Tony ran a hand through his hair, leaving it spiky as a punk’s. ‘OK. We’ve got two scenarios here. Handy Andy may not have known Damien Connolly was a bobby. It may be nothing more than a coincidence, a particularly unpleasant coincidence for his colleagues, but a coincidence nevertheless. That’s not a scenario I’m happy with, however, because my reading, based on the little I know so far, is that these aren’t random victims snatched by chance. I think he chooses his victims with care, and plans thoroughly. Would you agree with that?’
‘He doesn’t leave things to chance, that’s obvious,’ Carol said.
’Right. The alternative is that Handy Andy knows full well that his fourth victim is a policeman. That in itself leads to two further possibilities. One: Handy Andy knew he’d killed a copper, but that fact is supremely irrelevant to the meaning of the killing for him. In other words, Damien Connolly fulfilled all the other criteria that Andy needs from his victims, and he would have died at this point whether he was a bobby or a bus driver.
‘The other scenario is the one I like best, though. The fact that Damien was a copper is a crucial part of the reason why Handy Andy
chose
him as his fourth victim.’
‘You mean he’s thumbing his nose at us?’ Carol asked.
Thank God she was quick. That was going to make the job so much simpler. She’d done well to get as far up the ladder as she had, given she had looks as well as brains. Either attribute without the other would have made promotion easier. ‘That’s certainly a possibility,’ Tony acknowledged. ‘But I think it’s more likely to be about vanity. I think he’d started to get pissed off with Detective Superintendent Cross’s refusal to acknowledge his existence. In his own eyes, he’s very successful at what he does. He’s the best. And he deserves recognition. And that desire for recognition has been thwarted by the police’s refusal to admit there’s only one offender behind these killings. OK, so the
Sentinel Times
has been speculating about a serial killer since the second victim, but that’s not the same as being given the official accolade by the police themselves. And I may have unwittingly added fuel to the fire after the third killing.’
‘You mean, the interview you did with the
Sentinel Times
?’
‘Yeah. My suggestion that it was possible there were two killers at work will have made him angry that he wasn’t being acknowledged as the master of his craft.’
‘Dear God,’ Carol said, torn between revulsion and fascination. ‘So he went out and stalked a police officer so we’d take him seriously?’
‘It’s a possibility. Of course, it can’t have been just any police officer. Even though making his point to the powers that be is important to Handy Andy, the prime directive is still to go for victims who fulfil his very personal criteria.’
Carol frowned. ‘So what you’re saying is that there’s something about Connolly that makes him different from most other coppers?’
‘Looks like it.’
‘Maybe it’s the sexuality thing,’ Carol mused. ‘I mean, there aren’t many gays in the force. And those that there are tend to be so deep in the closet you could mistake them for a clothes hanger.’
‘Whoa,’ Tony laughed, holding up his hands as if to fend her off. ‘No theorizing without data. We don’t know yet whether Damien was gay. What might be useful, though, is to find out what shifts Damien worked recently. Say, the last two months. That’ll give us some idea of the times he was at home, which might help the officers who’ll be questioning his neighbours. Also, we should be asking around the other officers on his relief, to check out whether he always left alone, or if he ever gave anyone a lift home. We need to find out everything there is to know about Damien Connolly both as a man and as a bobby.’
Carol pulled out her notebook and scribbled a reminder to herself. ‘Shifts,’ she muttered.
‘There’s something else this tells us about Handy Andy,’ Tony said slowly, reaching for the idea that had just swum into his consciousness.
Carol looked up, her eyes alert. ‘Go on,’ she said.
‘He’s very, very good at what he does,’ Tony said flatly. ‘Think about it. A police officer is a trained observer. Even the thickest plod is a lot more alert to what’s going on around them than the average member of the public. Now, from what you’ve told me, Damien Connolly was a bright lad. He was a collator, which means he was even more on the ball than most officers. As I understand it, a collator’s job is to act like the station’s walking encyclopaedia. It’s all very well having all the local information about known villains and MOs on file cards, but if the collator isn’t sharp, then the system’s worthless, am I right?’
‘Spot on. A good collator is worth half a dozen bodies on the ground,’ Carol said. ‘And by all accounts, Connolly was one of the best.’
Tony leaned back in his chair. ‘So if Handy Andy stalked Damien without setting any alarm bells ringing, he must be bloody good. Face it, Carol, if somebody was tailing you on a regular basis, you’d pick them up, wouldn’t you?’
‘I bloody hope so,’ Carol said drily. ‘But I’m a woman. Maybe we’re just a bit more on our guard than the blokes.’
Tony shook his head. ‘I think a copper as smart as Damien would have noticed anything other than a very professional tail.’
‘You mean we might be looking for someone who’s in the Job?’ Carol demanded, her voice rising as she spoke the unthinkable.
‘It’s a possibility. I can’t pitch it more strongly than that till I’ve seen all the evidence. Is that it?’ Tony asked, nodding towards the cardboard box Carol had deposited by the door of his office.
‘That’s some of it. There’s another box and some folders of photographs still in the car. And that’s after some serious editing.’
Tony pulled a face. ‘Rather you than me. Shall we go and fetch it, then?’
Carol stood up. ‘Why don’t you get started while I go and get the rest?’
‘It’s the photographs I want to look at first, so I might as well come and help,’ he said.
‘Thanks,’ Carol said.
In the lift, they stood on opposite sides, both conscious of the other’s physical presence. ‘That’s not a Bradfield accent,’ Tony remarked as the doors slid shut. If he was going to work successfully with Carol Jordan, he needed to know what made her tick, personally as well as professionally. The more he could find out about her, the better.
‘I thought you said you left the detective work to us?’
‘We’re good at stating the obvious, us psychologists. Isn’t that what our critics on the force say?’
‘Touché. I’m from Warwick, originally. Then university at Manchester and into the Met on the fast track. And you? I’m not great on accents, but I can spot you’re a Northerner, though you don’t sound like Bradfield either,’ Carol replied.
‘Born and bred in Halifax. London University, followed by a DPhil at Oxford. Eight years in special hospitals. Eighteen months ago, the Home Office headhunted me to run this feasibility study.’ Give a little to get a lot, Tony thought wryly. Who exactly was probing whom?
‘So we’re both outsiders,’ Carol said.
‘Maybe that’s why John Brandon chose you to liaise with me.’
The lift doors slid open and they walked through the underground car park to the visitors’ parking area where Carol had left her car. Tony hefted the cardboard box out of the boot. ‘You must be stronger than you look,’ he gasped.
Carol picked up the folders of photographs and grinned. ‘And I’m a black belt in Cluedo,’ she said. ‘Listen, Tony, if this maniac is in the Job, what sort of stuff would you expect to find?’
‘I shouldn’t have said that. I was theorizing ahead of data, and I don’t want you to place any weight on it, OK? Strike it from the record,’ Tony panted.
‘OK, but what would the signs be?’ she persisted.
They were back in the lift before Tony answered her. ‘Behaviour that exhibits a familiarity with police and forensic procedure,’ he said. ‘But in itself, that proves nothing. There are so many true-crime books and TV detectives around these days that anyone could know that sort of stuff. Look, Carol, please put it out of your head. We need to keep an open mind. Otherwise the work we do is valueless.’
Carol stifled a sigh. ‘OK. But will you tell me if you still think that way after you’ve seen the evidence? Because if it’s more than a slim possibility, we might need to rethink the way we’re dealing with the enquiry.’
‘I promise,’ he said. The lift doors slid open, as if placing their own full stop on the conversation.
Back in the office, Tony slid the first set of photographs out of their folders. ‘Before you start, could you fill me in on how you want to pursue this?’ Carol asked, notebook at the ready.
‘I’ll go through all the pictures first, then I’ll ask you to take me through the investigation so far. When we’ve done that, I’ll work through the paperwork myself. After that, what I usually do is draw up a profile of each of the victims. Then we have another session with these,’ he said, brandishing his forms. ‘And then I walk out on the high wire and do a profile of the offender. Does that sound reasonable to you?’
‘Sounds fine. How long is all that likely to take?’
Tony frowned. ‘It’s hard to say. A few days, certainly. However, Handy Andy seems to work on an eight-week cycle, and there’s no sign that he’s accelerating. That’s unusual in itself, by the way. Once I’ve studied the material I’ll have a better idea of how in control he is, but I think we’ve probably got a bit of time to spare before he kills again. Having said that, he may well have already selected his next victim, so we’ve got to make sure that we keep any progress we make well away from the press. The last thing we want is to be the catalyst for him speeding up the process.’
Carol groaned. ‘Are you always this optimistic?’
‘It goes with the territory. Oh, and one more thing? If you develop any suspects, I’d prefer not to know anything about them at this stage — there’s a danger that my subconscious will alter the profile accordingly.’
Carol snorted. ‘We should be so lucky.’
‘That bad, is it?’
‘Oh, we’ve pulled in anybody who’s got form for indecent assault or violent offences against gay men, but none of them looks even a remote possibility.’
Tony pulled a sympathetic face then picked up the photographs of Adam Scott’s corpse and slowly started going through them. He picked up a pen and moved his A4 pad nearer to him. He glanced up at Carol. ‘Coffee?’ he asked. ‘I meant to ask earlier, but I was too interested in what we were talking about.’
Carol felt like a co-conspirator. She had been enjoying their conversation too, in spite of a twinge of guilt that multiple murders shouldn’t be a source of pleasure. Talking with Tony was like talking to an equal who had no axe to grind, whose primary concern was finding a path to the truth rather than a way to boost the ego. It was something she’d missed on this case so far. ‘Me too,’ she admitted. ‘I’m probably approaching the point where coffee is a necessity. Do you want me to go and fetch some?’
‘Good God, no!’ Tony laughed. ‘That’s not what you’re here for. Wait there, I’ll be right back. How do you take yours?’
‘Black, no sugar. In an intravenous drip, preferably.’
Tony took a large Thermos jug out of his filing cabinet and disappeared. He was back inside five minutes with two steaming mugs and the jug. He handed Carol a mug and gestured towards the Thermos. ‘I filled it up. I figured we might be some time. Help yourself as and when.’
Carol took a grateful sip. ‘Will you marry me?’ she asked, mock romantic.
Tony laughed again, to cover the lurch of apprehension that shifted his stomach, a familiar response to even the most idle of flirtations. ‘You won’t be saying that in a few days’ time,’ he said evasively, turning his attention back to the photographs.
‘Victim number one. Adam Scott,’ he said softly, making a note on his pad. He went through the photographs one by one, then went back to the beginning. The first picture showed a city square, tall Georgian houses on one side, a modern office block on a second and a row of shops, bars and restaurants on the third. In the centre of the square was a public garden, crossed by two diagonal paths. In the middle was an ornate Victorian drinking fountain. The park was surrounded by a three feet high brick wall. Along two sides of the garden was deep shrubbery. The ambience was slightly seedy, the stucco of the houses peeling in places. He imagined himself standing on the corner, taking in the view, smelling the fumid city air mixed with the stink of stale alcohol and fast food, hearing the night sounds. The rev of engines, the sound of high heels on pavements, occasional laughs and cries borne on the wind, the twitter of starlings, conned out of sleep by the sodium light of streetlamps. Where did you stand, Andy? Where did you watch your ground from? What did you see? What did you hear? What did you
feel
? Why here?
The second photograph showed a section of the wall and the shrubbery from the street side. The photograph was clear enough for Tony to make out the little iron squares on the top of the wall, which were all that remained of railings that had presumably been removed during the war to make guns and shells. A section of the bushes showed broken branches and crumpled leaves. The third shot showed the body of a man, face down on the earth, his limbs splayed at strange angles. Tony let himself be drawn into the picture, trying to put himself in Handy Andy’s shoes. How did it feel, Andy? Were you proud? Were you scared? Were you exultant? Did you feel a spasm of regret at abandoning the object of your desire? How long did you allow yourself to drink in this sight, this strange tableau that you created? Did the sound of footsteps move you on? Or did you not care?
Tony looked up. Carol was watching him. To his surprise, for once he didn’t feel uncomfortable to have a woman’s eyes on him. Perhaps because their relationship had so firm a professional base, but without direct competition. The tension in him relaxed a notch. ‘The place where the body was found. Tell me about it.’
‘Crompton Gardens. It’s at the heart of Temple Fields, where the gay village and the red-light district overlap. It’s poorly lit at night, mostly because the streetlights are always being vandalized by the sex vendors who want a bit of darkness to cover their activities. There’s a lot of sex goes on in Crompton Gardens, in the bushes and on the park benches under the trees, in the office doorways, in the basement areas of the houses. Rent, prostitution and casual pick-ups. There are people around throughout the night, but they’re not the sort who are going to come forward about anything unusual they might have seen, even if they noticed it,’ Carol explained while Tony took notes.