pull the file for him. If there was a photograph available, Wright arranged to have it sent to Tavistock Place, either through the Photophone system that the Force Intelligence Bureau had on the third floor, or by faxing it to one of the two fax machines in the incident room. Sometimes he was able to eliminate a possibility solely on the basis of a photograph, but the mutilation of the face and the poor quality of the photographs meant that more often than not Wright would have to telephone the next of kin for further details.
At first he'd felt a little embarrassed asking relatives if the man 74 STEPHEN LEATHER who'd gone missing was circumcised, and several times he'd been accused of being a pervert and had had the phone banged down on him. Despite his embarrassment, he'd already ruled out more than twenty names. Wright was about to dial another number when the phone rang. He picked up the receiver and his heart fell as soon as he heard his ex-wife's voice.
'What the hell are you playing at, Nick?' she hissed. Janie rarely shouted. If anything, the angrier she got, the quieter she became.
Wright was stunned. He had no idea what he'd done to upset her. 'What's wrong?' he said.
'What did I say to you about telling Sean war stories?' she said. 'He had nightmares all last night and I had to take him to school with bags under his eyes. What the hell did you think you were doing?'
'He wanted to--'
'Just how long do you think the judge is going to allow you to see our son if he finds out the sort of photographs you've been showing him? Crime scene pictures, for God's sake. You showed him a photograph of a dismembered corpse.'
'Okay, I'm sorry.'
'Sorry doesn't cut it. I'm supposed to be able to trust you with Sean. I specifically told you not to talk about that case.'
'Janie, it was raining, the zoo was a washout, I couldn't think what else to do with him. It was a mistake. I'm sorry. What do you want me to do, open a vein?' n 'An artery would be nice,' she said. 'Don't do it again, Nick.'
The line went dead. Wright banged the receiver back on its cradle. He put his head in his hands and closed his eyes. 'Shit,' - he whispered. He stood up and went over to the coffee machine and poured himself a cup. He sipped it but the hot, bitter liquid couldn't shift the bad taste in his mouth. Wright went over to Reid's desk and pulled open the bottom drawer. The bottle of vodka was wrapped in a Kentucky Fried Chicken bag. Wright took it out and poured a slug into his coffee, then drank half of it in one gulp. He added more vodka, then put the bottle away and closed the drawer. Reid was out trying to interview dog-walkers and wasn't planning to put in an appearance that afternoon. More than likely THE TUNNEL RATS 75 he'd be in a pub somewhere. Wright raised his polystyrene cup in a silent salute to his absent partner.
Wright sat down at his own desk and ran his finger down the list of missing persons. He'd already discounted most of the names on the first sheet. As he flicked over to the second sheet, his mobile telephone rang. The noise startled him and coffee slopped over his hand. He cursed, put the cup down and licked his hand as he picked up the phone and held it to his ear. He had a sinking feeling that it was his ex-wife, but the voice on the other end of the line was cultured and soft-spoken, the sort of voice that might belong to the wife of a Conservative Member of Parliament. 'Sergeant Wright?' she said.
'Speaking,' said Wright.
'You left a message for me to call you,' she said. 'My name's May Eckhardt.'
Wright ran his eyes down the sheet. No Eckhardt. 'Do you by any chance have a relative missing, Mrs Eckhardt? A man?'
'My husband,' she said hesitantly. 'Have you found him?'
Wright found the name on the fourth sheet. Max Eckhardt. A forty-eight-year-old American living in Maida Vale. May Eckhardt didn't sound at all American, her accent was pure Home Counties. 'I just wanted to ask you a few questions about your
At first he'd felt a little embarrassed asking relatives if the man 74 STEPHEN LEATHER who'd gone missing was circumcised, and several times he'd been accused of being a pervert and had had the phone banged down on him. Despite his embarrassment, he'd already ruled out more than twenty names. Wright was about to dial another number when the phone rang. He picked up the receiver and his heart fell as soon as he heard his ex-wife's voice.
'What the hell are you playing at, Nick?' she hissed. Janie rarely shouted. If anything, the angrier she got, the quieter she became.
Wright was stunned. He had no idea what he'd done to upset her. 'What's wrong?' he said.
'What did I say to you about telling Sean war stories?' she said. 'He had nightmares all last night and I had to take him to school with bags under his eyes. What the hell did you think you were doing?'
'He wanted to--'
'Just how long do you think the judge is going to allow you to see our son if he finds out the sort of photographs you've been showing him? Crime scene pictures, for God's sake. You showed him a photograph of a dismembered corpse.'
'Okay, I'm sorry.'
'Sorry doesn't cut it. I'm supposed to be able to trust you with Sean. I specifically told you not to talk about that case.'
'Janie, it was raining, the zoo was a washout, I couldn't think what else to do with him. It was a mistake. I'm sorry. What do you want me to do, open a vein?' n 'An artery would be nice,' she said. 'Don't do it again, Nick.'
The line went dead. Wright banged the receiver back on its cradle. He put his head in his hands and closed his eyes. 'Shit,' - he whispered. He stood up and went over to the coffee machine and poured himself a cup. He sipped it but the hot, bitter liquid couldn't shift the bad taste in his mouth. Wright went over to Reid's desk and pulled open the bottom drawer. The bottle of vodka was wrapped in a Kentucky Fried Chicken bag. Wright took it out and poured a slug into his coffee, then drank half of it in one gulp. He added more vodka, then put the bottle away and closed the drawer. Reid was out trying to interview dog-walkers and wasn't planning to put in an appearance that afternoon. More than likely THE TUNNEL RATS 75 he'd be in a pub somewhere. Wright raised his polystyrene cup in a silent salute to his absent partner.
Wright sat down at his own desk and ran his finger down the list of missing persons. He'd already discounted most of the names on the first sheet. As he flicked over to the second sheet, his mobile telephone rang. The noise startled him and coffee slopped over his hand. He cursed, put the cup down and licked his hand as he picked up the phone and held it to his ear. He had a sinking feeling that it was his ex-wife, but the voice on the other end of the line was cultured and soft-spoken, the sort of voice that might belong to the wife of a Conservative Member of Parliament. 'Sergeant Wright?' she said.
'Speaking,' said Wright.
'You left a message for me to call you,' she said. 'My name's May Eckhardt.'
Wright ran his eyes down the sheet. No Eckhardt. 'Do you by any chance have a relative missing, Mrs Eckhardt? A man?'
'My husband,' she said hesitantly. 'Have you found him?'
Wright found the name on the fourth sheet. Max Eckhardt. A forty-eight-year-old American living in Maida Vale. May Eckhardt didn't sound at all American, her accent was pure Home Counties. 'I just wanted to ask you a few questions about your
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