‘Detective Superintendent Stalgood is pretty much on top of things,’ Grace told Colin now.
‘Any part of the investigation you think we ought to be looking at in particular?’
Grace shook her head and tried to keep walking. She had listened to the muttered grumbling that went on once Colin, Lena and John Kenny had departed. Although it was true that whoever killed Rachel and Roxanne had managed to get in and out without being seen or leaving forensic traces, she couldn’t believe the review team seriously supposed that whoever had taken Polly had access to somewhere in the centre of Colchester where she had either consented to go or been dragged or carried, where the initial search team had failed to gain entry and where, after several hot June days, the cadaver dogs they had already employed hadn’t picked up any scent.
Colin turned to look back at the modern, fortress-like brick building, forcing Grace out of politeness to hover beside him. ‘We all know how vital it is not to get sidetracked by a single mindset,’ he said. ‘If there’s any chance that our focus so far is wrong – out-of-the-ball-park wrong – then I’d like to hear your thoughts.’
‘What’s your thinking?’ she countered. While she had to admit that there’d been a time when she would have welcomed such a private approach from her boss as a sign of how much he valued her opinion, now she saw it for what it was – a petty manoeuvre to divide and conquer.
Colin smiled. ‘We can hang onto Matt Beeston until tomorrow. Then we need to apply for an extension. I’m not sure we’ve got enough on him to wrap all this up.’
‘He’s been charged under the Communications Act. He’s admitted those offences.’
Colin shook his head. ‘Doesn’t prove murder. All we’ve got is circumstantial, especially when it comes to tying him in to Polly Sinclair’s disappearance.’
He was right: Grace knew it was at the back of everyone’s minds that if, right from the start, they’d got it all wrong about linking Polly’s disappearance to Rachel’s murder, then they’d missed opportunities both to prevent Roxanne’s death and possibly to save Polly from God knows what fate. ‘On the record,’ she said, giving him a straight look, ‘all we’ve got so far to keep us focused on those suspects connected to both Polly and Rachel is victimology.’
Colin nodded, pleased by her answer. ‘The review team’s looking at the possibility that Polly’s disappearance isn’t connected to the murders, that we should be looking for two separate perpetrators.’
He turned back again to face the direction in which Grace had been walking. ‘The big question is this,’ he began. ‘Are we tempted to split Polly’s disappearance off as a separate investigation merely to rid ourselves of inconvenient pieces of jigsaw that won’t fit into the murder enquiries?’ He gave a rueful smile. ‘On the other hand, there’s zilch to point us in any other direction.’
‘I know,’ Grace admitted. She was already regretting her rash impulse to speak, but it would be wrong to allow an old grudge to impede an active investigation. Colin might be a snide political operator out for his own advancement but, as an SIO, he’d had some notable successes. ‘If the new search draws a blank,’ she began carefully, ‘then there are other scenarios.’
‘Spell it out,’ he said, smiling at his reference to their old joke.
‘One, that Pawel Zawodny killed Polly and disposed of her body at sea.’
‘And Matt Beeston murdered Rachel and Roxanne?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It could just be coincidence that each happens also to be connected to the other’s victim.’
Colin nodded in satisfaction, making Grace wonder if this was precisely what he’d hoped she’d say. ‘That would work,’ he agreed cheerfully. ‘And the other?’
‘That Polly is still alive. I’m not saying that I think she is, but we should keep an open mind.’
‘Quite right. Thanks, Grace. Have a good evening.’
Abruptly dismissed, Grace was nevertheless relieved to make her escape, crossing the main road that bordered the police station and heading downhill towards her flat. She felt itchy and uncomfortable. It wasn’t the warm evening trapping the rush-hour traffic fumes between the buildings; it was a nasty sense that Colin had been subtly inviting her to be disloyal to Keith and the rest of his team. Had she been? She didn’t think so, but then neither had she considered it wrong to report Lee Roberts’s increasingly volatile behaviour to her trusted DCI. And, she reflected sourly, look how well that had worked out.
Why did Colin Pitman of all people have to be part of the review team? It wasn’t fair! She felt the past smearing itself over her again and suddenly realised with surprise just how angry she was that it could happen. Her phone signalled a message alert, and she looked at the screen. Trev! Without even reading the message, she tapped out her own message and pressed send, hoping that Fuck off! would be clearly enough understood.
FORTY-FOUR
Ivo was surprised when Trevor Haynes rang back and agreed to speak to him after all. The disgraced copper insisted Ivo come to the bike shop where he worked, as it kept late opening hours. The place was like a small cave crammed with brightly coloured helmets, jerseys and reflective strips childishly at odds with the precision engineering of the frames, wheels and gears that gleamed from great spiked hooks on the walls. Some wag – the Young Ferret, no doubt – had once suggested that Ivo take up cycling, probably when it was discovered that Ivo had never reapplied for his licence after his driving ban expired. But the joke just went to prove that the lad hadn’t yet found his way through those arcane intricacies of the expense account in which any number of eye-watering cab fares could be lost like invisible galaxies in outer space. Besides, Ivo had never understood the attraction of physical competition – apart perhaps from a spot of vainglorious arm-wrestling on a beer-washed pub table – and the only bit of specialist kit he’d ever coveted had been a trigger-lever corkscrew. Now, hearing how much all this cycling stuff cost, let alone the special shoes and Lycra outfits that would frankly look more at home in a Streatham brothel, Ivo was doubly glad he hadn’t bothered.
But he was prepared to let Trev wax as lyrical as he liked about his sporting kit: after all, the man wasn’t stupid – indeed, he looked wily and shrewd, like a good beat copper should – and Ivo wanted him to relax his guard before going in under it to stick him with the killer question. He’d already prepared the ground when they’d spoken on the phone, offering the merest of hints that the Colchester murder inquiry was being hampered by internal strife and that Ivo had picked up the teeniest, tiniest rumour that DS Fisher was regarded as a bit flaky, perhaps even a loose cannon.
Now Ivo stared into Trev’s blue eyes. The man was attractive, even charming; lithe, tanned and obscenely healthy-looking, with one of those boyish, lop-sided grins the ladies seemed to go for. But Ivo had seen enough of DS Fisher to hope she’d fall for more than a mischievous smile, so there must be a bit more heft to this guy than the brutality required to inflict the injuries Ivo had read about in the copy of the police surgeon’s report the Young Ferret had provided.
Ivo gave himself a shake: dislike always showed itself, and he needed Trev to trust him. Ivo might never have been physically violent himself, no matter how pissed, but, he reminded himself sternly, for a drunk who’d screwed up the lives of everyone around him to look down on a man who kicked the daylights out of a woman was like the prison inmate who robbed old ladies thinking it was OK to shank the nonce. So get a grip, he warned himself, and play nice.
Half an hour later Ivo was glad to get out of there, having finessed his well-practised manoeuvre of fussing over notebook, pen and pockets so he didn’t have to shake the bastard’s hand. In his taxi back to the train station his blood boiled. Trev had answered the killer question all right. Hadn’t even needed much encouragement. Had been only too glad to supply the perfect quote: Trouble with Grace is, she just won’t listen to reason. Put that next to the photo that Ivo had managed to wheedle out of the local rag of Trev leaving the magistrates
’ court – they’d Photoshop it into grainy black and white to make him look like some syphilitic Public Enemy Number One – and the cycling champion would rue the day. At least, Ivo bloody hoped he would.
He didn’t understand why the Ice Maiden’s history had aroused his indignation so strongly, but he’d learned not to question his instinct for a good story. And somehow, for him, she had become the story, the beating heart of this investigation.
As the train pulled out of Maidstone, Ivo opened an email sent earlier by some minion in the office who should have known better than to treat such an overture so cavalierly. Danny Tooley rang the office, asking to speak to you, it read. Refused to say what it was about except to tell you he was a friend of Roxanne Carson. The name meant nothing to Ivo, but he punched in the number left for him to call, and was answered almost immediately by a low, wary voice. The moment Danny Tooley informed Ivo that he worked in the bookshop on campus, Ivo knew he’d hit pay-dirt: this was the kid Roxanne had been schmoozing!
By midnight Ivo had Danny safely ensconced in one of two adjoining rooms in a budget hotel on the edge of Colchester. It was all a bit cloak and dagger, but it never did any harm to romance the punter a bit, make them feel important and then encourage them to live up to the hype by spilling their guts right onto the front page. He’d get him settled in first, order some food, watch a bit of TV, get chummy, and then they could start talking. Ivo had no idea what he was likely to get, nor quite what to make of him. Danny said he was twenty-three, but came across as much younger. He wore cheap clothes and looked like he’d never had a square meal in his life, yet didn’t appear the least interested in money, not even the Courier’s hefty reward. Ivo had called his editor from the train to get him to sign off on a decent scale of discretionary payments for anything less than a full confession – should Danny unexpectedly cough to the murders, then the sky’s the limit: once he was convicted, their lawyers would make damn sure they’d never have to pay out anyway – but Danny was eager to tell his story without any upfront cash offer.
So what did he want? Fame? Glamour? To be seen as the hero of the hour? Despite the young man’s self-effacing manner, Ivo reckoned he was sharp-minded and capable. No wonder Roxanne had held out on him and been so keen to keep her source under wraps. And now Danny would tell him whatever it was he’d told Roxanne.
Ivo still found it difficult to bring the eager young reporter to mind without his thoughts being flooded by the razor-sharp image of her body as the flash on his phone camera had gone off. He moved to stand beside the window so he could stare down into the darkness of the hotel car park without Danny noticing that he was spooked, but all he could see reflected in the double-glazing was his own fingers lifting Roxanne’s skirt, exposing her, exposing what had been done to her. He prayed to whatever god might exist that it hadn’t been him who’d pushed Roxanne into danger, which is what the Ice Maiden had insinuated. Sure, he’d dangled a carrot or two, egged her on, got her nostrils flaring for a good story, but she’d have been up for it with or without him. He had to keep telling himself that.
But, as it turned out, it wasn’t Roxanne that Danny was so eager to talk about. It was Polly Sinclair.
FORTY-FIVE
Friday did not begin well. Everyone was tired after nearly two weeks of late nights and snatched meals, too much coffee and adrenaline, and they certainly didn’t need the morning papers to tell them that the investigation was no further forward. Although the majority of the tabloids had run with the upbeat story from yesterday’s press conference of Detective Sergeant Grace Fisher’s long-standing friendship with the second murder victim, the Courier had once again bucked the trend. CLUELESS! screamed the huge black type above two photographs, one of Our Polly, laughing, blonde-haired, and now missing for almost a fortnight, the other a snatched image of a harried-looking Keith taken, so the caption explained, as he’d left the inquiry into the botched Chalmers case two years earlier. In the column below, the Courier’s crime correspondent demanded to know for how much longer this murder spree could continue under the very noses of the police, who were still no nearer either to finding Polly or to charging a twisted serial killer with two murders. Essex police have repeatedly questioned the same two suspects, Ivo had written, but do they actually have a clue about the true identity of the elusive monster preying on the once-peaceful streets of Colchester?
The Courier’s destructive slant left the team demoralised and acutely aware that Keith was pretty much helpless in the face of the review team’s determination to cement their de facto command of the investigation. So everyone was relieved when Keith emerged from his office to announce that the Met’s Sapphire unit were talking to a woman who claimed she’d been sexually assaulted on their plot by Matt Beeston. Not only would Sapphire like to interview him, but they’d also be happy to pursue all the rape allegations against him. It was an answer to a prayer: this would give them the time they needed to press on with the murder enquiries knowing that their main suspect would be safely under lock and key in London.
It was while Grace was making arrangements for the Met to take Matt off their hands that she answered a call from Jessica, letting them know that she was about to leave Colchester for the long summer vacation. It was mid–afternoon by the time Grace and Lance were free to hurry over to the little house in Station Road, where they found Jessica packing up her belongings.
‘It’s horrible,’ she told them, crossing her arms tightly across her chest. ‘Packing up all my stuff, yet leaving Polly’s. I feel like I’m abandoning her, like I don’t care or something, but I can’t stay here any longer on my own.’
‘No, of course not,’ said Grace. ‘Are her parents coming to collect her things?’
‘No. They’re worried in case she comes back, finds all her stuff cleared out and goes away again.’
Grace nodded. ‘Of course. It’s tough for them.’ And not made any easier, she thought bitterly, by the morning headlines.
‘But Pawel told them it’s fine for them to leave everything here,’ said Jessica. ‘Offered to let me stay on for free, too, if I want. He’s being pretty decent about it all.’
‘That’s good,’ Grace answered. She risked a cautious glance at Lance, but Jessica spotted it and raised her chin obstinately.
‘He said he hasn’t been able to let the house for next term anyway,’ she said. ‘The university Accommodation Office has taken him off their lists, and no one’s going to rent from a murder suspect.’
‘Sounds like you’re still quite friendly?’
‘Not friendly, but it’s hard to believe Pawel would hurt anyone.’
‘You should still be careful,’ Lance warned.
Jessica’s head drooped and she was silent for a moment. When she spoke, they could hardly catch her words. ‘She’s not coming back, is she?’
Grace told the truth. ‘Two weeks is a very long time to have absolutely no sign of her.’ She waited until Jessica took a deep breath and went back to packing up her mugs and dishes. ‘I’m afraid we need to ask you some more questions about Polly. About things she might have said to you.’
Jessica stopped what she was doing and placed a half-wrapped cereal bowl into the cardboard box at her feet. ‘Then do you mind if we get out of here?’ she asked. ‘This place just gets a bit too much.’
Lance and Grace agreed, and followed her across a playing field on the far side of the railway line to a footpath that led into Wivenhoe Woods. From a distance, the shade under the trees had looked inviting yet, once under the leafy canopy, the air quickly become close, and Grace caught an occasional fetid scent of mouldering vegetation. The dry mud pathways were well worn but the brambles and deliberately placed brushwood made the tangled heart of the ancient woodland that stretched away beyond the tree trunks appear impenetrable.
Grace was content to let Jessica walk in silence until the unhappy hunch of the young woman’s shoulders began to ease. ‘So what was it you wanted to ask me?’ Jessica said at last.
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br /> ‘I know you’ve told us before, but we’d like you to go over everything that Polly said to you about the night she spent with Matt Beeston,’ said Grace. ‘Really everything.’
‘She didn’t say much.’
‘But you told us earlier that she regretted bringing him home.’
They came into a clearing, and Jessica stopped in front of a large board with captioned illustrations of local fauna and flora. ‘She said she’d been really drunk. Like more than she should’ve been.’
‘Did she think her drinks had been spiked?’ asked Lance.
‘Not really. Maybe a double when she asked for a single. She thought it was more the release of tension because the exams were finally over.’
‘Sure,’ Lance said reassuringly.
As Grace slapped away hovering midges, feeling the stillness of the late afternoon air prickly and oppressive, Jessica reached out and stroked the bright scarlet markings on the image of a great spotted woodpecker on the board. ‘I think it was just one of those awful shags you have when you’ve drunk a bit more than you should,’ she said, cringing with embarrassment. ‘You know?’
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