Fisher was to be taken to The Patchway Police Centre on Gloucester Road, Bristol’s most modern station incorporating a state of the art custody suite and forty-eight police cells.
Terry Cooke, Melanie’s father, would make the formal identification at the morgue later that morning, as soon as the pathology team was ready. Cooke would be accompanied by a family liaison officer, PC Kelly King, who was on her way to the family home. He had also agreed to come into Patchway in the afternoon for DNA testing and fingerprinting.
Whilst Saslow was loading Fisher into the back of the squad car, Vogel took a step away and made a quick call to Willis.
‘The father’s second wife, Mrs Susan Cooke, is on her own, or I think she is anyway,’ he said. ‘Pop round will you? Better find a woman PC to take with you. Let’s see what she’s got to say about her old man and what he might have been up to last night. Melanie’s father seems genuine enough to me, but you never know. Just a preliminary chat. Might help build a picture.’
At Patchway, Vogel quickly handed Fisher over to the custody boys and told them not to hurry with processing him.
Back in the car, Vogel called DCI Hemmings to report what was happening. It was still not 10 a.m. yet.
‘Seems Jim Fisher’s been playing away from home,’ he began.
‘A dodgy stepfather, eh?’ muttered Hemmings. ‘What do you think? How likely a candidate is he?’
‘I don’t know,’ replied Vogel. ‘The DNA tests should sort things out. Forensic say they found some hair, with follicles of skin attached, under Melanie Cooke’s fingernails. Presumably torn out of her assailant’s head whilst she was fighting for her life, poor kid.’ Vogel paused, trying not to think about that too much. He kept seeing his own daughter’s face.
‘He lived with the girl, Vogel,’ Hemmings interjected. ‘Any decent brief would argue that of course we’re likely to find his DNA on her.’
‘Not strands of hair under her fingernails, though, surely boss? That’s a classic result of lashing out in self-defence. There might be more forensic evidence too, that’s what I’m hoping for. We don’t know enough yet and, as you know, it will be days before we get the DNA results. So Saslow and I are on our way now to check out Fisher’s alibi. I didn’t like the man but…’
‘Vogel, you don’t like anyone!’
‘That’s not fair,’ said Vogel, who, in spite of appearances to the contrary, was not averse to occasionally indulging his lurking sense of humour. ‘I’m very fond of you, sir.’
Hemmings grunted and made no direct response. Vogel knew the form well enough. A bit of banter made the day go by more easily, on investigations as disturbing as this one, but enough was enough.
‘Look, boss,’ he continued. ‘Fisher claims he spent last night with his mistress, if that’s what she is. This Daisy from Bath is certainly someone he’s serious about, he insists. I’d like to get her version of events before he has time to prime her…’
‘OK,’ interrupted Hemmings. ‘But on the way back, will the pair of you stop by the girl’s school? The North Bristol Academy. It’s the right side of town. We need to officially inform the headmistress and it’ll be an opportunity to chat to Melanie Cooke’s chums.’
‘Right, boss.’
‘And, by the way, I’ve given Willis all the backup I can spare on the door-to-door. Nothing yet though.’
‘I know,’ said Vogel. ‘I’ve just been talking to him. They’re still hard at it, but I’ve asked him to break off for an hour or so and do some checking on the father, Terry Cooke. He seems a less likely suspect than the stepdad, however Willis is going to have a chat with his second wife. She may paint a different picture. Particularly if she’s caught alone and on the hop. Cooke said he was going to stay with his ex for a bit.’
‘OK, but tell Willis not to take too long about it. We need some hard evidence. Some kind of witness would be handy. You know how it is, Vogel. People don’t always realise the importance of things they have seen or heard.’
‘Yes sir,’ said Vogel. ‘I’ll get Willis back on it as soon as I can. You’re dead right, boss. Those boys out there door-stepping really do have to keep plugging away. And it’s been such a damned thankless task so far they may well need someone cracking the whip a bit.’ Vogel echoed what he had earlier said to Willis. ‘A girl was assaulted and killed. She struggled and fought for her life. Someone must have seen or heard something, surely.’
Leo
All I knew was that I had to keep Tim. I wanted him. I needed him.
I said the first thing that came into my head. And it was very nearly the truth.
‘I couldn’t quite come to terms with what we were doing,’ I replied. ‘Or rather, where we were doing it. It was all so awful…’
‘I didn’t like it either,’ he said. ‘But I didn’t run off. I couldn’t have done that to you.’
His eyes were fixed on mine. Then he glanced away, blushing.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said.
He looked back towards me.
‘Do you want a drink?’ I asked.
‘I have one,’ he replied, gesturing at what looked like a glass of white wine on a table behind us.
I wondered how I hadn’t seen him as soon as I walked in the place.
Maybe he read my mind.
‘I spotted you when I came back from the gents,’ he said.
‘I’m very glad you did,’ I responded lamely.
He asked if I wanted to sit with him.
‘Are you on your own?’ I asked.
‘No, I’m with a group of trendy gay mates,’ he said, the sarcasm heavy in his voice.
Of course he was on his own. He was like me. Not quite like me, obviously. But not out. Not glad to be gay. Or proud to be perverted, as one of my work colleagues called it.
Until recently my Soho haunt had been Larry’s Bar, a throwback to another age. A place almost exclusively for those who, even in the modern world, were still not openly gay.
Most of the clientele, I’d always suspected, were married or in long-term relationships with women. There were still far more men in that situation than was generally realised. Some were probably in jobs where homosexuality continued to cause problems that no amount of legislation could fix.
There had also been, on the basis of supply and demand, a number of young men more or less on the game.
Larry’s had finally closed down the previous year. Young Tim probably didn’t know it had even existed. Although it might have suited him.
Instead, as he struggled to come to terms with his sexuality, he used more modern methods of seeking out kindred spirits. Notably Grindr, the gay app which brings sexual opportunity straight to your phone.
After Larry’s had closed, I’d bought myself a pay-as-you-go iPhone and had also turned to Grindr. But only when I was well away from my home territory. I needed to cut down, as much as possible, any chance of coincidentally contacting someone who might recognise me.
It was through Grindr, albeit indirectly, that I’d met Tim, as I flicked my way through the list of available men, whose exact whereabouts was made known to me by Google tracker.
As in: ‘John. 500 yards away. Come and give it to me hard.’
An approach of that sort was totally unnerving to me. And, like a lot of gay men, I’d become wary of the app since the case of Stephen Port. He’s the serial killer and rapist who was convicted last year of the murder of four men he lured back to his East London flat after meeting them through Grindr. I might be fit and strong, but during the sex act I would be as vulnerable as anyone. I determined to stop using Grindr. I couldn’t resist looking on the app though. It was there that I’d come across an invitation to a weekend sex party at a flat just off Endell Street in Covent Garden. I’d seen this sort of thing before but never succumbed to the temptation. That time I decided to take the risk. Just the once. After all, I convinced myself, surely there would be safety in numbers?