They introduced themselves and Joanne came straight to the point. “Like I told you, I’m trying to develop a suspect in a series of rapes. We have reason to believe he might be on your patch. I’ve done a trawl through electoral records, but I’ve come up with a blank. We think he might have a record for minor sexual offences maybe even attempted rape. What we’re looking for is an offender who works out of doors, who targets white women, usually blonde. He may ride a bike in his getaways and he uses a knife in his attacks. It’s possible that some of his attacks may have been witnessed by small children.”
Barren pushed off from the desk and headed for his filing cabinets. “I’ve been giving it some thought and I’ve come up with two names.” He hauled open one of the card index drawers and flicked through. “There we go.” He took out a small bundle of cards held together with an elastic band. “Gordon Harold Armstrong.” He handed the cards over to Joanne and moved to another drawer.
Gordon Harold Armstrong was twenty-five, unemployed, and had been in and out of prison for burglary and indecent assault. His technique was to grab women on their way home from work, fondle their breasts and expose himself. He had threatened three of his victims with a knife. There was no mention of a bike. But for Joanne, the crucial disqualifying factor was that Gordon Harold Armstrong was black. And based on both Fiona’s analysis of Susan Blanchard’s murder and the evidence of the rape victims, the man she was looking for was white.
Darren turned to her with a single card. “Any joy, do you think?”
Joanne shook her head. “I think I’m looking for an ICi.”
Darren proffered the card. “Try this one.”
Gerard Patrick Coyne, twenty-seven years old. New Zealand-born, he had arrived in the UK as an eighteen-year-old student. Which explained his absence from the voters’ roll, Joanne realized. Having graduated from Kent University with a social sciences degree, he had worked for various market research companies as a data analyst ever since. His first arrest had come four years previously after a woman had complained he had attacked her in a local park. He had pushed her to the ground and tried to have sex with her. But she’d struggled and got away from him. The charges were later dropped on the grounds of insufficient evidence. He’d been arrested for the second time a few months later. A foot patrol had found him lurking in the bushes of another park, this time carrying a knife. He’d been charged with possession of an offensive weapon and had been given two years’ probation. According to the notes on the back of the card, Coyne had been a suspect in two other sexual assaults. In one case, the victim had been too traumatized to take part in an identification parade. In the other, the woman had been unable to pick Coyne out of the line-up.
Coyne, not surprisingly for a sex offender, had no known criminal associates. What he did have was a bike. Darren Watson’s scrupulous notes revealed that he was a member of a local cycling club and had won several road races.
Joanne allowed a slow smile to spread across her face. “Darren, you are a star,” she said, waving the card like a winning lottery ticket.
“You like our Mr. Coyne, do you?”
“Like him? I love him.” As she spoke, Joanne pulled her notebook out of her handbag and began to copy down Coyne’s details. Address, date of birth, date of arrests and his conviction for the offensive weapon charge. And the name of his cycling club.
As she knocked on Steve Preston’s door half an hour later, Joanne was convinced her boss was also going to love the prospect of Gerard Patrick Coyne. She walked into his office, a grin spread across her face. “Have I got news for you!” she began, sitting down opposite her boss without waiting to be invited. She flicked open her notes and read out Coyne’s details. She looked up. “I’ve run his CRO. Looks like we’ve got a suspect at last, guy.” She sorted through the bundle of computer printouts, collating a set to give to her boss.
“And nothing to tie him in to Susan Blanchard,” Steve reminded her. “Nothing except informed speculation and a bit of computer analysis.” He took the sheaf of paper and stared at the top sheet, which included Coyne’s photos. “Wait a minute,” he said, an edge of excitement creeping into his voice.
“What is it, guy?” Joanne leaned forward in her eagerness, as if she would somehow see whatever it was that Steve had latched on to.
“I know that face. I’ve seen him.” He closed his eyes and frowned in concentration. When they opened, his whole face was alight with excitement. “He was at the Bailey the day Blake was set free! I know it was him, I noticed him particularly because he was in cycling clothes. Carrying a helmet. It was him, Joanne, I know it was him.”
“Are you sure?” It was as if she dared not hope.
“I’m sure. I was paying attention to the public gallery crowd, because I still had it at the back of my mind that we’d brought the wrong man to court. I was checking out the faces. Just in case I saw anybody that rang a bell.” Steve jumped to his feet and started pacing. “What we’ve got to do…Joanne, I want you to get me the video footage we shot at Susan Blanchard’s funeral. We had full cover, all angles. And see what you can get from the press. Whatever pix and footage they took outside the Bailey. And the magistrates’ court, see if you can find anything from there. You’ll have to be discreet, you know how they get on their high horse if they think we’re trying to come the heavy hand with them. Go and talk to the press office, see what they can do for you.”
“What about Coyne? Are we going to pull him in?”
Steve spread his hands in frustration. “I haven’t got the bodies for this, Jo. Let me see…” He was talking half to himself, doodling on his desk pad. “John’s relieving Neil at Blake’s place at six…Maybe Neil could go over to the suspect’s address then, keep on him till midnight…” He looked up at Joanne. “Any chance you can come in tomorrow at seven and pick Coyne up for the day?”
Joanne nodded, enthusiasm overcoming weariness. “Of course. This could be the break we’ve been waiting for. But…if you don’t mind me asking…Why are we still surveilling Blake when we’ve got Coyne to go at?”
Steve gave a resigned nod. “Good point, Jo. I suppose I’ve got a thing about Blake. Oh, I know he’s not the killer. But if Fiona Cameron’s right, and he did see what happened on the Heath that morning, I’d love to get something on him. For all we know, he’s in contact with Coyne. I’d like to stay on him for as long as we can manage it. But Blake’s not what you should be concentrating on now. Leave it with me, I’ll make the arrangements. Just get yourself to Coyne’s place for seven tomorrow and stay on him.”
She got to her feet. “If that’s all, I’m going to clock off now and catch up on some sleep.”
“You deserve it. Great job, Jo. Well done.” He smiled. “Our luck’s on the turn. I’ve got a good feeling about this.”
Before the door had even closed, Steve was on the phone. Within fifteen minutes, he had everything in place. Neil had agreed to take on the extra surveillance, and another CID officer was lined up to cover Blake the following day while Steve’s core team were elsewhere. It was far from satisfactory, but it was the best he could manage at such short notice. And given the way things had started to run in his favour, he couldn’t help feeling optimistic. Maybe they’d finally get their hands on the real killer of Susan Blanchard. Nothing would make him happier.