The room was silent for a few moments before McCloughlin continued. 'Jon — you've had a fairly good look around two of the victims' flats. Go and view the crime scene video from Heather Rayne's property and check the white boards. See if any angles show up.'
Taking that as his cue to get going, Jon replied, 'Yes sir,' and went to find the video room. Other officers had obviously been watching the tapes late into the night — a full ashtray and a box of matches had been left on the corner table. Opening the window slightly, Jon looked hungrily at a half-smoked cigarette. Rothman's. His favourite brand before giving up. He loaded the tape marked with Heather Rayne's name into the cassette recorder.
The footage opened on a leafy street, the sound of starlings arguing in the background. The video panned towards the victim's property, the picture moving across a fir tree in the front garden, the edge of a Jaguar coming into the other side of the screen as the officer started walking up the short path leading to the front door. A hand extended into the frame and pushed the front door open. The picture dimmed out and then objects slowly took shape. As the camera made a slow sweep of the hallway area, something began nagging at the back of Jon's mind.
He rewound the tape, unsure of what he was looking for. The footage started again, birds twittering, fir tree, edge of the Jaguar, front path, door. Glancing at the ashtray, he jabbed the pause button, unable to quite work out what had caught his attention. It was as frustrating as having a word on the tip of his tongue. He rewound the tape again. Still it wouldn't come. Angrily he reached over and lifted the half-smoked Rothman's out of the ashtray. He sniffed the charred end, aware that most of the tar, nicotine and various poisons would be concentrated in the cigarette's last third. Hating himself, he lit it up and took a deep drag. As the harsh smoke started his brain dancing, he thought back to the first victim, Polly Mather. He remembered the Subaru Impreza belonging to the neighbour jutting across on to Polly's half of the shared drive. He remembered that a Lexus was usually parked in the third victim's backyard, near to Mary Walters' door. Staring at the TV, he saw the front corner of the Jaguar intruding into the screen. Pulling another lungful of smoke from the cigarette, he stubbed it out and got up. Feeling like he was walking on cotton wool, he entered the main incident room and went over to the allocator. 'Charlie, can you tell me who's compiling the vehicle index for Heather Rayne?'
The officer checked on his computer. 'Sergeant N Darcourt — over there.' He pointed to a bald man with the frame of an overweight bulldog, hunched over a PC.
Jon walked over. 'Nobby, how's it going? You still playing scrum half for Wilmslow?'
The man looked up, one cauliflower ear sprouting from the side of his skull. 'Prop nowadays, mate. Don't know why,' he joked, sitting back and patting his paunch. 'And yourself?'
'Still open side flanker for Cheadle Ironsides. When I get the chance.'
The man gave an understanding grimace. 'What can I do you for?'
Jon sat down on the edge of his desk. 'Just a quick question about Heather Rayne if you have a second.'
'Fire away.'
'Has the inventory been completed for all the vehicles on her street? I'm wondering about a Jag parked outside the front of her house. It shows up on the video footage.'
Sergeant Darcourt flicked through the form he had been filling out. 'No Jag registered to her — the Kellogg's training sessions she held usually took place in a hotel in the city centre. She'd go in on the train. Her registered vehicle is a Golf.' He then leafed through some other notes, 'Here you go. Jaguar XJ7. Registered to D Armstrong, number twenty-five Ivy Green Road. That's her neighbour.'
But Jon was already hurrying back to the video room. 'Cheers mate!' he called out over his shoulder.
Once back in his seat, he let the video roll again. The cameraman stepped into the flat, everything dark while the camera automatically readjusted to the drop in light. Next he turned right into the main room. It looked like an interior designer had been let loose on the place: huge terracotta pots with curly willow jutting out, recessed lighting and white curtains. The room was lit by several arc lamps that bathed the body in a harsh glare. Once again she was lying on her back, arms out to her sides, clothes slightly crumpled, the fringe of her raven hair messed up. But Jon had seen enough. All the victims so far lived in the immediate vicinity of someone who owned a high performance car.
He tried to think objectively, asking himself if his theory could have been unduly influenced by the fact that the case to occupy most of his time over the last few months was the theft of similar cars in the south Manchester area. His mind went back to the car chase in May. How he was almost close enough to smell the panic coming from the dark figure before he had jumped off the bridge and plunged into the black water below. There was no doubt that the bastard escaping him was a serious source of irritation. Biting his lip, he wondered whether to go out on a limb and air his theory to McCloughlin.
The man walked confidently up the short driveway. Glancing over the Mercedes SLK, he rang the doorbell and waited, the fingers of both hands curled round the handle of his briefcase.
The door opened and an elderly man holding a bottle of Guinness looked out. 'Yes?' he asked, taking in the suit and tie.
The caller looked confused. 'I'm sorry, I was looking for…'
'Liz?' the man interrupted. 'I didn't know she was expecting anyone else. Come in. Are you a friend?'
The person on the doorstep hesitated, clearly wrong-footed by the presence of the elderly man. 'No, it's all right.'
'Please,' he insisted. 'She's only popped out for two minutes. She'll be most annoyed if I tell her she had a caller who didn't stay on account of me.'
'You live here as well?'
'No no no,' the old man smiled. 'I'm her dad. She picks me up every other Saturday. She's seen the stuff they serve in the retirement home, so she treats me to a roast lunch every fortnight. She's just getting some parsnips now.'
The visitor had made up his mind and was backing off down the drive. 'Who should I say called?' asked the old man.
'No one,' said the man, retreating towards the road. 'I'll call another time.'
Reluctantly, the man shut the door, afraid his presence had somehow caused offence or — worse — scared off a potential suitor for his permanently single daughter.
Jon was sitting in the video room, resignedly finishing off another half-smoked cigarette. In the main room, he heard the office manager announce that everyone was to gather for a briefing in five minutes' time.
Work was put on hold and the enquiry team gathered in the open area at the top of the room. DCI McCloughlin emerged from his office, clutching a sheet of paper and accompanied by a thin man in wire-framed glasses. Feeling the gaze of so many people upon him, the man nervously pushed the glasses up his nose and ran a hand through his thinning hair.
'OK people,' announced McCloughlin. 'The forensics lab at Chepstow have got back to us.'
Jon sat at the back of the listening crowd, feeling a pang of jealousy that, two days ago, the call would have been directed through to him.
'Toxicology analysis of all three victims' blood shows traces of the same drug. Problem is, it's one they've never come across before. The technician said two of them have spent “quite some time” analysing the ions on the mass spectrometer. God knows what that involves exactly but take it from me: it was expensive. All they can say is that the drug is acid-based and broadly similar in structural terms to gamma hydroxybutyrate. GHB or — as it's known in the clubs — GBH or liquid ecstasy.'