But now was not the time to ask for such things, he knew. He should have made his demands a few years ago, when the police were getting almost everything they asked for. Those days were long gone. Like everywhere else, Eastvale had been recently plagued by twenty per cent cuts across the board and a drastic county reorganisation designed to implement some of those cuts. The three ‘Areas’ had been replaced by six ‘Safer Neighbourhood Commands’. Changes at County HQ in Newby Wiske also meant that the Major Crimes Unit, or Homicide and Major Enquiry Team as it was now known, still operated out of Eastvale, but covered more ground.
The team came under Assistant Chief Constable (Crime) Ron McLaughlin, known as ‘Red Ron’ because of his leftist leanings, but it was run on a day-to-day basis by Area Commander Catherine Gervaise, and it was now responsible not just for the defunct Western Area, but for the whole county — with the same team strength, and no increase in civilian support staff.
It was time for the nine-thirty briefing, and the team gathered in the boardroom, which despite its modern glass writing board, along with the whiteboard and corkboard, still managed to retain some of its old-fashioned appearance, with the large oval table at its centre, high hard-backed chairs and the portraits of eighteenth- and nineteenth-century wool barons on its walls: red-faced, pop-eyed men with whiskers and tight collars.
Banks took his place nearest the writing boards as the others drifted in, most of them clutching mugs or styrofoam cups of coffee as well as files and notebooks. AC Gervaise had managed to borrow a couple of DCs, Haig and Lombard, from County HQ, but it wasn’t a big team, Banks reflected, nowhere near big enough for a major investigation into the murder of a fellow police officer. It would have to be augmented if the scope of the investigation ballooned, as Banks expected it would, unless they caught an early break. He would be especially glad to see Annie Cabbot back, but DS Jim Hatchley, one of the officers Banks had known the longest in Eastvale, had retired as soon as he had done his thirty years, as Banks had always known he would. He missed the lumbering, obstinate sod.
First, he shared what he knew with the team, then asked if they had anything to add. The short answer was that they didn’t. Scientific Support were still working on the footprints, Photographic Services had the photographs, and the DNA results from the cigarette end and blood didn’t come back anywhere near as quickly as they did on CSI. All the specialist was able to tell him so far was that the brand of cigarette was Dunhill, which a few quick inquiries on Winsome’s part ascertained was Bill Quinn’s brand. There were no other cigarettes found in or near the woods. Obviously the groundsman did a good job.
There was nothing new on the murder weapon, or on the state of Bill Quinn’s body, as Dr Glendenning, the Home Office pathologist, was not due to perform the post-mortem until later that afternoon. A list of possible enemies would be on its way up from West Yorkshire sometime later in the day, if they were lucky, and Quinn’s bank statements, credit card details and home and mobile calls log should also be arriving before the day was out, again with luck. It was a Friday, so there was always a possibility of delays. Inquiries were being made in the village nearest to St Peter’s, as well as at the nearest petrol stations and any other places where strangers were likely to have been spotted. Uniformed officers were canvassing the neighbourhood of Quinn’s Rawdon home to find out if anyone had noticed an interloper recently. The interviews at St Peter’s had been concluded and had revealed nothing of interest except that Quinn was in the habit of going outside for a smoke before bed each night.
‘So it would seem,’ Banks summed up after the team had digested all this information, or lack of it, ‘that we need to get our fingers out. We’re no closer than we were when DI Jenson found the body yesterday morning.’
‘We do have the photos, sir,’ Winsome pointed out. ‘Photographic Services say they’re digital, printed on a common or garden inkjet printer, so nothing new there. They’re analysing the ink content and pixels for comparison with Quinn’s own printer, but it’s not an entirely accurate process.’
‘Their thinking being?’
‘That Quinn may have received the photos as JPEG images and printed them out himself. Which also means there might be more.’
‘And we might be able to trace them to a sender?’
‘If we had them,’ said Winsome, ‘then it’s possible they could be traced to a specific computer.’
‘But we don’t.’
‘No.’
‘Well, that’s one dead end,’ Banks said. ‘I don’t think it really matters whether he printed them himself or someone sent them by post, unless we have the envelope, and it has a postmark and prints on it, which we don’t.’
Winsome stood up and started handing out 8 x 10 prints. ‘They also came up with this enhanced blow-up image of the girl from the restaurant photo,’ she said. ‘It was the best they could do. They’re still working on the background to see if they can get any points of reference.’
‘Any prints on the photos?’
‘Only the victim’s.’
Banks examined the blow-up. It was a little grainy, but Photographic Services had done a great job, and he believed that someone could recognise the girl from it. ‘Excellent,’ he said, then addressed the two young DCs on loan. ‘Haig and Lombard, I want you to make it your priority to check the photo of this girl against escort agency files, Internet dating services, and whatever else you think is relevant. You can use the spare desks in the squad room. We’ve no idea when or where the pictures were taken, of course, but my thinking is sometime over the last two or three years.’
‘It sounds like a long job, sir,’ mumbled Haig, the bulky one.
‘Better get on with it, then. You never know, you might even find you enjoy it. But be careful. If either one of you comes back with a smile on his face and a cigarette in his mouth, he’ll be in deep trouble.’
Everyone laughed. Haig and Lombard exchanged dark glances, took two copies of the photo and left the room.
‘Anything else?’ Banks asked Winsome.
‘We’ve just about finished interviewing the patients and staff at St Peter’s,’ she said. ‘Nothing so far. Barry Sadler and Mandy Pemberton were the last up, but neither of them saw or heard anything.’
‘Are they telling the truth?’
‘I think so, sir. I interviewed Barry Sadler, and he’s very cut up. He’s an ex-copper. The nurse has a clean record and a spotless reputation. Of course, we can always have another go at them if something else turns up pointing in that direction, but I think it’s doubtful.’
Banks took the photograph of Rachel Hewitt from his briefcase and stuck it on the glass alongside the blow-up of the unknown girl with Quinn. He still didn’t understand why the Deputy Chief Commissioner had seen the necessity of spending close to £500 on a glass writing board when the whiteboard worked perfectly well. Basically, you could write and rub out and stick pictures on it, which was all you needed to do. He’d probably seen one on Law & Order UK or some such television programme and thought it was a necessity for the modern police force.