Fiona scrambled to her feet. “I had no idea…I was just looking for the phone point.”
Galloway tutted. “Murray should have sorted you out.”
“I don’t think Murray does sorting out,” Fiona said wryly. “At least, not for older women. I’m still waiting for my coffee.”
Galloway threw his head back in a soundless laugh. “By, you’ve got sharper over the years.”
“Professional observation, that’s all. I’m taken aback to see you again, though.” Fiona extended a hand. Galloway’s grip was dry and firm.
“I mentioned to DCI Duvall that we’d met before. I thought she would have told you.”
“I think DCI Duvall likes to keep us all on our toes,” Fiona said, her voice as neutral as she could manage.
“Aye, well. I was sorry, you know? That we never got anybody for your sister’s murder.”
Fiona looked away. “I won’t pretend I wasn’t angry at the time. But these days, I understand better how hard it is to find a serial offender.” She met his eyes again. “I don’t harbour any grudges. You did your best.”
Galloway rubbed the side of his nose with his index finger. “Aye, well. I learned a valuable lesson from you, you know.”
“You did?”
“Aye. Never forget that murdered folk have families that need to know what happened. It doesnae hurt to keep that at the front of your mind.” He cleared his throat. “Anyway, it’s good of you to come at such short notice. What I’ve done is I’ve got one of my officers bringing down the murder file. Is there anything else you want to see?”
Fiona unzipped the laptop case. “I want to spend some time in Drew Shand’s flat.”
“It’s been searched thoroughly, you know.” He leaned forward, fists on the desk, frowning. It should have been an aggressive pose, but somehow Galloway made it merely eager.
She looked him straight in the eye. “I’d just like to get a feel for it. And I want to double-check that there’s nothing there to connect Drew Shand with Charles Redford.”
Right on cue, there was a knock on the door and a uniformed PC wheeled in a trolley stacked with files. He brought them over to the desk. “Will that be everything, sir?” he asked.
Galloway looked a question at Fiona. “Coffee,” she said. “Either point me in the direction of the best coffee in the building, or have somebody bring me a cup every hour.”
“You heard her, Constable,” Galloway said. “Away up to my office and bring down the tray with my filter machine and the coffee.” He smiled at Fiona. “I can always come down here for a cup if I get desperate. Now, I’m just going to leave you to it. If you need anything, or you want to discuss anything with me, just pick up the phone and ask the switchboard to find me. And when you’re ready to go over to the flat, just let me know and I’ll organize a car for you.”
“Thanks. Looking at this lot, I’m going to be pretty busy for the rest of the day,” Fiona said. “I’ll probably be ready to go over there late afternoon, but I’ll call you when I can see light at the end of the tunnel.”
Left to her own devices, she loaded her software on to Kit’s computer. Before she began the work, she sent him a quick e — mail to say she’d arrived safely. Then, making sure her mobile was switched on, she set about the task. She was familiar with police files by now, and although she skipped nothing, she had learned how to skim for material of interest.
What she was looking for were factors common to all three murders that, taken individually, were insignificant but which, taken together, built to form a conclusion that was inescapable. Fiona suspected that in this case, there was little she could achieve that any intelligent police officer couldn’t do equally well. But the advantage for the police in having her do the work was that she could testify as an independent expert witness who was an acknowledged authority in the field of crime linkage.
For once, she had something firm to hang her analysis on. It was clear that each of the three murders had been modelled on an episode from a book written by the victim. The Irish Police’s arrest of a suspect had diverted attention away from that, but Duvall had made it clear to her that the Garda would be reviewing their position in the light of Redford’s confession. She had no doubt that their suspect would be freed shortly.
What was clear was that each of the victims must have been stalked. One of the things she’d have to check out over the next few days was how much information about each of them was readily available in the public domain. With luck, some of that material would be in the murder files already. And of course, the police forces involved would be trawling for fresh witnesses now they had a suspect whose photograph they could release.
For Fiona, the task was more subtle. And for once, she could work at her own pace. The chances were, as Kit pointed out, that Duvall was right. This time there was no ticking time bomb of a killer preparing to strike again.
FOURTY-FIVE
DC Joanne Gibb walked down the corridor to Steve Preston’s office with a bounce in her stride that seemed to deny the hours she’d spent hunched over her computer running criminal-records checks against everyone on the electoral roll in a clutch of streets on the borders of Kentish Town and Tufnell Park.
She’d been practically cross-eyed with fatigue and on the point of tears of frustration at the fruitlessness of her task when the phone had rung. The previous day, she’d tried to contact the local information collator at the police station serving the area Terry had identified, only to discover the constable who ran their card index was on holiday and not due back until Monday. It had felt like the last straw, but she’d hacked on through her lists, hoping against hope she’d still turn something up.
Then, late morning, the call had come through. The collator, Darren Watson, had dropped by the station to pick something up and he’d seen the message marked ‘urgent’ from Joanne. At the end of her rope and almost without hope, Joanne had outlined what she was looking for.
“Right,” Darren had said. “A couple of likely lads spring to mind. Why don’t you come over and we’ll have a look?”
“Now?” Joanne could hardly believe her luck. In her experience, police on their day off would do almost anything to avoid being dragged on duty.
“Sure. I’ve just come back from a week in a cottage in Cornwall with my other half, and frankly, anything that keeps me out of the house for an hour or two would be a bonus. Get yourself over here and we’ll see what we can dig out.”
Joanne didn’t need asking twice. She’d practically run downstairs to her car and invited several outbreaks of road rage on her way to the North London police station where Darren Watson might just have the answer to her prayers. Local Information Officers were responsible for maintaining the informal intelligence of the station. As well as keeping a card index file of every known villain on the patch with details of their convictions, a good collator recorded associates, suspicions and gossip. There were sound reasons why much of what they had tucked away was never entered into a computer. A card could always be conveniently misplaced, whereas even deleted computer records left traces. Omniscience coupled with deniability was the hallmark of a good collator. Joanne hoped that was what she was going to find.
Barren was in a small subterranean office that had the atmosphere of a wartime command bunker. One wall was covered with large-scale maps of the area, with pins in a variety of colours marking specific locations. Another was lined with filing cabinets. Shelving along a third wall sagged under the weight of box files piled along its length. Darren was sitting on the edge of the desk that occupied most of the fourth wall, dressed in his civvies: a navy fleece over a white T — shirt, blue jeans and brilliant-white trainers. Joanne’s first thought was that if his appearance was anything to go by, Barren’s files would be immaculate. Joanne was acutely aware that the attrition of the day’s work on top of too little sleep had left her a long way behind the collator in the grooming stakes.