The incident room was eerily quiet at five-thirty the next morning. DCI Jack Culverhouse sat slumped over a manila file and a mug of strong black coffee. He had trouble sleeping at the best of times but he knew he would not be able to rest until he had caught the killer of the three women.
Ever since he had been on his own, Jack Culverhouse had become increasingly obsessed with work. His wife had told him that had been the case for years, but Jack knew that was nothing compared to now. The truth was that working dulled the pain. The pain of having your wife of almost twenty years leave you in the dead of night with your only child. That sort of thing could finish a man. But not Jack.
He thought about Emily every day. She would be almost twelve years old by now. He had done everything in his power to track down Helen and her successive string of male partners in order to get access to his daughter but every new lead came to a dead end. He didn't give two shits about his wife; he just wanted to see Emily. Desperately.
He took another slurp of coffee as he contemplated his next move on the case. The manila file beneath his left elbow seemed to be growing almost by the minute. Growing with information on more redundant leads and phone calls from deadheads who were convinced they could solve the murders using a range of mysterious techniques. Dowsers, tarot card readers, psychics; they were all there, all willing to help. All willing to waste Jack's fucking time.
The phone rang. Jack glanced at the clock. Eight-fifteen. He wondered for a moment why he couldn't sleep at home in his super-king-size bed but had no trouble dozing off when he was leaning on a pile of papers and a coffee mug.
‘Culverhouse,’ he said, cradling the receiver.
‘Jack, it's Charles Hawes.’
Jack, eh? That's a good start. Looks like we're on friendly terms today, he thought.
‘Ah. Good morning, Chief Constable.’
‘Can you come and see me in my office please, Jack?’
‘I’ve got a team briefing in fifteen minutes, sir. Shall I pop up after?’
‘Now, Culverhouse.’
Culverhouse, now, is it? Bang goes the friendship, then.
As DCI Culverhouse made his way up the concrete staircase to the Chief Constable’s office, he feared the worst. Pausing to knock gingerly on the door, Culverhouse entered the office. The Chief Constable was stood with his back to him, arms folded, looking out of his large window onto the streets of Mildenheath.
‘Sit down, Jack. What's the latest on the serial murder case?’
‘No news, sir. We had a suspect in for questioning, but it looks like we're going to have to let him go.’
‘So I hear,’ Hawes said, turning and perching on the edge of his desk. ‘I also hear that we've had another murder take place while the suspect was with us.’
‘That's correct, sir.’
‘So tell me. What made you interview Tom Connors in the first place, Culverhouse?’
Jack swallowed hard as he felt the tension rising. The Chief Constable was using his surname again.
‘We had a tip-off from someone who said he knew Maria Preston and had reason to believe he may have somehow been involved in her death, sir.’
Hawes nodded. ‘His mum, I hear.’
‘That's correct, sir.’
‘You do realise it's now been two full days without as much as the slightest breakthrough? I mean, I wasn’t expecting you to have the case wrapped up and someone in court within forty-eight hours, but this is starting to take the piss. We have three girls dead and you think it’s a good idea to go round and have tea with every little old lady who thinks their son's been a naughty boy. Just what the hell are you playing at, Jack?’
‘Sir, at the time we had reason to believe Tom Connors may have been involved in Maria Preston's death.’
‘Oh, really? Well let's just hope the IPCC agree with you.’
‘IPCC, sir?’
‘Yes, Jack. Tom Connors has made a formal complaint over yesterday's little episode. Let me tell you now, if we don't get results — and fast — you're going to be out of this building quicker than you can say “Two sugars, please, Mrs Connors”. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Crystal, sir.’
Culverhouse left the office with the Chief Constable’s words ringing in his ears as he made his way back down to the incident room, late for the team briefing.
‘Here he is!’ called the familiar voice of DS Steve Wing. ‘Overslept did we, guv?’
The incident room was momentarily awash with titters before the eyes settled on Culverhouse. His body language said everything.
‘In fact, DS Wing, I've just been to see the Chief Constable.’
‘Bad news, guv?’
“Quite the opposite. It could be fucking fantastic news for Chief Constable Hawes if he gets to roast my bollocks on his barbecue at the weekend. We need results and fast. I've just had the dressing down of my life from the Hawes and if we don't start making some serious inroads in this investigation, we're all for it. The fact of the matter is we're now averaging a killing a day. Every day we let this bastard stay on the streets, another girl dies. Frank, did you get an ID on the third victim in the end?’
DS Frank Vine grabbed a file from his desk and took out his notes.
‘Yes, guv. Nicole Bryant, aged seventeen. It seems as though she was a college student.’
‘Same MO as the previous two?’
‘Identical, sir.’
‘So we're looking at another prostitute, then?’
‘There's no evidence to say so, guv.’
‘ don't need evidence to say so, Frank. Have the next-of-kin been informed?’
‘There’s an FLO with the family as we speak, guv.’
‘Right, well I'm going to go round and have a word with Mr and Mrs Bryant myself. Speed things up a bit.’
‘Are you sure that's wise, guv?’
‘Why would it not be? Did you not hear a word I said about Hawes?’
‘Well, I mean, if you're going to be following this bee you've got in your bonnet about her being a prostitute…’
‘Detective Sergeant Vine, I am perfectly capable of exercising tact. Now, whether you like it or not, I'm going to visit Little Miss Secret-Hooker's parents. If it helps you sleep at night, I'll take DS Knight with me. Knight, get your coat.’
A wolf-whistle emanated from the direction of DS Steve Wing. Fortunately, it went either unheard or ignored by Culverhouse.