Fever of the Bone

CHAPTER 4

Carol couldn’t believe how quickly John Brandon’s presence had been erased from his former office. His décor had been muted and unobtrusive, a single family photograph and an elaborate coffee machine the only real clues to the man himself. James Blake was clearly cut from a different cloth. Leather armchairs, an antique desk and wooden filing cabinets provided a faux country house feel. The walls were hung with unmissable pointers to Blake’s success - his framed degree certificate from Exeter, photographs of him with two prime ministers, the Prince of Wales, a scatter of home secretaries and minor celebrities. Carol wasn’t sure whether this was vanity or a warning shot across the bows of Blake’s visitors. She’d reserve judgement till she knew him better.

Blake, looking buffed and spruce in his dress uniform, waved Carol to one of the tub chairs in front of his desk. Unlike Brandon, he didn’t offer tea or coffee. Or pleasantries, it turned out. ‘I’ll get straight to the point, Carol,’ he said.

So that was how it was going to be. No fake building of bridges, no pretence at common ground between them. It was evident to Carol that the use of her name wasn’t the first step on the road to camaraderie, just a firm attempt at diminishing her by refusing to acknowledge her rank. ‘I’m glad to hear it, sir.’ She resisted the impulse to cross her arms and legs, choosing instead to mirror the openness of his pose. Some things had rubbed off from all those years of hanging around with Tony.

‘I’ve looked at your record. You’re a brilliant police officer, Carol. And you’ve built a first-class team around you.’ He paused, expectant.

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘And therein lies the problem.’ Blake’s mouth turned up in a smile that indicated how pleased he was at his own cleverness.

‘We’ve never viewed our success as a problem,’ Carol said, knowing that wasn’t quite the response he’d been looking for.

‘I understand the terms of engagement for your team are that you investigate major crime on our patch that doesn’t come under the remit of any of the national squads?’

Carol nodded. ‘That’s right.’

‘But when you’re between major crimes, you investigate cold cases?’ He couldn’t hide his disdain.

‘We do. And we’ve had some notable successes there too.’

‘I don’t dispute that, Carol. What I dispute is whether your talents are best deployed on cold cases.’

‘Cold cases are important. We speak for the dead. We bring closure to the families and we bring people to justice after they’ve stolen years from society.’

Blake’s nostrils flared, as if some unpleasant odour had wafted his way. ‘Is that what your friend Dr Hill says?’

‘It’s what we all think, sir. Cold cases matter. Their impact on the public isn’t negligible either. They help people to realise how committed the police service is to solving major crime.’

Blake took out a small box of breath mints and popped one in his mouth. ‘All of that’s true, Carol. But frankly, cold cases are for plodders. Carthorses, Carol, not thoroughbred racehorses like you and your team. It’s perseverance that solves them, not the kind of brilliance you and your team bring to bear.’

‘I’m afraid I don’t agree with your assessment, sir.’ She couldn’t quite grasp why she was growing so angry. Only that she was. ‘If it was that simple, these cases would have been resolved a long time ago. It’s not just about applying new forensic techniques to old cases. It’s about coming at the cases from fresh angles, about thinking the unthinkable. My crew are good at that.’

‘That may be. But it’s not an effective use of my budget. Your team represents a stupendous level of investment. You have a range and level of skills and knowledge that should be devoted to solving current cases. Not just major crimes, but other serious matters that cross the desks of CID. The people we serve deserve the best possible policing. It’s my job to provide that in the most cost effective way possible. So I’m putting you on notice, Carol. I’m going to leave things as they are for the time being, but your team will be coming under close examination. You’re on trial. In three months’ time, I’m going to make a decision based on a rigorous scrutiny of your caseload and your results. But I’m warning you now: all my instincts are to reabsorb you into the mainstream of CID.’

‘Sounds like you’ve already made your mind up, sir,’ Carol said, forcing herself to sound pleasant.

‘It’s up to you, Carol.’ This time, the smile was undeniably smug. ‘And one other thing - while we’re on the subject of budget? You seem to commit a lot of money to consulting Dr Hill.’

Now the stirring of anger was rising to a flare. ‘Dr Hill has been a key component in how we achieve our success,’ she said, unable to avoid sounding terse.

‘He’s a clinical psychologist, not a forensic scientist. His expertise is replicable.’ Blake opened a drawer and took a folder from it. He glanced at Carol as if surprised that she was still there. ‘The National Police Faculty has been training police officers in behavioural science and profiling. Using their resources is going to save us a fortune.’

‘They don’t have Dr Hill’s expertise. Or his experience. Dr Hill is unique. Mr Brandon always thought so.’

There was a long silence. ‘Mr Brandon isn’t here to protect you any more, Carol. He may have thought it was appropriate to pay your . . .’ he paused and when he spoke again, it was freighted with innuendo ‘. . . landlord such a large chunk of Bradfield Police’s budget. I don’t. So if you need a profiler, use one who doesn’t make us look corrupt, would you?’

Patterson could feel the first throb of a headache deep in his skull. It was hardly surprising; he’d had a scant two hours’ sleep. Viewers who saw him on TV could be forgiven for thinking their TVs had been swapped for black-and-white sets, what with his silver hair and grey skin. Only the red eyes would be the give-away. He’d had enough coffee to kick-start a Harley Davidson but even that hadn’t helped him look like a man you’d want running your murder inquiry. There was nothing more dispiriting than holding a press conference with nothing to give other than the bare facts of the crime itself.

Maybe they’d get lucky. Maybe the media coverage would shake loose a witness who had noticed Jennifer Maidment after she’d waved farewell to her best friend. That would surely be the triumph of hope over experience. What was more likely was a stream of fantasy sightings, most of them delivered in good faith but just as useless as the attention seekers and the unfathomable bastards who simply liked to waste police time.

As the reporters filed out, he went in search of Ambrose. He found him looming over their tame forensic computer analyst. Gary Harcup had been dragged out of his bed just after midnight and put to work on Jennifer’s laptop. Ambrose barely glanced up at his boss then turned back to the screen, screwing up his tired brown eyes to help him focus. ‘So what you’re telling me is that all of these sessions originated on different machines? Even though it says it’s the same person talking to Jennifer?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Well, how can that be?’ Ambrose sounded frustrated.

‘I’m guessing whoever was talking to Jennifer was using internet cafés and libraries. Never the same place twice.’ Gary Harcup shared bulk with Alvin Ambrose, but that was all. Where Ambrose was taut, polished and muscular, Gary was plump, rumpled and bespectacled with a mop of tousled brown hair and matching beard. He looked like a cartoon bear. He scratched his head. ‘He’s using a free email address, impossible to trace. None of the sessions lasts more than half an hour, nobody is going to pay any attention to him.’

Patterson pulled up a chair. ‘What’s going on, lads? Have you got something for us, Gary?’

But it was Ambrose who replied. ‘According to Claire Darsie, her and Jennifer used RigMarole all the time. And Gary here’s been able to pull up a whole stack of their chat room and IM sessions.’

‘Anything useful?’ Patterson leaned forward so he could see the screen more easily. A whiff of fresh soap came from Ambrose, making Patterson feel ashamed of his own unwashed state. He’d not stopped to shower, settling for a swift pass of the electric shaver over his face.

‘There’s a lot of rubbish,’ Gary said. ‘The usual teenage chatter about X Factor and Big Brother. Pop stars and soap actors. Gossip about their mates from school. Mostly they’re talking to other kids from their class, but there are some outsiders from other areas of RigMarole. Generally other girls of their age into the same boy bands.’

‘I hear a “but”,’ Patterson said.

‘You hear right. There’s one that’s a bit different,’ Ambrose said. ‘Trying to fit the mould but hitting the occasional bum note. Cagey about revealing anything that might pin them down geographically. Can you show us, Gary?’

Gary’s fingers fluttered over the keys and a string of message exchanges started to scroll down the screen. Patterson read attentively, not quite sure what he was looking for. ‘You think it’s paedophile grooming?’

Ambrose shook his head. ‘It doesn’t feel like that. Whoever it is, they’re drawing Jennifer and her buddies out, making friends. Usually with paedos, they’re trying to cut one out of the herd. They play on general insecurities about looks, weight, personality, just not being cool enough. That’s not happening here. It’s much more about showing solidarity. Being one of the group.’ He tapped the screen with his finger. ‘It’s not exploitative in any way.’

‘And then it gets really interesting,’ Gary said, scrolling down so fast the messages turned into a blur of text and smileys. ‘This was five days ago.’

Jeni: Wot do u mean, zz?

ZZ: Evry1 has secrets, things theyr ashamd of. Things u’d

die if ur crew new about.

Jeni: I don’t. My best friend nos everything about me.

ZZ: Thats wot we all say and we all lying.

‘The others weigh in and it turns into a general conversation,’ Gary said. ‘But then ZZ pulls Jennifer into a private IM session. Here we go.’

ZZ: i wanted 2 talk 2 u in priv8.

Jeni: Y?

ZZ: cuz i no u hav a BIG secret.

Jeni: U no more than me then.

ZZ: sumtimes we dont no wot our own secrets r. Bt i no a

secret tt u wd not want anybody else to no.

Jeni: I don’t no wot u r on about.

ZZ: b online 2moro same time & we’ll talk abt it sum more.

‘And that’s where that session ends,’ Gary said.

‘So what happened the next day?’ Patterson said.

Gary leaned back in his chair and rumpled his hair. ‘That’s the problem. Whatever ZZ had to say to Jennifer was enough to make her wipe the conversation.’

‘I thought there was no such thing as wiping a computer’s memory, short of hitting the hard disk very hard with a hammer,’ Patterson said. The headache was bedding in now, a deep dull throb beating between his ears. He squeezed the bridge of his nose tight, trying to shut down the pain.

‘That’s about the size of it,’ Gary said. ‘Doesn’t mean it’s accessible at the click of a mouse, though. I’m assuming this lass didn’t have a clue how to scrub her machine clean. But even so, I’m going to have to push a shedload of software through this baby to try and retrieve what she’s tried to erase.’

‘For fuck’s sake,’ Ambrose groaned. ‘How long’s that going to take?’

Gary shrugged, his whole chair moving with him. ‘Piece of string, innit? I might crack it in a few hours, but it could take days.’ He spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. ‘What can I say? It’s not like servicing a car. There’s no way I can give you a meaningful estimate.’

‘Fair enough,’ Patterson said. ‘Can we just go back to where I came in? You were telling Alvin these sessions all came from different computers? Is there any way to find out where those computers are?’

Gary shrugged, then laced his fingers together and cracked his knuckles. ‘Theoretically, but there’s no guarantee. There’s websites that hold the details of individual computers’ IDs. But machines change hands.’ He pulled the corners of his mouth down like a sad clown. ‘Still, there’s a fair chance you can track down some of them.’

‘At least that way we might get some idea of where this bastard’s based,’ Patterson said. ‘That also needs to be a priority for us now. Can you deal with that as well as analysing the computer? Or do we need to bring in some support?’

If Gary had been a dog, the ruff of hair at the back of his neck would have been standing erect. ‘I can manage,’ he said. ‘While the programs are running on Jennifer’s machine, I can start looking up the computer IDs.’

Patterson stood up. ‘Fine. But if it’s taking too long, we’ll get you some help on the donkey work.’

Gary glowered at him. ‘None of this is donkey work.’

Patterson managed not to roll his eyes. ‘No, of course not. Sorry, Gary. No offence.’ He resisted the temptation to pat him on the shoulder as he would with his family’s pet mongrel. He stood up. ‘Alvin, a word?’

Out in the corridor, Patterson leaned against the wall, the lack of progress feeling like a physical weight on his shoulders. ‘This is going bloody nowhere,’ he said. ‘We’ve not got a single witness. She got off the bus but never made it as far as the Co-op. It’s like Jennifer Maidment vanished into thin air somewhere between the bus stop and the shop.’

Alvin’s mouth twisted up in one corner and dropped down again. ‘That’s if she was ever going to the Co-op.’

‘What do you mean? According to you, Claire Darsie said Jennifer was going to the Co-op to buy chocolate for her dad’s cake. She saw her walking in that direction. Jennifer waved to her.’

‘Doesn’t mean she was telling the truth,’ Ambrose said, his face impassive. ‘Just because she started off walking that way doesn’t mean she kept on going. Claire said the whole thing was out of character. So maybe Jennifer had other plans. Plans that had bugger all to do with the Co-op. Or her dad’s cake. Maybe there wasn’t a cake at all.’

‘You think she was meeting somebody?’

Ambrose shrugged. ‘You’ve got to wonder what would be important enough to make a teenage girl lie to her best mate. Generally, that comes down to a lad.’

‘You think she realised the gatecrasher on Rig was a bloke?’

‘I don’t know. I doubt she was that sophisticated. I think she went to learn more about this so-called “secret”.’

Patterson sighed. ‘And until Gary works his magic, we don’t have a bloody clue what that might be.’

‘True. But in the meantime, it wouldn’t hurt to have a chat with Mum and Dad. Find out if there were ever any plans for a cake.’