Eeny Meeny

70

As soon as Charlie entered the incident room, she noticed the atmosphere. When an investigation is in full cry, incident rooms are noisy, aggressive, busy places. But today it was quiet, sombre even, and it wasn’t hard to see why. Mark’s desk was clean, his board cleared of personal photos and memorabilia. It was as if he had never existed.

But Mark had been a popular member of the team and everyone felt his absence. He may have been vulnerable, a fuck-up, but that was part of his charm, especially for the girls. The little-boy-lost thing. He was also bright and funny and when he applied himself he was a good copper. But now everyone was privately asking themselves whether the Mark they knew was the real one. Could he have sold them out? Had all their work been wasted, leaked? Were his financial needs really so dire that he would betray them like this? Charlie was troubled by it – she’d always basically liked Mark – and she made a mental note to check what had happened to his personal things. She got on with her work, but the empty chair was always in sight out of the corner of her eye.

Helen entered shortly after 9 a.m. and everyone made a Herculean effort to be cheerful and act as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Helen, as was her wont, didn’t mess about, calling Charlie to update her on developments. She seemed on edge and was impatient for news.

‘Tell me about Martina.’

‘Well she was born a he and probably had the op in the last three to five years. Scar tissue suggests it’s no earlier than that.’

‘Did she advertise her services as a post-op transsexual?’

‘No. Her line was that she liked to party and knew how to pleasure. A fun slut, that sort of thing.’

‘Why? You can always get more from punters for being a trannie. More exotic, more specialist. Why not advertise that fact?’

‘Perhaps she didn’t like the crowd it attracted?’

‘Or perhaps she had something to hide?’

The question hung in the air, then:

‘Was she local?’ Helen continued.

‘Doesn’t look like it. The other girls say she started working down here a couple of months back. Her website confirms that – she’s got a local IP address and it was set up eight weeks ago.’

‘What about her real address?’

Charlie shook her head.

‘Nothing so far. She was a bit of a mystery to the other girls, kept herself to herself.’

‘What about a money trail?’

‘We’re talking to the local banks but so far no account in her name.’

Helen exhaled. Nothing about this case was easy.

‘Well, our best bet is the clinics then. How many local clinics are there that do this sort of work?’

‘Fifteen. We’re talking to them all, though most are a little cagey about discussing their clients.’

‘Well, make them uncagey. Tell them what happened to Martina, show them the pictures. We need to know who she was. He was.’

Charlie couldn’t suppress a wry smile and for once Helen couldn’t either. Was Charlie fooling herself or was their relationship improving since Helen had put her through the mill? Charlie had been enraged following the confrontation – to have someone question your integrity like that – and had even contemplated asking for a transfer. And yet she still wanted Helen to like her, still wanted her respect. Truth was that most women in the force wanted to be like her. She was the youngest female DI in Hampshire police and her progress through the ranks had been stellar. She had no husband, no family, which gave her an unfair advantage in many women’s eyes, but she had still done amazingly well. She was a role model for them all.

Helen turned to face the team.

‘DC Brooks will be running things today. Top priority: the clinics. I know we’re a man light now and you’ve all got questions about that. When the time is right, I will tell you more. But for now I need you all to focus. We have a killer to catch.’

And with that, she left. Charlie immediately started handing out tasks to Sanderson, McAndrew and the rest, who took them without complaint, despite many being the same rank as Charlie. Intent on appearing serious and professional, Charlie was brisk and to the point, but inside she was grinning. The first time in living memory that Helen Grace had let someone else steer the ship.