Dave grinned. ‘I’ll tell HOLMES to keep an eye out for ex-KGB men.’
Brandon started to say something, but he was cut off by the peal of the telephone. He grabbed it and said, ‘Brandon here…’ His face lost all expression, turning as wooden as the coffins he looked as if he should be carrying. ‘Yes, sir. I’ll be there right away.’ He put the phone down gently and stood up. ‘The Chief Constable is interested in hearing how this evening’s paper came to look the way it does.’ He crossed the room and paused by the door, one hand on the handle. ‘I’m sure the person who washed our dirty linen in Ms Burgess’s sink will be hoping I can persuade him not to make an example of him.’ He gave Carol a frosty smile. ‘Or her, come to that.’
Tony locked his office door behind him and gave the project secretary a happy wave and smile. ‘I’m going out for a bite of lunch, Claire. I’ll probably go to Cafe Genet in Temple Fields. Inspector Jordan’s due at three, but I’ll be back by then. OK?’
‘You’re sure you don’t want to return one of these calls from the journalists?’ Claire called after him.
Tony swung round, continuing to walk backwards across the office. ‘What journalists?’ he asked.
‘First off, that Penny Burgess from the Sentinel Times. She’s been trying every half-hour since I came in. Then, in the last hour, they’ve been on from all the national newspapers, and Radio Bradfield.’
Tony frowned, baffled. ‘Why?’ he asked. ‘Did they say what they wanted?’
Claire held up the copy of the Sentinel Times she’d nipped out to buy from the campus newsagent. ‘I’m no psychologist, Tony, but I think it might have something to do with this.’
Tony stopped in his tracks. Even across the office he could read the headlines and make out his own photograph splashed across the front page of the paper. Like an iron filing pulled by a magnet, Tony moved closer to the paper till he could read Penny Burgess’s name on both stories. ‘May I?’ he said hoarsely, reaching out for the paper.
Claire relinquished it and watched his reaction. She liked her boss, but she was human enough to relish his discomfort at being exposed in the evening paper. Tony hastily flicked the front page over, hunting for the full story about himself. With a mounting sense of horror, he read:
Dr Hill is well equipped to enter the twisted mind of the Queer Killer. As well as his two university degrees and a wealth of experience in dealing directly with the criminal perverts who have terrorized society, he has a reputation for dogged determination.
A colleague said, ’He’s married to the job. It’s all he lives for. If anyone can catch the Queer Killer, it’s Tony Hill.
‘It’s only a matter of time now, I’m convinced. Tony is relentless. He won’t give up till this bastard is nailed down tight.
‘Let’s face it, Tony’s got a top-class brain. These serial killers might have high IQs, but they’re never very smart when it comes to staying out of custody.’
‘Dear Christ,’ Tony groaned. Apart from the fact that no self-respecting colleague would ever have given quotes like that, the article was tantamount to throwing down the gauntlet to Handy Andy. It read like a challenge. He felt sure Handy Andy would find a way to respond to that. Tony threw the paper down on the desk and scowled at it.
‘It is a bit over the top,’ his secretary said sympathetically.
‘It’s bloody irresponsible, never mind over the top,’ Tony raged. ‘Oh, bollocks to it. I’m going for lunch. If the Chief Constable rings, tell him I’ve left for the day.’ He walked off again towards the door.
‘What about Inspector Jordan? What if she rings?’
‘You can tell her I’ve left the country.’ With the door open, he paused. ‘No, only joking. Tell her I’ll be here for our meeting.’
As he stood waiting for the lift, Tony realized nothing in his experience had prepared him for a direct confrontational challenge with a killer. This was one he’d have to fly by the seat of his pants.
Kevin Matthews drained his pint glass and waved it at the barmaid. ‘Even if it is a red herring, he’s still got to have had access to this bloody obscure bit of leather in the first place, hasn’t he?’ he demanded stubbornly of Carol and Merrick. ‘Same again?’
Merrick nodded. ‘I’ll have a coffee this time, Kevin,’ Carol said. ‘And chuck us a menu, would you? I’ve got a feeling I’m in for a long session with the doc, and he’s got a nasty habit of forgetting about food.’
Kevin ordered the drinks then turned back to Carol. With the persistence that had won him promotion, he said, ‘I’m right though, aren’t I? To plant the leather like that, not only has he had access to it, he also knows how unusual it is.’
‘Agreed,’ Carol said.
‘So it’s not a waste of time trying to source it, is it?’
‘I never said it was,’ Carol said patiently. ‘Now, are you going to fill me in on what happened with Tom Cross, or do I have to copy our murderer and bring out the torture gear?’
While Kevin explained what had happened, Merrick’s attention drifted. He’d already heard the tale more times than enough. He leaned against the bar and surveyed the clientele. The Sackville Arms wasn’t the nearest pub to the Scargill Street station, but it sold draught Tetleys from Yorkshire and Boddingtons from Manchester, which inevitably made it the police local. The pub was on the outer fringes of Temple Fields, which had given it an added attraction for the local officers when Scargill Street had still been open. The location had meant that hookers or petty villains who wanted to drop a word in the ear of their personal contact on the force could manage it unobtrusively. However, in the few months that Scargill Street had been mothballed, the pub had subtly changed. The regulars had got used to having the place to themselves, and there was a clearly discernible distance between the coppers and the rest of the customers. The officers who’d been using the pub in an attempt to recruit new sources from the community’s underbelly had met with a chilly reception. Even with a serial killer on the loose, no one wanted to get back into the habit of informing now they’d kicked it.
With his policeman’s eyes, Merrick slowly scanned the room, classifying the drinkers. Hooker, dealer, rent boy, pimp, rich man, poor man, beggar man, wimp. He was jolted out of his scrutiny by Carol’s voice. ‘What do you think, Don?’ he caught.
‘Sorry, ma’am, miles away. What do I think about what?’
‘That it’s about time we developed some of our own snouts among the toms, instead of having to rely on the Vice Squad’s girls. They’ve been round the houses so many times, I’d go outside to check if they told me it was raining.’
‘Never mind the hookers,’ Merrick said. ‘We need to know a damn sight more about how the gay community works. I don’t mean the lads that are out of the closet and down the Hell Hole. I mean the secretive ones. The ones that don’t flaunt it. They’re the ones who might have come across this guy before. I mean, from all I’ve ever read about serial killers, sometimes they don’t actually kill the first time, they just have a go. Like the Yorkshire Ripper did. So maybe there’s some frightened little guy in the closet who’s been on the receiving end of a bit of violence that got out of hand. That might be the road to a break.’
‘And God knows we need a break,’ Kevin said. ‘But if we don’t know how the connections are made, how do we connect?’
Carol said thoughtfully, ‘When in doubt, ask a policeman.’
‘Do what?’ Kevin asked.
‘There are gay officers in the Job. More than most, they must know about keeping a low profile. They’d be able to tell us.’
‘That doesn’t answer the question,’ Kevin protested doggedly. ‘If they’re so busy keeping it quiet, how do we know who they are?’
‘The Met has an association of gay and lesbian police officers. Why don’t we get in touch with them, in confidence, and ask for their help? Somebody must have some contacts in Bradfield.’
Merrick stared at Carol with admiration, Kevin with frustration, both wondering silently how it was that Inspector Jordan always had an answer.
Tom Cross glanced down at the front page of the Sentinel Times, a smirk of satisfaction twitching his cigarette up and down. Ms Burgess might have thought she was in control of their little encounter the night before, but Tom Cross knew different. He’d played the spider to her fly, and she’d done exactly what he expected of her. No, credit where it’s due. She’d done better than he’d expected. That line about the police staggering lamely in the wake of the Sentinel Times when it came to seeking out Dr bloody Hill was a corker.
There were going to be a lot of angry men in Bradfield police today. That was the revenge element of Tom
