thing I know he’s out of there. Fucking gone he is. I think about going after him, but then I sees Spartan and… The fucker killed my dog, man!’
Jessop looked up from the page to see Knowles smiling warmly at her. ‘So much for reaching your shelf life, detective.’
Chapter Twenty-six
She made the call from the pub, instructing the duty sergeant at the station to ask Wayne Thacker if Spartan’s killer had dropped his penknife during their struggle. And if so, was that the same knife he had stuck George Armitage with?
By the time she and Knowles had walked back to the station she had her answer.
Yes on both counts.
Was this the real reason the killer had returned to the squat? On the off chance he’d find his weapon? When he didn’t, did he take out his frustration on Spartan’s corpse, and make damn sure Thacker got the message?
Located in the building’s basement, Knowles’ lab was as meticulously organised as the man himself, who was now adorned in a fresh white lab coat and latex gloves and was working fast.
Upon one of his spotless work tops lay a black-handled Victorinox Swiss Army Knife covered with a thin film of light grey aluminium lifting powder. The knife was open, revealing among other tools a Phillips screwdriver, wood saw, wire stripper, can and bottle opener, and a lethal looking serrated edge blade.
‘Okay,’ Knowles said. ‘I’ve got prints from the knife matching those of your boy Thacker.’
Jessop turned away from the knife and peered over Knowles’ shoulder at the PC screen, whereon was a magnified fingerprint alongside the mug shot of Thacker taken earlier.
‘Good news is I’ve also found a partial print on one of the blades not consistent with Thacker’s. I’m running it through IDENT1 now.’
Jessop tensed against a fluttering of apprehension in her belly. Eventually these moments always came, and when they did the rush was intoxicating.
She turned to another computer, where the screen flickered with thousands upon thousands of prints, searching the extensive IDENT1 database for a match out of the 8000,000 or so prints on file.
‘Keep everything crossed this bastard’s on file,’ Knowles said.
She hadn’t let the possibility of their boy not being on file cross her mind. Getting your hopes up was a dangerous business, but sometimes it couldn’t be helped.
She turned from the screen, paced the small room with its many elaborate tools of the Objective Investigator. These tools were born out of a necessity to catch killers with facts and evidence. As a Subjective Investigator, her tools were hunches, instinct, and tenacity. These were born from a dire need to heal the tear in her conscience over her family’s death, and honed from a life hunting the ghost of the man who’d torn the hole.
Her attention was drawn toward the bag of little Keisha Adam’s clothes. How would she deal with the horrific trauma? Would she get mad or even? Become crackpot or crusader? Because one thing was for certain, scars that run that deep never healed. They just scabbed over until you were old enough to pick the scabs off and confront the horror beneath.
Just as she would have to tomorrow.
‘Cathy?’
She snapped back to the present, saw Knowles grinning at her. ‘Sorry…what?’
‘We lucked out. Got an eight point match on the print. That’s pretty damn conclusive.’
She joined Knowles in front of the PC, stared at the black and grey fingerprint and the mug shot beside it. Late thirties, early forties, the Caucasian man had cropped hair, dark, intelligent eyes, and a strong nose. Around a sharp jaw line and thin lips he sported a couple of day’s worth of dark stubble which accentuated his high cheekbones and narrow face.
Their killer?
‘Terence Randal,’ she read over Knowles’ shoulder. ‘What’s his story?’
Knowles clicked on the mouse and Randal’s record appeared on the screen. ‘Born 1969. Father of two. English Literature teacher at Chatham
Jessop looked up from the page to see Knowles smiling warmly at her. ‘So much for reaching your shelf life, detective.’
Chapter Twenty-six
She made the call from the pub, instructing the duty sergeant at the station to ask Wayne Thacker if Spartan’s killer had dropped his penknife during their struggle. And if so, was that the same knife he had stuck George Armitage with?
By the time she and Knowles had walked back to the station she had her answer.
Yes on both counts.
Was this the real reason the killer had returned to the squat? On the off chance he’d find his weapon? When he didn’t, did he take out his frustration on Spartan’s corpse, and make damn sure Thacker got the message?
Located in the building’s basement, Knowles’ lab was as meticulously organised as the man himself, who was now adorned in a fresh white lab coat and latex gloves and was working fast.
Upon one of his spotless work tops lay a black-handled Victorinox Swiss Army Knife covered with a thin film of light grey aluminium lifting powder. The knife was open, revealing among other tools a Phillips screwdriver, wood saw, wire stripper, can and bottle opener, and a lethal looking serrated edge blade.
‘Okay,’ Knowles said. ‘I’ve got prints from the knife matching those of your boy Thacker.’
Jessop turned away from the knife and peered over Knowles’ shoulder at the PC screen, whereon was a magnified fingerprint alongside the mug shot of Thacker taken earlier.
‘Good news is I’ve also found a partial print on one of the blades not consistent with Thacker’s. I’m running it through IDENT1 now.’
Jessop tensed against a fluttering of apprehension in her belly. Eventually these moments always came, and when they did the rush was intoxicating.
She turned to another computer, where the screen flickered with thousands upon thousands of prints, searching the extensive IDENT1 database for a match out of the 8000,000 or so prints on file.
‘Keep everything crossed this bastard’s on file,’ Knowles said.
She hadn’t let the possibility of their boy not being on file cross her mind. Getting your hopes up was a dangerous business, but sometimes it couldn’t be helped.
She turned from the screen, paced the small room with its many elaborate tools of the Objective Investigator. These tools were born out of a necessity to catch killers with facts and evidence. As a Subjective Investigator, her tools were hunches, instinct, and tenacity. These were born from a dire need to heal the tear in her conscience over her family’s death, and honed from a life hunting the ghost of the man who’d torn the hole.
Her attention was drawn toward the bag of little Keisha Adam’s clothes. How would she deal with the horrific trauma? Would she get mad or even? Become crackpot or crusader? Because one thing was for certain, scars that run that deep never healed. They just scabbed over until you were old enough to pick the scabs off and confront the horror beneath.
Just as she would have to tomorrow.
‘Cathy?’
She snapped back to the present, saw Knowles grinning at her. ‘Sorry…what?’
‘We lucked out. Got an eight point match on the print. That’s pretty damn conclusive.’
She joined Knowles in front of the PC, stared at the black and grey fingerprint and the mug shot beside it. Late thirties, early forties, the Caucasian man had cropped hair, dark, intelligent eyes, and a strong nose. Around a sharp jaw line and thin lips he sported a couple of day’s worth of dark stubble which accentuated his high cheekbones and narrow face.
Their killer?
‘Terence Randal,’ she read over Knowles’ shoulder. ‘What’s his story?’
Knowles clicked on the mouse and Randal’s record appeared on the screen. ‘Born 1969. Father of two. English Literature teacher at Chatham
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