“Very commendable,” Bull said, resisting the urge to glance down at his watch. “How do you survive without public funding?” He didn’t actually care, but he sensed she expected him to ask the question.
She shrugged. “We rely on donations and volunteers; just as most other charities do. My husband, Simon, acts as our finance manager and chief fundraiser. My inheritance left me rather wealthy, so neither of us needs to draw a wage.”
“I’m very impressed,” Steve said, hoping he sounded sincere. “I really hope that we can rely on your support in this matter.”
Sarah Pritchard nodded. “I’ll speak to my husband and some of our senior volunteers at the team meeting this afternoon. Hopefully, we can allocate some resources to accompany you the next time you canvas the girls.”
“That would be marvellous.”
“Don’t get your hopes up,” she warned. “I can’t promise anything.”
“I understand.”
“And you also have to understand that our priority will always be to act in the best interest of the girls. We won’t encourage them to say or do anything they are uncomfortable with. After all, we have to continue working with these people long after you have moved on to the next case.”
Steve nodded. “I get that,” he said, and he genuinely did. “All we want your people to do is introduce us and explain that we are not looking to cause them any trouble. We just need their help to get justice for Tracey. Even if they won’t talk to us in person, it might be a case that they will be willing to pass information to us via your volunteers.”
“That might work,” Sarah said, “but you have to accept that, if a girl tells us she wants you to have information but not know who provided it, we won’t disclose that person’s identity to you.”
Bull frowned. He had half expected her to stipulate a condition of this nature. “Okay,” he said, guardedly. If any of the street workers provided general information or intelligence there would be no issue with them withholding their personal details. It wouldn’t be that simple if any of them turned out to have direct evidence relating to the murder. If that happened, there would be an expectation that the girl’s details would be disclosed. He hoped Sarah realised this. “I’m sure you can appreciate how time critical this is,” he said. “We were hoping to get something in place within a day or two if at all possible.”
“Leave it with me,” she said. “I’ll see what I can do.”
As Bull was standing up to leave, the office door opened and a stylish looking man in his mid-forties breezed in. He had a full head of brown hair, which was greying at the temples. Intelligent hazel eyes, an aquiline nose, and paper-thin lips combined to give him a distinguished countenance. The newcomer stopped in his tracks and glanced from Bull to Sarah, startled. “Oh, I’m terribly sorry, Sarah, I didn’t realise you had company.” The voice was public school posh.
“It’s quite alright,” she said. “DS Bull, allow me to introduce my husband, Simon.”
“How do you do, Mr Pritchard,” Steve said, moving towards the other man and extending his hand.
“It’s Dr Pritchard,” the newcomer corrected him with a smile. Simon Pritchard had soft skin and a handshake like a wet lettuce, Bull thought, resisting the urge to wipe his hand on his trouser leg after it was released.
“To what do we owe the pleasure of your visit?” Dr Pritchard asked.
Bull opened his mouth to formulate an answer, but Sarah got in first.
“The police need our help.”
“Do they?” her husband said, suspicion creeping into his voice. Marvellous! Bull thought, picking up on Pritchard’s tone. This bloke is a Lay Advisor and he doesn’t even trust our intentions.
“Yes, they’re hoping our relationship with the area’s street workers might persuade a few of the girls to come forward if they have any information about the young girl who was murdered yesterday.”
Dr Pritchard frowned. “Well, dealing with the working girls is your area of expertise, not mine.” Something about the way this was said made Bull wonder if Simon Pritchard didn’t fully approve of the Mission devoting its precious time and resources to that particular brand of clientele.
“I heard about the murder, of course,” the doctor said, turning to face Bull. “Terrible. Quite terrible. How’s the investigation going? Do you have any leads yet?”
“We’re pursuing a number of lines of enquiry,” Bull said, giving a stock in trade answer that roughly translated to: ‘I’m not telling you anything.’
Dr Pritchard raised an amused eyebrow. “I see,” he said.
“I’ll see myself out,” Bull told Sarah Pritchard. “Thank you for your time. I hope to hear from you soon.”
“I’ll be in touch once we’ve discussed the matter further,” she told him.
Charise was still filling her nails when Steve Bull passed back through reception. He gave her a little wave. “Bye Charise.”
“Bye, hon,” she called back.
He left the shop as he’d arrived; to the accompaniment of the most irritating ‘Bing-bong’ he had ever heard.
◆◆◆
The refrigerated drawers at Poplar mortuary were kept at a constant temperature of 2 degrees centigrade to ward off decomposition in the bodies, some of which were retained for weeks on end until they were properly identified and the cause of death was established, allowing the Coroner to release them for burial or cremation.
The pathologist’s assistant, or the Anatomical Pathology Technician to use her full grandiose title, was a pretty woman in her mid-twenties called Emma Drew. When everyone was ready, she removed the drawer containing Tracey Phillips, and they all crowded around it, Dillon, Copeland, Sam Calvin, a nerdy looking photographer called Ned, and the Home Office Forensic Pathologist assigned to carry out the SPM. The visitors all wore compulsory green gowns and overshoes, but Emma and the pathologist wore surgical pyjamas and wellington boots. Both wore surgical caps, and they had masks hanging loosely under their chins.
Dillon stared down at the cadaver, which
