It is. It bends the truth and reality for people, makes them do things they wouldn’t normally do.
“Yeah, but it doesn’t add up to abduction, does it? Much as I would love to, I can’t go into an ops meeting and pin emotion on the board, can I? I can’t arrest someone on the premise of emotion?”
I would, though. I’d like to tell Damien about my instincts about all those dead boys on my last case. About how an old woman dead in a terraced house and a slip of conscience led to solving a major crime. But there isn’t time.
“No. And that’s the problem. You can’t measure emotion. But it’s always there, always a reason behind something. Fear, shame, sadness. And we’re looking it in the face here, Jan. One young woman gone missing with her baby son. Another one potentially missing after leaving her daughter in the street. So you think she just decided to leave Elise there? You do, don’t you?”
“I think there are people capable of that, yes. And it’s wrong.”
“Yes, it is. But in some circumstances, understandable. Like Dawn giving Lewis up. Coerced, then bolted when she changed her mind. Those two young girls must have gone through hell.”
I look at him. He’s a caring, passionate man, and for a moment I really feel for him, for what he’s saying. I suddenly realize that I enjoy him being here. But we can’t get into this now.
“Mmm. Maybe. But Elise’s mother broke the rules. And that’s why we’re looking for her. And there’s nothing that connects the two cases, except two little girls who look like each other. The CCTV from the scene of the crime came up with nothing. No vehicles. There were roadblocks. No one hanging around. She just left her, Damien. The best I can do is reinterview the Sommers as part of Elise’s mother’s MisPer. When we’ve found Dara.”
He’s nodding, and as we walk through the gates of the complex he laughs. I look round at him.
“What?”
“Nothing really. It’s just that it’s always the same. Hard evidence.”
“But we do look at how people feel, you know. We’re not robots. I’m not, anyway.”
He laughs again.
“Let’s see. Here we are. At the ex-offenders project. All these guys trying to atone for what they’ve done wrong, and it’s your first port of call. You’d think they would be the last people anyone would suspect. Probably can’t get work anywhere else. Sitting ducks, really.”
He’s irritating me now.
“Stats show prolific re-offending. There’s a guy here with previous. Surely even you must agree he could be a suspect?”
He doesn’t look so sure. I get the usual sinking feeling that I get when I have to weigh evidence against instinct.
“If there’s another reason apart from his previous offense, then I’ll agree. But you can’t arrest him just because he’s done something a little bit similar before.”
I don’t have time to answer, because a large man in overalls walks toward us.
“Can I help you?” I get my warrant card out, and he holds his hand up. “S’all right, we’ve been expecting you. Ian Stevens. About that kiddie, is it?”
Damien looks at me, eyebrows raised.
“Yes. I’m DS Pearce and this is Damien Booth. We’d like to have a word with Julian Peters. Please.”
He turns and leads us into a large corrugated steel shed. A group of men are standing in the corner making hot drinks.
“Jule. Over here.”
A tall, thin man wipes his hands on a rag and breaks away from the group. Five nine, white, long thinning brown hair.
“Yep. Can I help you?”
I show my warrant card again. He nods and sighs.
“Been expecting you.”
“So where were you on Sunday afternoon, Mr. Peters?”
“At home. Watching TV. Then at the pub.”
“Where’s home?”
“Mill Terrace. Share with a couple of other lads.”
“Mind if we have a look?”
He shrugs and gives the other guys raised eyebrows.
“No. Knock yourself out. I suppose you want me to come with you?”
He’ll be going all right, but not with me. I weigh it up and decide to send uniformed.
“We’ll send a car. Some officers will accompany you, then we’ll need to ask you some questions. While Dr. Booth and I get on with our inquiries.”
He stares at me.
“I didn’t do it. You’re wasting your time.”
His eyes are intense, and I look away. Seventh rule of professional surveillance—see what others don’t look for. I look toward the back doors of the shed, ill fitting. Sunlight glints through them, and I can see a sliver of white.
“Mind if I have a look around?”
Ian Stevens walks over and pulls the doors open. The yard is scattered with furniture and old paint cans. There’s a grey Renault Mégane in the corner beside a white Ford Transit.
“Who does the van belong to?”
Ian Stevens shrugs.
“The charity. We use it to move stuff about.”
I turn and look at the men, all a little bit closer now so they can hear what we are saying. No one has bolted, and Julian Peters still stands beside me. I walk over to the van and look in the cab.
“When was this last driven?”
They all look at one another. Ian shrugs again.
“We drive it every day. Picking bits and bobs up. We fix them up and give them to vulnerable families.”
I nod. Damien is standing behind me, hands in pockets. I’ve got my extra, my proof. But even now I’m not sure. I make my mind up. I have to go with it.
“OK. We’ll be taking this in for forensics. I’ll send someone round to pick it up.”
One of the men shouts out.
“Not making an arrest, then? Isn’t that what usually happens? You can’t be too sure it’s Jule then?”
I turn around and they’re all nodding in agreement.
“No. Mr. Peters has agreed to help with our inquiries.”
One of them steps forward.
“You’re wasting your time. He was with me when that girl went missing.”
He holds up the newspaper.
“We were watching the match and getting ready for karaoke at the Swan. Does a mean Springsteen, does Julian. So you’re wasting your time when you could be looking for the kid. And Ian takes that van home with him, so it wouldn’t have been here on a weekend.”
He looks convincing. But I still can’t leave it. It adds up. Maybe too much, but we need to check it out.
“Great. Well, Mr. Peters can explain all that at the station. In the meantime, I’ll be continuing my inquiries.”
We walk back through the shed and turn at the gates.
“Thanks very much, Ian. Someone will be round to pick up Mr. Peters and the van very soon. Just elimination.”
“Righto. All as it should be. Cheerio then.”
We walk toward the main road. Damien sits on a wall.
“Not going with? To search that house?”
He’s mocking, and I don’t answer. I call Stan and ask him to send a car for Julian Peters.
“Can you get some uniforms to take him round to his place and have a look around. Then bring him in and take a statement. That should let us know where all the ex-cons were on Sunday afternoon. Having some kind of karaoke do by the sounds of it. And there’s a white van in the project yard that needs to be brought in for forensics. And can you run a check on Ian Stevens please? Find out where he lives and see if traffic has CCTV footage of him with that van on Sunday at his home.”
My next call is to Jim Stewart.
“Got Peters in for questioning, sir. And found a white Ford Transit in the yard.”
He laughs.
“Like I said, open and shut. Just need to find the girl now.”
“Mmm. Damien and I are going to carry on, do some more local door-to-door for witnesses. I’ll let you know the forensics and search outcomes.”
“Good work, Jan. Good wor
k. Hopefully we can wrap this up really soon.”
We go back to the car. Damien gets in and slams the door. We stare out over the moorland sloping up from the Prices’ house. Lines of tiny people in yellow jackets make slow progress up the purple hill in waves. Damien’s tapping on the dashboard. I reach over and put my hand over his.
“Please stop it. This is tense enough as it is.”
He nods and pulls his hand away.
“Don’t you ever work on instinct?”
I’d had an underlying instinct that all wasn’t well with Sal and that things were changing. I’d worked with hard evidence for a long time, though, and had pushed my instincts underneath the need for something that would stand up in court. So I’d ignored the signs—Aiden telling me about Dad putting his flat up for sale, mentioning a woman, obviously Selena, before he went missing.
But I’d got so used to Sal’s lies and short relationships, and his not doing what he said he would, that I’d just ignored the signs.
I know Damien’s right about this case. I know that it all looks connected. But if I go back to Stewart with instincts and tenuous links, he’ll take me off the case. Especially after last time. And I can’t risk losing my job. Not now. It’s the only way I can get my son back.
“Yes. Of course I do. But we have to make a case, Damien. Is this how you always work? I thought you were a profiler, Don’t profilers look at the most likely scenario and fit the perpetrator into a certain type?”
He leans right back in his seat.
“Some do. And it’s true that there are certain profiles that some kind of crimes fit into. But it’s much more complex than that. I mentioned instinct? Well, the instinct works through schemas we collect. In our thinking. In our memories. Like bundles of information connected by similarities, a map of connections in our minds. But sometimes there’s something missing. When we think about an uncertain situation, we automatically fill in the gaps. Like we know a horse has four legs, a tail, and mane, so if someone tells you a zebra is a striped horse, you fill in the gaps. Yeah?”
I nod. He continues.
“The problem is, if I say the words “serial killer” to you, a regular profiler will fill in the gaps with Dennis Nilsen and Peter Sutcliffe, who fit a certain profile. So you’ve automatically made an assumption and are then prejudiced against any other profile, reducing your chances of finding the serial killer.”
Like Stewart has with Peters.
“It’s called apophenia. I studied it as my psychology major. Seeing patterns where there are none. Or not enough. Making connections from bias. And that’s what separates me from other profilers. The ability to balance out the most likely scenario between the evidence and the fiction. Where they are looking for the obvious patterns, I look beyond that into the less obvious, more time-consuming options.”
“What made you study that then?”
“I was interested in patterns as a kid. Seeing faces in bricks, Fibonacci numbers, that sort of thing. Then I realized that you can inscribe meaning into almost anything if you want to, and, more to the point, if it benefits you. So that’s what I studied. Then I began to realize that apophenia can hamper criminal cases, or, in the right context, help them. I’ve written papers on it.
“But doesn’t it come naturally? That’s what we do as police officers, look for patterns.”
That’s what I do, anyway. It comes naturally now. I flash back to trainers across telephone wires, babies’ bonnets. The terrible silent signs and signals that pointed to suffering and death. What it all meant. A shiver runs down my spine.
“Yes. In everyday life it’s perfectly normal and harmless enough unless it becomes an obsession. But in crime detection, it’s often the difference between a life sentence or not. If we get it wrong, then we prosecute the wrong person. So if even the slightest bias is present, then not only is the wrong person prosecuted, but perpetrators get away with it, often because they don’t fit the usual profile that has been built up over years of statistical analysis. But you can’t measure badness, and it runs through all walks of life. Not just in loners and ex-cons.”
“But how can you avoid that? The bias? How can you stop it?”
He smiles.
“That’s where instinct comes in. Instead of jumping straight into filling the gaps, careful analysis of all the options is needed. And anywhere you identify potential gap filling, question it. Then you should have a number of options, not just the most likely based on past profiles. The scenario that seems most likely, that you have the strongest instinct about based on probabilities and evidence, is the one to follow up first. In this case “child abductor” automatically pointed to Peters for those with bias. Even though based on current hard evidence, it could be anyone. Typical error.”
“That won’t make you popular. Not with diehards like Stewart.”
“I like to ask the awkward questions. The ones the police officers can’t ask because they have the Director of Public Prosecutions to answer to. The little straggler, the dangling loose ends that get ignored in the rush to make an arrest.”
“Right. So you’re here to make life difficult?”
“No. I’m here to point out the obvious, to get the right person faster. The right person, Jan, not who we think is the right person. Ever notice how murdered women’s husbands are always the prime suspects? Or boyfriends? And missing kids? Their mothers and fathers are always suspects. I bet there’s some journalist right now digging the shit on the Prices. Ex-offender. The usual patterns. The usual suspects. Too easy. But it’ll buy a bit of time, won’t it? You have to wonder how people’s lives are damaged in the process. But you have to get the result. The evidence. Fuck the path of devastation in the way.”
“That’s not fair, Damien.”
“So when you’ve trashed Julian Peter’s flat, brought him in through that media mob, let his picture appear in the tabloids, then found out he was belting out a fair version of ‘Born to Run’ when Dara went missing, you’re going to tell me that the already precarious position he was in wasn’t made worse?”
I start the car and reverse, almost hitting the wall. It stalls and I look at him.
“We’ve got to start somewhere. We have to go door-to-door, find out what people saw. Then when we do catch whoever it is, we’ll have a case that’ll stand up. We’ve got to leave no stone unturned.”
I manage to start the car again.
“No stone unturned. But then you kick the ones that don’t suit your story back over. And you know it.”
I pull up at a junction and indicate right, toward the Prices’ lane.
“Excuse me? How do I know it? How exactly did you work that one out?”
He smiles at me.
“Because, Jan, you would be round at Peter’s place, supervising the search if you thought Dara was there. Or that he did it. And you’re not. You’re still here with me. You’re using Peters to placate the media.”
Chapter 15
Two news vans are parked at the end of the lane outside the Prices’ house. A dozen or so reporters and four uniformed officers are directing traffic past the lane. I drive by and park up on a grass verge. A few rows of stone terrace houses, stark against the midday sunshine, are casting shadows over the purple moorland.
One of the uniformed officers comes over, and I wind down my window.
“Copy of second edition of the Metro. Steve just came from HQ to take over and he brought it with him. Apparently Twitter’s teeming with this.”
I look at the front page of the paper. There’s a small picture of Dara and Elise spliced together. Then there’s a grainy picture of Elise’s mother from the co-op CCTV. I open the paper and there’s a two-page spread with a large picture of Julian Peters being put into a police car. That’s a quick turnaround, even for a case like this.
No details or names just yet, but a huge headline: WHITE VAN MAN: SEARCH FOR MISSING DARA. I expect by the late edition they will have that information, too. From whoever at the station
has been feeding them information. Damien snorts his derision.
“Makes it look like we’re making some headway, doesn’t it? When in reality . . .”
I click on my phone and bring Twitter up. The police Twitter account is inundated with information about Julian Peters. He’s named several times, and people have posted his previous offenses and his sentence. And his address.
I get out of the car and slam the door. Damn. There’s no proof yet that Peters committed the crime, but the press has hung him already. I start to walk over to the terraced houses, and Damien opens the car door.
“Don’t bother. Just don’t fucking bother. I need some time to work this out.”
He catches up with me.
“I wouldn’t miss this for the world. We might find a dope-smoking teenager to drag in. Or someone with mental health problems. We could make an example of them.”
He’s annoying me, but I can’t see how I can get rid of him. I’ll have to put up with him for now. I check my phone for messages from Aiden. There are none. His Facebook account is still static from before he went missing. On holiday with Sal. Where Selena is buying food for dinner. Dinner for my son.
I think about the playlist and wonder if I should make one for Aiden. Something just for us to share. Something to make him remember me because I can feel him slipping away.
We walk toward the houses and knock on the first door. As we wait, I stare out onto the moorland. In one direction is the sloping hill where the search is going on. Yellow hi-vis jackets clouded with dust from the heather. Pollen. Farther up the hill are jagged rocks, easy places to hide a child’s body. In the other direction is a reservoir. Dovestones. Another easy place to dispose of a dead child. In between, a myriad of broken buildings and dry stone walls. My heart sinks. Dara could be anywhere.
We speak to people in the first row of houses, heads peering through half-opened doors. They’re all aware of the TV cameras up the road, and none of the villagers want to be on TV. We’re invited in to a few houses in the second row, but no one has seen anything. Everyone appears to have been at the karaoke fundraiser at the local pub or watching TV. One woman even produces footage of the fundraiser on her mobile phone. She’s helpfully arranged it into songs, and, sure enough, Julian Peters is there doing a half-decent impression of The Boss.
Playlist for a Paper Angel (DS Jan Pearce Crime Fiction Series Book 3) Page 11