‘Did I wake you?’
It took him a moment, then he was orientated. ‘Fiona,’ he said. ‘No, I’m wide awake. I was just picking my phone up to call someone else. You startled me, that’s all.’
‘Sorry. I just thought I’d let you know, I ran those locations you gave me through my programs.’
‘Fantastic. That’s really quick work.’
Fiona chuckled. ‘We have moved on since the age of the abacus, Tony. They make the calculations pretty quickly these days. Even on a laptop in a hotel room.’
‘I know, I know. But humour me. It still feels like magic to me.’
‘Well, I don’t feel entirely magical about this. I don’t think these results are definitive, because we’re looking at a different choice mechanism from the criminal committing an offence. The locations of actual crimes are conditioned by the availability of victims. As we both know, some criminals have very restricted criteria for their crimes. A rapist likes a certain type of women. A burglar only does first-floor entries . . .’
‘I’m with you, yes,’ Tony said. He knew she didn’t mean to teach him to suck eggs but he wished she’d get to the point. He didn’t need a seminar, only a result.
‘So his choice of locations is limited much more than someone who’s just looking for a public-access computer. Because they’re everywhere. I expect even you’ve noticed that.’
‘I’ve even used them, Fiona.’
‘My, we’ll get you into the twentieth century yet, Tony. So, with the proviso that these results are not backed up with the kind of solid research that underpins the criminal geographic profiling, I’m prepared to say that I think the person using these internet nodes lives in South Manchester, near to the M60. I’ve got a map with a red zone that I’m about to email over to you. It’s apparently where Didsbury, Withington and Chorlton come together. Whatever that means demographically.’
‘They read the
Fiona laughed delightedly. ‘Not your usual sexual homicide territory, then?’
‘No. But I don’t think this is sexual. I think it’s going to go serial, but there’s something else going on here that I can’t get at. You know that feeling?’
‘Oh yes. Not a good one. Anyway, if there’s anything else I can help you with, give me a ring.’
‘Thanks, Fiona. I owe you a big drink next time I see you. Are you going to the Europol thing next month?’
He never found out what Fiona was going to say. With no warning, the door opposite the bed swung open and the estate agent who had shown him round the day before walked in, talking over her shoulder to someone behind her. ‘And I think you’ll agree the master suite here is stunning.’ Then she turned into the room and gawped at Tony, clutching the duvet to his chest.
‘I’ve got to go, Fiona,’ he said to the phone. Then he tried on a smile and said, ‘I know this looks weird, but I can explain.’
That was when the estate agent started to scream.
Bethany didn’t quite have the nerve to refuse Carol entry, but she clearly didn’t want to reveal her arrival to Vanessa. ‘She’s very busy,’ the receptionist said. ‘I doubt she’ll be able to fit you in at short notice today. You were very lucky that she was able to make time for you when you were here before,’ she gabbled.
Carol didn’t bother turning on the charm. If this woman had worked for Vanessa for any length of time, fear would be a better spur than the desire to please. ‘This is a police matter,’ she said. ‘Tell Ms Hill that I am here in my capacity as commander of the cold case review team.’ She turned away, giving Bethany no option but to pick up the phone.
‘I’m sorry, Vanessa,’ Carol heard her say plaintively. ‘That policewoman is here again. She says she needs to talk to you on a police matter. Something about a cold case review?’ A long pause. Then the sound of the phone being replaced. ‘She’ll be with you as soon as possible,’ Bethany said in the gloomy voice of a woman who knows she’s caught between a rock and a hard place.
Time slipped by. Carol checked her watch, her phone and her email. She’d stopped by the Northern Division incident room on the way here to issue instructions for the day’s operations and she’d left messages for all her team that the morning conference would be at ten instead of nine. But still she couldn’t quite believe she was pursuing this while she was in the middle of two major cases, not to mention the Wastwater search.
If Blake found out how she was spending her time when she should have her hand on every aspect of ongoing investigations, he’d have all the ammunition he needed to close down her operation. But even that knowledge couldn’t budge her from this path. It was as if she lacked the strength to continue playing the role of the cop who put the job ahead of everything else. For years, she’d done what was asked of her, and more. She’d put her life on the line, she’d faced degradation and damage and dragged herself back into the front line. It had been a struggle to return to the job but, having made her comeback, she hadn’t hesitated to confront whatever had been thrown at her.
But now she’d been utterly blown off course by the demands of her feelings for Tony. Because she cared more about him than the job that had provided her with so much meaning? Or because she wanted to be defiant, to assert her right to do her job the way she wanted in the teeth of a boss who wanted to run her like a clockwork mouse?
Whatever the answer, she’d have to find it another day. For finally, Vanessa Hill was standing before her, clearly in imperfect control of her anger. The toe of her high-heeled shoe tapped a tattoo on the carpet. ‘I thought we’d concluded our business,’ she said, her voice low but sharp.
Carol shook her head. ‘My business is never concluded till I get to the truth,’ she said. ‘And so far, that’s been a commodity in scarce supply where you’re concerned.’ She glanced at Bethany. ‘I don’t think you want to have this conversation in a place where it’s likely to end up as cloakroom gossip.’
This time, instead of taking Carol back to her office, Vanessa led her to a small room off the reception area. Two generously upholstered leather sofas faced each other across a granite coffee table. The walls were decorated with prints of Gustav Klimt’s opulent paintings. A room dressed to impress, Carol thought. She wasn’t.
