‘In spite of this, we urge the gay community to cooperate fully with the police. And we demand that the police investigate these horrific killings diligently and with compassion for the concerns of Bradfield’s homosexuals. The sooner this vicious killer is caught, the safer we all will be.’
‘The usual mixture of self-righteousness, indignation and unrealistic demands,’ Tony said to the Devil’s Ivy on his windowsill. He clipped the articles and spread them across the desk. He switched on his micro-cassette recorder and spoke.
‘ Bradfield Evening Sentinel Times, February 27th. At last, Handy Andy has made the big time. I’m wondering how important that is to him. One of the tenets of profiling serial offenders is that they crave the oxygen of publicity. But this time, I’m not so sure he’s too bothered about that. There were no messages after the first two killings, neither of which received that much publicity after the initial discovery of the bodies. And although there was a message directing the police to the third body via a newspaper, that note made no claims about the earlier killings. I had puzzled over that until Inspector Carol Jordan offered an alternative explanation for the note and accompanying video, namely that without direction, the body may have lain undiscovered for some time. So, while Handy Andy may not be obsessive about creating headlines and panic, it’s clear he wants the bodies found while they are still recognizably his work.’ He switched off the cassette with a sigh. Although he’d turned his back on the academic circus years before, he couldn’t escape his training; every stage of the process had to be on record. The prospect of this investigation providing the raw material for articles or even a book was something Tony found hard to resist.
‘I’m a cannibal,’ he said to the plant. ‘Sometimes I disgust myself.’ He shovelled the clippings together and tucked them into his press-cuttings folder. He opened the boxes and took out the stacks of document wallets they contained. Carol had labelled them all neatly. Fluent capitals, Tony noted. A woman comfortable with the written word.
Each victim had a pathology report and a preliminary forensic report. The witness statements were divided into three groups: Background (victim), Witness (scene of crime) and Miscellaneous. Selecting the Background (victim) files, he walked his wheeled chair across to the table where his personal computer stood. When he’d arrived at Bradfield, the university had offered him a terminal linked into their network. He’d declined, not wanting to waste time learning a new set of protocols when he was perfectly at home with his own PC. Now, he was glad he didn’t have to add data security to the list of worries that kept him awake at nights.
Tony called up the customized software that would allow him to make comparisons between the victims, and started the long slog of inputting the data.
Five minutes in the Scargill Street station was enough to make Carol wish she’d gone straight home. To get to the office she’d been allocated for the duration of the investigation, she had to walk the length of the main squad room. Copies of the evening paper were strewn over half the desks, mocking her with their thick black headlines. Bob Stansfield was standing with a couple of DCs halfway down the room and he called to her as she passed. ‘The good doctor knocked off already, has he?’
‘From what I’ve seen of the good doctor, Bob, he could give some of our bosses a few lessons in working overtime,’ Carol said, wishing she could think of some sharper putdown. Doubtless it would come to her hours later in the shower. On the other hand, maybe it was as well she hadn’t come up with something too devastating. Better not alienate the lads any more than her assignment had already done. She stopped and smiled. ‘Anything new?’ she asked.
Stansfield detached himself from his juniors, saying, ‘Right, lads, get on with it.’ He moved over to Carol’s side and said, ‘Not as such. The HOLMES team are working flat out, smacking all we’ve got so far into the computer, see what correlations they can come up with. Cross has ordered us to pull in all the nonces again. He’s convinced one of them’s our best bet.’
Carol shook her head. ‘Waste of time.’
‘You said it. This bastard’s not got form, I’d put money on it. Kevin’s got a team going out tonight to try something a bit different, though,’ he added, taking out and lighting his last cigarette. He tossed the packet in a nearby bin, an expression of disgust on his face. ‘If we don’t get a fucking break soon, I’m going to have to put in for a raise to cover my bloody nicotine consumption.’
‘Me, I’m drinking so much coffee I’ve got a permanent case of the jitterbug boogies,’ Carol said ruefully. ‘So what’s this idea of Kevin’s?’ Gently does it. First the rapport, then the question. Funny how getting information out of colleagues followed the same rules as interrogating suspects.
‘He’s got an undercover team going out on the gay scene, concentrating on the clubs and pubs with a reputation for S amp;M.’ Stansfield snorted. ‘They’ve all been down Traffic this avvy, scrounging leather trousers off the bike boys.’
‘It’s worth a try,’ Carol said.
‘Yeah, well let’s hope Kevin’s not sending in a bunch of closet pansies like Damien Connolly turned out to be,’ Stansfield said. ‘Last thing we want is a bunch of CID fairies ending up wearing their own handcuffs.’
Carol refused to dignify the comment with a reply and moved off towards her office. She’d got her hand on the door when Cross’s voice boomed down the room. ‘Inspector Jordan? Get your body in here.’
Carol closed her eyes and counted to three. ‘Coming, sir,’ she said cheerfully, turning back and walking the length of the room to Cross’s temporary office. He’d only been in there a day, but already he’d marked it like a tomcat spraying his territory. The room reeked of cigarette smoke. Half-drunk polystyrene cups of coffee strategically placed on window ledge and desk top had butts floating in them. There was even a girlie calendar on the wall, proof that sexism was alive and well and working in the advertising industry. Hadn’t they realized yet that it was the women who stood in the supermarkets deciding which brand of vodka to buy?
Leaving the door open in a bid for air, Carol walked into Cross’s office and said, ‘Sir?’
‘What’s Wonder Boy come up with then?’
‘It’s a bit early for conclusions, sir,’ she said brightly. ‘He’s got to read through all the reports I copied for him.’
Cross grunted. ‘Oh aye, I forgot he’s a bloody professor.’ He spat the word out sarcastically. ‘Everything in writing, eh? Kevin’s got some more stuff on the Connolly business; you’ll have to catch up with him. Was there anything else, Inspector?’ he asked belligerently, as if she were the one who had imposed herself on him.
‘Dr Hill has a suggestion, sir. About the burn marks on PC Connolly’s body. He wondered if there was anyone on the HOLMES team who could do statistical pattern analysis.’
‘What the bloody hell is statistical pattern analysis?’ Cross said, dumping the end of his cigarette into a coffee cup.
‘I think it means – ’
‘Never mind, never mind,’ Cross interrupted. ‘Go and see if anybody down there knows what the hell you’re on about.’
‘Yes, sir. Oh, and sir? If we can’t do it here, my brother works in computers. I’m sure he could do it for us.’
Cross stared at her, his expression unreadable for once. When he spoke, he was all affability. ‘Fine. Go ahead. Mr Brandon gave you carte blanche, after all.’
So that’s what a passing buck sounds like, Carol thought as she headed downstairs to the HOLMES room. A five-minute conversation with a harassed Inspector Dave Woolcott confirmed what she’d already suspected. The HOLMES team had neither the software nor the expertise to carry out the analysis Tony wanted. As Carol walked down to the canteen in search of Kevin Matthews, she hoped Michael could deliver in complete confidence. Keeping quiet about technological developments was very different from resisting the urge to gossip about a high-profile murder enquiry. If he let her down, she could kiss goodbye to a future outside Personnel.
Kevin was hunched alone over a cup of coffee, a plate with the remains of a fry-up next to him. Carol pulled out the chair opposite him. ‘Mind if I join you?’
‘Be my guest,’ Kevin said. He looked up and gave her the ghost of a grin, pushing his unruly ginger curls back from his forehead. ‘How’s it going?’
‘Probably a lot easier than it is for you and Bob.’
‘What’s this Home Office boffin like, then?’
Carol considered for a moment. ‘He’s cautious. He’s quick, he’s sharp, but he’s not a know-all, and he doesn’t seem to want to tell us how to do our job. It’s really interesting watching him work. He looks at things from a different perspective.’
