The Blood Detective

They were both smoking. I remember that because she didn't smoke unless she was well gone. Is she all right?'

Heather was scribbling furiously.

'We found her body last night. She'd been murdered.

We think she was last seen here on Friday.'

'Christ,' he said, wind knocked from him. 'Murdered?

Who'd want to murder a gorgeous woman like that?'

'That's what we're trying to find out,' Foster said.

'Did you know the man she was sitting with?'

'Never seen him before.'

'When did they leave?'

'I don't know. I came out about an hour later to collect more glasses, about five o'clock, and they'd gone.'

'Would anyone else have seen them?'

'Sonia was on, but she was working the bar mainly.'

He scratched absent-mindedly at the back of his head. 'Still can't believe she was murdered, like. That's horrible.'

'Was there anything about him you remember?'

He spent some time in thought, stifled a yawn, then spoke. 'Nothing springs to mind. He was wearing shades and he had a round face, pudding-basin sort of dark hair. He was thickset, too, but he was sat down so . . . He was drinking Virgin Marys, I know that. Can't remember the face, but I never forget an order.'

'Is there anyone in the pub now who was in then?'

'Don't think so. Sunday's a different crowd to the rest of the week.'

'We need you to come and help us do a photo fit as soon as possible.'

'Sure, if it's OK with the boss.'

He went inside to check.

'Darbyshire disappeared after going out of a pub for a smoke,' Foster said to Heather. 'Ellis and Perry were last seen in a pub. Think we're getting closer to knowing how he picks his victims up.'

'Pretty public place to operate.'

'Look at it this way: it's an easy way to lace a drink.'

'Rohypnol?'

'Something like that. Next thing you know, they're out of it.'

'Park your vehicle nearby. Help them in. Nothing untoward about helping someone the worse for wear outside a pub,' Heather added.

The barman returned. 'I'm ready when you are,'

he said.

'We'll also need to get in touch with whoever was serving the bar that night. Sonia, was it?' Foster said.

'The boss says he'll give her a call'

'What was Dammy drinking, do you remember?'

'Same as always. Vodka, lime and soda.'

Ruled out Rohypnol. The makers put a blue dye in it to guard against spiking. She would have noticed.

Though it could have been a counterfeit. And there were any number of other 'date rape' drugs it could be. Toxicology would tell them more.

A few hours later, they called it a night. Foster was looking forward to getting home, climbing into a few glasses of red then seeking sanctuary in sleep. His whole body ached and creaked from weariness; a headache had settled behind his tired eyes.

They had a sketch of the suspect. Tomorrow they would show it to everyone in the lives of their three victims, as well as to everyone who might have seen them in the final hours before their disappearances.

They had also lifted a print from the box containing Nella Perry's eyes. It had been put through the database, but there had been no matches. Still, together with the description, it was a start.

He would wait until Detective Superintendent Harris, his boss, was in tomorrow before he released the sketch to the media. Harris had been summoned back from his holiday in Spain, so Foster knew he would not be in the best of moods. The press bureau had been briefed after sinking under an avalanche of calls when Nella Perry's demise circulated around Fleet Street. There was to be a briefing at eight the following morning for the whole team, a chance to sift all the facts and see what emerged.

Then there had been Barnes's phone call, about Rillington Place. It fascinated him. Was there any significance to it?

He found Heather preparing to leave.

'Ever heard of psychogeography?' Foster asked her.

She made a face. 'Teach it at universities now, do they?'

'Don't start me,' he said. 'No, it was Barnes's phone call. For some reason he found himself back in North Kensington, near the murder scene. Apparently, just around the corner is the site of 10 Rillington Place.'

'The Christie--Evans murders,' exclaimed Heather.

'I remember a mate of my old man, a gnarled old-school detective,' Foster said. 'You know, the sort you'd want on the job if your daughter had been killed. He was talking about that case once. He knew one of the coppers who was given the job of removing the bodies. Someone asked him a few years later whether he received any counselling. He said, "Well, the district inspector bought me a pint."'

Despite his exhaustion, Foster rumbled with laughter.

Heather looked heavenwards. 'So what did Nigel want?'

'He just thought I should know that Rillington Place was near, in case it was important.'

'Do you think it is?'

'Could be. Anything could be. At the moment this case is like moulding milk; it's spilling out everywhere.'

He paused. 'I told him we'll need him tomorrow. I can't help feeling that if we're going to get anywhere near to solving the present, we're going to have to know everything we can about the past.

Only then will things make sense.'

'And what is psychogeography?'

'According to Barnes, it's the theory that some places always carry the stain or stigma of the past; these places can then have an effect on people's emotions, behaviour and actions.'

'Sounds interesting,' Heather said.

'Sounds like he's lost his marbles,' Foster said.

'You're quite taken with his barmy little theories and interests. You like him, don't you?'

'He's good at his job,' she replied, flicking a stray hair from her brow.

'Not that sort of like, the other sort.'

'Do I fancy him, you mean?'

Foster smiled. Heather often did that: confronted the subject head-on, rather than skirt around it. She claimed it was her northern upbringing, where people called a spade a bloody shovel. In the south of England, so her theory went, people euphemized and pussyfooted around. Whatever the reasons, Foster liked it and he knew she admired him for the same quality. Unlike some other junior officers, she had never been intimidated by his presence or nature.

'He's all right,' she said. 'Quite dishy.'

'Really?' he replied; Foster had him down as a bit geeky.

'That's because the last three blokes I've seen have been coppers. He's about as far removed from that world as can be. For a start, he's intelligent.' Foster ignored the slight; she wasn't finished listing his qualities.

'Yes, he's a bit shy and reserved but he has lots of energy. He's a good listener, too, which is hardly a trait you meet in most modern men. And he's enthusiastic and passionate about what he does for a living, not world-weary and cynical. God, I'm so bored with world-weary and cynical.'

Foster knew both adjectives could well be applied to him. He could not remember ever having been innocent and idealistic. Those attributes tended not to flourish in murder squads.

'He also has a gorgeous pair of blue eyes that you want to dive into,' she added, then gave him a victorious smile. 'You did ask.'

'Well, can you lead him astray after the case is closed?' he said, putting on his jacket.

11

Detective Superintendent Harris was sitting in Foster's chair when he arrived the next morning.

He was waiting, leaning forwards, a frown on his tanned face. Foster's head was heavy; three pints in the pub, then half a bottle of claret before turning in hadn't helped. But he needed it to get to sleep -- an alcohol-induced coma was preferable to a restless night.

Harris said nothing, no greeting. Merely tossed a copy of a morning tabloid on to the desk. Foster picked it up.