Patterson eyed the phone as if it were his enemy. He’d asked his boss to sort things out with Manchester. But his boss was an idle sod who passed every buck he could on the alleged principle of empowering his officers. All he’d done for Patterson was to authorise his approach to the other force. Now he’d have to play phone tag with Manchester’s force control on a Saturday morning to find out who he should be talking to. The perfect use of his time.
It took the best part of an hour before Patterson was finally connected to someone who was prepared to accept any responsibility for liaising with him on Jennifer Maidment’s murder. DCI Andy Millwood, the duty SIO in their Serious Crimes Unit, was a marked contrast to the other officers Patterson had spoken to. ‘Happy to help,’ he’d said. ‘They’re a bastard, these cases. Everybody wants results and they want them yesterday. It’d drive you up the wall.’
Tell me about it. Every time Patterson looked at his daughter, he felt a tidal wave of guilt and helplessness. Every time he saw one of the local rag’s posters of Jennifer in a shop window, it seemed like an accusation. He knew that if he didn’t resolve this case, it would turn into one of the ones that gnawed away at you, nibbling at your self-belief and pushing you ever closer to the brotherhood of ex-cops who preferred to deal with the world through the prism of a bottle. He also understood Dr Hill’s conviction that, if they didn’t stop this killer, he would do it again. And he didn’t want more guilt on his back. ‘I appreciate it,’ he said.
‘You say there’s reason to believe your killer might be from our turf?’
‘That’s right. He’d been stalking Jennifer online and we traced nearly twenty public-access computers he used to do it. When the boffins ran the details through their geographic profiling software, it put South Manchester in the middle of the picture for his base. I can email you the map with the hotspot.’
‘That’d be a start,’ Millwood said. ‘So, have you got anything else? Witness description? Anything like that?’
Patterson explained what he’d initiated with the number-plate recognition. ‘Also, we’ve been working with a profiler. He thinks the killer works in ICT. Some sort of freelance consultant, he reckons. So maybe once we’ve got our vehicle check results, you could help us narrow it down? I’m happy to send up a couple of our lads to help out.’
‘I won’t deny that’d be useful,’ Millwood said. ‘It’s a bit thin, mind. I’ll talk to intel, see if they’ve got any nonces with ICT connections.’
‘Erm . . .’ Patterson interrupted. ‘The profiler? He says it’s not a nonce. He says it’s not sexual. Even though he took a knife to her vagina.’
‘Not sexual? How does he work that out?’
‘Something to do with the killer not spending enough time with her. And not actually . . . Well, not actually cutting off her clitoris.’ It was embarrassing, having this conversation. Not because he felt uncomfortable talking about a victim’s private parts, but because he knew how daft it sounded. He knew it sounded daft because that’s what he’d thought when Tony Hill had first come out with his conclusion. But as he’d listened to the explanation, it had made a kind of sense.
Millwood made an explosive noise. ‘Tchah,’ or something like that, it sounded to Patterson. ‘And you go along with that?’ His scepticism was obvious.
‘Well, the way he explained it, I could see what he was getting at. The trouble is, we don’t have any other motive to go on. It’s not like she ran with a wild crowd or anything.’
‘So you don’t want me chasing down the nonces?’
‘Not unless they turn up on our licence-plate trawl.’
Millwood grunted. ‘That’s one less thing for us to worry about. OK, then. Once DVLA have given you the list, send your lads up with it. We’ll give them a hand.’
It wasn’t quite what Patterson had had in mind. He’d thought his detectives would be giving Millwood’s officers a hand, not the other way around. But at least it felt like a small step in the right direction.
Tony was amazed that Carol had actually agreed to meet him for a late lunch. Normally in the heat of a murder inquiry, she barely made time to snatch a sandwich at her desk. But after Sam had left, having avoided telling him anything useful about the live case, he’d rung and suggested it. She’d sighed and said, ‘Why not? The Thai on Fig Lane’s usually quiet on a Saturday, it’s all offices round there.’
She was, of course, late. He didn’t mind. He understood the pressures and knew she would be here as soon as she could be. He sat by a window in the upper section of the restaurant and watched the quiet street below, sipping a Singha beer. There were worse ways to spend a Saturday afternoon. And the football didn’t kick off till four, so he wasn’t even going to miss that unless she was horrendously late. As that thought crossed his mind, he spotted Carol striding down the street, her coat flaring out like a superhero’s cape with the speed of her movement. Something inside him quickened at the sight of her. A swift glance over her shoulder as she approached, and then she disappeared under the restaurant awning.
She emerged from the stairwell in a burst of cold air, leaning across to brush her lips against his cheek. Her skin was cold, but flushed with the sudden heat of the restaurant. ‘Good to see you,’ she said, tossing her coat over the chair and sitting down. ‘How was Worcester?’
‘I nearly got arrested,’ he said.
Carol laughed. ‘Only you!’ she said. ‘How did you manage that?’
‘Long story, later. The job was—’ he held a hand out flat and waggled it. ‘Sort of OK. Not straightforward in terms of profiling. They’re going to struggle with this one. And he’ll kill again if they don’t close in.’
‘That’s disappointing. I know you like to feel you’ve made a difference.’
He shrugged. ‘Sometimes it’s not up to me. But what about you? I heard you on the radio this morning. Sounds like you’ve got plenty on your plate.’
‘No kidding.’ Carol picked up the menu. ‘I don’t know why I look. I know I’m going to have spring rolls and Pad Thai Gai.’
‘Me too.’ He waved a hand at the waitress and they both ordered, Carol adding a large glass of wine to her food. ‘How’s it looking?’ he said.
‘Like your guys in Worcester, we’re going to struggle with this one. Damn all to go on. We’re just praying forensics come up with something.’
‘I know Blake says I’m off-limits. But we can talk unofficially, surely? I’ll give you all the help I can,’ Tony said.
She looked down at the table and fiddled with her chopsticks. ‘I appreciate that.’ A pause, then she met his eyes, her expression unreadable. ‘But I can’t accept.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because it’s wrong. If we’re not paying you, we’ve no right to your expertise. I’m not prepared to exploit our friendship.’
‘That’s precisely why it’s not exploitation. Because we’re friends. Friends help each other. Friends are there for each other.’
‘I know that. And I hope you’ll be there for me personally. I want your support, I want to be able to come and sit with you and have a glass of wine at the end of the day and say the things I would be able to say to someone who cares about me. But I can’t tell you the stuff you want to know as a profiler.’ Her wine arrived and she took a long drink.
He couldn’t deny he liked that she thought of him as the shoulder to lean on. But he struggled with the logic of her professional position. ‘That’s daft. If I thought it would help me with my profile for West Mercia, I’d run it all past you. Because you’re the best detective I’ve ever worked with. I don’t care where I take help from. I’ve already picked Fiona Cameron’s brains on this one, and she’s not being paid,’ he protested.