exhalation of smoke.
“The mouse doesn’t know there’s cheese on the trap,” Brigstocke said. “But we still call it bait…”
FOUR
If a man jumped out in front of him with a severed head in one hand and a blood-spattered ax in the other, gibbering about how the voices in his head had made him do it, Detective Superintendent Trevor Jesmond would be a little out of his depth. He was not, however, a man who thought the Murder Investigation Manual was boring, and when it came to “Communications Strategy”-Chapter Seven, Section Seven, Subsection Two (Managing the Media)- there was nobody to touch him.
“Let me stress again that the victim of this despicable crime is among the most vulnerable members of our society. His attacker is someone whom we believe has killed twice already. Make no mistake, we will do whatever it takes to apprehend this man before he has a chance to kill again.”
They were gathered in the press room at Colindale Police Station; five minutes away from the Peel Centre, where the Murder Squad was based in Becke House. Thorne watched from the back. Staring across the heads of several dozen assembled hacks. Leaning one way and then another to get a clear view of the stage between an assortment of camera tripods.
“Is this latest victim expected to live?”
“Mr. Hayes is in a critical condition. He is presently on life support at Middlesex Hospital. Without talking further to those doctors caring for him, I’m not in a position to give any more information than that.”
There can’t have been too many people in the room who couldn’t work out that Paddy Hayes was fucked.
“You’ve suggested that the attempted murder of Mr. Hayes is connected to the two other murders of rough sleepers. That this latest attack is part of a series-”
Jesmond held up a hand, nodded. He was acknowledging that the journalist was right, but only up to a point. He was also stopping him before he ventured too far down that avenue of questioning. Of course, they’d had to come out and admit that the murders were connected. When the tabloids were putting two and two together, the Met could not afford to appear dim by looking as if they hadn’t.
“We must assume there’s a connection, yes,” Jesmond said.
“So we’re talking about motiveless killings, then? Random attacks?”
A grim half smile. “DCI Brigstocke and his team believe that they are hunting a killer who has struck before. The investigation is proceeding, vigorously, along those lines.”
He was playing it very nicely. Striking that essential balance between reassurance and warning. It was, of course, crucial not to alarm the public.
Thorne knew, as Jesmond must have known, that, irrespective of what was said, the papers would print stories about a serial killer. It would shift copies quicker than Posh and Becks, and Fleet Street editors didn’t have any qualms about alarming anybody.
It was a phrase Thorne hated. He had caught, and not caught, a number of those who had murdered strangers, and none had borne the slightest resemblance to the creature conjured up by the words serial killer. All the men and women he’d known who had taken more than one life had done so with what they believed to be good reason. None had thought themselves superhuman, or hunted their victims when the moon was full. They had motives for what they did that had nothing to do with being locked in a cellar when they were children, or made to dress up in their mother’s clothes…
“As always, we are seeking the cooperation of the public in helping to put an end to these appalling attacks.”
The appeal was textbook stuff. Jesmond gave out the salient facts, insisted that anyone with information, anyone who was in the vicinity, had a duty to come forward. It would, more than likely, prove useless. There can’t have been many people hanging around in dark alleyways in the dead of night, and if there had been, it was unlikely, for one reason or another, that any of them would want to come forward. Still, it had to be done, and it had to be specific: dates and times and localities. The last thing they needed was a bland, generalized plea that gave out the wrong message.
We haven’t got the first idea who’s doing this, but somebody out there must know something. Please help us…
“We will catch this man,” Jesmond said, winding up. Public confidence was important but so was his own, and he made a point of showing it. Hearts and minds were not won by being mealymouthed. His body language and the expression on his face were determined and dynamic. Thorne could easily picture him learning how to project the image, on a weekend course at a country-house hotel. It was as though he were inviting those present to take a bloody careful note of the message, written in foot-high letters across the smart, blue Metropolitan Police backdrop: working for a safer london.
Thorne knew that it was smoke and mirrors.
The press conference was there as much as anything to project an image of confidence and efficiency, but Thorne knew that the investigation was in trouble. He knew it was easy enough to marshal resources, to gather significant numbers of officers and be gung ho about catching a killer when it was only for forty-five minutes in front of the media.
Thorne wondered how anybody was ever fooled.
He hung around in the car park, waiting for Jesmond. Trying to work out the best way of making the approach.
At the sound of the door, Thorne looked up to see two men coming out of the station. Recognizing one of them, he tried immediately to turn away without being seen, but he was a fraction too late. He had little choice but to smile and give a small nod. The man he’d been trying to avoid nodded back and Thorne was horrified to see him start to walk over, bringing with him the other man, whose face was vaguely familiar.
Steve Norman was a senior force press officer, a civilian. He was small and wiry, with a helmet of dark hair and an overinflated sense of his own importance. He and Thorne had crossed swords on a case a couple of years earlier.
“Tom…” Still six feet away from him, Norman extended a hand.
Thorne took it, remembering an ill-tempered meeting when Norman had jabbed a finger into his chest. Remembering that he’d threatened to break it…
“I hadn’t expected to see you,” Norman continued.
So, the “gardening” leave had become common knowledge. Thorne nodded back toward the main building. “Conference went well, I thought.” Norman had been heavily involved, of course. Thorne had seen him, lurking at the side of the stage looking pleased with himself. He’d stepped up at one point and whispered something to Russell Brigstocke.
Norman put a hand on his friend’s arm and looked toward Thorne. “Do you two…?”
Thorne leaned across. “Sorry, Tom Thorne.”
The man stepped smartly forward and they shook hands. He was midfortyish, taller than Thorne and Norman by six inches or more, and thickset.
“This is Alan Ward, from Sky,” Norman said. Thorne could see how much he relished making the introduction.
“Good to meet you,” Ward said. He had large, wire-framed glasses beneath a tangle of dark, curly hair that was three-quarters gray. He put his hand back into the pocket of what Thorne would have described as a denim blazer.
“You, too…”
Several typically English moments of social awkwardness followed. Thorne would have left, but for the fact that he didn’t want to seem rude and had nowhere to go. Norman and Ward, who had clearly been in midconversation, were also too polite to excuse themselves immediately. They stood and carried on talking while Thorne hovered and listened, as though the three of them were old friends.
“I can’t remember you at one of these before, Alan,” Norman said.
