He took out his phone, tapped the number. His call was answered. His brows shot up at the female voice. ‘This is Detective Inspector Watts. I need to speak to Dr Will Traynor as a matter of urgency.’
‘Hold on, please … Dad!’
Watts’ fingers drummed the table. They stopped as Traynor’s deep, pleasant voice sounded in his ear.
‘Hello, Bernard.’ Watts noted the lack of surprise. Maybe Judd wasn’t the only one with a sixth sense. ‘Your current investigation is all over the media.’
‘It’s why I’m ringing. I could do with your help on it. All I’ve got so far is a likely connection between a series of carjackings at the Bristol Road interchange and the Lawrence shootings in a hellhole otherwise known as Forge Street.’
‘Is this call at Chief Inspector Brophy’s instigation?’
‘No, mine. Can you be here at seven thirty tomorrow morning?’
‘Yes. I’ll need to leave no later than ten.’
‘Thanks for coming on board, Will.’
‘Send me all the data you have.’
Watts glanced at Judd. ‘On its way in the next two minutes.’
He eyed his phone, the connection already broken. Where Traynor was concerned, ‘cool’ didn’t cover it. Judd was looking at him, waiting.
‘Traynor’s in.’
She raised both fists high. ‘Yes.’
‘Email him copies of all we’ve got, while I think how best to persuade Brophy that we need him.’
SEVEN
Thursday 6 December. 7.25 a.m.
Desk phone clamped to his ear, Watts eyed the clock, listening to Brophy’s summation of Will Traynor’s contribution to the murder investigation back in the summer. ‘I grant you he’s got specialist skills and he’s good at what he does’ – Watts waited for the kicker – ‘but during a lot of it he was an emotional mess.’
‘He had problems, sir, but he also brought his professional expertise, insight and investigative experience to that case which did a lot to crack it for us. Officers here rate him. I’ve seen him a couple of times since and my take on him is that—’
‘You’re talking socially, not work-wise?’
‘He’s really together now.’ He listened to Brophy’s demands for further reassurance. ‘Yes, I do think he’s got a lot to offer the investigation, or I wouldn’t be suggesting it.’ He looked up as the door opened and grinned. ‘Sir, I think you’ve made a wise decision.’
He replaced the phone as the tall, fair-haired, smiling man in the grey suit came inside.
‘Hello, Bernard. Have your powers of persuasion worked?’
Watts went to him, his hand outstretched. ‘Good to see you again, Will. Your arrival’s well-timed. You’re officially in.’
Seeing him again, Watts reflected that in terms of looks and build, Traynor had pulled all the aces. Watts’ own inheritance included height from his father, plus a downside: his mother’s heavy facial features. ‘You look well. Been on holiday?’
‘Ten days in the sun with my daughter which is now a distant memory. I’ve read all that you sent me. Any big developments?’
‘I wish. I’m directing this investigation on the basis of a potential link between an inner-city carjacking series in November and the Lawrence shootings. Beyond that, I know nothing.’
Traynor grinned. ‘According to a famous philosopher that probably makes you one of the wisest among us.’
‘In that case, Lord help us.’ He paused. ‘Thanks for agreeing to work with us again. You’ve been following the news of the double-shooting?’
‘It’s hard to miss, although it’s light on detail. I also heard members of the press outside complaining about a lack of a press conference.’
Watts shrugged. ‘That’s the second most frequent gripe in this game, the first being police failure to produce results. If we do share information with them, they inflate it beyond all recognition and create a frenzy of fear in the local populace which is then on the phone to us, clamouring for action. If we don’t give them anything, they accuse us of a control-freak culture. Either way we lose. They’ll have guessed you’re on board so I’d better get out there. Give them a short statement. Want to be part of it?’
‘I’d prefer to keep a low profile.’
Watts glanced at the clock. ‘I’ll be five minutes at most.’ He pointed at the sheets on the table. ‘You’re welcome to read my latest notes.’
Watts faced several reporters, their breath in clouds on air turned icy as they recorded his words on phones or in notebooks. ‘This is very early in a homicide investigation. You already know the names of the two victims, which I can confirm to be Michael Lawrence and Molly Lawrence, a married couple, residents of Birmingham. They were in the city centre that evening when their vehicle was attacked by an armed individual. The attack appears to have been motivated by theft. Mr Lawrence has died of his injuries. Mrs Lawrence remains in hospital. This is an appeal to all residents of this city to stay vigilant when out and about, particularly in the evenings. If anybody has information about, or merely a suspicion of, the likely identity of this attacker, please ring headquarters as a matter of urgency. Officers working on the investigation are available to take calls. There’ll be a press conference at some stage but for now, that’s all.’
He turned, walked away, exasperated voices following him, one or two pointing to the Aston Martin parked nearby. ‘What about the criminologist, Will Traynor? Is he now part of your investigation? Sarge?’
‘Come on, DI Watts, we’re starving here—’
‘Got any actual leads?’
‘Any names in the frame …?’
Back inside his office he found Traynor still reading. ‘Have you got anything you’d like to talk about to the investigative team, or do you prefer to listen for now?’
‘I think, some of both.’ He paused. ‘Bernard, I’ve got one or two theories of my own which I want to share with you prior to this meeting.’
Watts looked at his watch, then shook his head. ‘They’re waiting for us. My main concern now is Molly Lawrence as witness. You’ve got expertise in talking to traumatized individuals and that’s going to be your priority as soon as she’s up
