4.30pm Thursday 19th December
Shane Matlock appeared at the station right on time. By his side stood Gemma, fiercely holding his hand. Her fake eyelashes looked heavy on her eyelids and her dyed dark hair glimmered beneath the artificial light like melted chocolate. On her shoulder was a large designer handbag, which the female officer behind reception had noticed and was sure was a fake.
‘Mr Matlock.’ Palmer appeared and approached the couple who sat stiffly in the waiting area. ‘Thanks for coming in.’
Both Gemma and Shane stood at the same time. Palmer noticed how Gemma rested her hand on her bump for effect. As if her pregnancy might prevent them from asking Shane any difficult questions. ‘We’ve got nothing to hide.’ Gemma smiled sweetly.
‘I’m afraid you will have to wait out here, Miss Nash.’
The revelation that she would not be invited in to participate in the interview was not well received. Her shiny lips pursed and she tore her hand away from Shane’s.
‘What was the point in me coming?’ she huffed taking a seat again and folding her arms across her ample bosom.
‘This way please.’ Palmer led Shane away, paying no attention to the spoilt woman who was still seething in reception.
‘She’s just hormonal,’ Shane said wanting to excuse her brattish behaviour, guessing that Palmer wasn’t approving.
‘Thank you for agreeing to come and give us a DNA swab.’ Palmer opened the door to a room where an official stood waiting to take the swab. ‘It’s so that we can eliminate you from our enquiries.’
‘But I suspect my DNA is all over that house. I did used to live there.’ Shane looked nervous.
‘It appears the victim had sexual intercourse not long before her death,’ Palmer told him flatly, watching closely for any sign of a reaction.
‘Sex?’ Shane blinked with surprise. ‘With who?’
‘That’s what we intend to find out.’
Shane nodded and opened his mouth under the instruction, allowing the gloved hand to run a swab around the inside of his left cheek for a moment. The cotton wool had felt odd when it had scrapped against his teeth and he ran his tongue around his mouth, wanting to wet it again.
‘That will now be sent off to the lab,’ the officer said, popping the swab into a sealed container before leaving the room.
‘Did Wendy have a boyfriend?’ Palmer asked loosely.
‘No. She did not.’ Shane appeared offended by the question, which seemed odd given that his pregnant girlfriend was sitting not far away. ‘She would have told me.’
‘I see.’ Palmer glanced down at his watch wishing the end of the day would come around quickly. ‘So was she in the habit of sleeping with strangers?’ He was tired and looking for a reaction.
‘No,’ Shane said quietly through gritted teeth. ‘She was not like that.’
‘But you’re sure there wasn’t a boyfriend?’ Palmer was nonchalant.
‘Certain.’ Shane remained convinced.
‘Strange then, that she had had sexual intercourse before her death, wouldn’t you say?’
Shane blushed. ‘It wasn’t me.’
‘That’s what the test will confirm.’ He let the statement hand in the air long enough for Shane to think that he might be in some doubt about it.
‘Do you need me for anything else or can I go home now?’ He shifted on the spot, keen to get back to his girlfriend and out of the police station.
‘You’re free to go.’ Palmer, leaning against the desk, signalled to the door with a wave of his hand. ‘Thanks for your time.’ He waited for Shane to open the door and then followed him casually, making sure he didn’t get lost on his way out.
When he returned to the incident room upstairs, Barrett, who had been busily talking on the phone, welcomed him.
‘Shane Matlock has been in and given a DNA sample. I wouldn’t be that surprised if it turns out he was still sleeping with his estranged wife; but I don’t fancy him for the killings.’ Palmer picked up a packet of biscuits that was lying on his desk and took one before offering them to Barrett, who politely declined.
‘I’ve had Mrs Wade on the phone. She’s keen to see Andrew. I’ve advised her against it. Visiting a prison is the last thing she needs. Poor woman needs closure, not further heartache.’
Barrett watched as a crumb tumbled down Palmer’s chin before landing on his tie. Barrett fought a strong urge to brush it off. He hated people having a scruffy appearance. He was always well turned-out. His shirt was always ironed, his shoes shined and his silver hair kept neat. Despite the fact he was a widower he had never let it jeopardise his appearance, even if he was reminded of his beloved wife every time he got the iron and board out of the kitchen cupboard. Her death had left a gaping hole in his heart and Barrett knew he would remain a single man forever more. Besides, since he’d lived alone for the last five years, he had become accustomed to doing things his way and he was sure no woman would ever put up with his deeply embedded strange personal habits.
Since the death of his wife, Josephine, the home they had shared together remained untouched. Her clothes still hung in the wardrobe, her perfume sat on her dressing table, and the house was still her home as much as it was his. Barrett had no desire to remove her memory from his life. Having her possessions around still kept him feeling close to her, as if she might return after an unusually long holiday.
On the few occasions Palmer had seen an opportunity to go into Barrett’s house, his colleague had always made excuses: the place was a mess; he was in the middle of decorating. There was always a reason why Palmer could not go inside and, as a result, Palmer found himself wondering if his boss did, in fact, live in squalor. It didn’t seem likely, given the fastidious nature of the man, but it was the only explanation he could come up with. Either that or Barrett was suffering so badly from OCD that he was paranoid about introducing other people’s germs into his house.
‘Have you given any more thought to our offer on Christmas day?’ Palmer asked with a mouthful of biscuit.
‘Let’s see how the case unfolds.’ Barrett dreaded having to ask his team to come in on the twenty-fifth, especially those like Palmer who had children. ‘Things are not exactly progressing in the way I hoped they would,’ he admitted, still looking at the crumb, which sat comfortably on Palmer’s tie, wishing it would tumble, or get brushed off.
‘Any news on the glasses?’ Palmer asked wiping more crumbs away from the corner of his mouth, understanding why Barrett hadn’t given a clear answer to the invitation.
‘No prints, no unusual DNA.’
‘This perpetrator is good. He’s organised and diligent,’ he had to admit. ‘I keep thinking about the note on the box left at the scene, Now You See Me. Is that for us or is it a message to the victim? If it is a message for the victim, why not leave it at the scene after the murder? Why take the glasses and then return them? Is it to taunt us or someone else?’
Barrett didn’t like it when Palmer fired questions at him like that. He preferred order.
‘At the moment we can’t answer any of those questions, but what it does suggest is that killer is getting arrogant.’
‘That’s what I’m worried about.’ Palmer clapped his hands together brushing away any excess biscuit.
‘I do think that this is personal though, Joe. Somehow our killer has inserted himself into the lives of the victims. We just need to work out how and why.’
‘I’m going to go back through everything we have on Dennis Wade and Wendy Matlock and see if we’ve missed anything.’
‘Good.’ Barrett nodded. ‘Get Hale to help you. In the meantime, I have to interview the manager of the Army Surplus Store where Wendy worked… Jason Bagley,’ he said checking his notes. ‘Then there is something else I want to look into.’ The cogs of his mind were turning and an idea had struck him, which had not occurred to him before.
‘What is it, sir?’ Palmer recognised the look on his colleague’s face and was curious about what he was thinking.
‘If I get anywhere with it, I’ll let you know.’ He tapped his nose before turning and walking into his office.
Palmer hoped he was onto something. All he wanted to do was solve the case and be home in time to spend Christmas day with his son. Looking at the clock on the incident room wall he knew he would have to cancel attending the carol service with them that night. Letting out a deep sigh Palmer picked up the phone and dialled his wife’s number. He’d been looking forward to hearing his son sing for weeks and, to make matters worse, he knew his bitter disappointment would be matched by his child’s. But it was his job. He didn’t have a choice.
The conversation was brief and, when it ended, Palmer called Elly Hale over to help him comb through the evidence. ‘Wade and Matlock,’ he said turning to his screen, ‘I want us to go through it all again.’
‘Another late night then?’ She sounded almost pleased.
‘Yes. Another night away from my wife and son.’ Palmer was in no mood for gentle flirting. ‘Let’s get this done and hopefully we might make it home before midnight.’ He handed the files over without looking at her.
‘Very well, sir.’ Elly adopted a more serious tone and returned to her desk feeling dejected. Suddenly the prospect of being over at the CCTV control room scanning through hours of footage seemed more appealing than it had.
By half past nine she was struggling to keep her eyes open, so was both grateful and surprised when Palmer appeared holding two cups of coffee.
‘Peace offering.’ He handed one over, which Elly happily accepted.
‘It’s no bother.’ She took a sip of the hot black coffee, which burnt her tongue and the inside of her lower lip. ‘You’re stressed. We all are,’ she added, putting the coffee down.
‘Still, I shouldn’t bite your head off. We’re all in the same boat.’ Palmer put his cup down next to hers and pulled a chair up to her desk. ‘Found anything?’
‘Wendy Matlock had lots of hobbies.’ She displayed a number of photographs to prove her point. ‘She loved outdoor pursuits and was extremely active.’
Palmer waited patiently for her to get to the point.
‘Dennis Wade was also somewhat obsessive. His son has told us that he spent all his time in the bookshop and very little time at home.’
‘Yes,’ Palmer encouraged, having no idea where she was going with it.
‘Well, they are both obsessive.’
Palmer scratched his head.
‘I think maybe there is something in that. Maybe the killer is punishing people who spend more time at work, or concentrating on hobbies, than they do at home. Maybe that is the link.’ She sat back in her chair not knowing whether she felt triumphant or foolish.
‘Okay. So you are suggesting this is about neglect?’ He was trying to unpick her theory.
‘Yes, or something like that.’ She went to pick up her cup but changed her mind again the moment her bottom lip started to throb again. ‘It fits with the words left on the glasses box too. Now You See Me is perhaps a message from some who feels they haven’t been noticed. Someone who wants to be seen. Probably a child who was neglected by their parents.’
‘Like Andrew Wade?’ Palmer didn’t believe he was the one responsible for the killings even if he did believe himself to be a neglected offspring.
‘Someone like him,’ Elly suggested, then sucked on her lip in an attempt to soothe it.
‘It’s not a bad theory.’ Palmer sat back in his chair and ran his hands through his hair. ‘But until we have a suspect it is only that – a theory. Piece of advice.’ He lent in. ‘I wouldn’t run it past the DCI just yet. He’s not that fond of theories.’
‘In all honesty, sir, it is the only thing I’ve come up with. I’ve been through the files and I can’t see anything else that links the victims.’ She was exasperated. ‘I can’t find something that isn’t there.’
‘Perhaps we should speak to Andrew Wade again,’ Palmer said giving some serious thought to her theory. ‘I’ll run it by Barrett. Good work.’ He stood and patted her shoulder, letting his hand lingering there just a second or two longer than it should have done.