‘I also want interviews with her neighbours, friends and business associates. She was a wedding planner. The business was in financial trouble. Talk to the usual suspects- loan sharks and money lenderssee if they knew her.’
She outlines the timeline of events, beginning on Friday morning. Christine Wheeler spent two hours in her office at Blissful and then went home. At 11.54 she received a call on her landline that came from a public phone box in Clifton at the corner of Westfield Place and Sion Lane, overlooking the Clifton Suspension Bridge.
‘This call lasted thirty-four minutes. It may have been someone she knew. Perhaps she arranged to meet them.
‘The landline call ended just after her mobile phone began ringing. One call may have produced the other.’
DI Cray signals an officer working an overhead projector. A map covering Bristol and Bath is beamed onto the white board behind her. ‘Telecommunications engineers are triangulating signals from Christine Wheeler’s mobile and plotting the likely route she took on Friday when she drove from her house to Leigh Woods.
‘We have the two positive eyewitness sightings. Those witnesses have to be reinterviewed. I also want the names of everyone else who was in Leigh Woods on Friday afternoon. I want their reasons for being there and their home addresses.’
‘It was raining, ma’am,’ offers one of the detectives.
‘This is Bristol- it’s always bloody raining. And don’t call me ma’am.’
She focuses on the only woman among the detectives. ‘Alfie.’
‘Yes, boss.’
‘I want you go through the Sex Offenders’ Register. Get me a list of every known pervert living within five miles of Leigh Woods. I want them graded by the seriousness of the offence and when they were last charged or released from prison.’
‘Yes, boss.’
The DI shifts her gaze. ‘Jones and McAvoy, I want you to go through the CCTV footage. There are four cameras on the bridge.’
‘What time period?’ one of them asks.
‘From midday until six p.m. Six hours, four cameras, do the maths.’
‘What exactly are we looking for, boss?’
‘Take down every vehicle number. Run them through the Automatic Number Plate Recognition software. See if any of them come up as stolen and cross-check the names with Alfie. We may get lucky.’
‘You’re talking about more than a thousand cars.’
‘Then you’d better get started.’ She turns to another detective who is dressed in a short-sleeved jacket and jeans. She calls him ‘Safari Roy’- another nickname. It suits him.
‘Check out the business partner, Sylvia Furness. The company accounts. Find out who the major creditors are and if any of them were getting heavy.’
She mentions the food poisoning incident. The father of a bride wants compensation and is threatening to sue. Safari Roy makes a note to check it out.
DI Cray throws a file into the lap of another detective. ‘That’s a list of every sexual assault or complaint of indecent behaviour on Leigh Woods over the past two years, including nude sunbathing and flashing. I want you to find every one of them. Ask them what they were doing on Friday afternoon. Take D.J. and Curly with you.’
‘You think it’s sexual, boss?’ asks Curly.
‘The woman was naked with “slut” written on her torso.’
‘What about her mobile?’ asks Alfie.
‘Still missing. Monk will be handling the search of Leigh Woods. Those of you who haven’t got assignments will be going with him. You’re going to knock on doors and talk to the locals. I want to know if anyone has been acting strangely or if anything unusual happened in the past few weeks. Did a sparrow fart? Did a bear shit in the wood? You get the picture.’
A new face appears at the briefing, a senior officer in uniform with polished buttons and a cap tucked beneath his left arm.
The detectives find their feet quickly.
‘Carry on, carry on,’ he says in a pretend-I’m-not-here sort of way. DI Cray makes the introductions. Assistant Chief Constable Fowler is short and broad-shouldered with a bulletproof handshake and the air of a battlefield general trying to gee up his troops. He focuses his attention on me.
‘A professor of what?’ he asks.
‘Psychology, sir.’
‘You’re a psychologist.’ He makes it sound like a disease. ‘Where are you from?’
‘I was born in Wales. My mother is Welsh.’
‘Ever heard the definition of a Welsh rarebit, Professor?’
‘No, sir.’
‘A Cardiff virgin.’
He looks around the room, waiting for the laughter. In due course, it arrives. Satisfied, he takes a seat and places his hat on a desk with his leather gloves inside.
DI Cray continues with the briefing, but is immediately interrupted.
‘Why isn’t this a suicide?’ asks Fowler.
She turns to him. ‘We are looking at it again, sir. The victim wrote a sign asking for help.’
‘I thought most suicides were a cry for help.’
The DI hesitates. ‘We believe whoever was speaking to Mrs Wheeler on the phone told her to jump.’
‘Somebody told her to jump and she did- just like that?’
‘We believe she may have been threatened or intimidated.’
Fowler nods and smiles but something about the mannerism is vaguely patronising. He turns to me. ‘This is your opinion is it, Professor? How exactly was this woman threatened or intimidated into committing suicide?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You don’t know?’
I can feel my jaw tightening and my face becoming fixed. Bullies have this effect on me. I become a different person around them.
‘So you think there’s a psycho out there telling women to jump off bridges?’
‘No, not a psycho; I have seen no evidence of mental illness.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘I don’t find it helpful when people use labels such as psycho or nutcase. It can allow a perpetrator to excuse his actions or construct a defence of insanity or diminished responsibility.’
Fowler’s face is stiffer than shirt cardboard. His eyes are fixed on mine.
‘We have certain protocols around here, Professor O’Loughlin, and one of them requires that senior officers be addressed as “sir” or by their correct title. It is a matter of respect. I think I’ve earned it.’
‘Yes, sir, my mistake.’
For a brief moment his self-control threatens to break but now it’s restored. He stands, taking his hat and gloves, and leaves the incident room. Nobody has moved.
I look at Veronica Cray, who lowers her head. I’ve disappointed her.
The briefing is over. Detectives disperse.
On our way to the stairs, I apologise to the DI.
‘Don’t worry about it.’
‘I hope I haven’t made an enemy.’
‘The man swallows a bullshit pill every morning.’
‘He’s a former military man,’ I say.
‘How do you know that?’
‘He carries his hat under his left arm, so his right arm is free to salute.’
The DI shakes her head. ‘How do you know shit like that?’
‘Because he’s a freak,’ answers Ruiz.
I follow him outside. An unmarked police car is idling in the loading zone. The driver, a female constable, opens the passenger doors. Veronica Cray and Monk are both heading off to Leigh Woods.
I wish them luck.
‘Do you believe in luck, Professor?’
‘No.’
‘Good. Neither do I.’
19
Julianne is on the 15.40 Great Western service from Paddington. It’s an easy drive at this time of day, with most of the traffic coming the other way.
Emma is strapped in her booster seat and Darcy is sitting beside me, with her knees drawn up and her arms wrapped around them. She takes up so little space when she concertinas her body like that.
‘What’s your wife like?’ she asks.
‘She’s wonderful.’
‘Do you love her?’
‘What sort of question is that?’
‘It’s just a question.’
‘Well, the answer is yes.’
‘You have to say that, I suppose,’ she says, sounding very world-weary. ‘How long have you been married?’