McGuigan and Dawson were in the main incident room. The bleep of the phones was constant, like a drone of insects. The place was busy. Both civilian staff and police officers working round the clock. Since the presentation of the photofit likeness, the calls had been relentless. The influx was a drain on resources. More people had been drafted in. The task force initially created to find the killer had grown exponentially. Everybody, everywhere, wanted the madman caught, and everybody everywhere thought they had seen sight of him. An entire floor of the building was now dedicated to the apprehension of The Surgeon.
The only person who seemed unflustered was Harry McGuigan. He was in an office appended to the main room. He was talking to a number of seasoned police officers, including Kenny Dawson. His “inner circle” as he liked to describe them. People who were dedicated and competent. And who, like McGuigan, required closure.
He was reiterating old ground. But it was a necessary part of the ritual. Something missed. Something remembered. Details reconsidered. A different slant. Points raised, discussed, dismissed. Anything at all. McGuigan would take it, and run with it, as far as he damned well could. All part of the anatomy of desperation.
“Unconnected,” he said. “As far as we can gather, Evelyn Stephens was chosen simply because of her age, and facial features.”
A young man, red hair, fresh complexion, spoke up. “We’ve checked everywhere. Doctors, dentists, schools, employment, yoga classes, gym membership, beauty salons, every club, every group. Evelyn was a dental hygienist. We’ve checked her list of patients. No matches. Absolutely nothing linking her to any of the others. Same old story. Each victim has nothing to connect them with any of the others.”
“Except their looks,” said Dawson. “They all possess similar facial features.”
“Lawyers,” said McGuigan. He had their attention. “Has that been checked?”
Silence. “Then check,” he said. “Who were the lawyers who bought their houses? Were any involved in litigation? Any injury claims? If any of them used the same lawyer for anything at all, then we follow up.”
The silence continued. He was grasping, and they knew it. But he didn’t care. Suddenly, lawyers were on his radar.
Dawson cleared his throat. “Okay. Evelyn was having an affair with William Patrick. We believe the killer would have known this. He was killed in the hallway. The weapon was a Glock. His wound was accurate. Fired at close distance. Inches away. Shot twice through the eye. The husband came back to the house early. We believe he did this to confront his wife, and her boyfriend. In flagrante delicto. This was an unexpected event. The killer, we believe, did not foresee this, judging by the bullet entry points on the husband’s body, which were erratic, and lacked the killer’s trademark precision. Panic firing. Also, because the killing took place in broad daylight. Again, a complete break from the pattern.”
A female detective continued. “We’ve done extensive door-to-door. No one saw anything. We don’t have CCTV, so we’re not sure about passing motorists. Except for…”
“…Bronson Chapel,” finished McGuigan. “Our main man. Our only man. The man of the moment. The only living person who claims to have seen our friendly neighbourhood psychopath.”
“The photofit’s sparked a fire,” said another. “The calls are avalanching in. We’re stretched to hell.”
“‘Avalanching’,” repeated McGuigan. “‘Sparked a fire’. ‘Hell’. I like those expressions. Biblical, almost. You been going to church recently, Smith? Maybe reading a little of Dante’s Inferno.”
The man who had spoken – Smith – wrinkled his nose. “Haven’t been for years. I’m a non-believer, I’m afraid, sir. And to be honest, I’ve never heard of Dante. I’m not into crime thrillers.”
“I’m sure you’re not,” said McGuigan, shaking his head in mild exasperation. “Nevertheless, it sums up the situation, when the world’s gone insane.” He focused on Dawson. “Anywhere with the ‘boat house’?”
Dawson gave a twitch of his head. “Nothing. Bronson has no immediate family. His parents are dead. No kids, no wife, no siblings. No one knows much about him. I’ve checked the land register, but if he owns another property, it’s not showing. Which means he probably rents. And he hasn’t returned to his flat, or his work.”
“He’s gone AWOL,” said McGuigan. “An odd coincidence.”
Another voice – “Do you think he’s in danger?”
“Could be,” said McGuigan. “It’s not an unreasonable hypothesis. The killer saw him, we assume. Maybe the killer’s tracked him down. Maybe Bronson’s got scared, and fled. According to his place of employment, there’s a queue of clients waiting to see him.”
“Or maybe,” said Dawson, “he’s decided he wants to get away for a few days, and maybe he’s sitting in the sun somewhere, sipping a cocktail by a pool.”
“Maybe,” agreed McGuigan. “We’ll never know until we find him.” His tone altered, had an iron ring. “But I want him found. You’ve tried his work? They may have an address on record.”
Dawson gave a weary hang-dog response. It was clear he was still of the impression they were wasting their time. “I spoke to their HR person. They said they were unable to assist, unless they received the written consent of Bronson himself. Or a warrant. Data protection, and all that. No doubt the request raised a few eyebrows.”
McGuigan blew through his lips. “The simplest thing.”
There was a knock on the door – a uniformed officer leaned in.
“Sorry, boss. Not sure if you’d be interested. But I thought you might.”
“Yes?”
“A woman phoned in ten minutes ago. It’s unusual. She specifically wanted to speak to the man in charge.”
“You’ve come to the right place. And?”
“Very posh lady. It could be a crank call. God knows we’ve had a fair few.”
“I’m not convinced God knows as much as we give him credit for. Keep going.”
“She claims to have been shown a picture of the killer leaving Evelyn Stephens’ house.”
The young police officer had McGuigan’s full attention.
“That’s interesting. You got the woman’s name and number?”
“Yes, sir. And her address. She said she would prefer a face-to-face meeting. At her house. She was quite… demanding. Also, she claimed someone had tried to blackmail her. To be honest, it sounded all a bit weird.”
The burst of interest McGuigan felt was suddenly punctured. The blackmail element reduced the woman’s credibility to zero. The officer’s conclusion was right. Crank caller. He clicked his teeth in frustration.
“Phone her back. Tell her someone will be out to see her. As long as it’s not me.”
The police officer wavered. “And the man she complained about? The man she claimed tried to blackmail her?” He flicked through a notepad he was holding. “Weird name,” he muttered.
“Weird name?”
He got to the page, nodded. “Yes, sir. Bronson Chapel. That’s the name she gave me. The name of the man who she said tried to blackmail her.”
McGuigan said nothing. He blinked, took a breath. Then he spoke.
“Repeat that name, please.”
“Bronson Chapel, sir. I’ll pass it on…”
McGuigan gave Dawson a knowing glance, said, “We’ll go out and see her now. You have her address?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And her name?”
“Mrs Patricia Shawbridge.”