‘Well, I’d have put our man down as the type who badly wants publicity. Needs it, even. He must have realized by now that we aren’t going to share what we have with the press. Wouldn’t you expect him to do something to get the attention of the media? A call to a journalist or something.’
‘Wouldn’t it be a bit risky?’
‘Not as risky as his calls to us. He obviously doesn’t mind taking a bit of a risk.’
‘You’re right, Diane. Let’s think about that for a minute. It might give us a lead on him. What sort of person would take the risk of communicating directly with the police, but avoid the press?’
‘Sir, we don’t know that he has avoided the press,’ said Fry.
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‘What if he’s phoned one of the newspapers or the local radio station, and they’ve done nothing about it or haven’t taken him seriously?’
‘He wouldn’t be very happy about that.’
‘No.’
‘Is there any way we can enquire discreetly of our media contacts whether they’ve had a call?’
‘Discreetly? No, there isn’t. No matter how we approached it, they’d sniff out a story. We’d be defeating our own object, unless we can put pressure on them to keep it to themselves.’
‘OK. Maybe it’s not worthwhile. But make sure the press office is briefed on how to deal with the issue if the media do get a call from him.’
‘With discretion?’
‘Exactly.’
‘From our point of view, it’s possible that a lack of response from the media is the best thing that could happen. If he is a publicity seeker, it will infuriate him not to be taken seriously. Then he’s likely to go to greater lengths to attract attention. That’s when he’ll make a mistake.’
‘We hope.’
Hitchens nodded. ‘Thank God we only have the locals to deal with. The last thing we want is to bring the nationals down around our ears.’
‘Amen to that.’
Diane Fry’s phone rang. ‘It’s Pat Jamieson.’
‘Oh, Dr Jamieson. Thanks for getting back to me.’ ‘No problem. I’ve dug out the records you were interested in - the Alder Hall bone collection.’ ‘Excellent.’
‘But I think I can do better than that. I’ve asked around, and it turns out my predecessor who did the inventory is still in the area, though he’s long since retired. I’ve even got a phone number for you. You can talk to him directly about it.’
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‘That’s great,’ said Fry, though the feeling in her stomach prevented her putting the right enthusiasm into the words.
Dr Jamieson sounded disappointed at her restraint. ‘Oh, well, here’s the number, if it’s any use to you,’ he said.
Fry wrote down the phone number that was dictated to her. Then she disappointed Dr Jamieson even more by not bothering to ask him for the name of his retired colleague. She already knew who it was.
‘And what about the remains from Litton Foot?’ she said instead.
Jamieson coughed and muttered for a few moments, and Fry thought she’d probably offended him. Then he began to prevaricate, like a defendant in the dock when asked a particularly probing question.
‘We don’t want to make a mistake with this one, Sergeant, so we’re not going to jump to any conclusions. There was no skull present, as you know. And in the absence of the skull, it’s much more difficult to provide a definite identification of human bones. Some of these remains are fragmentary, so … Well, we propose to carry out precipitin tests.’
‘Precipitin tests?’
‘It’s the only way to determine species.’
Fry could hear her own voice getting louder as she lost patience. ‘What exactly are you telling me, Doctor?’
‘I’m telling you that I can’t tell you anything until we’re absolutely certain,’ snapped back Jamieson.
It wasn’t clear which of them slammed the phone down first. When the door of the CID room opened, Fry looked up angrily, ready to take out her irritation on the first person she saw.
But it was DI Hitchens. He walked slowly into the room, like a man suffering a living nightmare.
‘Diane,’ he said, ‘we’ve got another body. And this time it’s a fresh one.’
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32
The Ravensdale woods were silent. The damp foliage muffled every sound, except for the rushing of the stream somewhere below. It had been raining all morning, and once he was past Ravensdale Cottages, Cooper found the muddy track covered in stones, leaves, dead branches, and all the other debris washed down by the rain.
At Litton Foot, Cooper walked slowly through the long grass of the paddock and paused by the abandoned car. Tom Jarvis stood at the door of the house, watching him but saying nothing. He was trying to weigh up in his mind why Cooper was here again, and he was taking his time about it.
‘Good morning, Mr Jarvis,’ said Cooper. Wiping a layer of mould from the glass of the car’s windscreen, he peered inside. Then he moved to the boot. ‘Is it all right if I take a look, sir?’
‘Be my guest,’ said Jarvis. ‘Don’t mind me.’
The dogs had noticed Cooper now, and they came lumbering around his feet as he lifted the boot lid. Water had leaked through the seals, and the spare wheel sat in several inches of water in the well. He slammed the boot again, and moved on to the chest freezer. It opened with a sucking of rubber, and he knew he’d find nothing inside, except more mould coating the aluminium sides.
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