“Whose brilliant idea was it to swab the heart, may I ask?” Dillon enquired.
George rolled his eyes. “It was your idea, boss.”
“Oh yes, so it was,” Dillon said, smiling contentedly. “I have so many brilliant ideas that it’s hard to keep track.”
“So, I’m not a betting man,” Tyler said, “but even I wouldn’t mind a little wager that the fingerprints on the notes we found in Tracey’s purse and the DNA we found on Alice’s part eaten heart came from the same person. Kelly, I’ll pass the mantle to you so you can delight us with the next exciting instalment of your CCTV adventures.”
Kelly resumed her station by the TV-video combo. When the lights were dimmed, she began playing the next segment in her CCTV compilation.
“Remember the van I showed you earlier?” she asked. “Well, although, typically, there is no CCTV coverage of the spot where Alice Pilkington was working or the house in Hanbury Street where she was found, we do have footage from cameras covering other parts of Brick Lane and other sections of Hanbury Street. Guess what? We found footage of a white Sherpa van with an out of alignment headlight driving along Brick Lane at 21:05 hours, just a few minutes before Alice was last seen by her pimp. We also have footage of an identical van driving into Hanbury Street at 21:27 hours. Lastly, we have footage of what we say is the same van leaving Hanbury Street at 22:45 hours.”
Bull’s face contorted as he did the mental arithmetic. “So, he was alone in that house with her for an hour and a quarter?” he said, shuddering.
“Looks like it, “Dillon said.
“That’s sterling work, Kelly,” Jack said. “Well done.”
Kelly beamed. “Thank you. Paul and I locked ourselves away in a quiet room on Saturday morning, and we’ve been going at it pretty much non-stop ever since.” It was only when the giggling started that Kelly realised what she had said, and she immediately blushed beetroot. Thankfully, as the lights were still down, nobody realised the true extent of her embarrassment.
“When this meeting is over, run off a couple of working copies of your compilation for us to use to brief the TSG and divisional lads later, then hot foot the original footage of this and Paul’s latest find straight up to the technical lab at Newlands Park to see if the picture can be computer enhanced. Make sure they know it’s a priority job. I want a result on this yesterday, if not sooner.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, resuming her seat next to Paul Evans, who nudged her arm and winked at her. “Don’t say a word,” she warned.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said, grinning at her obvious discomfort.
“Right,” Holland said, checking his watch, “let’s move on to victim number three.”
Tim Barton stood up again. “Right, this is where things start to get even more interesting. Victim number three is Geraldine Elizabeth Rye, a thirty-three-year-old white female; she was required to resign from City of London Old Bill eighteen-months ago over some vague corruption allegations that were never proven.”
Dillon stared at Murray. He was about to ask if they knew each other as they had both been investigated for corruption at about the same time, but then he felt Jack place a restraining hand on his arm. Am I really that predictable? he wondered.
“At the time of her demise,” Barton said, “she was a self-employed private eye – having set up a tinpot firm called Regency Enquiries Agency in Mansell Street. Rye was single, lived in Chingford, and caught the train into Liverpool Street each day to work. Her elderly parents moved to Murcia in Spain a few years ago, and she has no other family in the UK. She had a season ticket in her pocket, and we believe she had just finished work and was heading for the station when she was taken. That’s supported by her phone records, which shows she had a fifteen-minute call that ended at 21:10 hours on Tuesday 2nd November. We traced the number and spoke to the caller, a client who had rung her for an update on a sensitive matrimonial enquiry she was conducting for him. He was miffed that she had terminated his very important call halfway through the conversation just so that she wouldn’t miss her train. Unprofessional, he called it.”
Murray sneered knowingly. “It sounds to me like his wife was over the side.”
“He wouldn’t elaborate on the nature of the work Rye was doing for him,” Barton said, “but reading between the lines I would say that seems likely. If the poor cow had stayed on the line to discuss his wife’s affair a few minutes longer she would probably still be alive.”
“Yeah, but then someone else would be dead in her place,” Steve Bull pointed out.
“Probably,” Tim agreed. “Anyway, Paul Evans has been plotting the route Rye took from the office to the station, and he will take you through the CCTV we’ve found of her shortly. Unlike Phillips and Pilkington, Rye was not, and never had been, a sex worker. She was wearing designer clothing and there is no way that anyone would ever mistake her for one. She had no STDs or other infectious conditions, and there was no sign of recent sexual activity.”
Murray laughed wickedly. “I had a quick look through her diary when we searched her home address over the weekend,” he said. “From what I could tell, she hadn’t had it
