nothing.’

‘And what about Ros Daniels?’

‘Oh, she’s long gone from the area. That kind of person - she could be anywhere. Using a different name by now, probably.’

‘Do you think so?’

‘Certainly,’ said Tailby. ‘Remember, the last time she was seen anywhere in the area was six weeks before Jenny Weston was killed.’

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‘Yet an unknown man was seen hanging around Weston’s house and workplace. Someone made a phone call to her, claiming to be a police officer.’

‘We’ve ruled out the ex-husband, Martin Stafford. All the old boyfriends in Jenny’s address book have been eliminated. If there was a more recent one, she didn’t bother to put his number in the book. It would have been unlike her, though. She was well organized in other ways. And there’s the note we took from her house. “Buy some fruitflavoured ones,” it said. That had to be a boyfriend, surely.’

‘Perhaps the man the neighbours saw wasn’t looking for Jenny Weston, but for Ros Daniels,’ said Jepson. ‘She had already disappeared by then.’

‘Whoever the killer was, he was very audacious,’ said Tailby. ‘And very lucky.’

There had been a number of public appeals during the past week. But no one had come forward to say they had seen a man on the moor at the right time.

‘We have a partial footprint and a smear of sweat on the bike frame. We have the shape of a knife blade. But it’s really nothing at all. Nothing - without evidence to place a suspect at the scene.’

Tailby paused, as if unsure how his next statement would be received. Jepson noticed the hesitation and fixed the DCI with his sharp blue eyes.

‘Yes, Stewart? What are you going to say? Is it something I don’t want to hear?’

‘Could be.’

Jepson sighed again. ‘I didn’t really think things could be worse. But go on.’

383

28

‘That was the river, this is the sea.’

Ben Cooper turned up the volume on his stereo and opened the cover of his Waterboys CD. He was amazed to find it dated from 1985. In fact, most of the music he possessed was the stuff he had liked twelve or fifteen years ago as a teenager. Somehow, his tastes hadn’t changed during the time since he had joined the police service - or maybe he just hadn’t had time to discover any new kinds of music.

Cooper looked at his books. The copy of Captain Corelli’s Mandolin he had been trying to read was written in 1994. It was about the most recent thing on his shelves, and somebody had given him that. Apart from the job, it seemed his time had been spent drinking beer with other police officers, taking part in individual sports or walking in the countryside. At least he had some friends outside the service. He made a mental note to get in touch with Oscar and Rakki. It had been months since they had gone anywhere together.

One of the CDs in the rack was of a concert by the Derbyshire Constabulary Choir, recorded six years ago. There was a photo of the choir on the cover, and on the

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back row with the tenors was Ben Cooper himself, then a uniformed PC. Cooper compared the picture with his reflection in the mirror in the wardrobe door. His hair was a bit shorter at the back now, his face a bit fuller. But he looked much the same, didn’t he? So why did he feel so different inside? Was it the police service that had done that to him?

Suddenly, he felt weary. He replaced the CD and lay down on his bed, letting the sound of Mike Scott’s voice roll over him. ‘Once you were tethered, now you are free. That was the river, this is the sea.’

Cooper had begun to drowse when there was a knock on the door and his sister-in-law Kate’s voice called: ‘Ben? Phone.’

He turned down the music and went out on to the landing, where there was a telephone extension. ‘Yes?’ he said.

‘It’s Diane Fry.’ ‘Oh.’

‘Don’t sound so disappointed. I’ll try not to hog the phone line too long if you’re expecting one of your girlfriends to ring.’

‘Did you want something, Diane? As you pointed out before, it’s my rest day.’

‘Sorry, were you doing something important? I don’t know why, but I pictured you sitting in your bedroom on your own like a sulky teenager, with some awful music turned up too loud.’

Cooper felt certain she could tell that he was going red, even at the other end of the line. ‘If you’ve rung up just to take the piss, I’m going to put the phone down.’

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‘Oh well, I thought you might be interested in the news, that’s all.’

‘What news?’

‘We’ve just pulled in your friend. Owen Fox.’ Cooper stared at the wallpaper. Its green swirls seemed to run together in a blur. He became aware of movements behind the door of his mother’s room, faint sounds like the

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