“Yes, I understand the distinction,” said Annie. “Has the center ever been involved in such surgery?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“And you, as medical director, should know?”
“Well, you could check with the individual clinics where the terminations are actually carried out, but I very much doubt it. We’re essentially a family-planning center, though we offer a broader range of services than many other such organizations. Anyone requiring a termination after twenty-four weeks would automatically be referred to a hospital. It becomes a medical problem, not a matter of individual choice.”
“I see,” said Annie. She wasn’t going to get much farther with this. If the center was a party to illegal abortions, Dr. Lukas certainly wasn’t going to admit it, but Annie wasn’t entirely convinced by her saying that she had never heard of Carmen, or by her evasion of the late-girls issue. Perhaps she would come back to Dr. Lukas again later, she thought, as she stood up and made her polite farewell. After she’d seen Victor Parsons, at any rate. But the next time she would make sure they didn’t meet in the sterile domain of the Berger-Lennox Centre, where Dr. Lukas was clearly used to being in control.
DC Kev Templeton soon got fed up sitting around talking on the telephone. He was a man of action; he liked to rattle a few doors and feel a few collars. Now it was Monday and the world was on the move again, he was in his element. With Gristhorpe’s approval, he had set up a meeting with a DS Susan Browne, who was still working the Claire Potter case. They had agreed on a late lunch at a pub just off the M1 about halfway between Eastvale and Derby, and Templeton pulled into the car park at half past two thinking if this Susan Browne was a bit of all right he might even get his leg over before the day was done.
He walked through the dim, cavernous bar, where a few regulars sat quietly smoking and watching cricket on the TV, and went out of the back door into the garden. Templeton didn’t know if he looked like a detective or not in his jeans, T-shirt and trainers, Ray-Bans covering his eyes.
He scanned the tables for a likely-looking woman. There was only one, and when he approached her and she stood up to shake hands and introduce herself, Templeton’s heart sank. She was short and a bit thick around the middle, not his type at all. He liked the Keira Knightley type, coltish girls, long-legged and limber. Still, she had nice eyes, he thought, and her manner seemed pleasant enough. She also had a thin gold band on the ring finger of her left hand. A glass of fizzy water sat on the white table in front of her beside the menu, one of those colorful laminated types you usually find in chain pubs, which were the only sort of pubs where you were likely to get lunch at half past two on a Monday afternoon.
“Let’s get the ordering out of the way first, shall we?” she said, sliding the menu over to him. “I’ve already decided.”
Templeton scanned the colorful images of burgers, curries and fish and chips and decided that all he felt like was a prawn sandwich. Susan said she wanted a cheeseburger and chips. He almost warned her against it, given her waistline, but decided that probably wasn’t the most diplomatic way of starting off the meeting.
He ordered at the bar, bought himself a Coke and went back to the garden. Their table was in the shade of a large copper beech, and a light breeze came and went, ruffling Susan’s tight blond curls and susurrating through the leaves. At the other end of the garden a few children played on the swings and roundabout while their parents sat at nearby tables enjoying the sunshine. Templeton put his Ray-Bans on the table and gave DS Browne the full benefit of his heart-melting brown eyes.
“You’re from Western Area Headquarters, then?” she asked.
“Yeah,” said Templeton.
“Eastvale?”
“You know it?”
“Used to work there. How’s DCI Banks? Still around, I suppose?”
Templeton grinned. “We haven’t got rid of all the dinosaurs yet.”
“As I remember, he got results, and he was a pretty good boss.”
“Yeah, well… When were you there?”
“A few years back. I left just after I passed my sergeant’s boards. Did a year in uniform in Avon and Somerset, then transferred to CID in Derbyshire. How is Alan Banks doing? I heard about the fire. Sent him a card and all.”
“All right, I suppose,” said Templeton, realizing he had to be a bit more circumspect about what he said now that Susan Browne had shown her true colors. “Actually, he’s probably not doing so well right at the moment. They just pulled his brother’s body out of the Thames last night.”
“Jesus,” said Susan. “That’s terrible. Look, give him my condolences when you see him, will you?”
“Sure.”
“What happened?”
“Looks as if he was killed. Shot. Did you know him?”
“No. But that’s still terrible news. Poor Alan. Do tell him I’m sorry. My name was Susan Gay back then. He’ll remember. Browne’s my married name.”
There was something in her tone that stopped Templeton from making the obvious comment. Imagine going through life with a name like Gay, he thought. No wonder she changed it when she got married.
“And give my regards to Superintendent Gristhorpe and Jim Hatchley, if they’re still around.”
“Oh, they’re still around.”
“Right.” Susan waved a wasp away from the rim of her glass. “Down to business, then.”
“Claire Potter,” said Templeton. “Like anyone for it?”
“We’ve got no suspects at all. Except…”
“Yes?”
“Well, can you imagine how many times he must have done practice runs, how many times he must have followed someone, only for her to get home before he could strike? For something like this to work out you need so many things to go right. A woman turning off on to a dark country road late at night, nobody around, an unlocked driver’s door. Anyway, we checked around and it seems that a couple of months earlier, the twentieth of February, to be exact, a woman turning off the M1 north of Sheffield was attacked in a similar way, only she had her doors locked. Paula Chandler.”
“What happened?”
“She managed to start up and drive off. He didn’t pursue her.”
“Description?”
“Nothing useful. It was dark and she was scared. She didn’t really get a look at his face because she was desperately trying to get the car started again while he was tugging at her door. He was wearing a dark suit, she said, and he had a wedding ring on. She saw his hand go to the door handle.”
“No gloves?”
“No. She said she could see the ring clearly.”
“Prints?”
“Nothing but blurs.”
“Make of car?”
“She couldn’t say. Only that it was dark in color, blue or green. And compact. Maybe Japanese.”
Roger Cropley drove a dark green Honda, Templeton remembered with a little shiver of excitement. And he wore a wedding ring. “Not a lot of use, is it?” he said.
“Very frustrating. And there are others, equally vague. One girl thought a car was following her, another reported someone giving her a funny look at a service station. That sort of thing. We followed them all up but got nowhere.”
“But you still think it’s the same man?”
“Yes. Like I said, he’d have to practice, and he’d need to get lucky. And Paula Chandler had stopped at Newport Pagnell services.”
“You think that’s where he trawls for his victims, the motorway cafes?”
“Yes. It makes sense. Find a woman alone, follow her and see if she turns off on a quiet stretch of road late at night. Both attacks we know about happened late on a Friday, and both happened after the victim had stopped at a service station.”
“Tell me about Claire Potter.”
