He had a habit when returning home of emptying his pockets of his wallet, ID card and small change and leaving them on the desk. His briefcase would be placed beside the chair and he would set out his notebook and any files he needed to familiarize himself with. Tonight he was too tired for his usual ritual, dragging his tie loose and chucking his suit jacket onto a chair in his bedroom as he carried through his drink. He intended to take a shower, but lying on his bed sipping his scotch he eased off one slip-on black leather shoe after the other, kicking them onto the floor. He leaned across and drew one of his pillows on top of the other. Sometimes when he came home this tired he would put on some soothing classical music – he had good-quality speakers throughout the flat, and a remote control on his bedside cabinet. But tonight he didn’t even have the energy to move from the bed, and he downed his scotch, closed his eyes and was in a deep sleep within seconds.
Unlike Reid, neither Marcus nor Lena could sleep. She had made an omelette and they had opened a bottle of wine earlier, although he noticed she hardly touched her food. He asked if she had eaten anything in the day and she shrugged, saying she didn’t feel in the slightest bit hungry.
She stood up. ‘I think I’ll take a bath.’
‘I’m going to watch some TV, I’ll use the guest bedroom.’ He meant to get out of his chair and put his arms around her, yet instead he remained at the table finishing off the bottle of wine. Eventually he switched off the lights and took himself rather drunkenly upstairs. He felt he should go to her bedroom to check on her, but he couldn’t face any further accusations. He was not sleeping but lying fully clothed on the bed in the guest room when she came in. He lifted his arm to indicate for her to come and lie beside him.
‘I can’t sleep,’ she said plaintively
‘Nor can I. Come here.’
Lying beside him with his arm around her and resting her head against his shoulder, Lena realized it was the closest they had been for two years. Neither spoke – it was as if they were bereft of words, as if the ghost between them was Amy.
Reid had forgotten to switch on his alarm, but nevertheless he woke around his usual time, albeit with a thudding headache. By the time he had showered and dressed it was seven thirty. Two cups of strong black coffee made him feel wired, but his headache persisted, and he decided he would go into the station for breakfast.
The canteen was filling up, and having said a few gruff good mornings he sat at his usual table with his back facing the majority of diners. There was a low hubbub of chatter, which annoyed him as he ate his scrambled eggs and sausage and pushed aside his two rounds of toast. He never knew how they managed to make toast so chewy, the butter sitting on it like a puddle. Equally bad, the morning coffee always tasted stewed. Reid by nature was never one to complain, so he downed his coffee and got a refill to take to his office.
There was to be a team meeting at nine, but he had a while to take a couple of aspirin and get his mind into gear. Open on his desk was his diary and he picked up a red marker and wrote in large letters FRIDAY, DAY 6, underlined it and then tossed the marker down. By now his coffee was tepid. Nevertheless, he drank it, then uncapped his felt tip pen and began to write down the day’s work schedule. DS James Lane tapped at the door, also carrying a coffee but this one was a Starbucks. Reid indicated for him to come in.
Lane didn’t sit, but hovered, sipping his drink. ‘The Crime Night people are interested in doing something on air but they’re not sure exactly how to run it yet.’
Reid shook his head. ‘A missing fifteen-year-old girl, who may be dead, and they’re being non-committal – what more do the bastards want? We need more information and especially some forensic results. This is now day six, Jimmy, and we have fuck all to go on.’
‘Not looking good, is it?’ James said, dribbling his coffee down his chin and taking out a handkerchief to dab at his shirt.
‘The holiday footage in Antigua worries me now, especially the section where Amy was masturbating.’
James seemed more intent on dabbing the coffee stains on his shirt as he spoke. ‘So is Marcus Fulford now your main suspect?’
‘He’s all I’ve got at the moment, but even then we are nowhere, and there’s this family friend Simon Boatly to check out. I also think we need to go back to Amy’s school and see if we can get anything – it’s more than possible Amy may have confided in a friend, maybe Serena or someone else in her class.’
‘That’s a good idea.’ James glanced at his watch, nearly spilling what was left of his drink. ‘It’s nearly nine, so we better get down to the briefing room.’
At that moment Reid’s desk phone rang and it was Pete Jenkins at the forensic lab, letting him know that he had started work on Marcus Fulford’s sample and hoped to have a full profile for comparison before the weekend. Reid gestured for DS Lane to wait as Jenkins continued.
Reid listened, jotted down notes, and said he would arrange for interviews straight away then replaced the phone and stood up.
‘It’s unbelievable – they have DNA profiles from different females on a selection of the underwear. The lab needs to know exactly which panties belong to who and keep pressing me for samples from women Fulford recently had sex with. He has only admitted to shagging two women – his present girlfriend Justine and then there’s Gail who works for Lena Fulford – but there’s bound to be others. I think we need to get them brought into the lab to try and identify which underwear is theirs.’
‘You think that’s wise, or necessary for that matter? Why not just get DNA samples off them and send them to the lab?’
‘Because it will cost thousands of pounds to analyse, which I haven’t got on my small-team budget. I know it’s cutting corners, but it will save time and money.’
‘Well it’s your case and your decision. We better get downstairs – everyone will be waiting.’
Reid nodded and adjusted his tie, and had just begun to gather up his notes and files when someone else tapped at the door and this time it was Chief Superintendent Douglas, the senior officer in charge of Richmond Police Station. In his forties, he had red hair, and his uniform jacket just about contained his stomach as he was overweight. Known to be brash in speech and manner, he demanded an update as he was concerned by the lack of any new developments. Reid sat down again and invited Douglas to take a seat but the chief simply huffed and stood facing him across the desk.
‘Well, forensics are working on enough knickers to open a Victoria’s Secret department, and some have semen stains from the same unknown male,’ Reid said, trying to be slightly humorous, but it was wasted on Douglas.
‘So what are you doing to trace this unknown male?’
‘The scientist and I both think it may be Marcus Fulford. I’ve taken a DNA sample from him and should know for certain in a couple of days.’
‘The father! Christ, sex games going on in the family?’
‘I’d say so. He’s certainly shagged enough women and the daughter doesn’t appear to be the sweet innocent teenager we first believed.’
‘Six days missing. Are we looking for a body, Vic?’
Reid looked up and hesitated: the full version of his Christian name was bad enough but the abbreviation was even worse.
‘If he was sexually abusing Amy and she threatened to expose him then it’s possible he killed her on Saturday or Sunday. Problem is, I haven’t got a sighting of her anywhere near the Mayfair flat.’
‘So you want to hold back on arresting him at present?’ Douglas asked.
‘I’d like to try another round of press reports and Crime Night first… see if it flushes out any new witnesses or fresh information.’