Fever of the Bone (4 page)

‘We were wondering where Mr Maidment was tonight,’ Ambrose said, making the most of her apparent willingness to discuss the Maidments.

‘He’s been in India. He owns a company that makes machine tools, he’s been out there drumming up business, trying to keep going through the credit crunch.’ Her eyes swam with tears. ‘He won’t even know about this, will he?’

‘I really couldn’t say,’ Ambrose said gently. ‘My colleagues are with Mrs Maidment now, helping her through. They’ll figure out the best way to get in touch with Mr Maidment.’ He put a warm hand on Mrs Darsie’s elbow. ‘Do you think Claire might be able to talk to me now?’

Claire was curled in a tight ball on the sofa, face flushed and eyes puffy with tears. Shrunk into herself, she looked a lot younger than fourteen. ‘You said Jennifer died,’ she said as soon as Ambrose walked in. ‘You mean somebody killed her, don’t you?’

‘I’m afraid so,’ Ambrose said, sitting opposite her as her mother adopted a protective pose again. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Did they . . . did she . . . Did they hurt her? I mean, obviously they hurt her, they killed her, right. But was it, like, torture?’ Her need for reassurance was obvious. Ambrose didn’t generally lie to witnesses, but sometimes it was the most humane course of action.

‘It would have been over very quickly,’ he said, the low rumble of his voice a comfort in itself.

‘When did it happen?’ Claire asked.

‘We can’t be sure yet. When did you see her last?’

Claire took a deep breath. ‘We came out of school together. I thought she was coming round here because we had some biology course work to do and we usually do science stuff here because my dad’s a chemistry lecturer and he can, like, help us when we get stuck with stuff. But she said no, she was going home on account of her dad is coming home tomorrow and she wanted to make a cake. Sort of, welcome home, kind of thing.’

‘That’s nice. Did she usually do something special like that when her dad had been away?’

Claire shrugged. ‘I don’t know, really. I don’t remember her doing anything like that before, but I never paid much attention. He’s always going away, her dad. Sometimes just for a couple of nights, but lately he’s been away for weeks at a time.’

‘It’s because of the economies in China and India,’ her mother interrupted. ‘He needs to exploit the new markets, that’s why he’s been away so much.’

Ambrose wished Claire’s mother would keep out of it. He always tried to get interviews to flow like a conversation. That was the best way to get people to reveal more than they intended. He hated it when other people broke across that flow. ‘And that’s all Jennifer said about her plans? That she was going home to bake a cake?’

Claire frowned, reaching back into her memory. ‘Yeah. I was a bit miffed that she didn’t say anything before. Because we’ve got this thing about not letting each other down. “Friends don’t let each other down,” that’s, like, our slogan. I mean, she didn’t even ask me to come back with her and help.’

‘So, at the time, you thought it was a bit strange? Jennifer just announcing this out of the blue?’

‘Kind of.’ Claire nodded. ‘I mean, no big, right? Just kind of not like her. But I wasn’t going to fall out with her about it, you know? She wanted to do something nice for her dad, that’s her business.’

‘Where did you actually say goodbye to her?’

‘Well, we didn’t say goodbye. Not as such. See, we’re at the bus stop and the bus arrives and I get on first, then Jennifer goes, “I forgot, I need to get chocolate for the cake, I need to go to the Co-op.” There’s this little local Co-op five minutes walk from school, see? So I’m on the bus already and she’s pushing past people to get off and the next thing I see is her walking past the bus, down towards the Co-op. And she waves to me, all smiley. And she goes, like, “See you tomorrow.” Well, that’s what it looked like she was saying.’ Claire’s face crumpled and tears spilled down her cheeks. ‘That’s the last I saw of her.’

Ambrose waited while her mother stroked Claire’s hair and gentled her back to composure. ‘Sounds like Jennifer wasn’t herself tonight,’ he said. ‘Acting a bit out of character, was she?’

Claire shrugged one shoulder. ‘I don’t know. Maybe, yes.’

Ambrose, the father of a teenage son, recognised this as adolescent-speak for ‘absolutely’. He gave her a small confiding smile. ‘I know you don’t want to say anything that feels like you’re letting Jennifer down, but there’s no room for secrets in a murder investigation. Do you think she could have been going to meet somebody? Somebody she was keeping secret?’

Claire sniffed and wiped her nose with the back of her hand. ‘She’d never keep anything like that from me. No way. Somebody must have got her on her way to the Co-op. Or on her way home after.’

Ambrose let it go. There was nothing to be gained by making Claire hostile to the investigation. ‘Did you guys hang out online together?’

Claire nodded. ‘We mainly used to go online at her house. She’s got a better computer than me. And we talk all the time, instant messaging and texting and stuff.’

‘Do you use a social networking site?’

Claire gave him a ‘well, duh’ look and nodded. ‘We’re on Rig.’

Of course you are
. A few years back, it had been MySpace. That had been overtaken by Facebook. Then RigMarole had come along with an even more user-friendly front end, with the added bonus of free downloadable voice recognition software. You didn’t even have to be able to type now to access a global community of like-minded peers and well-camouflaged predators. Ambrose tried to keep tabs on his own kids and their online circles, but he knew he was fighting a losing battle. ‘Do you happen to know Jennifer’s password? It would really help us if we could access her profile and messages as quickly as possible.’

Claire gave a quick sideways look at her mother, as if she had secrets of her own she didn’t want to reveal. ‘We had this kind of code. So nobody could guess. Her password was my initials, plus the last six digits of my mobile. Like, CLD435767.’

Ambrose keyed the code into his mobile. ‘That’s amazingly helpful, Claire. I’m not going to bother you much longer, but I need to ask you: did Jennifer ever talk about anybody she was scared of? Anybody she felt threatened by? It could be an adult, it could be somebody at school, a neighbour. Anybody at all.’

Claire shook her head, her face crumpling in misery again. ‘She never said anything like that.’ Her voice was piteous, her expression desolate. ‘Everybody liked Jennifer. Why would anybody want to kill her?’

Carol couldn’t believe how quickly John Brandon’s presence had been erased from his former office. His décor had been muted and unobtrusive, a single family photograph and an elaborate coffee machine the only real clues to the man himself. James Blake was clearly cut from a different cloth. Leather armchairs, an antique desk and wooden filing cabinets provided a faux country house feel. The walls were hung with unmissable pointers to Blake’s success - his framed degree certificate from Exeter, photographs of him with two prime ministers, the Prince of Wales, a scatter of home secretaries and minor celebrities. Carol wasn’t sure whether this was vanity or a warning shot across the bows of Blake’s visitors. She’d reserve judgement till she knew him better.

Blake, looking buffed and spruce in his dress uniform, waved Carol to one of the tub chairs in front of his desk. Unlike Brandon, he didn’t offer tea or coffee. Or pleasantries, it turned out. ‘I’ll get straight to the point, Carol,’ he said.

So that was how it was going to be. No fake building of bridges, no pretence at common ground between them. It was evident to Carol that the use of her name wasn’t the first step on the road to camaraderie, just a firm attempt at diminishing her by refusing to acknowledge her rank. ‘I’m glad to hear it, sir.’ She resisted the impulse to cross her arms and legs, choosing instead to mirror the openness of his pose. Some things had rubbed off from all those years of hanging around with Tony.

‘I’ve looked at your record. You’re a brilliant police officer, Carol. And you’ve built a first-class team around you.’ He paused, expectant.

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘And therein lies the problem.’ Blake’s mouth turned up in a smile that indicated how pleased he was at his own cleverness.

‘We’ve never viewed our success as a problem,’ Carol said, knowing that wasn’t quite the response he’d been looking for.

‘I understand the terms of engagement for your team are that you investigate major crime on our patch that doesn’t come under the remit of any of the national squads?’

Carol nodded. ‘That’s right.’

‘But when you’re between major crimes, you investigate cold cases?’ He couldn’t hide his disdain.

‘We do. And we’ve had some notable successes there too.’

‘I don’t dispute that, Carol. What I dispute is whether your talents are best deployed on cold cases.’

‘Cold cases are important. We speak for the dead. We bring closure to the families and we bring people to justice after they’ve stolen years from society.’

Blake’s nostrils flared, as if some unpleasant odour had wafted his way. ‘Is that what your friend Dr Hill says?’

‘It’s what we all think, sir. Cold cases matter. Their impact on the public isn’t negligible either. They help people to realise how committed the police service is to solving major crime.’

Blake took out a small box of breath mints and popped one in his mouth. ‘All of that’s true, Carol. But frankly, cold cases are for plodders. Carthorses, Carol, not thoroughbred racehorses like you and your team. It’s perseverance that solves them, not the kind of brilliance you and your team bring to bear.’

‘I’m afraid I don’t agree with your assessment, sir.’ She couldn’t quite grasp why she was growing so angry. Only that she was. ‘If it was that simple, these cases would have been resolved a long time ago. It’s not just about applying new forensic techniques to old cases. It’s about coming at the cases from fresh angles, about thinking the unthinkable. My crew are good at that.’

‘That may be. But it’s not an effective use of my budget. Your team represents a stupendous level of investment. You have a range and level of skills and knowledge that should be devoted to solving current cases. Not just major crimes, but other serious matters that cross the desks of CID. The people we serve deserve the best possible policing. It’s my job to provide that in the most cost effective way possible. So I’m putting you on notice, Carol. I’m going to leave things as they are for the time being, but your team will be coming under close examination. You’re on trial. In three months’ time, I’m going to make a decision based on a rigorous scrutiny of your caseload and your results. But I’m warning you now: all my instincts are to reabsorb you into the mainstream of CID.’

‘Sounds like you’ve already made your mind up, sir,’ Carol said, forcing herself to sound pleasant.

‘It’s up to you, Carol.’ This time, the smile was undeniably smug. ‘And one other thing - while we’re on the subject of budget? You seem to commit a lot of money to consulting Dr Hill.’

Now the stirring of anger was rising to a flare. ‘Dr Hill has been a key component in how we achieve our success,’ she said, unable to avoid sounding terse.

‘He’s a clinical psychologist, not a forensic scientist. His expertise is replicable.’ Blake opened a drawer and took a folder from it. He glanced at Carol as if surprised that she was still there. ‘The National Police Faculty has been training police officers in behavioural science and profiling. Using their resources is going to save us a fortune.’

‘They don’t have Dr Hill’s expertise. Or his experience. Dr Hill is unique. Mr Brandon always thought so.’

There was a long silence. ‘Mr Brandon isn’t here to protect you any more, Carol. He may have thought it was appropriate to pay your . . .’ he paused and when he spoke again, it was freighted with innuendo ‘. . .
landlord
such a large chunk of Bradfield Police’s budget. I don’t. So if you need a profiler, use one who doesn’t make us look corrupt, would you?’

Patterson could feel the first throb of a headache deep in his skull. It was hardly surprising; he’d had a scant two hours’ sleep. Viewers who saw him on TV could be forgiven for thinking their TVs had been swapped for black-and-white sets, what with his silver hair and grey skin. Only the red eyes would be the give-away. He’d had enough coffee to kick-start a Harley Davidson but even that hadn’t helped him look like a man you’d want running your murder inquiry. There was nothing more dispiriting than holding a press conference with nothing to give other than the bare facts of the crime itself.

Maybe they’d get lucky. Maybe the media coverage would shake loose a witness who had noticed Jennifer Maidment after she’d waved farewell to her best friend. That would surely be the triumph of hope over experience. What was more likely was a stream of fantasy sightings, most of them delivered in good faith but just as useless as the attention seekers and the unfathomable bastards who simply liked to waste police time.

As the reporters filed out, he went in search of Ambrose. He found him looming over their tame forensic computer analyst. Gary Harcup had been dragged out of his bed just after midnight and put to work on Jennifer’s laptop. Ambrose barely glanced up at his boss then turned back to the screen, screwing up his tired brown eyes to help him focus. ‘So what you’re telling me is that all of these sessions originated on different machines? Even though it says it’s the same person talking to Jennifer?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Well, how can that be?’ Ambrose sounded frustrated.

‘I’m guessing whoever was talking to Jennifer was using internet cafés and libraries. Never the same place twice.’ Gary Harcup shared bulk with Alvin Ambrose, but that was all. Where Ambrose was taut, polished and muscular, Gary was plump, rumpled and bespectacled with a mop of tousled brown hair and matching beard. He looked like a cartoon bear. He scratched his head. ‘He’s using a free email address, impossible to trace. None of the sessions lasts more than half an hour, nobody is going to pay any attention to him.’