So Carol asked about his day and he told her. They had a conversation that he thought must be what ordinary friends and even lovers might weave together routinely. But of course, it couldn’t last. There had to come a point where equilibrium demanded that he ask about her day. And she told him.
At the end of the recital, she leaned an elbow on the arm of the chair and ran her fingers through her thick hair. ‘This is unlike any other case I’ve ever worked on. When murder happens, two or more people come face to face. An act takes place and somebody dies. You can connect the dots. You’ve got forensics, witnesses, evidence. A precise point in time. But there’s nothing like that here. There’s a huge gap between the act that killed Robbie Bishop and the death itself. And we don’t know when or where or with whom that fatal act took place.’ She scuffed the carpet with the toe of her shoe. ‘The more we find out, the more obscure it gets. Kevin was right, this killer is Caspar the fucking friendly ghost.’
Tony waited for a second, to make sure she’d got her frustration out. ‘It’s not quite as bad as you make out. We do know some things about him. I mean, apart from the Harriestown High connection and that he knows Temple Fields as well as a hooker.’
Carol gave him a sceptical look. ‘Like what?’
‘We know he’s a planner. He’s thought this through and decided what level of risk he can safely assume, so we know he’s not reckless. He doesn’t feel the need to see his victim’s pain. He’s happy for it to happen offstage. So whoever he was at school, he wasn’t the class bully. Do we know if Robbie was a bully at school?’
Carol shook her head. ‘Apparently not. He was a charmer, by all accounts. Though we’ve still got to plough through everybody on the Best Days website who knew him.’
‘Right. So this is not about revenge for adolescent humiliation. Unless the revenge element is about success…’ Tony’s voice tailed off and he frowned. ‘I need to think about that some more. But we do know he must know something about chemistry or pharmacology. I mean, he’s not just making ricin, he’s making ricin suppositories. I wouldn’t know where to start.’
Carol leaned into the carrier bag she’d brought with her and produced a screw-top bottle of Australian shiraz. ‘I’d start with the internet. That’s where we learn everything new these days, isn’t it? Are you allowed some of this?’
‘Probably not, but don’t let that stop you. There’s a couple of plastic tumblers in the bathroom.’
When Carol returned with two substantial doses of red wine, he said, ‘And speaking of the internet…’
‘Mmm?’ Carol savoured her drink. She’d sneaked a couple of glasses after the post mortem, but apart from that, this was her first of the day, a small achievement in itself.
‘I don’t think this is the first time he’s done this. There’s too much assurance here for a beginner.’
He could see the scepticism on her face. ‘You see serial killers everywhere, Tony. What possible evidence do you have for saying that? Apart from not liking the fact that this killer is either very good or very lucky.’
‘I don’t believe in lucky. Lucky is what we call it when our intuition leads us in the right direction. And intuition is a product of observation and experience. Did you know there’s been some recent research that suggests we make better decisions when we trust our gut reactions than when we weigh up the pros and cons of a situation?’
Carol grinned. ‘I see Captain Tangent is reasserting himself. You didn’t answer the question, Tony. What evidence do you have for saying he’s done this before?’
‘Like I said, Carol: the internet. Source of all bollocks and a bit of wisdom too. Since we spoke last night, I’ve been on the prowl. And I found something very interesting.’ He reached for his laptop, tapped the mouse pad and turned the machine to face Carol. As she skimmed the short local paper story on screen, he said, ‘Danny Wade. Twenty-seven years old. He died two weeks ago at his luxury home on the outskirts of Sheffield. He was poisoned by deadly nightshade. Belladonna, the beautiful lady. Supposedly in a fruit pie prepared by his Polish housekeeper. The fruit pie works, you see, because belladonna berries are notoriously sweet. And there’s a belladonna bush by the patio. You need to find out if that was container-grown, by the way. It’s possible the killer brought it with him. The housekeeper denies making any fruit pie even though the remains of a pie containing deadly nightshade berries was found in the fridge. And the night he died was her night off. She was staying with her boyfriend in Rotherham, like she did every Wednesday and Saturday. They opened the inquest then adjourned it pending further inquiries.’
‘I don’t understand why you think this–’ pointing at the screen ‘–is anything to do with Robbie Bishop,’ Carol said. ‘It seems to be straightforward. The housekeeper made a mistake with the berries, and now she’s lying about it. Tragic accident. That’s what the story says.’
‘But what if she’s not lying? If she’s telling the truth, it’s the second instance of a man in his twenties being the victim of a very bizarre poisoning.’ Tony tried to turn so he could face Carol more directly, but it wasn’t possible. ‘Move that chair so I can see you properly,’ he said impatiently. ‘Please.’
Slightly surprised, Carol did as he asked. ‘OK, now you can see me. This is just supposition, Tony.’
‘It’s always supposition till the evidence is nailed down. Supposition is what I do. We call it profiling. People other than me speak of it as if it’s a science, but it’s supposition based on experience and probability and instinct. More art than science a lot of the time, if we’re honest. Even the algorithms that the geographic profilers use, they’re based around probabilities, not certainties.’
‘So show me something that outweighs the probability of an immigrant housekeeper lying about accidentally killing her boss,’ Carol said. He could see she was humouring him, that she thought his sharp edge blunted by pain and drugs and strange sleep patterns.
‘Danny Wade wasn’t local to where he was killed. He moved to Dore on the western edge of Sheffield a couple of years ago because he was sick and tired of being pestered where he was living. In Bradfield. The reason he couldn’t get any peace and quiet there was that three years ago, he won the lottery. Big time. He got just over five million. He’d worked for Virgin Trains as a conductor. He was unmarried. The two things he cared about were model railways and his dogs, a pair of Lakeland terriers. He was a bit of a loner. Until he won the money. Then suddenly they all came out of the woodwork. Old school friends after a handout. Former workmates acting like he owed them. Distant relatives suddenly remembering that blood’s supposed to be thicker than water. And it all got a bit too much for Danny.’
‘Still, at least he had the money,’ Carol said. ‘It can buy you a lot of peace and quiet, five million.’
‘So Danny found out. He upped sticks and bought himself a lovely house on the edge of the moors. High walls, electric gates. Lots of space for model railway layouts. Didn’t tell anyone where he’d gone, not even his mum and dad. Nobody to bother him except for Jana Jankowicz who is by all accounts a very nice young woman with a fiance
