‘We need to keep an open mind,’ responded Vogel. ‘It’s all too easy in an investigation like this to lead yourself up a blind alley.’
‘Right boss,’ said Saslow, who had finished her salad.
She pushed back her chair and stood up.
‘I shall try to avoid that then,’ she muttered over her shoulder, as she turned and headed for the door.
‘Please God,’ said Vogel, even though he didn’t believe in any God at all, never had, and privately thought those who did had something wrong with their brains.
Al
As soon as I was out of sight of the school and the advancing teacher, I made myself slow to a proper speed and proceed normally, zipping up my fly as I drove.
I was heading to the far side of the council estate, where I knew there were some playing fields with parking alongside. No CCTV. I’d checked earlier. I was a good planner, I told myself, that was why I’d never been caught. Not yet anyway. Even on this occasion — when I’d got carried away and forgotten about being careful — it had been a tight call but I had still escaped.
When I reached the playing fields, I took off my hoody and reversed it. I always wore a reversible jacket of some kind on these outings. This one was a nondescript grey on one side and red on the other. Grey was for when I wanted to watch inconspicuously and red was for when I turned myself into an innocent passer-by. Red stood out. Had the teacher reported me, the police or anyone else would be looking for a man in grey. That was the idea, anyway.
I stepped out of the van and walked to the nearest bus stop, which was a couple of streets away and frequently served. I knew exactly where it was. I always did my homework. However, standing at the bus stop, trying to look casual and normal, I was still finding it difficult to control my breathing.
What on earth had I been thinking? What would I have done if that child had climbed into the passenger seat beside me? What would I have wanted her to do? What would I have made her do? How could I have imagined that I could get away with it parked opposite a school?
And afterwards, if miraculously I had not been spotted, then what?
Would I have just let her jump out and trot off back to school for her afternoon lessons? Was it remotely possible that she would have done my bidding and then left quietly? Or would she have yelled and screamed, when she realised exactly what sort of kitten I was holding in my lap? You could never predict how they might react, after all. Would she have cried for her mummy? Would I have had to silence her?
I pushed my hands into the pockets of my hoody. I wanted them tucked away, so that they couldn’t do any harm. No. Not that. I would never do that. I would never hurt one of them. Really, I wouldn’t.
Never again.
Ten
Willis made his way to Patchway and settled in to wait for Terry Cooke, as Vogel had instructed. He sat at an unused desk in the front office and, whilst he made some phone calls, kept a constant eye on the public entrance beyond. At around five minutes to three, he was just beginning to fidget when Cooke walked in. Willis hadn’t met the man before, but recognised him from a photograph Vogel had shown him. Cooke looked both nervous and upset, just like a man who had just lost his daughter.
As soon as Willis saw Cooke enter, he stepped up to the counter to greet him, introduced himself and then uttered the almost mandatory remark of policemen everywhere under such circumstances.
‘I am sorry for your loss, Mr Cooke.’
Cooke nodded in an absent sort of way. ‘I’m sorry I’m late,’ he said. ‘I went back to be with Sarah after… after doing the identification.’ His voice faltered, just for a moment. ‘Then my car wouldn’t start. That woman PC who took me to the morgue offered to drive me, but Sarah needed her more. I didn’t want to leave Sarah alone. I got a bus, which took for ever. Damned car’s had it, but I can’t afford a new one, with three young kids and child support for Melanie.’
He paused. His eyes filled with tears.
‘Not any more,’ he muttered. ‘Not any more.’
Willis wasn’t impressed. He had, more than once, seen the most elaborate outpourings of grief from allegedly distraught family members, who had turned out to be vile murderers.
He made no comment as he escorted Cooke through the building to the custody suite. Here, Cooke was photographed and fingerprinted. He had samples of his saliva extracted, with an instrument like a cotton bud, and placed on a slide. Willis oversaw the entire operation. He was meticulous, even to the point of taking over the DNA testing and fingerprinting himself. The young officer, who had expected to be conducting the tests, made no protest but looked mildly offended.
Willis didn’t care.
He wanted no mistakes. This was a major murder investigation. DI Vogel might be mild-mannered for a senior policeman, but he wasn’t a patient man. Not when conducting a murder inquiry, anyway. Willis wanted the case closed as much as his boss did. An early result would make for a much quieter life. Willis took the DNA slide to the custody sergeant to be recorded and sent off to forensics. The results would take several days.
Willis already believed that Terry Cooke could well end up being arrested on suspicion of the murder of his daughter, but these situations were always tricky. It was imperative that if the man were to be charged, brought to trial and ultimately convicted, the case would have to be watertight. Willis intended to do his damnedest to make sure of that. Indeed, he intended to do more than his damnedest. He was determined to succeed and he would start by getting to know Terry Cooke better, just as Vogel had suggested. Nothing he learned this way would be admissible in any court case, but his purpose was primarily to gather ammunition for any future formal interviews.
Willis more or less insisted on driving Cooke home, albeit in the most commiserate of terms.
‘C’mon mate, you want to get back to your family,’ he said. ‘I’ll take you in my own car. Nobody will know I’m a copper and even if anyone did, well, under the circumstances you would be expected to be having dealings with the police.’
Cooke looked doubtful.
‘I need to go round to Sarah’s first,’ he said. ‘Sort out my car. It’s all right. I don’t need to bother you. I’ll get the bus again.’
Willis persisted.
‘Look mate, we both want to get the bastard who killed your daughter, don’t we?’
Cooke agreed. He still looked very shaken. Willis thought he might be able to trade on that.
‘Well come on, let me be your chauffeur and we can talk about it on the way, man to man. Away from the station. You might know something that would help, without even being aware of it. You’d be surprised how often that happens.’
Meekly, Cooke allowed himself to be led out to Willis’s car. The policeman began his questioning as soon as they were both sitting in the vehicle, albeit in as casual a fashion as possible. After all, nothing said in such circumstances could ever be used as evidence, and Willis was aiming for a friendly chat rather than anything resembling an interview. Or to make it appear that way, at least.
‘Do you mind telling me again, mate, just so I’m sure I’ve got it right, when you last saw your daughter?’ Willis asked as they pulled out of the station yard.
Cooke looked exasperated.
‘Do we have to go over everything repeatedly?’ he asked.
‘You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, mate,’ replied Willis. ‘This is just an informal chat, but you do want to help, don’t you?’
Cooke nodded glumly. His body language was resigned.
‘OK, then please help me check a few details. Doesn’t mean you’re a suspect or anything.’