‘Will he kill again?’
‘Why did he choose these women?’
‘Do you think he knew them?’
Veronica Cray cups her hand over the microphone and whispers in my ear. I nod and stand to leave, angry and embarrassed. There are howls of protest. It’s become a blood sport, not a briefing.
DI Cray turns slowly and fixes the room with a fierce stare. It’s a statement in itself. The press briefing is over.
38
Veronica Cray rocks along the corridor like a ship’s captain leaving the bridge of her sinking vessel, retiring to her quarters while others lower the lifeboats.
‘That was a complete fucking disaster.’
‘It could have been worse,’ I murmur, still stunned by the vitriol of Fowler’s attack.
‘How exactly could it have been any worse?’
‘At least we warned people to be careful.’
Phones are ringing in the incident room. I have no idea what sorts of calls are being generated or what filters are in place to weed out genuine information.
Many of the detectives are trying hard not to look at me. News of my public humiliation has reached them already. Most have adopted homebound expressions, biding their time before they can put on their coats and leave.
DI Cray shuts her office door. I sit before her. Ignoring the NO SMOKING sign, she lights up and opens the window a crack. Aiming a remote control, she turns on a small TV tucked in one corner on a filing cabinet. She finds a news channel and mutes the sound.
I know what she’s going to do. She’s going to punish herself by watching the press briefing being broadcast.
‘Want a drink?’
‘No thank you.’
She reaches inside an umbrella stand and takes out a bottle of Scotch. A coffee mug doubles as a glass. I watch her pour and then return the bottle to its hiding place.
‘I have an ethical question, professor,’ she says, swilling the Scotch like mouthwash. ‘A tabloid reporter and an assistant chief constable are trapped in a burning car and you can only save one. Who do you save?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘There’s only one true dilemma- whether you go to lunch or to a movie.’
She doesn’t laugh. She’s being serious.
A file is sitting on her desk decorated with a yellow Post-it note. It contains printouts from the Police National Computer. The database has been trawled for similar crimes. She hands me the cover sheet.
In Bristol two drug dealers tortured a prostitute who they accused of being a police informant. They nailed her to a tree and sexually assaulted her with a bottle.
A stevedore in Felixstowe came home to find his wife in bed with their next-door neighbour. He tied the neighbour to a chair and tortured him with his wife’s curling irons.
Two German business partners fell out over the division of profits and one of them fled to Manchester. He was found dead in a hotel room with his arms stretched across the top of a table and his fingers severed.
‘That’s it,’ she says, lighting one cigarette off another. ‘No mobile phones, no daughters, no threats. We got sweet FA.’
For the first time I notice the shadows beneath her eyes and creases in the contours of her face. How much sleep has she had in the past ten days?
‘You’re looking for the obvious answer,’ I say.
‘What does that mean?’
‘If you see a man in the street, dressed in a white coat with a stethoscope around his neck, straight away you think he’s a doctor. And then you extrapolate. He probably has a nice car, a nice house, a trophy wife; he likes to holiday in France, she prefers Italy. They ski every year.’
‘What’s your point?’
‘What are the odds that you’re wrong about him- one in twenty, one in fifty? He might not be a doctor. He could be a food inspector or a lab technician, who happened to pick up a stethoscope that someone dropped. He might be on his way to a fancy dress party. We make assumptions and normally they’re right, but sometimes they’re wrong. That’s when we have to think laterally, outside the square. The obvious solution, the easiest solution, is normally the best one- but not always. Not this time.’
Veronica Cray looks at me steadily with a formless smile, waiting.
‘I don’t think the murders have anything to do with the wedding planning business,’ I say. ‘I think you should look at another angle.’
I tell her about the reunion of old school friends at the Garrick’s Head a week before Christine Wheeler died. Sylvia Furness was also there. It was organised by email, but the person who supposedly sent the invitations drowned three months ago in a ferry tragedy in Greece. Whoever sent the email set up an account in her name or had access to her password and username.
‘So we’re looking at family, friends, her husband…’
‘I’d look at her husband first. They were separated. His name is Gideon Tyler. He might be stationed with British Forces in Germany.’
The DI wants to know more. I describe our visit to Stoneleigh Manor, where Bryan and Claudia Chambers were living like prisoners behind security cameras, motion sensors and jagged glass.
‘Gideon Tyler knew both victims. They were bridesmaids at Helen Chambers’ wedding.’
‘What do you know about this ferry accident?’
‘Only what I read at the time.’
The detective blinks at me slowly as if she’s stared too long at a single object.
‘OK, so we’re dealing with one offender. He was either invited inside their houses or he broke in. He knew things about their wardrobes, their make-up, Sylvia’s handcuffs. He knew their telephone numbers and what cars they drove. He orchestrated to meet their daughters earlier to obtain information. Are we agreed on this?’
‘So far.’
‘And the same man broke into the Wheelers’ house and opened the condolence cards.’
‘A reasonable assumption.’
‘He was looking for something.’
‘Or searching for someone.’
‘His next victim?’
‘I wouldn’t automatically jump to that conclusion, but it’s certainly a possibility.’
The detective’s face betrays nothing. Emotion would be out of place like a birthmark or a nervous tic.
‘This Maureen Bracken, is she at risk?’
‘Quite possibly.’
‘Well, I can’t put her under guard unless there’s a specific threat against her or hard evidence that she’s a high probability target.’
I don’t have any hard evidence. It’s only supposition. A theory.
The DI glances at her TV and aims the remote. A news bulletin is beginning. Images from the press briefing flash across the screen. I’m not going to watch it. Being there was embarrassing enough.
Outside the day has disappeared. Everything about my clothes and my thoughts has a soiled wrapper feel to it. I’m tired. Tired of talking. Tired of people. Tired of wishing things made sense.
Christine Wheeler and Sylvia Furness grew tired. It was as if their killer pressed a fast forward button and stole years from their lives, decades of experiences both good and bad. He used up their energy, their fight, their will to live; then he watched them die.
