No longer expected to wear the regulation police uniform, he arrived in the office dressed in a dark blue suit.
Keith Greenstreet shook his hand limply. Another young upstart, he thought.
Sara had set up a crime board close to her desk; she was excited, and it looked like being a long night ahead. She had phoned the hospital. Stephanie Chalmers was recovering but suffering from delayed shock. Her house was still a crime scene, and on release from the hospital, she would go and stay with her sister.
‘What’s the plan, guv?’ Sean O’Riordan asked Sara. He had found himself a desk in the far corner, as well as a police-issue laptop.
‘Find Ingrid Bentham.’
‘Easier said than done. She will have scarpered by now,’ Greenstreet said.
Ignoring Keith Greenstreet’s negativity, Sara focussed on the facts.
‘We have an address for Ingrid Bentham, although she is not there.’
‘What did you expect? That she would be at home waiting for you with a cup of tea.’
Sara knew why she had brought Keith Greenstreet on board. His experience would compensate for Sean O’Riordan’s youthful enthusiasm, even hers. She knew that he did not respect her, other than begrudgingly, but when it was needed, it would be him who would find the woman.
‘What do you want me to do?’ Sean asked.
‘What did you find out about Ingrid Bentham?’
‘Twenty-four, blonde, spoke with a northern accent.’
‘Northern is a bit vague,’ Keith said.
‘It’s the best we’ve got.’
‘If the woman has disappeared, she will probably head back home to the nest. You need to be more specific.’
‘Do we have a recording of her voice?’ Sara asked.
‘Not sure,’ Sean said.
‘Well, then you’d better find one. Run it past someone who knows about regional accents,’ Keith said.
‘Keith’s right. Can I trust you to deal with this?’ Sara asked.
‘Leave it to me,’ the constable responded with his usual youthful enthusiasm.
Sara realised that this case was different. Usually, a murder would not give a definite murderer, only suspects, but in this instance there was a known killer: fingerprints and foot marks at the scene, and enough DNA to prove a case. However, the murderer had disappeared.
Stephanie Chalmers had provided an address for Ingrid Bentham. Two officers from the department had visited the address after Sara had phoned them, only to find that the woman was not there, although her flatmate was.
Sara and Sean O’Riordan visited later after their meeting at the police station had concluded.
Her flatmate confirmed that Ingrid was a quiet, pleasant young woman, friendly at the college she attended, liked by all that knew her, no boyfriends. The two women had met at college and had decided to pool their resources and to rent a small two-bedroom apartment. Apart from that, they had not socialised, other than the occasional Friday night at a local pub, where both had drunk too much on a couple of occasions.
‘What else can you tell us?’ Sara asked Gloria, the flatmate.
‘Not much. Ingrid did not speak about her family or her childhood. I told her my life story: how I came here from Nigeria as a child, everything there was to tell. I talk too much sometimes, but with Ingrid, nothing.’ Gloria spoke pure London, even though she had been born in Africa.
‘Did she phone anyone?’
‘Not to my knowledge. She had a mobile, but she did not use it much. She had a laptop.’
‘Is it here?’
‘Nothing is here; not even last week’s contribution for the rent. She even took a bottle of wine that belonged to me.’
‘Clothing, personal belongings?’ Sara asked.
‘She took all hers as well as some of mine.’
Sara had asked Crosley and his crime investigators to check the flat. The fingerprints and the DNA found at the apartment matched the crime scene at the Chalmers’ house.
On leaving the flat, Sara phoned Keith Greenstreet. ‘Can you follow up on Ingrid Bentham’s movements after she left the flat: buses, railway stations, taxis, the normal?’ Sara asked.
‘Leave it with me,’ he said. Even though it was late in the evening, he put on his coat as protection against the inclement weather and ambled out of the office.
‘Thanks,’ Sara said.
‘Don’t thank me now. Friday night, you owe me a pint.’
‘If DI Greenstreet can work late at night, then so can I,’ Sean said.
‘Where are you going?’
‘Back to the Chalmers’ house. There may be some recordings of Ingrid Bentham’s voice. It’s a long shot, but it’s worth a try.’
‘Let me know how you go,’ Sara said.
‘What about you, guv?’
‘Paperwork for now, and then I need to talk to Crosley.’
‘The crime scene examiner?’
‘Yes. See what else he can tell us,’ Sara said.
***
Sara left the office late, way past midnight. Bob Marshall had waited for her.
‘You’re on your own on this one,’ he said as they left the office. ‘I’ll need to ride you hard, and I can’t protect you.’
‘I know, Bob,’ she said. It was strange: in the office, he was officious and demanding, but outside, and in the bedroom, he was caring and considerate. That was what she loved about him: his devotion to work and fair play, his ability to separate work from home. Sara knew that she had not attained that ease yet; not sure if she ever would. She would go to sleep and dream of the murder of Gregory Chalmers, the attempted murder of Stephanie. She knew that she would wake up during the night and start writing notes, surfing the internet looking for insights into the mindset of someone, in this case, female, who could murder with extreme violence, then detach herself mentally, take a shower, clean herself up, go home, pack and leave.
To her, Ingrid Bentham would need to be a
