And then there was the investigation itself. This morning had been a nightmare, but that was only the beginning. After the gruesome discovery just after midnight, she had tried to prevent the market from opening for trading less than four hours later. But Barren Green had argued vigorously that she was out of order. By no stretch of the imagination could she claim the whole market was a crime scene. It was obvious, he pointed out, displaying an intelligence and a steely determination she wouldn’t have suspected him capable of, that whatever had been done had been done some time previously. Hundreds of people had been in and out of the market since then, and there was no chance of the police finding any traces of their quarry anywhere other than the immediate vicinity of the freezer in question.
His trump card had been to point out that the best way to make sure the police questioned every potential witness was to allow the market to function as normal. They could take names and addresses of everybody who turned up and maybe even begin their interviews.
It had been a smart suggestion, not least because it allowed Duvall to save face. So they’d sealed off the storage area and drafted in a small army of officers to make sure nobody entered Smithfield without providing contact details. Meanwhile, the SOCOs had begun the painstaking task of examining every inch of the equipment store where the grisly discovery had been made.
So far, so bad. What made it even worse was that she was going to have to continue her liaison with the local police in Dorset. Whatever had happened to Georgia Lester might have ended up on her ground, but it had started on their patch. If there were going to be eyewitnesses, the chances were far higher that they’d turn them up down there. Much more likely that someone noticed something out of the ordinary in a remote country area than that one person with a load of meat would attract attention in Smithfield Market. Always provided the officers down there knew what the hell they were doing, she added automatically. Duvall had never been good at delegating authority even to her own team, but having to rely on another force for the core of an investigation was her idea of hell on a stick. Thus far, she’d not found anything specific to complain about in the work of her Dorset colleagues, but nevertheless she felt a general unease that they weren’t moving sharply enough on the case. She’d have to set up a meeting, preferably down there so she could get a feel for where the initial abduction had taken place.
But that would have to wait. First, she owed Steve Preston the courtesy of filling him in on what his steer had led to, so she’d asked her driver to detour to New Scotland Yard before returning to her offices in Wood Street. She took the lift to his floor and stalked down the corridor, earning a few apprehensive looks from those she passed. A quick tap on the door, and straight in. Her first impression was that Steve had somehow squeezed a week’s holiday into the last twenty-four hours. The lines of strain round his eyes had relaxed. Instead of the pallor of the senior officer overworking on an obsession, his skin had a healthy tone. His eyes were bright and the grin he greeted her with was light years away from the careworn smile of the previous day.
“You look as if your caseload is going better than mine,” Duvall said, easing herself into the seat opposite him, aware that her suit was crumpled and she probably smelled stale as a pub ashtray.
Steve arched his eyebrows in surprise. “Must be an optical illusion. I hear you had a long night.”
Duvall nodded, pushing her glasses up her nose. “And it’s going to be a long day. I thought you’d like to know how it worked out.”
“Appreciate it,” Steve said, dipping his head in acknowledgement.
“We went in around ten and started turning the place upside down. Butchers and bobbies searching freezers and cold cabinets for dodgy-looking meat, traders screaming about their stock being interfered with, pathologists poking around anything that looked remotely abnormal. Which there wasn’t much of, I have to say. The deal was, if we found anything seriously suspicious, the pathologists would take it back to the lab and test to see if it was human or not. I’d had the whole team briefed about what they should be looking for. But when it came to it, it was all academic.”
“How do you mean?”
“Around midnight, the lads found a freezer at the back of a storage area. It was padlocked shut, and nobody would admit to having keys for it. According to the market supervisor’s office, it had been put there a month ago by one of the traders who was supposed to arrange for it to be taken away. But he was adamant that it hadn’t been locked, and two of his staff backed him up on that. So we took the bolt cutters to it. When they opened the door, it was full of packaged meat. Except for one shelf. All that contained was a parcel wrapped in black plastic bin liners.” Duvall paused for effect, her expression a question.
Steve closed his eyes momentarily, his angular face pained. “The head?”
“The head. The butcher who was helping them dropped to the floor like a stunned ox. They had to take him to hospital to have the cut on his head stitched. He hit the corner of a work top on the way down.”
“He’ll be drinking off that for the rest of his life,” said Steve. “I presume it was Georgia Lester’s head?”
“No question. The husband’s got to ID it later today, but there’s no doubt about it.”
“When are you making the announcement?”
Duvall sighed. “My boss wants to hold a press conference this afternoon. We’re waiting for Dorset to confirm they can have someone here for it.”
“Would you have any problem with me breaking the news to Kit Martin ahead of the press conference? He and Georgia were close, and he’ll know that Fiona talked to us. It seems the least I can do.”
Duvall frowned. “I’d rather we kept it in the family for as long as possible. I know he’s your friend, but we can’t afford a perception that one writer is getting preferential treatment from the police.”
Steve shrugged. “It’s your case, Sarah. To be honest, I was thinking about the long-term interests of the Yard as much as being considerate to Kit. Fiona Cameron is a good operator, and we’ve been denied her services for a while now because of our own bloody-minded stupidity. In spite of that, she came to us with her suspicions. I’d have liked the chance to do a bit of bridge-building here, maybe mended the breach. I’m sure it could have benefits for the City force too.”
Duvall’s wry smile concealed the burn of genuine annoyance. First Darren Green and now Steve Preston had out manoeuvred her in a matter of hours. It wasn’t good for the spirit, especially a spirit as normally self-confident as Duvall’s. “That’s a good point, sir.”
Steve recognized the use of his title as the signal to back down. “It’s your decision, Sarah.”
“I suppose it can’t do any harm. Provided you make it clear to him that he mustn’t talk to the media before we do.” A last attempt to appear in control.
“I don’t think it would even occur to him.” Steve stood up and reached for his jacket. “She was his friend, Sarah. He’s not that desperate for personal publicity.”
She accepted the implied rebuke in silence and got to her feet. “I’ll keep you posted,” she said. “How’s the Blanchard case going?”
Steve shrugged into his jacket and spread his hands wide. “Chasing what might be a lead. But it’s an uphill struggle. I haven’t got the resources to run a proper operation.”