us to identify the bodies. How very fortunate that Harry happened to have a credit card on him. I bet if you check back, it was Nigel Barnes who provided those dental records too.’ As he spoke, Sam’s aggravation grew more obvious.
‘Fuck,’ he exploded. ‘So how the hell do I nail him?’
‘He’ll wriggle out of the computer. He’ll talk about finding out she was having an affair and fantasising about what he was going to do about it,’ Tony said with conviction. ‘So all you’re left with is his word against the circumstantial evidence.’
‘I realise that. How do I break him down, Tony? You’re the one who gets under their skin. What’s going to blow Nigel Barnes apart?’
Tony leaned forward, the adrenalin fizz of the chase buzzing in his blood. ‘You’ve got one chance, and one chance only . . .’
CHAPTER 28
DI Stuart Patterson read the profile one more time. He didn’t much like what it had to say, but he had to admit it made sense of the information they’d gathered. It suggested new avenues of investigation. The only problem was that they weren’t within his control. The world of ICT professionals, as far as he was aware, was populated by the likes of Gary Harcup, men who weren’t renowned for their networking skills. As Dr Hill had himself pointed out, the characteristics exhibited by a psychopathic serial killer wouldn’t exactly make him stand out among the geeks and anoraks.
And then there was the Manchester connection. Patterson couldn’t argue against the reasoning that said his killer wasn’t a local. There were plenty of places around Worcester where you could dump a body with much less risk than that lay-by. OK, its approach wasn’t covered by cameras, but it was still a busy location.
However, while cameras might not have been much use when it came to catching the killer with his victim, Patterson was hopeful that they might give him something else to work with. On the main artery from the motorway to the city, the logical approach from the north, there were number-plate recognition cameras on either side of the road. In theory, there was a record of every vehicle that drove in and out of Worcester on that road. Given the hypothetical Manchester connection, he had told Ambrose to get hold of the list from the day of Jennifer Maidment’s disappearance. Then he’d have to talk to DVLA in Swansea and ask them to go through the list and identify all the cars and vans registered to addresses in Manchester. It wasn’t fool-proof - this killer had demonstrated that he was clever enough to cover his tracks, and he might have had enough foresight to register his vehicle to another address. And sometimes people were simply slack. Vehicles changed hands and somehow the paperwork never made it to the DVLA. But at least it was a place to start. And since he was now going to have to ask Manchester for help, it wouldn’t hurt to show willing on his part.
Patterson eyed the phone as if it were his enemy. He’d asked his boss to sort things out with Manchester. But his boss was an idle sod who passed every buck he could on the alleged principle of empowering his officers. All he’d done for Patterson was to authorise his approach to the other force. Now he’d have to play phone tag with Manchester’s force control on a Saturday morning to find out who he should be talking to. The perfect use of his time.
It took the best part of an hour before Patterson was finally connected to someone who was prepared to accept any responsibility for liaising with him on Jennifer Maidment’s murder. DCI Andy Millwood, the duty SIO in their Serious Crimes Unit, was a marked contrast to the other officers Patterson had spoken to. ‘Happy to help,’ he’d said. ‘They’re a bastard, these cases. Everybody wants results and they want them yesterday. It’d drive you up the wall.’
‘You say there’s reason to believe your killer might be from our turf?’
‘That’s right. He’d been stalking Jennifer online and we traced nearly twenty public-access computers he used to do it. When the boffins ran the details through their geographic profiling software, it put South Manchester in the middle of the picture for his base. I can email you the map with the hotspot.’
‘That’d be a start,’ Millwood said. ‘So, have you got anything else? Witness description? Anything like that?’
Patterson explained what he’d initiated with the number-plate recognition. ‘Also, we’ve been working with a profiler. He thinks the killer works in ICT. Some sort of freelance consultant, he reckons. So maybe once we’ve got our vehicle check results, you could help us narrow it down? I’m happy to send up a couple of our lads to help out.’
‘I won’t deny that’d be useful,’ Millwood said. ‘It’s a bit thin, mind. I’ll talk to intel, see if they’ve got any nonces with ICT connections.’
‘Erm . . .’ Patterson interrupted. ‘The profiler? He says it’s not a nonce. He says it’s not sexual. Even though he took a knife to her vagina.’
‘Not sexual? How does he work that out?’
‘Something to do with the killer not spending enough time with her. And not actually . . . Well, not actually cutting off her clitoris.’ It was embarrassing, having this conversation. Not because he felt uncomfortable talking about a victim’s private parts, but because he knew how daft it sounded. He knew it sounded daft because that’s what he’d thought when Tony Hill had first come out with his conclusion. But as he’d listened to the explanation, it had made a kind of sense.
Millwood made an explosive noise. ‘Tchah,’ or something like that, it sounded to Patterson. ‘And you go along with that?’ His scepticism was obvious.
‘Well, the way he explained it, I could see what he was getting at. The trouble is, we don’t have any other motive to go on. It’s not like she ran with a wild crowd or anything.’
‘So you don’t want me chasing down the nonces?’
‘Not unless they turn up on our licence-plate trawl.’
