‘We’ve never viewed our success as a problem,’ Carol said, knowing that wasn’t quite the response he’d been looking for.
‘I understand the terms of engagement for your team are that you investigate major crime on our patch that doesn’t come under the remit of any of the national squads?’
Carol nodded. ‘That’s right.’
‘But when you’re between major crimes, you investigate cold cases?’ He couldn’t hide his disdain.
‘We do. And we’ve had some notable successes there too.’
‘I don’t dispute that, Carol. What I dispute is whether your talents are best deployed on cold cases.’
‘Cold cases are important. We speak for the dead. We bring closure to the families and we bring people to justice after they’ve stolen years from society.’
Blake’s nostrils flared, as if some unpleasant odour had wafted his way. ‘Is that what your friend Dr Hill says?’
‘It’s what we all think, sir. Cold cases matter. Their impact on the public isn’t negligible either. They help people to realise how committed the police service is to solving major crime.’
Blake took out a small box of breath mints and popped one in his mouth. ‘All of that’s true, Carol. But frankly, cold cases are for plodders. Carthorses, Carol, not thoroughbred racehorses like you and your team. It’s perseverance that solves them, not the kind of brilliance you and your team bring to bear.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t agree with your assessment, sir.’ She couldn’t quite grasp why she was growing so angry. Only that she was. ‘If it was that simple, these cases would have been resolved a long time ago. It’s not just about applying new forensic techniques to old cases. It’s about coming at the cases from fresh angles, about thinking the unthinkable. My crew are good at that.’
‘That may be. But it’s not an effective use of my budget. Your team represents a stupendous level of investment. You have a range and level of skills and knowledge that should be devoted to solving current cases. Not just major crimes, but other serious matters that cross the desks of CID. The people we serve deserve the best possible policing. It’s my job to provide that in the most cost effective way possible. So I’m putting you on notice, Carol. I’m going to leave things as they are for the time being, but your team will be coming under close examination. You’re on trial. In three months’ time, I’m going to make a decision based on a rigorous scrutiny of your caseload and your results. But I’m warning you now: all my instincts are to reabsorb you into the mainstream of CID.’
‘Sounds like you’ve already made your mind up, sir,’ Carol said, forcing herself to sound pleasant.
‘It’s up to you, Carol.’ This time, the smile was undeniably smug. ‘And one other thing - while we’re on the subject of budget? You seem to commit a lot of money to consulting Dr Hill.’
Now the stirring of anger was rising to a flare. ‘Dr Hill has been a key component in how we achieve our success,’ she said, unable to avoid sounding terse.
‘He’s a clinical psychologist, not a forensic scientist. His expertise is replicable.’ Blake opened a drawer and took a folder from it. He glanced at Carol as if surprised that she was still there. ‘The National Police Faculty has been training police officers in behavioural science and profiling. Using their resources is going to save us a fortune.’
‘They don’t have Dr Hill’s expertise. Or his experience. Dr Hill is unique. Mr Brandon always thought so.’
There was a long silence. ‘Mr Brandon isn’t here to protect you any more, Carol. He may have thought it was appropriate to pay your . . .’ he paused and when he spoke again, it was freighted with innuendo ‘. . .
Patterson could feel the first throb of a headache deep in his skull. It was hardly surprising; he’d had a scant two hours’ sleep. Viewers who saw him on TV could be forgiven for thinking their TVs had been swapped for black-and-white sets, what with his silver hair and grey skin. Only the red eyes would be the give-away. He’d had enough coffee to kick-start a Harley Davidson but even that hadn’t helped him look like a man you’d want running your murder inquiry. There was nothing more dispiriting than holding a press conference with nothing to give other than the bare facts of the crime itself.
Maybe they’d get lucky. Maybe the media coverage would shake loose a witness who had noticed Jennifer Maidment after she’d waved farewell to her best friend. That would surely be the triumph of hope over experience. What was more likely was a stream of fantasy sightings, most of them delivered in good faith but just as useless as the attention seekers and the unfathomable bastards who simply liked to waste police time.
As the reporters filed out, he went in search of Ambrose. He found him looming over their tame forensic computer analyst. Gary Harcup had been dragged out of his bed just after midnight and put to work on Jennifer’s laptop. Ambrose barely glanced up at his boss then turned back to the screen, screwing up his tired brown eyes to help him focus. ‘So what you’re telling me is that all of these sessions originated on different machines? Even though it says it’s the same person talking to Jennifer?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Well, how can that be?’ Ambrose sounded frustrated.
‘I’m guessing whoever was talking to Jennifer was using internet cafes and libraries. Never the same place twice.’ Gary Harcup shared bulk with Alvin Ambrose, but that was all. Where Ambrose was taut, polished and muscular, Gary was plump, rumpled and bespectacled with a mop of tousled brown hair and matching beard. He looked like a cartoon bear. He scratched his head. ‘He’s using a free email address, impossible to trace. None of the sessions lasts more than half an hour, nobody is going to pay any attention to him.’
Patterson pulled up a chair. ‘What’s going on, lads? Have you got something for us, Gary?’
But it was Ambrose who replied. ‘According to Claire Darsie, her and Jennifer used RigMarole all the time. And Gary here’s been able to pull up a whole stack of their chat room and IM sessions.’
‘Anything useful?’ Patterson leaned forward so he could see the screen more easily. A whiff of fresh soap came from Ambrose, making Patterson feel ashamed of his own unwashed state. He’d not stopped to shower, settling for a swift pass of the electric shaver over his face.
‘There’s a lot of rubbish,’ Gary said. ‘The usual teenage chatter about
