Part 5 (1/2)

Christ. She sat down at the table, her heart sinking. Here we go Here we go. 'Thinking? About what?'

There was a pause. He started to say something, then changed his mind.

'What, Ben? Spit it out you've been thinking about what?'

Something in his eyes dimmed a little. He shrugged, half turned towards the window. 'About the phone call.'

'The phone call phone call? What phone call?'

'The one Lorne had with Alice. There's something in it that's important. Something that didn't come out when Lorne was reported missing.'

Zoe didn't move. He'd sidestepped. He'd ducked saying it, whatever 'it' was. She stood, tipped her coffee into the sink, found her car keys in her pocket. 'I'm taking the car today,' she said. 'Do you want a lift in or are you going to drive yourself?'

13.

The superintendent at Bath was in his late fifties. He had curly blond hair kept very short and the sort of skin that burned easily. He'd started life in Firearms, then come over to CID and regretted the move to this day. He still wore a blue and yellow National Rifle a.s.sociation pin in his lapel, had a wall covered with photos of himself in the firing range and seemed to hold every member of his team responsible for his big life-mistake. That morning he looked as if he'd far rather be at the club shooting the c.r.a.p out of some 'advancing Hun' than standing at the helm of the biggest murder case that had hit the city in years.

'This is a nasty, nasty crime. Very, very serious. I don't need to tell you that you've all seen the post-mortem pictures, you know what's going on here. But I want to remind you to keep clear heads on this. Concentrate. There are lots of things to cover. Most of them you probably know, but let's put them in a bundle so nothing's missed.' He held up his coffee cup to indicate the points outlined on the whiteboard behind him. 'To summarize. Lorne popular girl, very pretty, as you can see. Big circle of friends though so far no one's saying anything about boyfriends. First thing I want to run through is the list of items to flag up for the search teams. Bits and pieces here, but mostly things missing from Lorne's personal effects.'

He pointed to the picture from the mortuary of Lorne's bloodied left ear. The killer had ripped her earring out, leaving the lobe sliced from midway to bottom. A photo of her other ear showed the remaining earring intact. 'Number one, an earring. Quite an unusual design. Apparently it had been bought for her in Tangiers by her father. See this filigree? So ...' He nodded in the direction of the DCs ranked at the back of the room, arms folded across their chests. They had been taken partly from the ranks at Bath station and partly from the Major Crime Investigation Unit. 'One of you. Get that added to the search list.'

Zoe stood near the front, her hands in the pockets of her black jeans. Her tongue was thick with last night's wine, her muscles twitchy with all the coffee she'd drunk this morning to jump-start the day, and her jaw was still hurting from having the tennis ball in her mouth. Ben was leaning against the desk next to her, his arms folded. Usually on the way in to work she'd keep up with his car on her bike, sidewinder him in traffic. Today, as she drove in to work, she'd kept her distance behind his car, feeling she suddenly didn't have the right to fun and games and flirtation.

'Her phone's missing. Switched off. But I'm comforted to know that Telephony at the bureau has got a watch on it. Am I right?'

The sergeant who headed the team's intelligence cell nodded. 'Vodafone are a nice network,' he said, 'the only one in the UK that do live cell site a.n.a.lysis. The moment that phone is switched on they'll get a ping on it and we'll know.'

'Except,' said the superintendent, 'chances that'll happen are, let's be realistic, zero. More likely he's slung it, so I hope it's been added to the search-team briefings. It's an iPhone, white.'

He set his cup down and picked up a girl's fleecy pink gilet. With his finger stuck through the loop at the neck he dangled it in front of the officers. 'Mum is adamant she was wearing something like this when she left home. It wasn't among what we recovered from the crime scene, so put an asterisk next to that for the search teams. And, last, there's a tarpaulin, which you've seen in the photos we've trawled around the barge owners down there and they're all saying the same thing. It's standard stuff for a barge, a tarp to cover the wood and coal and what-have-you but still no one's missing one. They get a lot of overnight moorings in that stretch of the ca.n.a.l, casual since you don't pay for the first twenty-four hours, so bear that in mind. Have a word with all the boathouses and someone speak to British Waterways to find out what the water bailiff saw moored there overnight. Someone get photos of the tarp distributed and the fleece. Either get Exhibits to have another photo of the earring done or get the PM one Photoshopped so it hasn't got the dead ear attached. Then get it to the press office the media can have both of these. Ben? Zoe? Can I leave it to you to decide how best to divvy that up?'

Zoe nodded. Ben held up his thumb.

'Good. Now ...' The superintendent rubbed his hands together, as if he was about to announce an unexpected treat. 'You can see we've got a lot of meat to chew on, a lot of standard routes to walk up, but there's something else I want you to put into your pipes. We've got a visitor today.'

Everyone in the room automatically turned their eyes to the young woman who'd been sitting patiently in the corner throughout the meeting. With long, well-groomed dark hair, she was very neat and quiet, dressed in a white blouse and very tight bottlegreen trousers with high-heeled sandals just peeping out under the hems. Her skin was lightly tanned, her nails polished and well kept. Zoe had noticed a lot of the men looking at her.

'This is Debbie Harry. Not, I am reliably informed, related to the other Debbie Harry.'

'Sadly.' Debbie shook her head ruefully. 'In my dreams, you know.'

One or two of the men laughed. Goodsy, standing in the back row, whispered in his neighbour's ear. Zoe could guess what he was saying.

'Now, you're from Bristol University, it says here, and you're a forensic psychiatrist.'

'Psychologist.'

'Psychologist, sorry. A bit like Cracker?'

'That's right.'

'Funny.' The superintendent put a hand up to his mouth and said, in a stage whisper, to the team, 'Doesn't look much like Robbie Coltrane to me.'

This time almost everyone laughed. Not Zoe, though. She clearly recalled the superintendent saying over and over again that he'd never, ever, let a 'f.u.c.king head doctor' within a mile of his incident room. That they were all quacks and poofs and had their heads up their a.r.s.es. Evidently he'd never met a 'head doctor' who looked like this. To see her, you'd think honey would ooze out of her mouth the moment it opened. She got up and came to the front, leaning back on the desk casually, as if this was her own lecture room, half crossing one leg over the other. Just enough to be flirtatious without being totally provocative. Clever girl, Zoe thought. She knew the effect it would have on a roomful of men.

'Look,' said Debbie, a bright, open expression on her face. 'This is going to be a big leap of faith for some of you if I ask you to approach this not from an evidentiary perspective but from a psychoa.n.a.lytical perspective, to ask you to think in terms of profiling the offender. Probably sounds like voodoo to a lot of you.' She smiled. 'But if you're prepared to make that leap of faith then, I can a.s.sure you, I'll be right alongside you.'

Zoe took a long, patient breath. She'd been here before, heard psychologists talking the talk. Spiels about anger excitation, power rea.s.surance, long a.n.a.lyses of why the b.a.s.t.a.r.d had done what he did, what he was thinking when he did it, what his eye colour was, what underpants he wore, what he'd had for breakfast the day he did it. In her experience they weren't worth much as investigative tools, and sometimes they were positively destructive. Still, some investigators swore by them and she could see from the glowy light in the superintendent's eyes that he was a new convert. Amazing what a nice pair of legs and a smile could do.

'First,' Debbie said clearly, 'I suppose the question that's in the front of everyone's minds, the biggest one, is, what's the writing all about?' She turned her eyes to the whiteboard where the blown-up photos of Lorne's abdomen had been pinned. Next to them, in a round, cursive hand, the words had been written out.

No one.

'I wonder,' Debbie said ruminatively, 'I wonder is that a message to us? Could be. Or to Lorne? Or a statement to the killer himself? Let's think carefully about that wording: ”no one”. Does that mean Lorne is no one to him? A nothing? Worthless? Or is it something else? Does it mean that he he's a no one? That no one cares. No one understands me No one understands me. I'm inclined to think it's something like that which would mean we have someone here with very low self-esteem. He could be the type to form unnaturally intense relations.h.i.+ps with people the type to become jealous or aggrieved easily. Now that he's killed Lorne he could enter a period of self-recrimination. There may be a suicide attempt. There may already have been a suicide attempt, so I'd suggest that would be something you could check on suicides and admissions since the time of her death.' Debbie turned back to the board. She was enjoying this. Like a reception teacher with a cla.s.s full of bright-faced children gazing up at her raptly. 'Let's move on to the next sentence. He's written something on her thigh that looks like ”all like her”. Any ideas on that?' She scratched her head, a subtle suggestion to the team that they were thinking with with her, that she wasn't just cramming her theories down their throats. 'Any thoughts?' her, that she wasn't just cramming her theories down their throats. 'Any thoughts?'

The men shrugged, waiting for her to provide the answer.

'OK.' She linked her hands round her knees and tipped her head shyly. 'Let me be a bit bold. Let me take you by the hand and lead you out on a limb. Let me say that, in my opinion, Lorne knew her killer.'

There was a ripple of attention. People murmuring among themselves. Zoe glanced at Ben to see his reaction. His head was lowered and he was busily scribbling notes to himself on his customary yellow legal pad, probably to stop himself laughing out loud, she thought.

Debbie held up her hand to quieten the muttering. 'I know a leap of faith, but let me just work with it for a moment. What do we know about Lorne?'

'That she was popular,' said the intelligence cell sergeant. 'Had lots of friends, lots of male admirers. So that sentence could be ”they all like her”.'

'Exactly,' Debbie said triumphantly, beaming at him. 'Exactly. This is a direct comment about Lorne. And, in case you think I'm grasping at straws to support a flimsy theory, let me say something else. I've a.n.a.lysed Lorne's tragic injuries, and those just confirm my conclusions about who attacked her that night. He definitely approached her from the front. The pathologist said it was a single blow that incapacitated her, and caused the bleeding to the nose. There are no signs she tried to run no screams heard. Her attacker had got really close to her, really close, and she'd allowed it. Now, would she have done that if she didn't know him? No, is the answer. She wouldn't. In fact ...' she did a little mime of a tightrope walker arms out, trying to keep her balance '... now I'm out on my limb whoa! whoa! I may as well go all the way and say I may as well go all the way and say I I wouldn't rule out that the offender may have had, or at least believed he was having, a relations.h.i.+p with Lorne. I also think he could be quite near Lorne's age. Maybe a year or two older and probably the same ethnic and socio-political background. Could even be a member of her peer group.' wouldn't rule out that the offender may have had, or at least believed he was having, a relations.h.i.+p with Lorne. I also think he could be quite near Lorne's age. Maybe a year or two older and probably the same ethnic and socio-political background. Could even be a member of her peer group.'

The superintendent held up his hand. 'A question.'

Oh, please, Zoe thought, ask her why she's talking such c.r.a.p. Go on, ask her.

'You say he's about her age?'

'Within a year or so, yes.'

'And what makes you think he's known to her?'

'She had a blow to the face. That's a cla.s.sic sign. Depersonalization, we call it. But before I go any further ...' Debbie gave them a million-dollar smile, with the expensive dentistry on show '... I'm going to come back off my limb. See? I'm nice and safe in the tree now, and I want to make one thing very, very clear. OK?'

'OK,' one or two voices said.

'I want it clear that my thoughts are only for guidance guidance. Only for guidance and only my my opinion. You're all adults, and I don't want to be patronizing, but you should always keep an open mind. Please.' She sighed as if this was the one drawback in her job the way everyone took her word as gospel. 'I reiterate: opinion. You're all adults, and I don't want to be patronizing, but you should always keep an open mind. Please.' She sighed as if this was the one drawback in her job the way everyone took her word as gospel. 'I reiterate: you must keep an open mind you must keep an open mind.'

'Christ Christ Christ.' After the meeting Zoe swung into Ben's office without knocking. She was the only one in the building allowed to do that. She dropped into a chair and folded her arms, her legs pushed out, heels dug into the carpet. 'Can you f.u.c.king believe it? The superintendent is being led by his d.i.c.k. Known to her killer? The same age? All this from her injuries? ”This blow to her face is a cla.s.sic sign of depersonalization”? I mean, s.h.i.+t, Ben, it's the same injury you see in about eighty per cent of the muggings we go to and most of those victims had never met their attacker before. Don't you remember those photos of depersonalization they showed us on that course that was de-b.l.o.o.d.y-personalization. Eyeb.a.l.l.s out. Things carved into the forehead. Noses cut off. Twenty-seven wounds to the face. But Debbie ”not the the Debbie” Harry is saying a single blow to the ...' She trailed off. Ben wasn't shaking his head ruefully, regretting the appalling situation. Instead he was sitting in silence. Watching her without expression. Debbie” Harry is saying a single blow to the ...' She trailed off. Ben wasn't shaking his head ruefully, regretting the appalling situation. Instead he was sitting in silence. Watching her without expression.