Cole dreamt of the past. He had arrived home late to find his wife with suitcases pulling on her arms. She was ready to go out. “I’m leaving you,” she had said. He discovered later that she was leaving him for someone else and that his occupation was only a part of it. Morning broke with winter sun slanting in through the slightly parted curtains. Donna Fitzgerald blinked awake and once again recognized the strange surroundings of Rick Cole's bedroom and said, “Oh shit!” She grabbed at the bedside cabinet for the time.
Breakfast TV led with a press conference given by Chief
Superintendent Marsh. “Given the length of time she has been missing…” The headline was Margaret Domey, the missing psychologist.
They drank their coffee in silence. Maynard joined them in the kitchen but remained noncommittal. If he was surprised at finding that Donna had become a fixture it didn’t show. He concentrated on the TV.
“…None of her belongings are missing, her bank accounts remain untouched and her mobile phone has not been used. The circumstances of her disappearance are suspicious and we are exploring the possibility that she has been a victim of crime.”
A BBC reporter pushed out a microphone. “Is there any connection with the other missing women?”
As the chief noticed the face behind the question his thin lips tightened and left his contempt in no doubt. He said, “We are exploring that possibility.”
In the hall, in the mirror, Donna added final touches to her makeup. She gave up and said, “Fuck it!”
Cole caught Maynard's glance and shrugged. “Me too,” he said. Back at the office something had broken. When Cole walked in with Donna and Maynard in tow he recognized immediately that there had been a development and the stern expressions indicated it wasn’t a good one.
“Hinckley have lost another woman,” someone said. “An art student. Any guesses where her classes were held?”
Geoff Maynard left them to it; he knew exactly how it would go. Baxter and Cole would be leaning on Hinckley and Wooderson in particular. In turn Wooderson would take it out on DS Butler. DS Butler would use his only option, gather his team and pay another visit to the Gallery where more statements would be taken – either there or at the station and, if common sense prevailed, that would be that. There would be no point at all in more white-suited experts with their radar guns and tape-measures poking around the Gallery. Evidence of the girl would be all over the shop, the studio and the pavement outside. She had been going to classes for months. Lawrence was laughing at them, enjoying himself immensely. He would be anticipating more interviews and another visit to the station. There might be more gained by denying him that satisfaction, perhaps even ignoring him completely. Rejection, like Maynard had said before, was a potent brew. He smiled at the thought.
DS Sam Butler led the way into the Gallery and while Laura went to find Mr Lawrence and Paul stood statue-like at the counter, he studied the large painting of the bricks and wondered how on earth it could justify the price. A DC beside him said, “ Brick in the Wall, Pink Floyd.”
Butler nodded. “An old rocker, then.”
Disappointment marked the detective’s face. “Heavy metal, actually.”
Butler said, “Really.”
Mr Lawrence appeared at the stairs with Laura behind. He made it a grand entrance but the coppers didn’t notice. They noticed instead how short Laura’s skirt was as she negotiated the remaining steps and their knees bent in Dock-Green fashion.
Mr Lawrence said to DS Butler, “I know you said you’d see me again, but I didn’t expect it to be so soon. As much as I like to help the police, you are starting to get in the way of business. Customers don’t come in when the police are here. People have a natural aversion to the police. And can you blame them? Something to do with them shooting innocent people, I imagine, and the uniforms. Think of the staff behind the counters of the big banks with their spotted skirts and croupier fingers. You see what I mean?”
Butler glanced at his hand. “You hurt yourself?”
“A little accident with the guillotine, nothing much.”
“Well, it’s starting to bleed again. You should get it seen to.” “My goodness, you’re right.”
“Did you talk to Sandra, Sir?”
“Of course I did, and more than once. Her palette was entirely wrong for the subject. To be honest, I think the twins should think about another pastime. Art is not for them. It never has been. They should be out enjoying themselves in clubs with loud music and class A drugs.”
They used the studio to take their statements. Finally, Mr Lawrence said, “That’s my blood on the table, by the way. Not Sandra’s. To my knowledge Sandra never cut herself here. I’d like to make that quite clear. Perhaps you could write that down in one of your pocketbooks. Those little books that you people always refer to in court. The books that are filled with your little white lies.”
“I think I can remember the notebooks that you’re referring to, Sir.” Butler threw him a tight smile. “But I’m not sure about your little white lies. In the notebooks that I have seen there has been nothing little or white about them.”
“I like you, Mr Butler. You have a stripe or two. You’re a professional. It’s your average plod that I’m concerned about, and they’re really not very good, are they?”
Butler smiled. “You worry about the coppers like me, Sir. Not the others.”
Mr Lawrence nodded and smiled back. “In that case I shall look forward to seeing you again. It has always been a pleasure.” Superintendents Baxter and Billingham shared a car to Hinckley. Given their uneasy relationship it was a measure of the heat they were feeling from the top floor. There was nothing like a common enemy in the building of a united front.
Cole was already there. He had left early to give Wooderson the nod and provide a few precious minutes to tidy the office. In the CID office and with Billingham at his side, Baxter addressed the small team. “You’ve narrowed the field. You’ve made up your minds and you’ve broken the first rule in good detective work and that is to keep an open mind.”
Billingham nodded his agreement, his sharp eyes shifting from Wooderson to Butler and lingering on Anian Stanford who sat at her desk looking dark and uncomfortable.
“You’ve made this personal,” Baxter went on. “Every woman on your list will have visited every shop in the High Road. They will have visited the supermarket every week, if not twice a week, since it was opened. So what makes Lawrence your prime suspect? What makes him so special? His previous? That was over thirty years ago. I’ve seen your reports. The guy lives between his shop and The British and he has done for years. He visits the barbers once a month and the supermarket once a week.”
Billingham couldn’t help himself. “Consider the form for a moment. It never involved missing women. Yes, back in seventy-six he attacked them and, yes, they were pregnant, but as Lawrence has pointed out, he never hid his handiwork!” at might give you a lead. Do not even think about a tea break unless you take it on the job.” Although their faces hid it well, the members of the team knew that everything the super had mentioned had already been covered. They were still working through the CCTV images for Sandra, and that would take them another day at least, but they were on top of it. The prospect of starting over sank whatever enthusiasm they might have had and they didn’t have much to start with.
Baxter turned to Butler. “What happened at the shop?”
Butler said sheepishly, “Nothing new, Sir. We’ve taken statements from Lawrence and his lodgers.”
“The lodger who was in prison at the time some of these women went missing and the girl who’s off her trolley?”
“Yes Sir.” Butler stood his ground. Cole was impressed. The DS went on, “We need to see the husband again and her sister, and we’re following up with the members of the art class.”
Detective Superintendent Baxter nodded thoughtfully then said, “Right, follow that up and then start again.” He glanced at Billingham. “Anything to add, John?”
“I’ve not seen anything from the hospital regarding Margaret’s visit. Are we absolutely satisfied she never got there?”
Butler answered, “She didn’t show, Sir. We’re still checking CCTV footage of the reception area and the car parks, but they are spread out.”
Billingham said, “Another missing car? Do my people know about it? Are they actually looking for it?” He shook his head. “Sidetracked again, no doubt. Sam, get your bloody act together.” He glanced at Wooderson. “John, I’m very disappointed.”
“So am I, Sir,” said Wooderson.
Billingham turned back to Baxter. “That covers it, I think.” “Good,” Baxter nodded. “Right, twice daily updates to DI Cole who will personally brief us at nine and six.”
Butler said, “I would like to put Lawrence under surveillance, Sir.” The senior policemen shared a glance then Baxter said, “Not necessary. He’s not going anywhere. And that reminds me, Assistant Chief Superintendent Deighton wants to know who authorized those specialist shit-sniffers rather than the bog standard police sniffer dogs. Apparently they cost a fortune and someone is going to pay for it.” They all looked at Butler but he remained tight-lipped.
“Right,” Baxter said. “You all know what’s required. Let’s get on with it.”
The meeting was over.
In the corridor Cole said to DS Butler. “Don’t take it personally, Sam. They’re just making sure they’re fireproof, that’s all. They like the sound of their own voices. It’s what senior coppers do.” He left the detective sergeant staring down at his own feet. Geoff Maynard spent most of his day revisiting the SOCs; he needed to be there, away from the distractions of the office, absorbing every detail of the surroundings, the hunting grounds, searching for the slightest detail they might have missed, perhaps an indication of the assailant’s state of mind, arousal, impulse, anything. The questions were endless but, like he’d told Donna, even an empty road could give up some answers.
The youngster's voice brought him back.
“That's her,” Brian Lara said and pointed across the High Road toward a slim woman with spiky blond hair. She wore a short burgundy shift – any year's colour – and a black jacket. Not a lot for a freezing night. “That's the one. Classy, like I said.”
“Classy,” Maynard agreed.
They'd left the car twenty minutes earlier to mingle with the toms, the punters, the pissheads, and the passers-by who hadn’t got a clue what was going on. It was close to closing so between the four pubs in the Square the drinkers hurried to get in their last orders. A north-easterly scoured the road and sent plastic bags and front pages demanding the return of the plod scudding past. It lifted hemlines and drew tears from the eyes so that the light from shop windows seemed oddly scattered. Overhead the festive lights swung on their cables. Higher still the sky growled angrily and the ragged clouds were the colour of congealed blood.
The pavements were packed yet it was still a lonely place. Maynard said, “Are you sure?”
“I'm sure. That's the one.”
“That's it, then. You've done your bit.” He stuffed a twenty in the lad's hand. “Burger, right? Just remember what I told you. You can walk away. You do have a choice.”
The score lit up Brian Lara’s eyes. “Right” he said.
He watched the big man cross the road then checked out the note again.
A youngster wearing a hood and oversized clothes appeared from the shadow of a doorway.
“All right, Jay?”
“It's Brian.”
“Yeah, cool.”
“What you wearing that for?”
“It’s the thing, innit?”
“You look like a dickhead. It’ll never catch on.”
The youngster pulled a face and dropped the hood. He said, “What's happening?”
“Tick tock, dick dosh, dick, dick, dosh, dosh, you know?” “Yeah.”
“I fancy a burger, all of a sudden.”
“Good idea. That'll do. Bit of huff later, yeah?”
Geoff Maynard tucked behind and kept a distance of some twenty yards. The last bell meant the pavements were full and he had to weave his way through the celebratory crush. One face looked like another. One street looked like another. Maynard was sober but in this bash of false festivity he seemed to be the only one.
He didn’t know the streets and even in the crowd he felt suddenly exposed. He followed her into a less crowded area away from the shops and boozers and found himself in bedsit land and student territory.
Geoff Maynard was a psychologist, a hands-on mechanic who delved into the cold, unconscious machinery of the criminal mind. He knew what made them tick and slash and kill. He’d spent his days wallowing in their fantasies, his nights sharing their dreams. He knew the dangers and the warning signs.
She had stopped and was looking back at him. She smiled an acknowledgement, a promise of the world and everything in it. Without making it obvious there was no turning he could make, nothing he could do but continue on towards her.
“Hello,” she said, flashing some perfect teeth and a tricky smile that reminded him of something from the distant past.