30
We talk about ‘gut instinct’ or ‘feminine intuition’ and often dismiss them. We say they’re unscientific, they’re not something you can take into the witness box and make a case out of. But more often than not, these hunches are reliable indicators. They’re conclusions we draw based on experience, readings of human behaviour we trust because we’ve seen them before. Of course prejudice can creep in and skew our responses, but we shouldn’t ignore those moments when our hackles rise or our spines shiver. They’re just as valuable as those moments of instant attraction that so often lead us into love affairs . . .
From Reading Crimes by DR TONY HILL
Paula waited till she was in her car before she rang Sophie Valente’s number. With luck, her colleague would be back in the incident room, well away from Rutherford’s ears.
Sophie sounded wary when she answered. ‘Paula? What can I do for you?’
‘I’m on my way to interview Martinu. I can’t believe nobody from Fielding’s team has spoken to him. I wouldn’t put it past her to be arsey about uploading everything, just because she’s narked that we’ve snatched her case out from under her.’
A moment’s silence, then Sophie said, ‘I take your point. Did you want to see my notes?’
‘That would be great, if you’ve had time to write them up. But I’d like to see Fielding’s officer’s notes too. First interview, and all that. Can you have a word with her and ask her to make them available to the incident room?’ Paula hoped Sophie’s obvious ambition would temper her apparent lack of collegiality, pulled out into the clotted city centre traffic, trying to work out which was the least congested route to Bradesden.
‘Is there a reason why you can’t ask her yourself when you get there?’
Paula rolled her eyes, hope extinguished. Was this Sophie’s revenge for her casual slight in the pub after the team-building fiasco? ‘Yes, Sophie, there is a reason. Fielding hates me. I was seconded to her team before ReMIT was set up and it wasn’t what you’d call a success. If I ask for the file, we’ll both be collecting our pensions before it shows up.’
‘She’d sabotage the investigation just to get back at you?’ Sophie sounded curious rather than incredulous.
‘She wants to come out on top here, Sophie. And if she can make me look rubbish along the way, that’s a bonus. She’s more likely to help you out because, frankly, you’re the darling of the top brass because . . . ’ Paula paused, groping for the right words ‘ . . . you’ve arrived with a fanfare of trumpets. And if she does right by you, you might put in a good word for her when the kudos gets handed out.’
‘She didn’t exactly roll out the red carpet for me earlier.’
‘I need a break, Sophie. You scratch my back . . . ’ Please let her have the sense to play nice, Paula thought.
‘Sure. ReMIT isn’t going to work unless we pull together. I’ll call Fielding and as soon as the interview file hits the system, I’ll ping it across to you. Talk later.’
And she was gone. Not exactly best mates, but self-interest had at least given it a start. Maybe Paula should have paired up with Sophie on the team-building day, but she’d put friendship first. She knew Stacey would struggle out in the depths of the countryside so she’d gone for standing by her pal rather than forging links with the new girl. Really, there had been nothing about that disastrous day that had been worthwhile.
It took the best part of an hour for the initial interview notes to arrive in Paula’s inbox. She’d passed the time with a coffee in the village pub in Bradesden, a former working men’s drinking den that had been transformed into a bijou gastropub. A handful of hardbitten hacks were wolfing down assorted gourmet pies with truffle mash and roast vegetables, none of them paying her any attention as they vied loudly to share the most scurrilous piece of gossip about colleagues and rivals.
The initial interview had been conducted by a DC whose name she didn’t recognise. It seemed pretty cursory, but then it had only been a preliminary chat, done before anyone had had a sense of the scale of what they were dealing with. All the basic details were there – Jerome ‘Jezza’ Martinu, native of Bradfield, thirty-seven. Started work at the Blessed Pearl twenty years ago as assistant to the groundsman and handyman, took over when the old man retired sixteen years ago. Bought his cottage and garden when the convent was being closed, leased another strip of land for his vegetables. Yes, he’d dug graves at the behest of the nuns, thought nothing of it. The girls were orphans, nobody claimed their bodies. Nothing suspicious about that.
The officer had concluded Jezza was a bit simple. Paula had had enough dealings with killers to wonder who the simple one really was.
The single truly useful piece of information from the interview was that Martinu’s property had a back gate into the lane behind the convent. If she approached from the opposite direction, she would miss the press pack that she was sure would be all but blocking the lane. More to the point, she’d bypass Fielding and her team.
The last mile from the main road was a narrow lane that twisted between towering hedgerows, the verges overgrown and unkempt. In the distance, Paula could see the dark line of the high moors rising against a bruised sky full of the rain that was falling on Bradesden too. On a fine day, it must convince the village dwellers that they really had made the escape to the country.
As she’d expected, there was a uniformed constable in a high-vis jacket stationed at the double wooden doors in the wall, looking miserable in the thin drizzle that had set in. Paula
