We were onto something, I just didn’t know what.
The file from Simon and Steven came with a picture. Apart from the name – Ramsey Mitchell - that was the only part I was interested in. The fifteen-year-old version of the man might look vastly different to the current model, but it was all I had to go on. His date of birth made him sixty-three today so he might have no hair or white hair or a wig. Glasses would change the angles of his face and his nose might have changed shape, been broken, or even have been subjected to surgery.
Until I found an up-to-date picture, I wouldn’t know, and just like with Toby Carter, there were dozens of people out there by the same name.
While Jagjit continued to plug away at the neighbours’ conundrum, I jumped into LinkedIn to search for each man, starting with Ramsey Mitchell since his fingerprints were on Jane’s phone.
I got seventeen hits. Some were easy to dismiss because I was looking for a white guy in his sixties, but as I binned more and more of the options, a creeping sensation that he wasn’t going to be there at all soon proved to be accurate.
Resetting, I searched for Toby Carter. This time I found thirteen Toby’s and two hits that could be the right man. They were London based which wasn’t so far away as to be unrealistic, and they looked more or less the right age. LinkedIn doesn’t show ages which left me to guess how old each man might be. If, like everyone else, they used a good photograph and failed to update it ever, the pictures I was looking at could be at least five years old.
This was hardly an exact science.
I copied each picture and sent it to the printer, keeping the size small so the image wouldn’t pixelate.
I met Alice there, ‘I think I found someone,’ she told me without sounding confident.
‘We got a hit on the fingerprint,’ I shared with her, handing her a copy of the email with the picture of the teenage Ramsey on.
‘He looks like a criminal,’ she commented.
It was an easy thing to say but rarely true. As a former police officer I knew some of the biggest crooks wore suits. Besides, everyone looks guilty in their mug shots.
What I said was, ‘Can you try to find him on social media? He doesn’t show up on LinkedIn.’
‘Not everyone does,’ she pointed out.
That was true enough, but scrutinising the pictures I printed, I was still standing next to the printer when her images popped out.
‘This is Toby Carter,’ she held a picture up for me to see and my eyes almost popped out of my head. ‘At least, it’s the only Toby Carter the right age and race and stuff.’
Unthinkingly, I snatched the sheet of A4 from her hands, ran to the coffee table, and fell to my knees to place it side by side with the picture of Ramsey Mitchell as a teenager.
He had aged a lot over the prevailing five decades, but there was no way it wasn’t the same person.
Alice leaned over my shoulder, a slight gasp escaping her lips when she saw the same thing that caught my attention. ‘Is that the same person? Did he change his name?’
I shook my head. ‘Maybe. Or he used aliases. A sudden thought jolted me. ‘We need to get pictures of Alexander Banks!’
Tempest. Getting Rubbed the Wrong Way. Friday, December 23rd 2001hrs
I don’t know how many times I have phoned Chief Inspector Ian Quinn, but whatever the number is, not one time has it been a pleasant experience. A few times in the past, we had come close to seeing eye to eye. We even attended a stag party together once. Well, not exactly together, but we were both there and managed to remain civil for the sake of the other attendees.
I tell myself that he is a good cop, someone who can be trusted, but the truth is I believe his self-interest threatens to overrule on doing what is decent a lot of the time. If he could snatch a victory from someone else and get away with it, he would do so. That applied doubly when it came to me, so it was with deep reservation that I placed a call to him now.
I knew he would answer it, just as I knew he would act like a dick and pretend I was wasting his time. He knew I wouldn’t be calling him unless I needed something from him, and that I knew I wouldn’t get what I needed unless I had something worthwhile to offer him.
‘Mr Michaels,’ his irritating voice filled my car.
‘PC Jan Van Doorn has been taken by the Sandman.’ I didn’t bother with pleasantries.
I heard what might have been a grinding of his teeth before he replied. ‘Is that supposed to jar me into motion, Mr Michaels?’
Staying calm, I said, ‘One of your officers is in the hands of a serial killer, Quinn. If you fail to act, you will be held to account. I am recording this conversation, by the way,’ I lied.
‘I see. What evidence do you have to support your claim?’
I didn’t have any. I was going off Big Ben’s judgement call and he could be wrong. Were that the case though, I doubted very much he would be wrong about Jan being taken. It might not be the Sandman who had him, but given the convenience of the timing, I was willing to bet my shirt.
What I said was, ‘Go to his apartment and check for yourself, Quinn. He is missing. His partner, Jane Butterworth, is missing, and we know the Sandman has Jane.’ Feeling my ire rising, I changed tack so I could wrap the
