fallible. And there was nothing Ambrose could say that would make either of them feel better about that. ‘Tell me about it,’ was all he said. There was a long pause while he gave Patterson time to compose himself. ‘So what else did the doc have to say?’
‘The genital mutilation was apparently the work of an amateur. A long-bladed knife, very sharp. Probably not anything exotic - could have been a carving knife.’ Patterson made no attempt to disguise his revulsion. ‘He inserted the blade into the vagina and twisted it round. The doc reckons he might have been trying to cut out the whole lot - vagina, cervix, uterus. But he didn’t have the skill for it.’
‘So we’re probably not looking for someone with medical knowledge,’ Ambrose said, calm and apparently imperturbable as ever. But under the surface, he felt the slow build of a familiar dull anger, a rage he’d learned to contain as a teenager when everyone assumed that a big black lad was always going to be up for a fight. Because when he gave in to it, the fact that he was a big black lad meant he was always going to be in the wrong, one way or another. Better to burn inside than end up taking the weight of everybody else’s need to prove themselves. And that included teachers and parents. So he’d learned to box, learned to put the power of his fury under the discipline of the ring. He could have gone all the way, everyone said so. But he’d never enjoyed the demolition of his opponents enough to want to make a living out of it.
‘The doc said he wouldn’t even ask this one to carve a bloody turkey.’ Patterson sighed.
‘Any signs of sexual assault?’ Ambrose signalled to turn into the Maidments’ street. He knew how Patterson adored his Lily. There would be no mercy, no pity in this hunt if the killer had raped his victim too.
‘Impossible to tell. No anal trauma, no sperm in her mouth or throat. If we get really lucky, there might be something in the samples that have gone to the lab. But don’t hold your breath.’ The car drew to a halt. When they caught sight of him, the lounging pack of journalists came to life and surrounded the door. ‘Here we bloody go,’ he muttered. ‘Neither use nor ornament, most of them.’ Patterson shouldered his way through the throng, followed by Ambrose. ‘I’ve got no further comment,’ he muttered.
‘Give the family a break,’ Ambrose said, spreading his arms to keep them at bay as his boss approached the house. ‘Don’t make me waste our time getting the uniformed guys down here to move you away. You back off now, we’ll see what we can do about sorting out a press call with them, OK?’ He knew it was a pointless request, but at least they might try and make themselves a little less conspicuous for a while. And his bulk did sometimes carry its weight in these situations.
By the time he got to the door, Patterson was already halfway inside. The man holding the door would probably pass for handsome in other circumstances. His hair was thick and dark, shot through with silver. His features were regular, his blue eyes had that slight downward angle that seemed to appeal to women. But today, Paul Maidment had the gaunt and haunted look of a man one step away from life on the streets. Unshaven, hair awry and clothes crumpled, he looked blankly at them through red-rimmed eyes as though he’d lost his grip on all the conventions of behaviour. Ambrose couldn’t begin to imagine what it must be like to step off a plane thinking you’re about to be reunited with your family only to discover that your life has been shattered beyond repair.
Shami Patel hovered behind Maidment. She made the introductions. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t get the door, I was in the kitchen making tea,’ she added. Ambrose could have told her Patterson didn’t care for excuses, but this wasn’t the time.
They filed into the living room and sat down. ‘We could all use some tea, Shami,’ Ambrose said. She nodded and left them.
‘I’m sorry I wasn’t at the airport to meet you myself,’ Patterson said. ‘I had matters to attend to. Concerning Jennifer’s death, you understand.’
Maidment shook his head. ‘I’ve no idea what you people do, I just want you to get on with it. Find the person who did this. Stop them wrecking another family.’ His voice caught and he had to clear his throat noisily.
‘How’s your wife?’ Patterson said.
He coughed. ‘She’s . . . The doctor’s been. He’s given her something to knock her out. She managed to hold it together till I got home, but then . . . well, it’s better that she’s out of it.’ He spread his hand over his face and gripped tight, as if he wanted to rip his face off. His voice came at them slightly muffled. ‘I wish she could stay out of it for ever. But she’ll have to come back. And when she does, this’ll still be here.’
‘I can’t tell you how sorry I am,’ Patterson said. ‘I’ve a daughter about the same age. I know what she means to me and my wife.’
Maidment dragged his fingers down his face and stared at them, tears spilling from his eyes. ‘She’s our only child. There won’t be any more, not at Tania’s age. That’s it for us, this is where it ends. We used to be a family, now we’re just a couple.’ His voice cracked and shivered. ‘I don’t know how we get past this. I don’t understand this. How could this happen? How could somebody do this to my girl?’
Carrying a tray loaded with steaming mugs, milk and sugar, Shami returned. ‘Tea,’ she said, handing round the drinks. It was a mundane moment that broke the mood and made it possible for Patterson to move the interview forward.
‘According to Claire, Jennifer said she was planning to bake you a cake to welcome you home. That she had to go to the Co-op to get some chocolate for it. Was that something she usually did? Made a cake for you coming home?’ Patterson said gently.
Maidment looked baffled. ‘She’d never done it before. I didn’t even realise she knew how to bake a cake.’ He bit his lip. ‘If she hadn’t done that, if she’d just gone to Claire’s like she was supposed to . . .’
‘We’re not convinced she was telling Claire the truth,’ Patterson said, his voice gentle. Ambrose had always been impressed with Patterson’s care for those left in the shadows of violent death. The only word he could think to apply to it was ‘tender’. Like he was conscious of how much damage they’d already taken and he didn’t want to add to it. He could be tough, asking questions Ambrose would have struggled with. But underneath it, there was always a consideration of other people’s pain. Patterson let his words sink in, then continued. ‘We wondered if she was using that as an excuse so Claire wouldn’t ask too many questions about where Jennifer was really going. But we had to check with you. To see if it was the kind of thing she did when you’d been away.’
Maidment shook his head. ‘She’d never done anything like that. We usually went out for a celebration dinner if I’d been away for more than a couple of nights. All three of us. We’d go for a Chinese. It was always Jennifer’s favourite. She never baked me a cake.’ He shivered. ‘Never will now.’
Patterson waited for a few moments, then said, ‘We’ve been looking at Jennifer’s computer. It seems she and Claire spent a lot of time online, both together and separately. Did you know about that?’
Maidment clutched his drink like a man possessed by cold. He nodded. ‘They all do it. Even if you wanted to stop them, they’d still find a way. So we got together with the Darsies and insisted on the girls’ computers having
