warning the locals, sir?’ I asked.
He smiled at me indulgently. ‘We should be warning the tarts and the homeless and the junkies in the city this bastard is operating out of. Although we do not yet know where that is, do we, Sergeant?’
‘No, sir.’ I recognized my shut-up cue.
Kevin Fletcher presented the forensic evidence. It was sparse, nothing I hadn’t already heard, except that we had managed to identify the polyethylene sheeting as a grade used to wrap and protect rolls of carpet.
One of the DCs put up his hand. Fletcher nodded. ‘What about the young woman, sir? Is it possible to tell if there was a sexual element to this?’
Fletcher smiled grimly. ‘We can’t say yet. The lab people are doing their best, but unfortunately the well-intentioned excavators managed to turn her gynaecology into a ragout.’ A collective groan went through the room, and all eyes turned on me. So that one was obviously doing the rounds in Carmarthen. Had the question been a plant? Or was I just being paranoid?
Fletcher uncovered the display board. There were mortuary and site photographs of both the bodies, and a plan showing the locations where they had been found. He jabbed his finger over them. ‘This is an out of the way spot. It’s a long way off the road, and it can’t be seen from the valley. So we’re working on the assumption that whoever dug these graves knew the territory.’ His eyes caught mine for a moment, as if challenging me to reclaim my theory.
‘We have had one big break, though. We have found a pair of bootprints that were missed at first because they had been covered by running water. We think these were made when he was running away from the site security guard. We’ve managed to get a cast, and the boffins have been hard at work trying to build up a composite of the man.’
He turned to the table, produced another photograph, and pinned it to the board. ‘Our putative killer’s bootprints. And now . . .’ He picked up another, larger piece of paper, holding its blank side towards us, and shaking it tantalizingly. ‘Our composite,’ he announced triumphantly, turning it over.
Even Jack Galbraith laughed at our reaction to the anticlimax. I had to give Fletcher credit, he was working his audience well.
The composite was little more than a caricature. A pure extrapolation of the weight and proportions of the body based on the size and depth of the bootprint. All science, no art.
Fletcher started nodding in anticipatory sympathy. ‘I know it’s not great. But I’m afraid it’s all we have for now. So you officers at the coalface will have to work with it.’
A low, collective groan rose up from the uniform corner, orchestrated by Emrys Hughes. You couldn’t blame them. They were going to be knocking on doors trying to jog people’s memories with a cartoon.
Jack Galbraith stepped forward. ‘Let me step out of character for once and play the wicked old stepfather.’ A dutiful laugh rippled through the room. He raised the composite and held it out to face the room. ‘Another spoiler. Because this, of course, may not be our man. He may be wearing an entirely different label.’ He clicked his fingers at Alison Weir.
‘And what label is that, sir?’ she came back crisply.
‘I am a wind-farm saboteur. I am an annoying, malicious and destructive bastard, but I am not a killer. I want you to keep that in the back of your minds. This may be a false trail.’ He scrutinized us all for a moment, and then nodded. ‘Okay, Kevin, back to you.’
A copy of the composite was passed along the line to me. I stopped listening to Fletcher’s pep talk and studied it. There was only one fact, which was the size of his boots. His weight, his size and his posture were all conjecture. How many of these variables would fit Gerald Evans?
I checked myself. I had never met Evans, so why was I getting so obsessed with him? Why did I want him to turn out to be a monster? I knew the answer. I wanted
He smiled at me indulgently. ‘We should be warning the tarts and the homeless and the junkies in the city this bastard is operating out of. Although we do not yet know where that is, do we, Sergeant?’
‘No, sir.’ I recognized my shut-up cue.
Kevin Fletcher presented the forensic evidence. It was sparse, nothing I hadn’t already heard, except that we had managed to identify the polyethylene sheeting as a grade used to wrap and protect rolls of carpet.
One of the DCs put up his hand. Fletcher nodded. ‘What about the young woman, sir? Is it possible to tell if there was a sexual element to this?’
Fletcher smiled grimly. ‘We can’t say yet. The lab people are doing their best, but unfortunately the well-intentioned excavators managed to turn her gynaecology into a ragout.’ A collective groan went through the room, and all eyes turned on me. So that one was obviously doing the rounds in Carmarthen. Had the question been a plant? Or was I just being paranoid?
Fletcher uncovered the display board. There were mortuary and site photographs of both the bodies, and a plan showing the locations where they had been found. He jabbed his finger over them. ‘This is an out of the way spot. It’s a long way off the road, and it can’t be seen from the valley. So we’re working on the assumption that whoever dug these graves knew the territory.’ His eyes caught mine for a moment, as if challenging me to reclaim my theory.
‘We have had one big break, though. We have found a pair of bootprints that were missed at first because they had been covered by running water. We think these were made when he was running away from the site security guard. We’ve managed to get a cast, and the boffins have been hard at work trying to build up a composite of the man.’
He turned to the table, produced another photograph, and pinned it to the board. ‘Our putative killer’s bootprints. And now . . .’ He picked up another, larger piece of paper, holding its blank side towards us, and shaking it tantalizingly. ‘Our composite,’ he announced triumphantly, turning it over.
Even Jack Galbraith laughed at our reaction to the anticlimax. I had to give Fletcher credit, he was working his audience well.
The composite was little more than a caricature. A pure extrapolation of the weight and proportions of the body based on the size and depth of the bootprint. All science, no art.
Fletcher started nodding in anticipatory sympathy. ‘I know it’s not great. But I’m afraid it’s all we have for now. So you officers at the coalface will have to work with it.’
A low, collective groan rose up from the uniform corner, orchestrated by Emrys Hughes. You couldn’t blame them. They were going to be knocking on doors trying to jog people’s memories with a cartoon.
Jack Galbraith stepped forward. ‘Let me step out of character for once and play the wicked old stepfather.’ A dutiful laugh rippled through the room. He raised the composite and held it out to face the room. ‘Another spoiler. Because this, of course, may not be our man. He may be wearing an entirely different label.’ He clicked his fingers at Alison Weir.
‘And what label is that, sir?’ she came back crisply.
‘I am a wind-farm saboteur. I am an annoying, malicious and destructive bastard, but I am not a killer. I want you to keep that in the back of your minds. This may be a false trail.’ He scrutinized us all for a moment, and then nodded. ‘Okay, Kevin, back to you.’
A copy of the composite was passed along the line to me. I stopped listening to Fletcher’s pep talk and studied it. There was only one fact, which was the size of his boots. His weight, his size and his posture were all conjecture. How many of these variables would fit Gerald Evans?
I checked myself. I had never met Evans, so why was I getting so obsessed with him? Why did I want him to turn out to be a monster? I knew the answer. I wanted
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