A Question of Despair by Maureen Carter Page B

lengthy list of questions she had in mind. Chuckling to herself, she headed for the Merc. If poss she needed to collar Quinn, before the story broke. When the excrement would really hit the extractor fan.
    When someone’s known to a cop, it doesn’t necessarily figure they’re bosom buddies. There’s no sharing popcorn at the cinema, going on for a curry and a couple of Cobras. They’re known, as in: POI. Person of Interest. And the closest contact normally is feeling a collar, or eyeballing each other across a metal desk in a police interview room.
    Which is where DS Reg Proctor had last seen Todd Mellor, in the flesh. Only Mellor’s face was currently on show, a close up on the monitor in the viewing suite.
    â€˜I think he quite enjoyed the attention, guv.’ Proctor was certainly under the metaphorical spotlight. He’d been giving rapt colleagues an account of his dealings with Mellor. A couple of years back, Proctor and his then partner had apparently brought the guy in for questioning. A few parents and teachers at a primary school near where Mellor lived had complained he’d been hanging round, taking pictures of kids. Mellor, Proctor said, had come in voluntarily, answered all questions satisfactorily, agreed to a search of his house, allowed them to take his computer. ‘Came out cleaner than Persil, guv.’ Sarah sniffed, cut a glance at the screen. Or he’d rumbled they were onto him.
    Proctor mopped his shiny brow with a crumpled hankie. He was early thirties, but born middle-aged and wore the uniform: tweed jacket, leather elbow pads, trousers with a killer crease, neatly knotted knitted tie. His horn-rimmed glasses were getting the hankie treatment now. ‘He didn’t have so much as a box Brownie squirrelled away.’
    â€˜Yeah, well, we’ll see about that.’ Baker leaned back in the swivel chair, fingers tapping both chunky thighs. ‘How’d he strike you, Reg?’
    Hopefully, Baker would soon form his own assessment. An unmarked car had been despatched to Mellor’s last known address in Aston. If he’d done a bunk, a picture would be circulated to officers across the city. If need be, they’d release copies to the media, issue an all points bulletin.
    â€˜He seemed pretty straight to me, guv.’
    â€˜Cocky?’
    Proctor chewed a rubbery lip. ‘More what I’d call laid-back.’
    So Mellor had done nothing wrong or he’d destroyed anything incriminating. Sarah checked her watch. Coming up to half-nine, they needed to get on. Couldn’t rely on Mellor holding up his hands. Either way, Baker wanted first interview-shot at the guy.
    According to Proctor, apart from being questioned under caution Mellor had no previous and back then had no job, no family, no partner. He lived alone in a crummy one-bedroomed flat over a fish and chip shop. ‘As I say, guv, he seemed to enjoy the attention.’
    â€˜Christ, Reg.’ Baker whacked the desk. ‘The guy was accused of having an unhealthy interest in little kids.’
    Mouth turned down, then: ‘He reckoned it was a case of mistaken identity, guv.’
    The boss jabbed a thumb at the screen. ‘Yeah? Well, he won’t be getting away with that one this time round.’

SIXTEEN
    A subdued DC Harries drove down a tree-lined street in Harborne. Dappled light flickered across the planes of his face. Sarah glanced at his profile. Hoped he wasn’t smarting from the slapping down at the brief. Not that she regretted the rebuke. He was a cop for God’s sake. If he took offence that easy he was in the wrong job. John Hunt had already had a moan because she was working more and more with Harries. Sarah reckoned the DS resented what he saw as being sidelined. Registering Harries’ tight lips, white knuckles, she hoped she’d made the right call. Couldn’t be doing with a sulker.
    â€˜Something on your mind, David?’ Light