While Dillon had detested every second that he’d spent inside the mortuary, at least today’s prolonged exposure to the gruesome sights and smells hadn’t affected him to quite the same extent as they had during the post-mortem of Tracey Phillips a few days earlier. That said, he seriously doubted that he would ever be able to face eating spaghetti bolognese again, having seen and smelt it in Geraldine Rye’s stomach contents.
At one point, towards the end of the day, he’d found himself mentally undressing Emma Drew as she stood next to him in her bloodstained greens. That had been a surreal experience!
Apart from the two of them, the office was empty – Jack had dismissed his flagging team at nine o’clock, which was by far the earliest they had finished all week. The poor sods had looked half-dead as they’d shuffled listlessly out of the office under strict instruction to return in ten short hours to start another gruelling shift. To their credit, not one of them had complained about the ridiculously long hours they were being asked to work. Tyler was proud of them, and he suspected their bank managers would be too when their wages were paid in!
Dillon had been tempted to stop off at the off-licence and grab a couple of cans to wash his dinner down with, but he had somehow resisted the urge. If the wheel came off – God forbid – it really wouldn’t do to attend a crime scene smelling of booze.
“What about the TSG?” Dillon asked as he stuffed a huge hand full of chips into his mouth.
Jack shook his head. “I’ve spoken to the Chief Inspector at Information Room. The Commissioners Reserve are on a call-out in South London, dealing with a major public order situation, and are likely to be tied up for some time. As soon as they get released, he’s going to send them to Whitechapel, but who knows when that will be, and they finish at two a.m. anyway.”
Dillon took a long swig of his Tango and burped contentedly. “Well, we’ve done all we can. At least our arses are covered if anything does happen.”
“True, but it doesn’t sit well with me, knowing that sick bastard is out there just waiting to strike again, and there’s fuck all we can do about it.”
They ate in silence for a short while.
“Changing the subject slightly,” Dillon said, wiping grease from his mouth with a paper napkin, “have you spoken to Fiona at all since the other night?”
Jack eyed him suspiciously. Dillon had a habit of trying to play cupid for him, and it always ended badly. “I haven’t had a chance to even think about it,” he said. “Why?”
Dillon shrugged. “It’s just that I phoned Karen yesterday, and she suggested that the four of us do dinner sometime soon.”
“Sure,” Jack said, but he sounded very non-committal. “Next time you speak to her, explain how busy we’ve been and say we’ll try and sort something out as soon as we wrap this case up.”
“Leave it with me and I’ll arrange something,” Dillon said, knowing that was probably the only way he would ever get Jack to go. “Well, this isn’t exactly what I had in mind for tonight, but cheers anyway,” he said, raising his can to toast the occasion.
Tyler wearily raised his own can and clinked it against his partner’s. “Here’s to hoping the bastard decides to wait until next week before he makes another move. At least then the streets will be flooded with Old Bill and we might have half a chance of catching him.”
“Amen,” Dillon said, and burped again.
Just then, Chris Deakin popped his head around the door. “They smell amazing,” he said, sniffing the air like a dog following a scent. “Mind if I nick a couple? I haven’t eaten since lunchtime.” Without waiting for a reply, he snatched up a fistful of chips and stuffed them into his mouth.” For a moment he stood there, making appreciative noises as he chewed.
Dillon’s jaw dropped. “So, do you actually want anything from us, Chris, or have you just come in here to steal all my food?” he demanded, testily.
Deakin smiled sheepishly, swallowed, and then licked his fingers. “I was going through Pilkington and Rye’s nominal pages on HOLMES earlier, and I noticed they both used the same doctor’s surgery in Whitechapel, so I’ve created an action for someone to pop along tomorrow morning and collect their medical records.”
“Fair enough,” Tyler said. “Was there anything else?”
“Well, it struck me as a strange coincidence that two of our victims should be registered at the same surgery, especially as one of them – Rye – lives in Chingford.” Deakin said, eyeing Dillon’s chips hungrily.
“Will you stop drooling over my food,” Dillon complained, shooing him away.
“Sorry,” Deakin said, “but they’re very moreish.”
“Maybe she just decided to register with a GP near her place of work because it’s easier for her, especially if she often works long hours,” Tyler suggested, dragging his OM back on topic.
Deakin nodded, and then quickly picked up some more chips, earning himself a fierce scowl from Dillon. “I think that’s probably the case,” he agreed, “but it was nagging at me so I did a bit of digging on the practice and saw that they have three doctors on the books: Dr Ahuja, Dr Agarwal, and Dr Sadler. Apparently, Dr Sadler is also an FME.”
“Is this actually leading anywhere, or are you just stalling so that you can pilfer more of my chips?” Dillon asked. As he spoke, he pulled the remainder towards him and hovered over them protectively.
“A bit of both,” Deakin admitted, grinning naughtily. “Anyway, I
