welcome as the turd he'd found waiting for him in his bed.
Welch's movements between his release from prison and the discovery of his body, painstakingly reconstructed, had yielded nothing. Forensically, the photos recovered from the locker in Macpherson House had been a black hole.
A hundred and more interviews with anybody who could feasibly have seen anything, and not a word said that might raise the blood pressure.
The ACTIONS outlined and ticked off on the white board. Allocated and diligently carried out. Contacting the sex offenders who had themselves been diligent about signing the Register at the right time. Tracking down those who were not quite so assiduous, who had perhaps forgotten, or mixed up the days in their diaries, or buggered off to another part of the country and gone underground. Checking and double-checking the statements of everyone from the traumatised receptionist at the Greenwood Hotel to the semi-pickled dosser who had been occupying the bed next to Ian Welch for the few days before he was killed…
This was what 99 per cent of police work really consisted of. It was procedure like this, together with a little bit of luck, that would provide pretty much the best chance, the only chance, of getting a result. And Thorne, of course, hated every tedious minute of it. While he was waiting for that elusive bit of luck to arrive, even his one moment of genuine inspiration was proving to have been useless… Sitting in Russell Brigstocke's office – Monday morning and feeling like it – Thorne listened as he was told just how useless it was. He had thought that the killer's access to the Sex Offenders Register might hold the key to catching him. Detective Chief Superintendent Trevor Jesmond was more than happy to disillusion him…
'Fact is,' Jesmond said, 'tabloids or no tabloids, the information's already public property. Every force has a community notification policy. Supposed to be on a case-by-case, need-to-know basis. Information gets released to schools, youth clubs and so on, but, as with anything else, we can't know for certain where that information goes later on.'
Brigstocke glanced at Thorne, raised his eyebrows. Jesmond was just getting warmed up…
'Yes, we might be looking for a prison officer. But we might also be looking for someone who's a friend of a friend of a teacher with a big mouth. Or someone who lives next door to an indiscreet social worker, who likes to natter while they're washing their cars on a Sunday morning…'
'Are you saying that we've been wasting our time for a week?'
Thorne said.
The Detective Chief Superintendent shrugged, like he'd been asked if he'd lost weight, or caught the sun. 'Ask me that again when we've caught him…'
Jesmond seemed to relish moments like this. Thorne looked across at him and thought, You really enjoy pissing on my chips, don't you?
'I see what you're getting at, sir,' Thorne said. 'But it can't hurt, I mean, at least in the short term, to carry on assuming that the killer has a direct contact with one of the bodies we're talking about. Social services, the probation service…',
Jesmond cocked his head to one side, waiting to be unconvinced. Brigstocke tried to help out. 'It's a decent avenue of inquiry, sir,' he said. Thorne sniffed. 'Our only decent avenue of inquiry…'
'Well, I think you'd better go out and find us another one,' Jesmond said. 'Don't you?'
Thorne said nothing. He watched the hand pushing back the wisps of sandy hair. The strange area on either side of the nose where webs of veins met spatters of freckles. He looked at the dry lips cracking themselves into a smile and it struck him, as it always did, that Jesmond smiled with his eyes closed.
Thorne smiled himself, remembering how he'd once described Jesmond's face to Dave Holland. 'You know the sort of face,' he'd said.
'If you hit it once, you couldn't stop.'
Jesmond leaned forward across the desk. 'Seriously, though, let's think about what you're saying. As an example, why don't we look at the possibility that the killer has a direct connection with the police service…'
'A police officer,' Thorne said.
Jesmond simply repeated himself and pressed on. 'A direct connection with the police service. Now, apart from the sheer numbers involved, the methods employed to access and utilise the Sex Offenders Register vary wildly from force to force. Some access it via the Police National Computer. Some graft Register information on to existing systems, or create dedicated databases…'
Brigstocke puffed out his cheeks. Thorne could already sense things going away from him, could feel himself starting to drift.
'Some are still using manual, paper-based systems, for heaven's sake,' Jesmond said. 'And we all know just how secure they are.'
Brigstocke nodded. 'How secure anything is!'
Thorne was tuning it out. Thinking about those jungle drums…
'The fact is, the whole system's a mess,' Jesmond said. 'There is no single strategy for managing and sharing sex-offender information, either with other agencies o with one another. Some believe that general access to local officers is vital to 6btain the full intelligence benefit. Other areas, other stations, simply have a nominated officer who gets informed whenever the Register is updated…'
Thorne could smell another turd in his bed… The way it was being laid out, the killer could have found his rapists almost anywhere. On the Internet or in a wastepaper basket. It was clear that if they had ten or a hundred times as many officers working on this, tracking down the man they were after the way he'd been hoping to was a non-starter.
'It isn't just us, either,' Brigstocke said. 'The courts are supposed to notify us when there's a need for an individual to register, and for how long, and it should be confirmed by the prison or the hospital or wherever when he gets released. Well, that's the bloody theory, anyway. Sometimes the first you hear about a sex offender on your patch is when they tell you themselves, for fuck's sake…'
Jesmond leaned back in his chair and smiled. Eyes closed. 'So, when I say you'd better find us another decent avenue of investigation, I'm simply being practical. I'm thinking of the best way, the fastest way to catch this man…'
Thorne nodded. Said it under his breath…
'Ooh! Whay-hay! Clack!'
In the Major Incident Room, business carried on as usual, but each officer was keenly aware that things might be about to change. Each man or woman on the end of a phone or hunched over their paperwork glanced across occasionally in the direction of Brigstocke's office, knowing that behind its closed door, decisions were being made which would affect them all.
Each casual conversation full of unspoken concerns. Some less to do with overtime than others. Some, at bottom, fuck all to do with work at all…
'Jesmond had a face like fourpence when he marched through here,'
Kitson said.
Holland glanced up from his computer screen. 'Looked much same as he always does, if you ask me…'
'I know what you mean,' Kitson said. 'He's a miserable sod. Still, I think we must be doing something wrong. They've been in there a while.' She looked across to where the Incident Room led out on to the corridor that housed the small suite of offices – Brigstocke's, the one she shared with Tom Thorne, Holland and Stone's… Kitson sat down on the edge of the desk. She placed a hand on top of the computer Holland was working at. 'Can't you do this in your office?'
Holland peered at his screen. 'Andy's working in there…'
There was grime on the top of the computer. Kitson took out a tissue, spat' on a corner, and began rubbing at the heel of her hand.
'Not a problem, is there?'
Now Holland looked up at her. 'No, it's fine. Just easier to concentrate in here sometimes…'
Kitson nodded, carried on rubbing, though her hand was clean.
'Sam Karim tells me you've been putting yourself up for quite a bit of overtime lately. Working all sorts of hours…'
Holland clicked furiously at his mouse. 'Shit!' He looked up, blinked. 'Sorry…?'
'It's a good idea. Trying to stash a bit of money away before the baby arrives.'
