“But we could be making real progress here,” Joanne protested. “Surely Commander Telford’s going to see the sense in following up this lead?”
Steve smiled. “I think I can persuade him to share our view.” The lift shuddered to a halt at their floor. “Wish me luck. I’ll see you and Neil in my office in fifteen minutes.”
He turned down the corridor, walking past blank-faced doors until he came to his immediate superior’s office. Steve knocked and waited for the invitation to enter. Commander David Telford was sitting behind what Steve would have bet was the tidiest desk in the building. Not a single scrap of loose paper blemished its polished surface. Pens clustered in a metal holder, a pad of paper sat by the phone, and that was it. The walls were blank save for Telford’s framed commendations and his business studies degree from Aston University. “Sit down, Steve,” he said, his face stern. He was determined to obliterate from the collective memory of the Metropolitan Police the notion that anyone other than Steve Preston was to blame for the Francis Blake fiasco. Steve understood that, and knew it was the reason why Telford or Teflon, as he was known to the lower ranks continued to treat him as if he brought a bad smell into the office with him.
“Thank you, sir.” Sometimes playing the game was a killer, but Steve cared too much about catching criminals ever to consider seriously the alternative.
“Still no progress, then?” Telford’s question implied the answer he wanted to hear. He cared more about image than justice, Steve knew. Finding Susan Blanchard’s killer was not at the top of Tenon’s agenda. Better that his team never found the real killer so the world could go on thinking the Met had been cheated of Francis Blake by the trial judge rather than their own maverick operation.
“On the contrary, sir. I think we’ve opened up a new line of inquiry.” Painstakingly, Steve went through the fresh evidence about the cyclist and what Joanne’s trawl of records had produced. “Now I need budget authorization to commission a geographic profile based on this cluster of cases so we can develop viable suspects,” he concluded.
Telford frowned. “It’s all a bit tenuous, isn’t it? Nothing in the way of hard evidence, is there?”
“The problem with this case all along has been the absence of hard evidence, sir. The lack of forensics at the crime scene, the relative lack of witnesses, the lack of apparent relationship between killer and victim. It’s obvious that the killer has some experience in covering his tracks, and that suggests he’s committed sexually motivated attacks before. This is the most promising line of inquiry we’ve had since we began the investigation, sir.”
“Clutching at straws,” Telford complained.
“I think it’s rather more than that, sir.” The words, ‘with respect’ hovered on Steve’s lips, but he held back, unwilling to utter that particular lie. “It’s a valid investigative strategy. Sooner or later, we’re going to come back under the spotlight over this case if we don’t resolve it. When that happens, I’d like to be able to say we left no avenues unexplored.”
“I thought Dr. Cameron had publicly refused ever to work with us again?” Telford was off on another tack, unsettled by Steve’s subtle threat of publicity.
“It wouldn’t be Dr. Cameron doing the analysis, sir. We would be commissioning another member of her department.”
Telford cracked a smile. “One in the eye for her, then.”
Steve said nothing. Perhaps malice would win where common sense had failed.
Telford swivelled in his chair and appeared to study his degree certificate. “Oh, very well, do your analysis.” He turned abruptly back to Steve. “Just don’t screw up this time, Superintendent.”
Steve walked back to his office, his hands fists. How sweet it would be to find Susan Blanchard’s killer, he thought. OK, Telford would take the public credit, but everybody inside the force would know the truth. Justice served, in every possible way.
He pushed open the door of his office, where he found DC Neil McCartney and Joanne waiting for him. Neil was a large untidy man in his mid-twenties. Steve had never seen him look anything other than mildly dishevelled and he was incapable of sitting in a chair without looking as if he was sprawling. He often wondered what the lad had looked like in uniform. His appearance alone would probably have guaranteed that he’d be booted up to CID at the earliest possible opportunity. It also hadn’t hurt that he was a good policeman; shrewd, thoughtful and tenacious to the point of bloody-mindedness.
“All right. We’ve got the go-ahead for the geographic profile,” Steve announced as he squeezed round Neil’s awkwardly arrayed legs. “I’ll take the material over to the university personally as soon as we’ve finished up here. So, Neil, what’s Blake been up to?”
“As far as we can tell, nothing of any great interest. Sleeping late, going out for a paper and a pint of milk and a couple of videos most mornings, then back home. Down the bookies some lunch times a couple of pints in the local boozer then a walk in the park. Back to the flat and apparently staying in watching TV, judging by the flickering at the window. Nothing sinister, nothing dodgy. Which is just as well, with us running minimal surveillance one-on-one. For all we know, he could be up to all sorts when we’re not around. Some days when we are there, he doesn’t put his nose across the door. He could have a harem in there and we’d be none the wiser.”
Steve nodded sympathetically. “I know it’s less than satisfactory. But we’ll just have to keep as close an eye on our friend Mr. Blake as we can. Until we come up with a better active lead, he’s the only thing we’ve got. It might be an idea to have a discreet word with the people in the downstairs flat, see if they’ve seen or heard any sign of company. But only if we’re sure they’re not mates. I don’t want to alert Blake to our continued interest. What do you think, Neil?”
Neil wrinkled his nose. He’d worked for bosses who didn’t like to be told their suggestions might not work. But he’d learned enough about Steve Preston to know that speaking his mind would seldom be held against him. Especially in such close company as they were at present. “I don’t reckon it, guy,” he said. “They’re a youngish couple, mid-twenties, I’d say. They look like the kind that think we’re the bad guys, know what I mean? They’d probably think it was their bounden duty to tell Blake the pigs were sniffing round.”
It wasn’t what Steve had been hoping to hear, but he trusted Neil’s judgement. “Is John on him today?” he asked.
“Yeah.” Neil yawned.
“OK. So why don’t you take yourself off for the rest of the day, Neil? Get your head down.”
“You sure, guy?”
“I’m sure. Joanne can keep things ticking over here. If we need you, we’ll shout.”
Neil unfurled his body from the chair and stood up, stretching luxuriously. “I’m not going to argue. Fuck me, more than eight hours to sleep in. My body might collapse with the shock.” He slouched out of the room.
“Do you want me to hold the fort then, boss?” Joanne asked.
“Yeah. I’m going over to the university to see some bloke called Terry Fowler. Dr. Cameron left a message that she’s made all the arrangements. I don’t know how long I’ll be depends how much I have to brief this Fowler. And I’m supposed to drop in on Dr. Cameron herself when I’m done. So I’ll see you when I see you.”
It felt strange walking into the psychology department and not heading straight for Fiona’s office. The porter gave him directions to the cubicle on the third floor that Terry Fowler shared with another graduate student. Steve knocked on the door and was surprised to hear a woman’s voice invite him to come in.
He stuck his head round the door. There were two computer desks, one vacant, the other occupied by a young woman with spiky platinum-blonde hair, scarlet lipstick and glasses with heavy black frames. Her ears gleamed with silver from three sets of piercings and a pair of ear-cuffs. Steve smiled. “Sorry to bother you. I’m looking for Terry Fowler.”