‘Thank you.’ He saw Fiona Welch moving about in her seat like she wanted to say something, tried to ignore her. But he knew he couldn’t. She had written her report – in record time, he had to admit, not sure that was a good thing – and it was time for her to deliver it.
But not just yet.
‘Mickey, how’s the van hunting coming on?’
Mickey looked up from his notepad. ‘It’s going. We’re looking for a black Citroen Nemo. There’s photos coming round to all of you and the uniforms. I’ve narrowed it down to Colchester owners and I’m going through them now.’
‘Let me know if you need any more help. Jane?’
‘Nothing so far on CCTV from the quayside,’ said Jane Gosling. ‘Cameras don’t extend to where the body was left. The door-to-door in the flats opposite hasn’t given anything up either.’
‘Thanks.’ He sighed. Felt a slight constricting of his chest. Maybe he had spoken too soon about not getting panic attacks when speaking in public. He ignored it, hoped it would go away. ‘That’s everything so far.’ He glanced over at Fiona Welch. She had her papers in front of her and was sitting up straight, like the teacher’s favourite, ready to be called to the front of the class to show them all how to unravel some impenetrable equation. He had to let her speak. It was her turn.
‘Well, if there are no questions, I’ll hand over to-’
He got no further. The door opened and Nick Lines came striding in. Everyone turned at his entrance. The normally unflappable pathologist was out of breath, his tie askew, his forehead beaded with sweat. For him that was the equivalent of huge disarray.
‘Apologies for the late running of this service,’ he said, walking straight to the front of the group, joining Phil before the whiteboard. ‘I have the results of the post-mortem. And some preliminary DNA results too.’ He paused, eyes taking in all the people watching him. He didn’t seem impressed by their reactions.
‘Do you know what that means?’ he said, loudly.
There was a general shaking of heads.
‘It means I pulled a hell of a lot of strings to get the results in record time. So you should be grateful. Very grateful.’
‘I’m, erm, sure we all are,’ said Ben Fenwick, stepping forward, giving his politician’s smile. ‘And I’m sure that… well, I think I speak for the whole team when I say that.’
Nick Lines raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m sure you think you do, Ben.’
Phil hid a smile.
Nick was soon serious again. ‘But it’s a good job I did get them.’
‘Why?’ said Phil.
Nick took his time, waited until he was sure he had everyone’s full attention.
‘Because the body we found on the quay, the one I’ve just finished the post-mortem on and received DNA samples from, is not Julie Miller.’
50
Time stood still as the whole room took in Nick Lines’ words.
Phil was the first to speak. ‘You’re sure about that? Definitely not Julie Miller?’
‘As certain as I can be about anything,’ Nick said, dead-panning the room. ‘No matches at all.’
‘Then if it’s not Julie Miller…’ Mickey was speaking for everyone.
‘Oh God,’ said Phil. ‘I think I know…’
‘Adele Harrison?’ said Anni.
Phil nodded. ‘Looks like it. Unless there’s another one somewhere that we don’t know about.’
‘Let’s hope not,’ said Fenwick. He turned to Nick. ‘How soon can we get another DNA test done?’
Nick raised his eyebrows. ‘Won’t be cheap.’
‘This is an upgraded case. High-priority. The money’s there.’
Nick screwed his eyes up, thinking. ‘Few days at best. Sooner you want it, the more money it costs.’
‘Do it,’ said Fenwick. He turned to Phil. ‘Where does this leave us?’
‘Revising everything we had until now. If Julie Miller’s still alive we have to assume it’s not for long unless we can find her. Same goes for Suzanne Perry.’
‘Clock’s ticking…’ said Fenwick, unnecessarily.
‘Right,’ said Phil, trying not to feel annoyed at his superior’s pointless interruption. ‘Based on what we’ve seen so far, whoever’s doing this seems to be following a pattern. Abduct the girl, keep them a while, torture them, kill them.’
‘Let their bodies go,’ said Fiona. ‘Give them back.’
‘Good point, Fiona,’ said Fenwick, giving a smile he probably thought was charming but if he had used it on a woman in a bar or nightclub she’d have made her excuses and left.
Rose Martin was still looking at him, though, Phil noticed.
Fenwick continued. ‘You were about to present us with your profile. The floor’s yours.’
Nick Lines took a seat as Fiona Welch stood up from her desk, arranged her papers in a neat order and crossed over, almost skipping. to the whiteboard. She looked excited, thought Phil. An
‘Right,’ she said, trying to look serious but failing to hide the excitement in her voice. ‘Apologies for the speed in putting this together but, as Ben reminded us there, the clock is ticking.’
She paused dramatically, making sure she had all their attention.
‘Based on the reports I’ve read and the evidence I’ve seen, the site where we found the body and the victim’s homes, I’d say we’re looking for a sexual sadist.’
Phil rolled his eyes, not caring whether she saw it or not.
She saw it. Flashed him a dagger look, continued. ‘A sexual sadist. A predator. He’s getting off on what he’s doing.’
‘I think we’ve all worked that one out,’ said Phil.
Fiona reddened. Fenwick turned to him, looking cross. ‘Phil, please.’
‘I suppose he’s white, aged between twenty and forty, lives on his own and has trouble forming relationships?’ Phil couldn’t resist it.
Fenwick wasn’t amused. ‘Phil. Either listen or get out.’
Phil was aware that others in the room were looking at him. His junior officers. His team. He needed their respect. They needed his leadership. He needed to get a grip.
‘Sorry,’ he said, holding his hands up.
Fiona continued. ‘He’s acting alone. He doesn’t let anyone else into his fantasy, his scenario. He wants to control it.’ She leaned forward, eyes wide behind her glasses. ‘But he can’t. Once the thrill is on him he loses control. The torture, that’s just… a surrogate for sexual pleasure. That’s how he gets his kicks. That’s when he can let himself go, really be the person he believes himself to be.’
Phil watched Fiona. As she spoke, her whole demeanour changed. There was no trace of her earlier timidity. She was totally into her words, eyes roving the room, gesturing frantically, living them out, almost.
‘He has somewhere special he goes to. A place where he does this that no one else in his life knows about. It means something to him. It’s his chamber of dreams and secrets.’
‘Any idea where we can find it?’ said Phil.
Fenwick gave him a warning look.
‘No,’ said Fiona, ‘it’s a fair question. The short answer is no. Or not yet, anyway. I haven’t had time to do a geographical profile. But there is one other thing, one major factor in his make-up.’
She paused again, making sure she had her audience.
‘He’s a sociopath.’
‘Not a psychopath?’ said Mickey.
‘No,’ she said. ‘He can blend in. That’s the difference between them. Psychopaths can’t help themselves, they
