MAXWELL WAS LATE. His away-day at the forensic science lab had turned into a ’mare, just as Daniels had predicted. Apparently the journey from hell was too kind a description. After an initial short delay at Newcastle Central Station, everything had gone swimmingly until the train stopped and sat in the middle of nowhere for the next two and a half hours.
No heating in the carriage.
No refreshments.
No power: full stop.
‘And no frigging explanation either,’ he grumbled, rubbing his upper arms to get the circulation going. ‘First the guard asks us to disembark, then to board again. We were on and off that many times I lost count. You should’ve seen the older passengers, the mothers with kids – it was chronic. By the time we eventually got going again and limped into York, the train was nearly three hours late.’
Even Lisa Carmichael was showing signs of sympathy.
‘The return leg wasn’t much better. I thought I was home and dry ’til my cab got stuck in the snow.’ Maxwell was so blue it looked as though he would never thaw out. ‘I walked the last mile.’
‘Job done though, eh?’ Lisa was trying her best not to laugh. ‘Grab yourself a hot shower. Give us the samples and I’ll make sure the boss gets them. She’s just next door.’
Maxwell shivered, his teeth still chattering. ‘I handed them to the exhibits officer downstairs. Grey-haired guy, don’t know his name.’
‘He’s a copper,’ Hank said drily. ‘He’s bound to have grey hair. Most likely spends all his days trying to work out if he’s got enough years in so he can leave before he’s sixty-bloody-eight.’
‘I’d pack it in now if I could afford it,’ moaned Maxwell. ‘After the day I’ve had.’
‘Do me a favour!’ Carmichael again. ‘Sitting on a train all day is hardly night shift, is it? Besides, what the hell would you do if you left? Take up golf? You’re not exactly the sporty type, are you, Neil?’
‘I’m sure I’d find something.’ Maxwell gave her a lecherous once-over and got a black look in return. He made light of it with a joke. ‘Maybe I’ll ask for a transfer to the Tweet Squad.’
Hank looked bewildered. He wasn’t into social networking.
‘I was playing with this on the train—’ Maxwell held up his new iPhone. ‘It may have passed you by, Sarge, but every area command in the country is now on Twitter.’
‘Are you serious?’
Maxwell nodded. ‘Unfortunately. I’m sure the public will rest easy in their beds once they know you can join an online forum to discuss policing in the twenty-first century.’
‘What the hell do they put on there?’ Hank was sure this was a wind-up.
‘Bloody allsorts.’ Maxwell blew on his hands. ‘A hit and run, a nasty arson, appeals for information on every bloody incident and accident, at least one request for help in tracing a sex offender . . .’
‘Thought that was our job.’
‘So did I,’ Lisa joined in. ‘But Neil’s right. You can even, wait for it, ask a cop a question . . . oh yes you can!’
‘I’d like to ask one.’ Daniels’ voice sounded behind them. ‘Gimme the link and I’ll ask why they’re not out there locking people up.’
They hadn’t noticed her re-enter from the side room she’d commandeered as her office. She’d been in there for several hours, cogitating, having ordered the team to leave her be unless there was any significant progress to report.
‘I couldn’t agree more, boss,’ Maxwell said. ‘Pound to a penny, some arsehole will get off at court because they’ve been outed on Twitter. That’s not what it was designed for, in my humble opinion.’
‘What was it designed for?’ It was a serious question from Gormley.
Lisa laughed.
There was no answer from Maxwell either: he was too busy telling the DCI what an awful day he’d had. He got no sympathy.
Eventually the gathering dispersed. It was time to knock off. Kate sent them back to the B & B, intending to join them as soon as she’d viewed the samples collected from the forensic science lab. As she made her way downstairs she was still reviewing the day’s events in her head, chewing over the possible significance of Bamburgh and why it had been chosen as a burial site.
On the floor below, she pushed a buzzer on the exhibits room counter and waited for a response. After signing for two separate evidence bags, she opened them up and laid the samples out, checking the labels to see which body they’d been taken from. The sample from the most recent victim was exactly as Matt West had described it: a small section of very cheap, popper-type imitation pearls made of extremely hard plastic. The pearlescent effect was not a coating but an integral part of the manufacturing process. Kate returned them to the bag. The second sample was similar. But these pearls felt waxy to the touch. They were also much softer than the first sample, coated to look like the real thing. Some of the coating had worn away, exposing white plastic underneath.
Her heart began to race.
A rare stroke of luck?
She’d seen an identical set before.