‘Sorry?’ said Phil. ‘What are you saying here exactly?’
He sat on a chair in front of Cotter, who was behind her desk. The DCI leaned forward, hands clasped. Like she was posing for a formal photograph. He wasn’t angry, just disbelieving. Cotter spoke in calm, measured tones.
‘Just what I said. Go carefully. Cross the t’s, dot the i’s. Don’t rush.’
‘But this club is the basis for everything we’ve been investigating. We don’t know what it is, what it’s like, who goes there. We have to find out.’
‘Exactly,’ she said, leaning back. ‘We know nothing about it. I’m sure we’ve all got a different mental image of what goes on in there, and we need to make that a realistic one before we go wading in.’
‘But surely if we go in, we’ll find out.’
‘Let’s build an airtight case against Scott Sheriff first. That’s our number one priority. I admit, the evidence is pointing towards that – strongly pointing – but we need to be certain. And we can’t do anything else until we are. We need physical proof, DNA matches. We need more than circumstantial evidence and supposition. And when we’ve got all that, we put this to bed.’ She stopped talking, looked at him, brows furrowed. ‘You touched on something out there. About how convenient it all is. How everything’s been nicely laid out to point us in the one direction. Towards Scott Sheriff. Very neat.’
‘Which makes me think two things,’ said Phil. ‘Either he’s responsible for the killings because he’s a fucked-up wannabe serial killer and his death in a sex game gone wrong was just a coincidence.’
‘Or?’
‘That he’s responsible for the killings because he’s yada-yada, and he was deliberately murdered because we were on the verge of discovering his identity.’
‘And which one do you believe?’
Phil folded his arms. ‘Put it this way. I don’t believe in coincidences. Not in cases like this one.’
Cotter sighed. ‘I tend to agree with you.’
‘Then let’s go to the club. Look, if we delay, it gives them time – whoever they are – to clear out. Get wind of what’s going on and disappear.’
Cotter sat back, scrutinising him. He didn’t move, just waited for her to speak. When she did, she weighed her words carefully. ‘Another way of looking at that would be good riddance.’
‘What?’
‘Well, we’ve got our murderer. End of. If they up sticks and leave, move to someone else’s patch, then it’s their problem, not ours. We keep our stats up. Hooray for us. And really,’ she said, lowering her voice, ‘does it matter?’
Phil frowned. ‘What d’you mean?’
Cotter waved her arms expansively. ‘Well, Glenn McGowan wanted to die. He got his wish. So did Keith Burkiss.’
‘Kelly Burkiss didn’t.’
‘No, true. But…’ Another shrug.
‘So what are you saying? That we let serial killers loose so long as they only kill people who want to die? Is that it? And anyone who gets in their way is just, what, collateral damage?’
‘It’s just a discussion, Phil. That’s all. Hypothetical. It’s not black and white, is it? What about people who campaign for the right to die? Who’ve got some terminal illness. They either have to get a doctor to look the other way or take themselves off to Switzerland for it. It’s the same thing.’
‘Not exactly,’ said Phil. ‘They’ve got terminal illnesses, like you said.’
‘So did Keith Burkiss.’
‘Yeah, but Glenn McGowan didn’t.’ Phil thought for a moment. ‘Well, maybe a mental illness. But as I see it, those suffering from terminal illness just want to get some control back over their lives. The illness has taken it away. And these things have to be regulated. If not, what have you got? Harold Shipman.’
‘I completely agree with you,’ said Cotter.
‘But it’s not just about that,’ said Phil. ‘Not just about killing people. What about Martin Trotter? Infecting people with AIDS?’
‘Well again,’ said Cotter, ‘he said they wanted to be infected. It was consensual.’
‘I know,’ said Phil, ‘I mean, God knows why, but who’s going to pay for their care when they’re too ill to look after themselves? We are.’
‘But then who already pays for alcoholics and the obese?’ asked Cotter. ‘We do. They do that to themselves. We can’t stop this from happening just by closing down one club.’
‘Yeah, yeah, I know,’ said Phil. He rubbed his face. ‘Everything’s fucked. The system’s fucked. But let’s do our bit to try and stop one little part of it.’
‘We will,’ said Cotter. ‘But let’s do it properly.’
The conversation over, Phil got up and left.
He had a sudden, overwhelming need to talk to Marina.