who first noticed the resemblance between the photofit and the man police are currently questioning.’
‘Let’s get this right, Martin, you’re saying Mr Webster identified his daughter’s kidnapper?’
‘I don’t think we can go that far just yet, but . . .’
But he had switched off the television.
‘What’s your game, little Gillian?’ he said quietly. ‘Your game . . . or your father’s?’ He felt dizzy, confused. There had to be a reason for all of this. The wine was thumping in his head.
‘I hate puzzles!’ he yelled at the blank TV screen. ‘I hate puzzles!’
In Castle Lane police station, Chief Superintendent Tom Lancaster was about to get some sleep. He’d phoned his wife to explain that he wouldn’t be home. He kept a fresh suit, shirt, and tie in the office anyway, and now there was a camp bed there too, with an army-quality sleeping bag. Nothing to the comforts of home, but it would have to do. Tomorrow might be even busier than today. He was comforted to know that the press weren’t going home either. Some had crawled off to hotels and boarding houses, but others were camping out in cars and vans outside the station.
Lancaster slipped off his clothes and into the chilled sleeping bag. He wriggled for a few seconds, getting warm, then reached to the floor, where several bulging files lay. The transcript of Gillian Webster’s conversations with the Minute Man had been typed up. He read through them again. It was one-way traffic. The Minute Man had said only a couple of dozen words, mostly in the form of abrupt questions.
His second victim, Elaine Chatham, had managed a longer utterance from him. She’d asked if she could have a book of crosswords to pass the time. She’d kept on asking until she’d forced from him a gruff confession (in his Geordie accent this time). Three important little words. Tom Lancaster whispered them to himself.
‘ “I hate puzzles”.’
Then, smiling, he reached for the anglepoise and turned off the light.
It was nearly midday when Mrs Angelo heard the bell tinkling at the front desk.
‘Coming!’ she called, trying to sound calm. Her husband Tony should have been helping her, but he had the flu and was upstairs asleep. It was his third bout of flu this year; he never wanted the doctor called in. The man standing at the desk carried a sports holdall and a sheaf of the morning papers. He wore a new-smelling sheepskin jacket and a harassed grin.
‘I’d like a room, please,’ he announced.
‘Just the one night, is it?’
‘Well . . .’
‘You’re a journalist,’ Mrs Angelo stated. ‘You’re reporting on that kidnapping, and you don’t know how long you’ll need the room. Am I right?’
‘You could write our astrology column.’
She checked the rack of room keys on the wall. ‘Number six has a wash basin, or there’s number eleven, but it doesn’t. Those are the only two I’ve got.’ She turned to him. ‘We’re busy all of a sudden.’
‘You’ve already got reporters staying?’
‘One’s been here all the way through, the others moved in yesterday. And I’ve a very nice cameraman and sound-man from the BBC, only they complain because their reporter is in some posh hotel. I told them, posh just means expensive. Number six or number eleven?’
‘Six, please.’
‘Only the best, eh? I dare say you’re on expenses.’ She unhooked the key, then swivelled the register around for him to sign. ‘So which paper are you from?’
He didn’t look up from his writing. ‘I’m freelance. A few magazines are interested, so I thought I’d . . . you know.’
She swivelled the register back towards her. ‘Well, Mr Beattie, let’s hope you get your story, eh?’
‘Yes,’ he agreed, taking the key from her warm, damp fingers. ‘Let’s hope.’
He threw the papers on to the floor beside the single bed. The mattress was softer than he liked, but the room was clean and fresh. It worried him that there were other
‘Let’s get this right, Martin, you’re saying Mr Webster identified his daughter’s kidnapper?’
‘I don’t think we can go that far just yet, but . . .’
But he had switched off the television.
‘What’s your game, little Gillian?’ he said quietly. ‘Your game . . . or your father’s?’ He felt dizzy, confused. There had to be a reason for all of this. The wine was thumping in his head.
‘I hate puzzles!’ he yelled at the blank TV screen. ‘I hate puzzles!’
In Castle Lane police station, Chief Superintendent Tom Lancaster was about to get some sleep. He’d phoned his wife to explain that he wouldn’t be home. He kept a fresh suit, shirt, and tie in the office anyway, and now there was a camp bed there too, with an army-quality sleeping bag. Nothing to the comforts of home, but it would have to do. Tomorrow might be even busier than today. He was comforted to know that the press weren’t going home either. Some had crawled off to hotels and boarding houses, but others were camping out in cars and vans outside the station.
Lancaster slipped off his clothes and into the chilled sleeping bag. He wriggled for a few seconds, getting warm, then reached to the floor, where several bulging files lay. The transcript of Gillian Webster’s conversations with the Minute Man had been typed up. He read through them again. It was one-way traffic. The Minute Man had said only a couple of dozen words, mostly in the form of abrupt questions.
His second victim, Elaine Chatham, had managed a longer utterance from him. She’d asked if she could have a book of crosswords to pass the time. She’d kept on asking until she’d forced from him a gruff confession (in his Geordie accent this time). Three important little words. Tom Lancaster whispered them to himself.
‘ “I hate puzzles”.’
Then, smiling, he reached for the anglepoise and turned off the light.
It was nearly midday when Mrs Angelo heard the bell tinkling at the front desk.
‘Coming!’ she called, trying to sound calm. Her husband Tony should have been helping her, but he had the flu and was upstairs asleep. It was his third bout of flu this year; he never wanted the doctor called in. The man standing at the desk carried a sports holdall and a sheaf of the morning papers. He wore a new-smelling sheepskin jacket and a harassed grin.
‘I’d like a room, please,’ he announced.
‘Just the one night, is it?’
‘Well . . .’
‘You’re a journalist,’ Mrs Angelo stated. ‘You’re reporting on that kidnapping, and you don’t know how long you’ll need the room. Am I right?’
‘You could write our astrology column.’
She checked the rack of room keys on the wall. ‘Number six has a wash basin, or there’s number eleven, but it doesn’t. Those are the only two I’ve got.’ She turned to him. ‘We’re busy all of a sudden.’
‘You’ve already got reporters staying?’
‘One’s been here all the way through, the others moved in yesterday. And I’ve a very nice cameraman and sound-man from the BBC, only they complain because their reporter is in some posh hotel. I told them, posh just means expensive. Number six or number eleven?’
‘Six, please.’
‘Only the best, eh? I dare say you’re on expenses.’ She unhooked the key, then swivelled the register around for him to sign. ‘So which paper are you from?’
He didn’t look up from his writing. ‘I’m freelance. A few magazines are interested, so I thought I’d . . . you know.’
She swivelled the register back towards her. ‘Well, Mr Beattie, let’s hope you get your story, eh?’
‘Yes,’ he agreed, taking the key from her warm, damp fingers. ‘Let’s hope.’
He threw the papers on to the floor beside the single bed. The mattress was softer than he liked, but the room was clean and fresh. It worried him that there were other
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