Becky’s face lit with sudden eagerness. ‘Oh, you can do that now – she’s just in the next room.’ The image tilted, and Simms caught a glimpse of coving and a light fitting, then a blur of movement. She looked away from the screen and heard Becky speaking excitedly in French. Seconds later, a rather surprised-looking Mrs Chabert appeared on the screen.
‘Good evening,’ she said.
‘I’m so sorry, Mrs Chabert.’ Simms had met the woman a few times at parents’ evenings and staff socials, but didn’t know her well.
‘Not at all,’ Mrs Chabert said.
‘I wanted to postpone this conversation until I’d spoken with Becky’s father.’
‘I understand.’
‘I have no idea what Becky was saying, but I want you to know that while it’s clear that she’s had a lovely time with you, I wouldn’t want her to impose on your hospitality.’
A hint of amusement played around Mrs Chabert’s eyes. ‘Allow me to translate: Becky begged me to confirm that I have not been coerced into inviting her to stay with us.’
Off-camera, Becky groaned in embarrassment.
‘She implored me to assure you that she will be properly chaperoned throughout her visit, and will sample the cultural delights of Paris with the heart and mind of a philosopher.’ Mrs Chabert laughed. ‘I exaggerate a little.’ She paused, looking into the webcam. ‘And I can promise you that it would not be the slightest imposition; on the contrary, it would be a genuine pleasure to have Becky extend her stay with us.’
Simms hung up a few minutes later, having promised Becky again that she would discuss the holiday with Kieran. The green phone icon was lit next to one of her Skype contacts – Diane Jayston was online. Diane was an SCAS analyst Simms knew from her years in the National Crime Faculty, and they had been in communication long-distance on almost a daily basis during her American trip. It seemed perverse to pass up the opportunity to sound Diane out on the Myers investigation.
She hit the Call icon, but the chief constable’s warning rang in her head: ‘There’s loyalty, and then there’s stupidity.’
She hung up. But she couldn’t seem to let go of the mouse. Instead, she cupped it in the palm of her hand, circling the Call icon with the mouse pointer, daring herself to redial. The Skype ringtone chimed out and her hand jerked violently. It was Diane. Simms gave her heart a second to recover, hesitated for another second, then clicked to answer.
Diane appeared onscreen, eyelids lined with Kohl pencil, hair dyed deep purple and cut straight across to her eyebrow line; the rest was coal-black and spiked. She was forty-three and had worked her way up from tech support to crime analyst over the past twenty-two years, surviving reorganizations and staff cuts and a moratorium on ‘visible tattoos’. She treated each as though they didn’t apply to her – until a verbal warning from her line manager about her tattoos. After that, she began wearing men’s suits with a shirt and tie to cover up, dealing with any that showed above the collar line with sticking plasters. She would wait them out, she said – they would eventually get over themselves and lift the ban.
‘Did you just hang up on me?’ she demanded. Judging by the amount of ornamented flesh currently on display, Diane was at home.
‘I disconnected before you picked up,’ Simms said. ‘There’s a difference.’
‘It still hurts.’ Diane batted her eyelids, managing to look simultaneously combative and coquettish.
‘It’s late,’ Simms said. ‘I didn’t want to disturb you.’
‘You’re talking to an insomniac who is currently working at her computer after a ten-hour stint of what?’ She tilted her head. ‘Oh, yeah – working at her computer. A call from a friend at this hour isn’t a disturbance – it’s a timely intervention.’
Kate smiled. ‘I just got an email from the Major Case Squad in St Louis – they wanted to thank you guys for the work you did on the I-44 case.’
‘I do get paid,’ Diane said, but she looked quietly pleased. ‘So what’s keeping you up late?’
‘Jet lag,’ Simms said. ‘And the Myers case. You heard about the mother?’
Diane nodded. ‘I did the analysis on that one.’
Simms experienced a fizz of excitement, which was immediately followed by a cold thud of apprehension. You shouldn’t be doing this, Kate – it’s none of your business.
Even so, she said, ‘Chief Constable Enderby says you got no similar abductions?’
Diane’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Woo! Did you say the Chief Con? You do move in exalted circles these days. So he brought you in on the team?’
Simms twitched her eyebrows and let Diane believe what she wanted to believe, while Enderby’s words, There’s loyalty, and then there’s stupidity repeated in her head like the tick of a metronome.
Diane was talking: ‘It depends what you mean by “similar” – car abductions are more common than you’d think. But mostly divorced mums and dads getting into a spat about child custody. I did find a few carjackings where the crap-heads who had their sights on a brand-new Beamer dragged Mum out of the driving seat and failed to notice Baby anchored in the back.’ She grimaced. ‘What happened to the Myerses is a whole ’nother level of creepy.’
‘Did you look into the occupations of the victims?’
Diane shook her head. ‘Wasn’t on the list of search terms.’
She could leave it there – she had asked Fennimore’s question. But curiosity made Simms ask, ‘What was on the list?’
Diane squinted suspiciously at her. ‘You don’t know?’
‘Enderby didn’t specify.’ Not lying, only withholding.
Diane leaned back in her office chair and ticked the criteria off on the fingers of one beringed hand. ‘Mother-and-child combos; back seat folded down; abductions from car parks …’
‘Use of a zip tie?’ Simms asked.
Diane sat up so fast her seat-back twanged like a catapult. ‘He used a zip tie? Was that in the PM report? Because nobody mentioned a zip tie. Why wouldn’t they mention something distinctive like a zip tie, for crying out loud?’
Simms hesitated. One step further and there will be no turning back. ‘Forget it,’ she said. ‘It was just a thought.’
‘Like hell,’ Diane said. ‘If a zip tie turned up in the postmortem I should absolutely revisit the data. I’ll check back with the SIO, get his okay—’
‘Uh, Diane – I’d rather you didn’t,’ Simms said quietly.
Diane narrowed her eyes, the kohl outlining giving her the look of a Siamese cat. ‘So when you say “forget it”, what you mean is, “I’m not supposed to know this”?’
‘Not officially,’ Simms admitted. ‘At least, not yet.’
‘Oh.’ Diane knew her history: the disciplinary action after she played too fast and loose with Crime Faculty resources when Fennimore’s wife and child disappeared; the hard slog back up a career ladder that was rigged to throw women off without the benefit of a safety net.
‘Is Fennimore mixed up in this?’ Diane demanded. ‘Yes.’
‘Oh,’ she said again.
‘But not by choice. The abductor seems to want him involved.’
‘Hm,’ Diane said.
It was a relief to hear her say something different, but Simms couldn’t read her mood. ‘So you’ll leave it alone?’
Diane snorted. ‘Well, that’s not going to happen.’
‘Diane—’
‘Look,’ Diane said, ‘some of the files are still boxed up in my office – on past performance they’ll probably sit there for weeks before they get sent back. Who could blame me if I riffle through them once in a while?’
‘Diane, no,’ Simms said. ‘It’s one thing wheedling case details out of you and quite another asking you to reopen a file you’ve already reported on.’
‘I didn’t hear you ask,’ Diane said. ‘And they don’t call me “Double-check Diane” for nothing. I got outed as obsessive my first year in the job. Everyone on the team has seen me crack open a box of files I’v
e just sealed to have one last rummage.’
Simms shook her head, but Diane kept on talking:
‘Relax – it’ll be fine – I’ll do it on my own time. No one will even raise an eyebrow.’
23
Abduction, Day 7
Lauren Myers stares up at the small square of grey until her neck aches and her eyes burn. The sun will come in through that square when it’s morning time again; it tells her that there is still an outside where Daddy is, and Mummy, too – although she’s scared something bad has happened to Mummy, because she hasn’t come back. It’s been ages and ages: one daytime and one bedtime. But she can’t sleep properly without Mummy. She tries to be brave, like the princess in the story. Well, like the princess, but not like the princess – she doesn’t want to rescue anyone – she wants Daddy to come and rescue her. But the man said Daddy would be cross because she was a very naughty girl. He told her, ‘Come here RIGHT NOW!’ – and Lauren almost did, because she was bad when he came to take Mummy away. But Mummy told her to be bad, she said she was allowed to be bad, so she was being good by being bad. But the man said nobody would come for her because she was such a bad girl, and there wouldn’t be no more sweeties. So maybe next time she’ll do what he tells her to. But Mummy said no. Mummy said climb up high and fight and spit and scream. She told her to be naughty. She told her to eat the sweets. She told her to be Grandma’s Yellow Peril – ’cos that was her superpower. Mummy said the man was bad – so she didn’t have to do what he said.
Lauren sighs. It’s so hard being brave – not like in a film. Her head feels hot with all the thinking, and her eyes won’t stop crying. She covers her face and sobs.
24
Context is everything.
ANON
Aberdeen, Tuesday Night
Fennimore’s apartment was fusty and stale. He flung open the windows, letting in cold damp air – a northerly weather front had blown in from the Atlantic and the temperature in Aberdeen had dropped to around ten Celsius.
He ducked into the shower and immediately his mobile began to ring. It was Dr Wilton in Essex.
‘We have the DNA results from the Mitchell appeal semen samples,’ she said.
‘Wow, that was fast.’ He wondered if she had known even when he was at the lab that morning.
‘Essex Police put a rush on the analysis because they thought you would put a rush on yours.’
He had.
Fennimore trapped the phone between his shoulder and his ear while he tucked a towel around his waist. ‘So is it our guy?’
‘Now, why would I tell you that?’
‘In the interests of collegiality,’ he teased. ‘And because the only other reason I can think you would call is to gloat – and you don’t seem the gloating kind.’
‘Did you just pay me a compliment?’ she said.
‘A bit back-handed, but …’
She chuckled. ‘I’ll take what I can get.’
‘So …’
‘The DNA on the skirt is not a match to Mitchell.’
‘It’s not our guy,’ Fennimore murmured. ‘That’s … interesting.’
‘Isn’t it?’
‘So the case has been reopened?’
‘It has.’
‘Your review team will have done a wider search of the database …’ By now they might even have matched the unknown DNA to someone already in the system.
‘If you’re angling for a name, you’ll have to go fish in Essex Police’s pond.’ He heard a smile in Dr Wilton’s voice.
‘Well, thanks for letting me know,’ Fennimore said.
‘My pleasure,’ she said. ‘Just as long as you remember that collegiality works both ways.’ She would expect a return on the favour at some point. ‘And, Nick?’
‘Yes?’ he said.
‘You didn’t hear this from me.’
‘Hear what?’
She laughed.
He hung up, smiling, and rang Lazko’s number to give him the good news.
‘So,’ Lazko said, ‘we have enough new evidence to launch an appeal?’
‘Essex Police have already started a review of the case.’
‘Fantastic – the family will be chuffed.’
‘No doubt. But you can’t tell the family – not yet. This is unofficial and strictly off the record,’ Fennimore said.
‘Not a problem,’ Lazko said. ‘We just quote an anonymous source close to the investigation.’
‘Lazko, you can’t go public with this yet.’
‘What are you talking about? This is the best news the Justice for Graham Mitchell campaign has had for years.’
‘I have to protect my source – you should know all about that.’ Lazko gave a grunt. ‘And before you start celebrating, there are several ways to interpret this evidence.’
‘The DNA isn’t his – end of story.’
Fennimore laughed. ‘It’s only the prologue. Context is everything: Mitchell’s DNA was found on the love-bite and his DNA was under the victim’s fingernails – that has never been in dispute. It could be that Mitchell is telling the truth and he paid the victim and left her well and unharmed, but it may be that Mitchell had an accomplice. Or maybe Mitchell did kill her and the guy who left his DNA on Kelli Rees’s skirt was a client she saw before Mitchell.’ Fennimore paused to give Lazko time to assimilate the information. ‘We do this right: we wait until our lab has cross-matched their profile with the sample Mitchell donated. And then we wait until they send us their report.’
‘So what’s the point in telling me now?’ the journalist huffed. ‘You said you wanted to work at your own pace, I agreed. Why give me something I can use, then tell me to sit on my hands?’
‘Because,’ Fennimore said, ‘I think the DNA database gave Essex Police a name. I want to know what that is, but they won’t be keen to share that little snippet with Mitchell’s appeal team. Which means we’d be relying on overheard conversations, a memo left lying on a table in the canteen. Information like that has a short half-life – after a day or two the excitement dies down, the time to listen in on tea-room gossip has passed, the reports are typed and logged securely behind the police server’s firewall. So we need to get it fast – while their guard is down.’
‘You’re asking if I have someone on the inside?’ Lazko said.
‘I am.’
‘You know, things aren’t so cosy between the police and the press since Leveson stuck his oar in.’
The Leveson inquiry into press and public standards had led to multiple sackings, criminal prosecutions and even the closure of a national newspaper. Fennimore gave the journalist time to sift through his mental database of police sources.
‘I’d need a public interest justification,’ Lazko said at last.
‘Seriously?’
‘You want the info, that’s what it takes.’
‘Okay,’ Fennimore said. ‘Okay … Try this: if the DNA on Kelli Rees’s skirt is from a known offender, and that offender has committed further crimes since Mitchell was locked up – how would that look for Essex Police?’
‘Bad,’ Lazko said, sounding a lot more cheerful. ‘Very bad.’
‘Enough public interest for you to work your contacts?’
‘I’ll talk to a police chum, ask him to keep his ear to the ground.’
Unable to sleep, Fennimore let himself into the St Andrew Street building at 8:15 a.m. on Wednesday. He didn’t recognize the security guy and had to fish in his pocket for his ID before the man would let him pass. With labs and offices now largely standing empty, every footstep echoed eerily, and the scuffs and marks on the walls that had given the place a warm lived-in look, now conveyed neglect and decrepitude. He made his way to his office, pausing on the third-floor landing, wondering if Josh Brown might be in the staff kitchen. But that would keep; he continued up to the top corridor and unlocked his door.
The desk, phone and chair were gone. So were his bookcases, the books dumped in an untidy heap on the floor. The plastic cra
tes he used to store papers, journals and articles had been moved away from the walls, presumably to get at the phone and Wi-Fi cables: both had been stripped out. The filing cabinet was still in place – this was where he stored his more sensitive case files and reports. He checked the lock; it was intact, and a quick look inside reassured him that its contents hadn’t been tampered with. Well, Joan did warn him they wouldn’t wait for ever.
Three hours and ten bin bags later, he had whittled the mass of papers and articles down by a third. Not nearly enough, but it was a start. He dumped the bags of paper on the landing for shredding and as he dusted his hands off his mobile began to ring in his office. He searched for it among the remaining jumble of boxes and bags, following the sound, lifting and dumping papers, finally locating it under a journal on the window ledge.
‘Professor Fennimore?’
‘Yes.’ Fennimore didn’t recognize the voice.
‘Lazko said you wanted to know if we got a name on the DNA from the Mitchell case.’
‘Yes,’ he said again.
‘David Hazle. That’s H-A-Z-L-E.’
He snatched up a scrap of paper and a pen and used a plastic tote box as a desk.
‘Anything else? Criminal record?’
‘That’s all you’re getting. Tell Lazko he owes me one.’
‘I will. Are you about to make an arrest?’ Fennimore said.
‘Not unless we dig him up.’ The line went dead.
Fennimore checked the phone log, but the number had been withheld. He folded the slip of paper and tucked it in his shirt pocket, thinking Josh Brown would be the man to research Mr Hazle – the doctoral student had a facility for winkling out information on people. Ironic, given his own circumstances. Replacing the phone on the window-ledge, Fennimore turned around and saw Josh himself standing in the doorway.
‘Spooky,’ Fennimore said. ‘I was just thinking about you.’
‘I didn’t see them shifting the furniture out,’ Josh said, ignoring the pleasantry. ‘But I made sure they didn’t get their mitts on your papers.’
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