‘Sounds like you’ve already made your mind up, sir,’ Carol said, forcing herself to sound pleasant.
‘It’s up to you, Carol.’ This time, the smile was undeniably smug. ‘And one other thing - while we’re on the subject of budget? You seem to commit a lot of money to consulting Dr Hill.’
Now the stirring of anger was rising to a flare. ‘Dr Hill has been a key component in how we achieve our success,’ she said, unable to avoid sounding terse.
‘He’s a clinical psychologist, not a forensic scientist. His expertise is replicable.’ Blake opened a drawer and took a folder from it. He glanced at Carol as if surprised that she was still there. ‘The National Police Faculty has been training police officers in behavioural science and profiling. Using their resources is going to save us a fortune.’
‘They don’t have Dr Hill’s expertise. Or his experience. Dr Hill is unique. Mr Brandon always thought so.’
There was a long silence. ‘Mr Brandon isn’t here to protect you any more, Carol. He may have thought it was appropriate to pay your . . .’ he paused and when he spoke again, it was freighted with innuendo ‘. . . landlord such a large chunk of Bradfield Police’s budget. I don’t. So if you need a profiler, use one who doesn’t make us look corrupt, would you?’
Patterson could feel the first throb of a headache deep in his skull. It was hardly surprising; he’d had a scant two hours’ sleep. Viewers who saw him on TV could be forgiven for thinking their TVs had been swapped for black-and-white sets, what with his silver hair and grey skin. Only the red eyes would be the give-away. He’d had enough coffee to kick-start a Harley Davidson but even that hadn’t helped him look like a man you’d want running your murder inquiry. There was nothing more dispiriting than holding a press conference with nothing to give other than the bare facts of the crime itself.
Maybe they’d get lucky. Maybe the media coverage would shake loose a witness who had noticed Jennifer Maidment after she’d waved farewell to her best friend. That would surely be the triumph of hope over experience. What was more likely was a stream of fantasy sightings, most of them delivered in good faith but just as useless as the attention seekers and the unfathomable bastards who simply liked to waste police time.
As the reporters filed out, he went in search of Ambrose. He found him looming over their tame forensic computer analyst. Gary Harcup had been dragged out of his bed just after midnight and put to work on Jennifer’s laptop. Ambrose barely glanced up at his boss then turned back to the screen, screwing up his tired brown eyes to help him focus. ‘So what you’re telling me is that all of these sessions originated on different machines? Even though it says it’s the same person talking to Jennifer?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Well, how can that be?’ Ambrose sounded frustrated.
‘I’m guessing whoever was talking to Jennifer was using internet cafés and libraries. Never the same place twice.’ Gary Harcup shared bulk with Alvin Ambrose, but that was all. Where Ambrose was taut, polished and muscular, Gary was plump, rumpled and bespectacled with a mop of tousled brown hair and matching beard. He looked like a cartoon bear. He scratched his head. ‘He’s using a free email address, impossible to trace. None of the sessions lasts more than half an hour, nobody is going to pay any attention to him.’
Patterson pulled up a chair. ‘What’s going on, lads? Have you got something for us, Gary?’
But it was Ambrose who replied. ‘According to Claire Darsie, her and Jennifer used RigMarole all the time. And Gary here’s been able to pull up a whole stack of their chat room and IM sessions.’
‘Anything useful?’ Patterson leaned forward so he could see the screen more easily. A whiff of fresh soap came from Ambrose, making Patterson feel ashamed of his own unwashed state. He’d not stopped to shower, settling for a swift pass of the electric shaver over his face.
‘There’s a lot of rubbish,’ Gary said. ‘The usual teenage chatter about X Factor and Big Brother. Pop stars and soap actors. Gossip about their mates from school. Mostly they’re talking to other kids from their class, but there are some outsiders from other areas of RigMarole. Generally other girls of their age into the same boy bands.’
‘I hear a “but”,’ Patterson said.
‘You hear right. There’s one that’s a bit different,’ Ambrose said. ‘Trying to fit the mould but hitting the occasional bum note. Cagey about revealing anything that might pin them down geographically. Can you show us, Gary?’
Gary’s fingers fluttered over the keys and a string of message exchanges started to scroll down the screen. Patterson read attentively, not quite sure what he was looking for. ‘You think it’s paedophile grooming?’
Ambrose shook his head. ‘It doesn’t feel like that. Whoever it is, they’re drawing Jennifer and her buddies out, making friends. Usually with paedos, they’re trying to cut one out of the herd. They play on general insecurities about looks, weight, personality, just not being cool enough. That’s not happening here. It’s much more about showing solidarity. Being one of the group.’ He tapped the screen with his finger. ‘It’s not exploitative in any way.’
‘And then it gets really interesting,’ Gary said, scrolling down so fast the messages turned into a blur of text and smileys. ‘This was five days ago.’
Jeni: Wot do u mean, zz?
ZZ: Evry1 has secrets, things theyr ashamd of. Things u’d
die if ur crew new about.
Jeni: I don’t. My best friend nos everything about me.
ZZ: Thats wot we all say and we all lying.
‘The others weigh in and it turns into a general conversation,’ Gary said. ‘But then ZZ pulls Jennifer into a private IM session. Here we go.’
ZZ: i wanted 2 talk 2 u in priv8.
Jeni: Y?
ZZ: cuz i no u hav a BIG secret.
Jeni: U no more than me then.
ZZ: sumtimes we dont no wot our own secrets r. Bt i no a
secret tt u wd not want anybody else to no.
Jeni: I don’t no wot u r on about.
ZZ: b online 2moro same time & we’ll talk abt it sum more.
‘And that’s where that session ends,’ Gary said.
‘So what happened the next day?’ Patterson said.
Gary leaned back in his chair and rumpled his hair. ‘That’s the problem. Whatever ZZ had to say to Jennifer was enough to make her wipe the conversation.’
‘I thought there was no such thing as wiping a computer’s memory, short of hitting the hard disk very hard with a hammer,’ Patterson said. The headache was bedding in now, a deep dull throb beating between his ears. He squeezed the bridge of his nose tight, trying to shut down the pain.
‘That’s about the size of it,’ Gary said. ‘Doesn’t mean it’s accessible at the click of a mouse, though. I’m assuming this lass didn’t have a clue how to scrub her machine clean. But even so, I’m going to have to push a shedload of software through this baby to try and retrieve what she’s tried to erase.’
‘For fuck’s sake,’ Ambrose groaned. ‘How long’s that going to take?’
Gary shrugged, his whole chair moving with him. ‘Piece of string, innit? I might crack it in a few hours, but it could take days.’ He spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. ‘What can I say? It’s not like servicing a car. There’s no way I can give you a meaningful estimate.’