Paula sounded as if she’d been rehearsing how to play this. ‘I came into the office late last night with Dr Elinor Blessing—’
Her best-laid plans went up in smoke as her colleagues whooped and whistled. Carol knew they needed release from the tension of the case, so she let them have their head. Besides, Paula had asked for it. ‘Couldn’t you just get a room?’ Kevin said innocently.
‘Very funny. You’re all very bloody comic,’ Paula said, taking it in good part. Elinor’s discovery might have brought an end to romance for the evening, but Paula was still on a lingering high from their encounter. And possibly also from lack of sleep. ‘Some of you may remember Dr Blessing from the Robbie Bishop case, and how helpful she was then.’ More whooping and nudging. ‘Well, she’s come to our rescue again.’ Paula nodded to Stacey, who tapped a few keys on the webbook in front of her. The familiar strips of DNA analysis came up on the whiteboard. ‘On the left, you have Daniel’s DNA. On the right, Seth’s. If we look more closely, we can see strong similarities.’ Areas of the DNA strips were highlighted. ‘According to Dr Blessing, this indicates that Daniel and Seth are blood relatives.’
Stacey tapped some more keys and another two DNA profiles appeared. ‘Jennifer and Niall,’ Paula said. ‘And the same phenomenon.’ Again, areas were highlighted. ‘I got Dr Shatalov out of bed at two o’clock this morning to double-check that Elinor was right. And he agrees. He called in someone at the university who’s more of an expert in DNA analysis than Dr Shatalov himself. Her view is that they are all half-siblings.’
‘Are you saying all these women had affairs with the same man and got pregnant by him? In the same year?’ Kevin sounded incredulous. ‘That’s mad.’
‘Of course that’s not what I’m saying. It’s obvious. At least, it is to a lesbian. Donor insemination. It’s got to be. Nothing else makes sense. And we already know Seth was a donor baby.’
There was a moment of stunned silence. Then Tony leaned forward. ‘The bad seed,’ he said. ‘The end of the line. That’s what he’s doing. He’s not killing them because they look like him. He’s killing them because they are him.’
For DI Stuart Patterson, this was an interview that couldn’t be delegated. Just as the Maidments had deserved a senior officer when they had to be told their daughter was dead, they were entitled to the same courtesy for the deeply personal question that had to be asked this morning. With luck, both of them would be home this early in the day.
Paul Maidment opened the door. He was suited up and freshly shaved. He looked exactly like any other successful businessman girded up for the start of the working week except that his eyes held no light. He nodded and sighed at the sight of the policeman. ‘Come in,’ he said lifelessly.
Patterson followed him to the kitchen. Tania Maidment sat at the kitchen table in her dressing gown. Her hair was uncombed, matted and asymmetrical from sleep. Dark shadows surrounded her eyes and she was smoking what was clearly not the first cigarette of the day. ‘Have you arrested him yet?’ she demanded as soon as she caught sight of Patterson.
‘I’m afraid not,’ he said, standing near the doorway. No one invited him to sit down. ‘We are making progress.’
‘Progress?’ Maidment said explosively. ‘What does that mean?’
Patterson didn’t know what to say to that. He wished Ambrose was with him. He could have used that stolid certainty standing alongside. ‘I need to ask you a question about Jennifer,’ he said. ‘I appreciate the sensitive nature of this, but we need to know the answer.’
Tania snorted. ‘I didn’t think we had any sensitivities left that hadn’t been trampled all over. Do you have any idea how hard it is to cling on to your memories when the police and the media trample all over your daughter’s life?’
‘I’m sorry,’ Patterson said. ‘But I do need you to help me with this.’ His collar felt tight. ‘Was Jennifer conceived using artificial insemination?’
Tania pushed her chair back, the legs scraping harshly against the floor tiles. She jumped to her feet, her face an angry mask. ‘What the hell has that to do with anything? Christ, have we no privacy left?’
Maidment hurried to her side and put his arm round her. She turned to him, clutching his shirt tight in her fist and beating it against his chest. ‘Yes,’ he said, holding her close, his eyes glistening. ‘We longed for a child of our own. We tried.’ He sighed. ‘We tried for a long time. Then we had tests. It turned out I was firing blanks. So we went to a fertility clinic in Birmingham. Tania got pregnant the second time we inseminated.’
She turned a tear-stained face to Patterson. ‘Paul always treated her as if she was his own daughter.’
‘She was my own daughter,’ he insisted. ‘I never thought about it from one year’s end to the next.’
‘Did Jennifer know?’ Patterson asked.
Maidment looked away. ‘We never told her. When she was little, we planned to tell her the truth one day. But . . .’
‘I decided we wouldn’t tell her,’ Tania said. ‘There was no need. We matched the donor to Paul, so she looked a bit like him. Nobody knew but us, so it wasn’t like anybody else in the family could let something slip.’
Which answered Patterson’s next question. ‘Thanks for being so frank,’ he said.
‘Why are you asking this now?’ Maidment asked.
‘It might have some bearing on a line of inquiry we’re pursuing. ‘
‘Christ. Could you say anything more meaningless?’ Tania said. ‘Go away. Please.’
Maidment followed him down the hall. ‘Sorry,’ he said.
‘No need.’
‘She’s not doing well.’
‘I can see that. We are doing our best, you know.’
Maidment opened the door. ‘I know. What bothers her is that it might not be enough.’
Patterson nodded. ‘It bothers me too. But we’re not giving up, Mr Maidment. And we really are making progress.’ He walked back to the car, feeling the bereaved father’s eyes on him, knowing that, whatever the outcome, for Tania Maidment it would never be good enough. Patterson was sufficiently selfish to be grateful that he didn’t have to live with that particular hell.
Paula was about to give up on Mike Morrison when the door finally opened. He was wearing a T-shirt and boxers and reeked of alcohol. He peered blearily at her. ‘Oh, it’s you,’ he grunted, turning on his heel and walking back into the house.
Paula took that as an invitation and followed him into the wreckage of the living room. Empty whisky bottles were lined up along the side of one sofa. On the coffee table, seven malt whisky bottles stood in a row, the levels varying from almost full to almost empty. A smeared tumbler sat next to them. Morrison reached for the tumbler as he sat down heavily on the sofa. There was a duvet next to him and he wrapped it round his legs. The room was cold but still it smelled of stale booze and stale man. Paula tried to breathe discreetly through her mouth.
The TV screen caught her eye. In freeze-frame, Daniel and his mother were dressed in winter sports gear, mugging at the camera. In the background, snowy mountains. Morrison poured a slug of Scotch and noticed her eye-line. ‘The wonders of modern technology. Brings them right back to life,’ he slurred.
‘This isn’t a great idea, Mike,’ she said gently.
He gave a cracked laugh. ‘No? What else is there? I loved my wife. I loved my boy. There’s fuck all else in my life to love.’
It was hard to argue with that, Paula thought. She’d call his GP later. And she’d call his office. See if they knew who his friends were. This was pain she couldn’t ignore. ‘I need to ask you a question,’ she said.
‘What difference does it make? You can’t bring them back.’