‘You know what we think, Lance?’ Sutton said. ‘We think you’ve graduated. We think you now realise what hard work it is conning women to get a root. Much easier just to use force.’
‘Subdue them,’ Ellen said, ‘drag them into the rear of your station wagon, rape and strangle them.’
Ledwich swallowed. ‘I’m not into that. I’m married now.’
‘Poor woman,’ Ellen said.
That, more than the badgering, seemed to anger Ledwich the most. ‘You lousy slag. I’ll get you for that. Somewhere dark, no backup to look after you, then we’ll see how tough you are.’
‘You’re threatening me, Lance? Or is that an admission of how you operate? A woman alone at night, defenceless…’
‘You’re putting words in my mouth.’
‘Kymbly Abbott,’ Sutton said, ‘Jane Gideon. You forced them into the rear compartment of your Volvo, raped and killed them, then dumped their bodies.’
‘I bet I was working. Check with my boss.’
‘I did, Lance.’ Ellen numbered her fingers: ‘Late to work, finishing early, slipping away sometimes for an hour or more at a time. You aren’t up for Employee of the Year, Lance.’
Ledwich looked hunted. ‘I never fucking killed no-one. Prove I did.’
‘We will.’
‘I’ve put the sex stuff behind me.’
‘Lance,’ Ellen said, examining his perspiring face, smelling the fear, ‘you were sick back in 1991, you’re sick now, you’ll always be sick.’
‘Two days in a row,’ Clara told him. ‘That’s nice.’ She held him tight on the doorstep, then led him into the house. Incense, already lit. Curtains already drawn.
‘Just passing,’ Kees van Alphen said.
‘Yeah, sure.’
She unbuckled his belt. He groaned. He was so hungry for her. Afterwards he said, ‘Did you sleep all right last night?’
It was the question she needed. ‘No,’ she said, with a laugh of real pain. ‘It’s been awful, just awful.’
‘You should get something to help you sleep.’
‘Having you there would help me sleep, big boy.’
He was pleased and embarrassed. ‘Maybe soon. I’m on nights a lot at this time of the year. What about sleeping pills?’
‘They make me hazy in the head the next day. Look, don’t be upset with me, but the only thing that would relax me is dope or coke.’ She stopped. ‘Now you’re disappointed. Sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything.’
He’d gone tense in her arms. She held on, willing him to relax.
‘Sorry, I’ve clearly said the wrong thing.’
‘It’s all right. It’s just, I don’t understand it, that’s all. I don’t mind so much if people are private users, it’s the scumbags who traffic in the stuff, to schoolkids, that really gets to me.’
‘I know. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have brought it up.’
She turned away from him and began to get dressed. She was cutting him out, and she saw that it scared him a little. He pulled her back down to him. ‘Look, when you’re in the job you forget that most people are basically okay. You must’ve thought I was judging you. I wasn’t.’
‘It’s just my nerves at the moment,’ she said. ‘I’m not what you’d call a user. I used to smoke a bit of dope, do a line or two of coke, but that was years ago. I was hardly twenty. I’m clean now. It’s just, I’m so jittery, so bloody scared at night, if I had some dope or coke I think it would help straighten out my nerves.’
He was silent. She began to trace circles on his stomach with her tongue. He was so sensitive! She heard him groan as she took him in her mouth. She knew what she was doing, but even so there was a part of her that was immersing herself in physical pleasure and comfort. She lost herself for a while.
When he was finished, she wriggled to get close to his body, working her mouth to clear the thick saltiness away.
She heard the rumble of his voice in her ear: ‘I could get you what you want.’
She was very still. ‘Come again?’
‘Some grass, if that’s what you want. A couple of grams of coke maybe.’
She sat up and said earnestly, ‘That’s really all I want, Van. I don’t need much. How-’
‘Don’t ask. And if you repeat any of this, I’ll deny it.’
She moved away from him. ‘Don’t be like that. Don’t get angry with me.’
He pulled her against him. ‘Sorry.’
‘I’d never dob you in.’
‘Sorry, Clara, honestly, forget I said it.’
‘I mean, we’d both go down, Van. Ruin both our lives.’
‘Exactly.’
‘When?’ she said. ‘When can you get the stuff?’
‘I’ll come around some time tonight.’
‘What about your wife?’
‘Her?’ He laughed. ‘We separated long ago.’
She realised that she knew nothing about him. ‘Kids?’
‘One. I don’t see her any more.’
McQuarrie turned up that afternoon. ‘This letter, Hal. Any joy?’
‘We’re looking for a Canon printer, but the technicians doubt that the actual printer can be identified.’
McQuarrie swivelled in his chair. He seemed to be mulling over the dimensions of the incident room and the aptitude of Challis and his detectives. Wall map, half-a-dozen desks, files, telephones, computers, and three officers, heads well down because the super was in the room.
‘Two murders, with the likelihood of a third to come.’
‘More than two, sir, if he’s hot a local and done this kind of thing before. There’s a series up around Newcastle we’re looking at.’
‘I’m tempted to bring in the Homicide Squad, Hal.’
There were times when Challis used McQuarrie’s first name. Usually during social occasions. This wasn’t a social occasion, but McQuarrie’s voice had been tinged with doubt, as if he saw the case ballooning out of control-Challis’s, his, the force’s in general. He was a politician, essentially. He wanted reassurance, so Challis said, confidently, ‘That’s not strictly necessary at this stage, Mark.’
McQuarrie looked around helplessly. ‘You’ve got enough support?’
‘No. I could do with more detectives. See if you can get them assigned from two or three different stations so that no-one’s left short-staffed. I’ve already requisitioned more desks, phones and computers.’
McQuarrie sighed. ‘Fair enough. But the minute-’
‘The minute it threatens to fall apart, I’ll let you know.’
‘I mean, this isn’t exactly a case of a husband doing in his wife, Hal. This is different. This is big. I had the London Daily Telegraph on the line last night.’
Challis, to amuse himself, said, ‘What did you tell them?’
‘Oh, it was well under control, and nothing like the Belanglo Forest killings. I hope I said the right thing.’
‘Sir, we’ve got some solid forensic evidence with Jane Gideon. Tyre tracks in the mud, so we have some idea of the kind of vehicle we’re looking for. Apart from the blow to the head, her death resembles Kymbly Abbott’s. I think we can rule out coincidence. We’re putting warnings over the media. With any luck, our man’s supply will run out.’
McQuarrie screwed his mouth up. ‘Nice way of putting it.’
‘To him, sir, young women are a source of supply, they’re not real.’
‘Point taken.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Yes.’ McQuarrie got to his feet. He tilted back his head. ‘Listen up, everybody.’
Ellen Destry threw down her pen. What did the fool want now? She had work to do. Ledwich had taken up most of the morning, and she was still waiting for the forensic technicians to identify the brand of tyre from the plaster casts they’d taken. So far, all they could tell her was that it was an off-road tyre, only slightly worn-ten, maybe fifteen thousand k’s-and distinctive because it had a round shoulder and a very deep tread. No other distinguishing marks, such as chips, burrs or uneven wear in the rubber. ‘But find me the tyre, and I’ll see if I can match it,’ the technicians said. ‘Yeah, sure, piece of cake,’ she’d told them. As for the cast matching the tyres on Lance Ledwich’s Volvo, that seemed very unlikely, even to her untrained eye. Quite a different ‘footprint’, as the technicians put it. She really was not inclined to listen to some crap or other from McQuarrie.