‘Rory, you keep records of people deemed dangerous. Assuming she has not committed a murder, would there be a record?’
‘Mental Health Register, although I’m not sure if it would record a minor, assuming that she was in Newcastle. Any idea as to age?’
‘Focus on female child offenders.’
Rory and Keith spent the day poring over old cases. Apart from the death of a youth in a school playground, there were no other incidences that looked possible, and besides, the school playground murderer had been a ten-year-old boy high on drugs.
‘What about suspicious deaths?’ Keith asked over a pint of beer that night.
‘In the case of a minor, we may not have kept the records; always sensitive, dealing with children.’
‘We’re not dealing with a child now.’
‘You’re aware of the need to protect the rights of children.’
‘Even when they grow up to be murderers?’
‘Even then.’
***
The day had started with a whimper more than a bang at the police station in Twickenham. Sean, always wanting to be active, had found time on his hands. Sara was in her office drafting reports, attempting to portray the investigation into the death of Gregory Chalmers in a better light than was actually the case.
Bob Marshall had told her officially in the confines of his office the previous day that her time was running out, and unless she came up with something concrete, then he would need to take her off the case, find someone more experienced.
‘You can’t do that,’ she had said.
‘Unfortunately I must,’ was Bob’s reply. He had not wanted to say it, especially to Sara, but in the office, he was a policeman. At home, and out of hours, then he could be someone else. He regretted his actions after she had stormed out of the office, slamming the door hard.
Bob had slept on the sofa that night. He did not even receive the benefit of a goodnight kiss.
They had managed to eat breakfast together and to maintain a civil conversation before driving separately to the police station the next morning. Once in her office she finally forgave him, sorry that she had treated him so harshly when he had only been doing his job.
Keith was up in Newcastle, probably drinking more than he should, attempting to find out who the missing woman was. Sean, from what she could see, was at a loose end. Otherwise, the office was buzzing as usual.
***
Sara made two cups of coffee: one for her, the other for Bob, by way of a peace offering.
‘Sorry,’ she said when she placed it on his desk. She returned to her desk, planning to phone Keith. Apart from a brief call the day before, she had not heard from him. The key to the case seemed to lie in Newcastle, and Sara was anxious for news, any news, that would take them out of the current quandary. Until Ingrid Bentham made the next move, which could mean another murder, there was no way to move forward.
Sean busied himself looking into cases of known psychotic killers. Their ability to kill at random or in an orchestrated pattern could change due to unexpected factors. He had wandered over to Sara’s office to discuss his findings when the phone call came through. Sara picked up the phone.
‘Egerton Road,’ she said to Sean. ‘There’s been a death.’
Sean grabbed his jacket; Sara picked up her handbag and phone. Within ten minutes, Sean driving, they had arrived at the address. They had not needed the number; they knew exactly where they were heading.
The road was blocked off, two uniforms on duty. Sara flashed her police badge. Sara and Sean parked twenty yards away from the apartment and walked the remaining distance.
‘I found him,’ Gloria said as soon as she saw them.
‘Does he have a name?’ Sara asked. For once, she felt pity for the woman. Gloria sat on the stairs leading up to the flat she had shared with Ingrid Bentham. It was a cold day, and she was not wearing a jacket. Sara removed hers and placed it around the shoulders of the distraught woman. Sara could see that she needed medical care, but first she and Sean had to check the murder scene.
‘Hold on,’ said a voice from behind. It was Stan Crosley. ‘Overalls, gloves, shoe protectors,’ he said.
‘I have some in the car,’ Sara said.
‘Your car is down the road, and you were just about to check out the crime scene, so don’t give me that nonsense.’
‘Apologies.’
‘Accepted, but I’m in charge now. What do we have here?’
Sara sat down next to the distraught woman. ‘Gloria, what’s his name?’
‘Brad.’
‘Does he have a surname?’
‘Howard.’
‘Have you known him long?’
‘For a couple of years. We used to meet up occasionally. He fancied Ingrid, I know that, and look what she’s done.’
A uniformed policewoman came and took care of Gloria, escorting her away from the building. Sara reminded her not to take her far, as she needed to question Gloria at the crime scene.
Stan Crosley led the way into the flat. ‘It’s a pigsty,’ he said.
Sara could only agree. She could see that no attempt at housekeeping had been made since her last visit, the only difference being the increased height of the pile of unwashed dishes in the kitchen sink. ‘How can anyone live like this?’ she said.
Sean ignored the condition of the room.
‘Get behind me,’ Crosley said. ‘I don’t want your hobnail boots destroying the evidence.’
Sean could have said that they were not hobnailed, and his shoes had cost him plenty, but did not respond to Crosley.
In the small corridor separating the main room from the two bedrooms at the rear there were footprints. ‘Probably the woman outside. I’ll check later. She must have
