She gets up and goes to the window again. But outside, the road is deserted.
* * *
When Erica Somer gets home she spends a long time under the shower. Something about this case is getting under her skin, and she's not quite sure why. She's met victims who've suffered worse, victims who deserve at least as much pity. But she's never had to deal with a crime against a trans person. She thought she was well-informed, and sensitive, and attuned to the issues `“ of course she thought that. Every intelligent person probably thinks the same. But she knows now that it's far more complicated, far more nuanced, than she ever allowed for. Even Fawley, who she likes and admires and has gone out of his way to promote and encourage her, seems to be struggling with it. And what about Giles? She tells herself he's not a misogynist, not even a mansplainer, but how can she be sure, when she knows him, as yet, so little?
When she goes back into the bedroom there's a message from him on her phone, asking her to call. She knows it's probably about the Starbucks thing but her heart still lifts `“ then lifts again as she realizes how instinctive that swell of happiness was. Maybe her unconscious is trying to tell her something. Maybe it really is as simple as it seems.
* * *
Adam Fawley
3 April 2018
08.15
It's 8.15 a.m. The temperature dropped to below freezing last night, but according to the station central heating system, April is officially `spring' and the radiators have gone off. Quinn has his scarf round his neck in that loop knot thing that's clearly de rigueur these days. Several others are in their coats. And it's pretty obvious the weather has turned inside as well as out. The mood is harder, colder. There's a frown line cut across Everett's brow and Baxter has that stern look to his jaw I've seen far too many times over the years.
I finish telling them what I got from Gow and turn to Asante; this is something I need to do in public. `Good work on the Incel board, DC Asante. Even if it wasn't our man.'
He smiles. Not too much, because that would look smug; not too little, because he knows full well that he's done a bloody good job and he's not about to let that be undervalued. Or perhaps I'm reading far too much into it, and he always smiles exactly that way.
`Keep an eye on those boards, though, would you? Just in case something else surfaces.'
Somer looks up. `By the way, Hants Police did manage to identify YeltobYob. There was CCTV at the Starbucks so they could see the bloke who was using his phone at the exact times the posts went up. And he paid by card, so they know they have the right man. They're pursuing it as a possible hate crime.'
The mood in the room lifts a little: we've achieved something, at least.
I turn to Gislingham. `OK, so where are we with forensics from the allotments?'
`Er, right, there were two usable fingerprints on the Tesco bag,' he replies, struggling to find the right notes. `Along with a couple of partials and some smears. Nothing came up in the database though, so they aren't from anyone we know about already.'
`And DNA?'
`Several different profiles. No matches on the database there either `“ it could be anyone `“ shop assistants, shelf stackers, delivery drivers `“'
`But one of them could still be our man?'
Gis shrugs. `Sure, it's possible. But personally I can't see him going to all that trouble and forgetting to wear gloves when he handled that bag.'
Neither can I, frankly. But the pathological stupidity of the criminal classes has been our salvation before, and may well be again.
`And we did that house-to-house in the area round the garages,' he continues, `but no luck, I'm afraid.'
Baxter looks up. `Speed cameras on the Marston Ferry Road didn't turn up anything either so I checked with the school, in case he went that way, but nothing doing: you can't see the road from their cameras.'
`What about the CCTV at the petrol station?'
He nods. `Yep, done that too. Over a dozen vans either bought petrol or went past at around the right time `“'
`And?'
He makes a face. `Trouble is, you can only see the reg numbers if they actually pull into the forecourt. Most of those going past are just your average white vans with nothing on the side to identify them. Either that or they're half hidden by bloody buses.'
`Did you check the number plates of the ones you saw?'
He gives me a look that says What do you take me for?
He flips open a notebook. Which, unlike Quinn and Asante, he still uses. `Of those where we either have identifying marks and/or reg numbers we're looking at one plumber, three builders, two self-drive hire vans, a locksmith, a pest control firm, a carpet cleaners and one of those companies that rents out pushbikes.'
`Bloody things,' grumbles Quinn. `They're all over the sodding place in Jericho `“ people just chuck them on the pavement and walk off. Bane of my bloody life.'
I'm trying to ignore him. I keep looking at Baxter. `And?'
`The pest control guy was on call-out,' he says, `as was the plumber. Two of the building vans can account for their movements that morning and I've been able to verify that with ANPR. Same goes for the bike bloke.'
He flips the book shut. `That's as far as I've got. A whole heap of sod all, basically.'
When I look round the room it seems his apathy is infectious. And I can't afford to let that happen.
`Focus on the self-drives,' I say. Firmly. `Our man might be using a hired vehicle. To stay under the radar.'
Baxter considers. `OK, yes. I guess that's a possibility. I'll get on it.'
`No,' I say, looking at Quinn, who's now fiddling about on his iPad. `DC Quinn can do it.'
Quinn practically gapes at me. `Oh, come on, surely Asante can handle that `“'
`Just do it, please.'
If I sound rattled, there's a reason. An email just pinged in on my phone. It's from Alan Challow, and it's marked URGENT. There are plenty of people in this job who up their own importance by marking everything top priority, but Alan Challow isn't one of them.
We go back a long way, him and me. He started at Thames Valley barely eighteen months before I did. We've worked the same cases, made the same mistakes, known the same people. I've backed him up more than once over the years and he's done the same for me. Though I wouldn't call us friends, and he takes an inordinate pleasure in winding me up.
But that's not what he's doing now. I read the email and for a second `“ just a second `“ my heart contracts. But I'm being ridiculous. It's just a coincidence `“ a random accident of chance `“
Quinn is watching me, frowning a little. He heard the phone, watched me look at it, just like the rest of them. `Fine,' he says eventually. `Fine.'
Gislingham glances at Baxter and then at me. `I was also wondering, sir,' he begins slowly, `whether we could think about issuing an appeal.'
I look up. `What sort of appeal?'
He hesitates. `Look, it's only a matter of time before this gets out. Then it'll be the works `“ the whole Twitter shitstorm. So why not get in first and issue an appeal for witnesses? We could ask Harrison `“'