‘Not the old computer!’ Paula threw up her hands in mock amazement.
‘The old computer.’ Sam caught Stacey’s eye and winked. ‘And if it’s got any secrets to reveal, we all know who’s the woman to find them.’
‘I can’t believe he didn’t destroy it,’ Kevin said, his carrot-red curls catching the light as he shook his head.
‘He probably thought he’d wiped the hard disk clean,’ Stacey said. ‘Back then, people didn’t understand how much data gets left behind when you reformat the drive.’
‘Even so, you’d think he would take it with him. Or dump it in a skip. Or give it to one of those charities that recycles old computers to Africa.’
‘Laziness or arrogance. Take your pick. Thank God for them both, they’re our best friends.’ Carol stood up. ‘Nice job, Sam. And we’re going to need as many of those as we can muster over the next three months.’ Their expressions ranged from bewilderment to resignation. ‘Our new Chief Constable thinks MIT is too much of a luxury. That we don’t earn our keep because anybody can deliver results in the cold cases we work on when we’re not totally occupied with live jobs. That our talents should be at the service of the whole CID across the piece.’
The immediate response was a tangle of exclamations, none of them offering Blake’s position a shred of support. Their voices died away, leaving Sam’s, ‘Twat,’ to bring up the tail.
Carol shook her head. ‘Not helpful, Sam. I don’t want to go back to being part of a routine CID squad any more than any of you do. I like working with you all, and I like the way we structure our investigations. I like that we can be creative and innovative. But not everybody appreciates that.’
‘That’s the trouble with working for an organisation that rewards respect for the pecking order. They don’t like legitimised individualism,’ Paula said. ‘Misfit outfits like us, we’re always going to be in the firing line.’
‘You’d think they’d appreciate our clear-up rate,’ Kevin complained.
‘Not when it makes them look less efficient,’ Carol said. ‘OK. We have three months to demonstrate that MIT is the most effective vehicle to achieve the things we do best. I know you all give a hundred per cent on every inquiry we take on, but I need you to find something extra to help me justify our existence.’
They exchanged looks. Kevin stood up, pushing his chair back. ‘Never mind the drinks, guv. Better get cracking, hadn’t we?’
CHAPTER 6
The rain was still teeming when Alvin Ambrose arrived to pick up his boss from the post mortem on Jennifer Maidment. Any chance of garnering trace evidence from the crime scene was long gone. The only source of physical information about Jennifer’s fate was the girl’s body itself. DI Patterson trotted to the car, head down and shoulders hunched against the sharp sting of the rain, and threw himself into the passenger seat. His face was scrunched up in disgust, blue eyes almost invisible between lids swollen from lack of sleep. Ambrose wasn’t sure if the disgust was because of the weather or the autopsy. He nodded to the coffee carton in the cup holder. ‘Skinny latte,’ he said. Not that Patterson needed anything to make him skinnier.
Patterson shuddered. ‘Thanks, Alvin, but I’ve not got the stomach for it. You have it.’
‘How did it go?’ Ambrose asked, easing the car towards the car park exit.
Patterson yanked on his seat belt and stabbed it into its slot. ‘It’s never good, is it? Especially when it’s a kid.’
Ambrose knew better than to press for more. Patterson would take a few moments to compose himself, assemble his thoughts, then he’d share what he thought his bagman ought to know. They reached the main road and Ambrose paused. ‘Where to?’
Patterson considered, never one to leap to judgement. ‘Anything new come in while I’ve been in there?’
There had been plenty, a ragbag of bits and pieces signifying not a lot. Stuff that was going nowhere, bits and pieces that officers way down the totem pole would have eliminated by teatime. One of Ambrose’s roles in their partnership was to sift through what came in and decide what was worth Patterson’s attention. It was a responsibility he’d been apprehensive about when Patterson had first picked him out for his bagman, but he’d soon learned he had judgement worth trusting. That Patterson had known this ahead of him only cemented Ambrose’s respect for his boss. ‘Nothing that needs your attention, ‘ Ambrose said.
Patterson sighed, his hollow cheeks puffing in and out. ‘Let’s go and see the parents, then.’
Ambrose turned into the traffic and summoned up a mental map of the best route. Before he’d made the first turning, Patterson began talking. It was, Ambrose thought, quick off the mark for his boss. A measure of how heavy Jennifer Maidment was weighing on his spirit.
‘Cause of death was asphyxiation. The polythene bag over her head, it was taped tight to her neck. No sign of a struggle at all. No blow to the head. No scratches or bruises, no blood or skin under her fingernails.’ His voice was leaden, the words slow and deliberate.
‘Sounds like she was drugged.’
‘Looks that way.’ Patterson’s face altered as anger replaced depression. Two dark flushes of colour tinted his cheeks and his lips were tight against his teeth. ‘Of course, it’ll be fucking weeks before we get the toxicology results. I tell you, Alvin, the way we do forensic science in this country, it’s a joke. Even the crappy old NHS is faster. You go to the GP for a full set of blood tests and you get the results, what, forty-eight hours later? But it takes anything up to six weeks to deliver a toxicology result. If the bloody politicians really want to deter criminals and up the detection rate, they should throw money at the forensic services. It’s insane that we can only afford the technology in a tiny percentage of cases. And even when the accountants let us have some access, it takes fucking for ever. By the time we get the results, nine times out of ten all it does is back up what we’ve already pulled off with old-fashioned coppering. The forensics should be there to help the investigation, not just to confirm we’ve arrested the right villain. That
It was a familiar rant, one of several that Patterson trotted out whenever he felt frustrated with a case. Ambrose understood that it wasn’t really about whatever his boss was criticising. It was about what Patterson saw as his failure to deliver the sort of progress that might help the grieving families with their pain. It was about being
