himself. Now he’s milking cows and mowing lawns.’
‘What about his alibi?’
‘His grandmother always lies for him.’
‘He mentioned seeing a visitor – someone lighting candles.’
‘Yeah, very convenient.’
‘We know Elizabeth let the killer into the farmhouse. That’s not going to be Tommy, is it?’
Cray sighs and rubs her mouth. ‘You may be right, Professor, but we’ve spent almost a month chasing our tails. I want to make an arrest. I want to show these good people that we’re doing something.’
‘By scapegoating Tommy Garrett.’
‘By holding him for forty-eight hours and getting a warrant to search his house. And I’ll bet you a pound to a pinch of shit that we find the murder weapon or something else that incriminates him.’
I can’t talk to Cray when she’s like this. Psychological profiling isn’t an exact science and cannot be presented in court in the same way as fingerprint evidence or DNA analysis. I remember once seeing a series of photos of the everlasting shadows of Hiroshima caused by the atomic blast. When the heat from the detonation hit a person standing close to a wall, they were vaporised instantly and a ‘shadow’ was left behind, as though printed in two dimensions against the wall. That’s what it feels like when I look at a murder scene. I see the shadows.
DCS Cray is already on the phone, making a request for a search warrant. She seems happier than before. Some people have to keep moving forward because standing still feels as though they’re being left behind.
She finishes the call and checks some of her phone messages. ‘The coroner just released the bodies. Elizabeth and Harper are going to be cremated on Tuesday.’
‘Is that a problem?’
‘Yes. No. Maybe. I’m always concerned the pathologist will have screwed things up, or they’ll discover some new technology and we won’t have the right samples.’
‘It’s been almost a month.’
‘I know.’ She stares at her cluttered desk and the stack of papers waiting to be signed. Budgets. Overtime. Requisition forms.
‘Are you sure you want me reviewing this investigation?’ I ask. ‘What if I identify failings?’
‘I can handle criticism.’
‘So long as it’s not public.’
She eyeballs me angrily. ‘Terry Bannerman is an obnoxious blowhard whose opinions I couldn’t value less. If we’ve missed something, I’ll take responsibility for that.’
‘I’m going to need help.’
‘I can’t spare anyone.’
‘Can I bring someone in?’
‘Who did you have in mind?’
‘Vincent Ruiz.’
Wrinkles concertina around her eyes. Cray and Ruiz have a mutual loathing. I once put this down to professional rivalry, but it’s more a clash of personalities. They’re like sumo wrestlers stomping around a ring, slapping their thighs and throwing salt.
‘He
was
a detective,’ I say.
‘
Was
. Past tense. Old. Retired. Gone to seed. Pain in the arse.’
‘He speaks very highly of you.’
‘Very funny.’
‘I need his help.’
She mutters something under her breath. ‘Keep him away from me.’
‘Yes, guv.’
‘I’m not your guv.’
She waves me away as a woman constable appears at the door, raising her hand to knock.
‘What is it?’ Cray barks.
‘A call, guv.’
The telephone console has been blinking unanswered on the desk. Cray punches the lighted button and picks up the receiver.
‘Are you sure it’s her? … No, don’t arrest her. Bannerman would have a field day. Yeah, OK. I’m coming.’
She hangs up and grabs her coat. ‘You’re coming with me.’
‘What’s happened?’
‘Elizabeth Crowe’s sister is stopping traffic on Walton Road.’
‘Why?’
‘She’s trying to find the killer.’
11
‘No sirens,’ Cray says to her driver – the same young constable who delivered the message. She’s in her late twenties with her hair pinned up beneath her cap and freckles that look as though they’ve been pencilled on to her nose.
‘This is
‘What about his alibi?’
‘His grandmother always lies for him.’
‘He mentioned seeing a visitor – someone lighting candles.’
‘Yeah, very convenient.’
‘We know Elizabeth let the killer into the farmhouse. That’s not going to be Tommy, is it?’
Cray sighs and rubs her mouth. ‘You may be right, Professor, but we’ve spent almost a month chasing our tails. I want to make an arrest. I want to show these good people that we’re doing something.’
‘By scapegoating Tommy Garrett.’
‘By holding him for forty-eight hours and getting a warrant to search his house. And I’ll bet you a pound to a pinch of shit that we find the murder weapon or something else that incriminates him.’
I can’t talk to Cray when she’s like this. Psychological profiling isn’t an exact science and cannot be presented in court in the same way as fingerprint evidence or DNA analysis. I remember once seeing a series of photos of the everlasting shadows of Hiroshima caused by the atomic blast. When the heat from the detonation hit a person standing close to a wall, they were vaporised instantly and a ‘shadow’ was left behind, as though printed in two dimensions against the wall. That’s what it feels like when I look at a murder scene. I see the shadows.
DCS Cray is already on the phone, making a request for a search warrant. She seems happier than before. Some people have to keep moving forward because standing still feels as though they’re being left behind.
She finishes the call and checks some of her phone messages. ‘The coroner just released the bodies. Elizabeth and Harper are going to be cremated on Tuesday.’
‘Is that a problem?’
‘Yes. No. Maybe. I’m always concerned the pathologist will have screwed things up, or they’ll discover some new technology and we won’t have the right samples.’
‘It’s been almost a month.’
‘I know.’ She stares at her cluttered desk and the stack of papers waiting to be signed. Budgets. Overtime. Requisition forms.
‘Are you sure you want me reviewing this investigation?’ I ask. ‘What if I identify failings?’
‘I can handle criticism.’
‘So long as it’s not public.’
She eyeballs me angrily. ‘Terry Bannerman is an obnoxious blowhard whose opinions I couldn’t value less. If we’ve missed something, I’ll take responsibility for that.’
‘I’m going to need help.’
‘I can’t spare anyone.’
‘Can I bring someone in?’
‘Who did you have in mind?’
‘Vincent Ruiz.’
Wrinkles concertina around her eyes. Cray and Ruiz have a mutual loathing. I once put this down to professional rivalry, but it’s more a clash of personalities. They’re like sumo wrestlers stomping around a ring, slapping their thighs and throwing salt.
‘He
was
a detective,’ I say.
‘
Was
. Past tense. Old. Retired. Gone to seed. Pain in the arse.’
‘He speaks very highly of you.’
‘Very funny.’
‘I need his help.’
She mutters something under her breath. ‘Keep him away from me.’
‘Yes, guv.’
‘I’m not your guv.’
She waves me away as a woman constable appears at the door, raising her hand to knock.
‘What is it?’ Cray barks.
‘A call, guv.’
The telephone console has been blinking unanswered on the desk. Cray punches the lighted button and picks up the receiver.
‘Are you sure it’s her? … No, don’t arrest her. Bannerman would have a field day. Yeah, OK. I’m coming.’
She hangs up and grabs her coat. ‘You’re coming with me.’
‘What’s happened?’
‘Elizabeth Crowe’s sister is stopping traffic on Walton Road.’
‘Why?’
‘She’s trying to find the killer.’
11
‘No sirens,’ Cray says to her driver – the same young constable who delivered the message. She’s in her late twenties with her hair pinned up beneath her cap and freckles that look as though they’ve been pencilled on to her nose.
‘This is
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