The smile that had returned to Compo’s face faded at Carlton’s ‘but’. If Gus hadn’t been so frustrated by the byplay between the two men, he would have been as amused as Alice was. Instead he glared at her for daring to smirk and made a loud tutting noise in the hope that this would get them back on point – but no. Carlton was still massaging his friend’s ego – needlessly in Gus’s opinion. ‘Your work, as always, is stellar, Compo. Absolutely stellar. Above reproach, second to none…’
Carlton’s voice faded, and he hitched up his shorts, revealing more of his hairy legs, causing an explosion of mirth from Alice. ‘However’ – he raised one finger in the air – ‘if you bear with me…?’ He tilted his head towards Gus as if asking for permission. Gus realised that far from asking his permission to grandstand, Carlton was actually only making sure his audience was attentive.
‘How many prints matching Jerry’s were found in Miranda Brookes’ home?’
As soon as Carlton voiced the words Gus knew exactly what he was saying, and he began nodding.
Compo, slower to grasp the psychologist’s inference, frowned. ‘They found only one.’
‘Do you think it likely that someone setting out such an elaborate crime scene with no other DNA found – that’s ignoring the ones confined to the sketch – would be foolish enough to leave one print?’
Compo’s face screwed up as he considered this point. ‘Eh, well I suppose not … but well IDENT1…’
‘Oh, I know, I know, but come here, Compo, and I’ll show you a trick I learnt in my Quantico days!’
As Carlton wandered off with Compo to demonstrate how a fingerprint could be lifted from a glass and then placed on a completely different surface using Sellotape and sleight of hand, Gus turned to Alice.
‘Bastard was playing us. If we hadn’t known Jerry personally, we’d have gone haring off down that road, spending hours interviewing him and wasting a load of time, wouldn’t we?’
‘He’s not only a sick fucker, he’s an intelligent one too.’ Agreed Alice.
‘Still, we need to check where Jerry has been in public that would allow our killer to obtain his prints. Maybe we’ll get a lead that way – maybe someone will have seen something that could point us in the right direction.’
‘Knowing Jerry, he won’t have been in too many public places.’
Gus nodded. ‘No, him and Dave stay outdoors mostly, but that’s not to say our killer didn’t grab their prints from something they threw away in a random rubbish bin.’
‘I’ll get a couple of uniforms to check it out – fingers crossed.’
Gus turned to look at the sketch and nursery rhyme retrieved from the crime scene. ‘I think we’ll need more than luck on this one, Al – a hell of a lot more than luck.’
Chapter 11
Bradford
Jogging through Heaton Woods, Bingo by his side, Gus felt a rare and enjoyable sense of freedom. Too often he was stuck indoors or at crime scenes. This evening it was an absolute pleasure to feel the breeze through the trees on his bare legs as he ran. It allowed him to escape from the pressures of starting up a new investigation, especially one he suspected was going to get a lot more media attention than he liked. He was troubled by this and was glad that Nancy hadn’t baulked at bringing Carlton in on it. His lip twitched. Mind you, he suspected there was a little more to Carton and Nancy’s relationship than she was letting on. Not that he wanted to know any of the intimate details. Nancy had made a few mistakes in her past relationships – a few indubitably stupid choices, but this wasn’t one of them. Carlton was a bit eccentric – but then again, so was Chalmers. No, he and Alice had decided that they made a nice couple.
Gus had no idea why his parents wanted him to visit, but after seeing his dad earlier, Gus was pleased of the excuse to exert a little pressure on them to get his dad’s health checked out. He hoped his father wasn’t poorly. The old man could stand to lose a good few pounds, but there was no telling him. He could probably also afford to cut out the occasional cigar and his pipe completely. In fact, he could perhaps suggest that his dad spend a few more hours on the golf course and a lot less in the mortuary.
He grinned. Who was he kidding? His old man wasn’t about to give up any of those three things, no matter what Gus said. Gus could almost hear his protestations. ‘Och, Angus, next you’ll be saying I’ve to cut oot my whisky tae. Might as well just shoot me.’
Veering uphill, Gus whistled for Bingo to follow and the dog, with an excited yelp, changed direction, becoming momentarily tangled in the extend lead Gus had used to abide by the Heaton Woods Trust rules. His calves protested a little as the hill up to Shay Farm, his parents’ home, became steeper. There was a small ginnel adjacent to his parents’ property which he ran through, pausing to shorten Bingo’s leash before he continued along the main road towards the huge security gate he’d insisted his parents install after his mother’s life had been threatened a while back.
Using his biometric fingerprint to gain access, Gus entered the property and hoped his mother hadn’t cooked. Despite not having eaten since the doughnuts at the office earlier, he was happy to have a takeaway or even a microwave meal later rather than endure any lumpy, near inedible offering his mother might have prepared.
His parents sat on the patio garden furniture, his mum wearing an oversized sun hat and his dad, having changed from his golfing gear into baggy knee-length shorts and a stretched T-shirt. As he approached, they turned and the expressions on their faces made him falter. What is wrong?
He
