Trevor re-emerged from the shadows at the back. 'Sorry about that,' he said, sighing deeply. And sorry I'm late.
Bloody buses.'
'Don't worry about it, love,' Maureen said. 'They were just asking us about how Katie was when she was here on Monday. Did you notice anything different about her the last time you saw her?'
'No. Not in the slightest. She seemed as bright as ever.
It was Naomi's birthday coming up, and she was looking forward to spending time together at last.'
At last?' Foster said. 'Had she been away?'
'No, no. You know what fourteenyear-old girls are like, always out, always with friends, never at home.'
Foster nodded.
'That's right,' Yvonne said. 'I remember now. She left at lunch to catch a bus to Portobello Road and get Naomi a present.'
'Do you know what it was?' Heather asked.
'Some clothes. A brand I'd never heard of. And some make-up, I think.' She gave the name of the shops.
Heather made a note. They would get CCTV camera footage from each of the shops, see if there was any sign of her being followed.
'Can you cast your minds back and remember if there were any customers in the shop who took an unusual interest in her? Or any times you can think of when you remember Katie having a dispute with a customer?' Foster asked.
The three went silent.
'You don't have to tell me now,' Foster said. 'But if anything comes to mind, anything at all, no matter how trivial or inconsequential it may seem, then let us know.' He took a card out of his wallet and put it on the counter. 'If it's OK, we'll take your full names and contact details in case we need to get hold of you when you aren't at work?'
They agreed. Heather jotted the details down before Foster bade them farewell.
As they made their way to their car, Heather spoke.
What do you reckon to Trevor Vickers?' she asked, looking at the name in her notebook.
Foster didn't hear, his eye caught by two men loitering at the curbside near the shop. One was tall, hair slicked back, walking around in circles while talking into a mobile phone. The other was squat and sullen, slouched with a camera over his shoulder, smoking. The press. The tall one caught Foster's eye and put his phone down. Foster recognized him, but then all hacks looked the same to him. The reporter narrowed his eyes, obviously pondering over why a senior detective was at the charity shop.
Routine, or something more? Let him stew, Foster thought.
What was that?' he asked Heather.
Heather repeated her question.
'He fits the profile,' Foster said.
'There's a profile?'
'Yes, they've asked Susie Danson to do one.'
Who's she?'
'She's good. Knows her stuff, rarely wrong. She thinks it's a man in his late thirties or early forties, who knew Katie, knew the area, who might have previous, particularly relating to teenage girls. Though she did say he had charm; Vickers seems to have precious little. Let's feed his name into the computer and see if we can get any hits.
Get in my car and phone in from there.'
They climbed in. Heather dialled the incident room on her mobile. Foster checked the latest with Harris. They had managed to get hold of Katie Drake's application details for RADA. Her address was a London one, not Kent. They'd made a few inquiries that led them to a studio flat on IfHey Road in Hammersmith. A secondary school in Deal was listed. The school's policy was to destroy pupil records ten years after leaving; her details were long gone.
The harder they looked the more elusive her past became. Was it even relevant? What was becoming clear was how vulnerable Katie Drake appeared before her death, as if she was undergoing some sort of mini midlife crisis.
Heather ended her phone call, green eyes galvanized by excitement.
What is it?'
'Trevor Vickers is on the Sex Offenders Register,' she replied. 'He accepted a caution for possessing indecent images of children on his computer in early 2006.'
'Just a caution?'
'The children were clothed apparently -- or at least, they were wearing some clothes. But the poses were indecent.'
Foster snorted. He'd bang up anyone who had that filth on their PCs for five years minimum. Clothed or not, those kids were still being abused and exploited. 'It's a leap from having sordid pictures of kids on your PC to abduction and murder,' he said. 'But it's a leap we've seen before.'
'That's not all,' Heather added. 'Because it was recent, under the guidelines he was asked to give a DNA sample.'
God bless Big Brother, Foster thought. 'We need to find out what she was wearing on Monday at work,' he said. 'If it was the same outfit then his hair could have got on to her while they were lifting dead people's clothes around. If it was different, well, it's unlikely she would put on an unwashed top for her big date, isn't it?'
'I'll go ask,' Heather said, getting out of the car.
Foster watched her walk back towards the shop. The reporter and photographer were about to enter but backed off when they saw Heather approaching. She looked them up and down before going inside. Foster thought about Vickers. They knew he'd taken the day off on Monday, which implicated him further. Something at the back of his mind urged caution, but he was the only possible suspect they had.
Heather re-emerged. 'Different. She was wearing a black top and jeans on Monday. There're also two reporters hanging . . .'
"I know. I've seen them,' Foster interjected.
What do you want to do about Vickers?' she asked.
'It's not my decision. Harris is calling the shots. We'll let him know and see if he wants him bringing in. If that DNA sample matches the hair on Katie Drake's clothes, then we've got our man.'
The nation's press and broadcasters laid siege to the charity shop. The two that Foster and Heather had witnessed loitering on the street had been the vanguard. Reinforcements arrived en masse as word spread that Katie Drake had worked voluntarily for Cancer Research, a morsel the press weren't going to pass up. Her deification was under way. Maureen, Yvonne and Trevor spoke of her as some modern-day saint. Trevor Vickers in particular was especially effusive, breaking down in tears at the end of one interview. The rolling news channel Foster caught back at the office showed his collapse in an endless loop. They ran the picture of Naomi, a uniform standing sentry outside the house, tributes from old friends and colleagues, garnished with footage of Trevor dissolving into tears.
Calls and information poured into the incident room, all of it dutifully logged. But none of it brought them closer to Naomi Buckingham or her mother's killer. The teenager was out there, somewhere, and the possibility of finding her alive was bleeding away.
At the same time as they were filming him weeping about his colleague's death, the papers were alerted to Vickers's brief criminal past and began scrambling around for more info. The phones of Scotland Yard's press bureau rang hot with reporters wondering whether Trevor Vickers was a suspect, would he be brought in for questioning, would he be charged? One public-spirited reporter called in to tell them that a neighbour insinuated the relationship between Vickers and his mother wasn't normal, without quite saying why. 'They're making him out to be Norman Bates,' Foster said to Heather.
He was in the incident room when Heather called.
'The results of the DNA test on the hair found on Katie Drake's clothing are in,' she said.
'Do they match with Trevor Vickers?'
'No. How much do you know about DNA profiling from hair specimens?'
'That it's not straightforward. That's about it.'
'I've been speaking to the lab. All they had was a hair shaft and a dead follicle. This hair fell out -- it wasn't pulled out. If they'd had a fresh follicle then they might have been able to obtain a full DNA profile, but in this case they've no chance.'