But the remaining screens were her business. The investigation on the ground in Northern Division fed all its data into their computers and that was immediately shared with MIT. Of course, that presumed that Northern were uploading everything that crossed their paths and not making false assumptions about prioritising. She also hoped there weren’t any numpties who thought they could make a name for themselves by hugging their interview product close to their chest so they could pursue their own leads instead of pooling them. Sam had tendencies in that direction, and the last few years had demonstrated that you could only go so far in eliminating the Lone Ranger streak.
So she’d been the one who learned that the fourth victim had been identified. This time, the killer had been a little less thorough in his precautions and he’d ditched the victim’s handbag in a litter bin just round the corner from the body dump. Paula called up the images of the bag, and saw a stained, beaded pouch with a long thin strap. The contents were arranged next to it: a dozen condoms, a purse containing £77, a lipstick, and a mobile phone. A sad full stop to a life, Paula thought.
The phone was registered to Maria Demchak at an address in the Skenby area. Preliminary inquiries – whatever that meant, Paula thought sceptically – had her down as an illegal from Ukraine, probably trafficked, living in a terraced house with a dozen other young women under the protection of a former professional boxer who was married to an ex-lap dancer who happened to be Russian.
‘This is interesting,’ she said. Kevin Matthews, the only officer remaining in the squad room, came over for a look. ‘This one seems to have had a pimp.’
‘He’s getting bolder,’ Kevin said. ‘His first three were loners. Nobody looking out for them when they were out working. But a pimp keeps an eye on his assets. This bastard thinks he’s invincible. Maybe that’s the way we’ll bring him down.’
‘I hope you’re right. He’s getting careless too. We didn’t find any ID or handbags with the other three. Tony said he might be keeping them as souvenirs.’
‘I tell you, this was a really public way to deliver the fourth victim,’ Kevin said. ‘Every single person who shops in that arcade is going to get the full SP on all the gory details. It’s not just going to be Penny Burgess baying for blood. This is going to go national. No, never mind national. It’s going to go international, like Ipswich a couple of years ago.’ He chuckled. ‘I was on holiday in Spain when that was going on. You should have heard the Spanish newsreaders trying to get their tongues round Ipswich. I tell you, never mind Vance. We’re going to be front and centre all over the world.’
‘The chief’s not going to like that.’
‘She’s not here. She won’t have a say. It’ll be Pete Reekie calling the shots on the press conference for this one, and I don’t think he’ll hold back now. Face it, Paula, we’re going to be under siege from the reptiles of Her Majesty’s press tomorrow. And we have got the square root of fuck all to give them.’
Right on cue, Stacey’s desk phone rang. Both reached for it but Paula was faster. ‘DC McIntyre,’ she said.
‘It’s Stacey.’
‘Hi, Stacey. We’ve got an ID for number four—’
‘I know, I told you I’d monitor the case traffic. I’ve got something for you from the Oklahoma website.’
Paula grinned and gave Kevin a thumbs-up. ‘You are a genius, Stacey. Have you got a name for us?’
‘I’ve got a starting point,’ Stacey said repressively. ‘There’s nobody from the UK among the forum posters. But I found a back door into the site and managed to pull up the email archive. About a year ago, an email arrived, which is now in the system inbox on my number one screen. I’m in the process of tracking down the sender, I’ll forward those details on soon as.’
‘Thanks. How’s it going down there? How’s the chief holding up?’
‘I’m too busy for this, Paula. I’ll give you relevant information when I have it.’ And the line went dead.
‘All the social skills of a hermit crab,’ Kevin said.
‘I thought she was getting better, but I’m just going to have to face it: that girl is never going to hold down a seat at gossip central. Let’s see what she’s got for us.’ Paula was already opening the email. She pulled it up to fill the screen and read, ‘Hi, Maze Man man. Love your site. I am a Brit, nobody over here seems to remember the show. I have the whole set on video, but they’re getting a bit worn out. Do you know anybody in England who has a set I could copy? All the best, MAZE MAN FAN.’
A note from Stacey followed. ‘See reply: “Sorry, MMF, no Brits come by here. Good luck with your search.” See email address: am data-mining for Kerry Fletcher on my system. More later.’
Paula turned and gave Kevin a high five. ‘It’s a start,’ she said.
‘It’s more than that. It’s a name. A solid lead, which we have been seriously lacking on this case so far. Let’s see if we can get this whole thing wrapped up before the guv’nor comes back from Worcester.’ He shook his head. ‘Bloody Worcester. I’d barely heard of the place six months ago. Now I can’t turn round without falling over it.’
Paula’s mobile rang and she looked at the caller ID screen then pulled a face. ‘I’ll tell you one good thing about Worcester,’ she said. ‘Penny bloody Burgess doesn’t work there.’
Tendrils of smoke spiralled upwards, melding into one before separating into gauzy wisps that dissolved into the ever-thickening air. Yellow and red pinpricks bloomed on individual strands of straw, blossoming into tiny flames that mostly sputtered and died. But some survived, bursting into flame like a kernel of corn popped in a pan. They crackled and spat, transforming the straws into conduits of fire, carrying the blaze upwards and outwards.
The blaze grew exponentially, doubling its reach in minutes, then seconds, till the pile of bales at the back of the barn was a wall of flame, clouds of smoke trapped to thicken under the roof. Tongues of fire licked at the wooden roof beams, spreading along their length like water spilled on a flat surface. At that point, nobody had noticed what was happening.
It was the roof beams that were the bridge into the stable block itself. They extended into the roof space of the stable so the two buildings could offer each other mutual support, strengthening both in the process. The fire crept along the sturdy joists, delayed but not defeated by the mortar that was supposed to seal their passage into the stable block.
The horses smelled the smoke before the humans did. Uneasy, they stamped and snorted in their stalls, heads tossing and eyes rolling. A grey mare kicked the walls of her loose box, whinnying high and loud, the whites of her eyes stark against the black rims of her eyelids. When the first spears of flame penetrated the floor of the hayloft above the horses, unease shifted closer to panic. Hooves clattered and foam flecked the corners of their mouths.
By now, the fire was moving fast, finding flammable material in its path; wood, hay and straw succumbed quickly. Terrified horses screamed and kicked the wooden doors of their stalls. Even though stable lads were out and about, patrolling in defence of their bosses, by the time anyone caught on to what was happening, the fire was in the driving seat.
The first lad on the scene, Johnny Fitzgerald, opened the nearest stable door on a scene from hell. Horses with rivers of flame running down their backs reared and screamed, their flailing hooves wild weapons against any would-be rescuer.
Johnny didn’t care. Shouting, ‘Fire! Fire! Call the fire brigade!’ he ran towards the chestnut mare with the white mask that he’d ridden out on that very morning, pausing only to grab a rope halter coiled on a hook by the door. Falier’s Friend was one of his favourites, a gentle-tempered mare who was transformed by the sight of National Hunt fences into a speeding bullet of desire to be at the front of the field. Lowering his voice, Johnny approached, talking constantly in a monotone. The horse remained on all four hooves, head swinging from side to side, eyes rolling, snorting and whistling as gouts of flame landed on her back and ran down her side to the ground, where they created fresh rivers of fire. The heat was tremendous, searing Johnny’s nose and throat as he moved forward. The noise of the horses and the fire tore at his heart, fear and pity surging through him. He loved these beasts, and it felt like there was no way out of this without death putting in an appearance.