Wendy could hear the breath rushing through Culverhouse's nostrils as they approached the Bryant household on Mayfield Avenue that afternoon. She decided an element of tact was required.
‘Guv, please tell me you're not planning to bring up this whole prostitute thing with her parents.’
‘I think they have a bloody good right to know, Knight. Wouldn’t you want to know if your daughter was a hooker?’
‘But we don't know that at the moment. Just because the other girls were prostitutes doesn't mean that Nicole was one too. It's perfectly common for a serial killer to deviate from his MO as he gets more and more confident with his killings.’
‘I’ve made my own mind up about what's perfectly common, thank you very much, Knight.’
Wendy sighed and shook her head as Culverhouse plunged his finger into the recesses of the Bryants' doorbell. Moments later, a sombre looking man with wispy grey hair, although one could tell from his face he was no older than sixty, opened the door. Immediately, Culverhouse's attitude changed.
‘Mr Bryant?’
‘Yes.’
‘Detective Chief Inspector Culverhouse and Detective Sergeant Knight. We're here about your daughter. We're terribly sorry for the shock you must have had.’
The man seemed somewhat subdued and numb. ‘Oh. Oh, right. Yes, come on in.’
As they made their way into the living room, Wendy observed that it probably hadn't been decorated since the mid-1970s. If it had, perhaps browns, purples and swathes of filigree were back in fashion again and it was her that was out of touch.
‘Mrs Bryant, hello. I'm DCI Jack Culverhouse and this is DS Wendy Knight.’
‘Please, call me Patricia.’
Different people deal with grief in different ways, but Wendy noticed that Patricia and Gerry Bryant seemed somewhat emotionless that afternoon. It's not that they weren't sad; they weren't anything. They seemed numb, almost like plastic figurines or the subjects of a government drug experiment.
‘Mrs Bryant, I realise it must be difficult for you but we need to ask some rather… direct… questions about Nicole.’
Before Mrs Bryant could comprehend Culverhouse's remark, Wendy placed a controlling hand on his arm and took over the lead of questioning.
‘I think what my DCI is trying to say, Mrs Bryant, is that there are some links between Nicole's death and those of some other girls in the area recently and we have to investigate a possible connection as a matter of course.’
‘Links? You mean... a serial killer?’
‘It's far too early to say at this stage, but we do need to investigate the links.’
‘What sort of links?’ Gerry Bryant interjected.
‘Well, what sort of insight did you have into your daughter's social life?’
‘We didn't see her all that often, if I'm honest. Patricia and I have never been to her current home as I don't drive and Patricia finds it difficult to walk long distances with her knees.’ Wendy mentally adjusted her calculation of the Bryants' ages. ‘Nicole is... was... always too busy with work to be able to pop over much so we more or less conducted most of our relationship over the telephone.’
‘Why did Nicole live away from home? I mean, seventeen is quite a young age to set up on your own without any sort of boyfriend, isn't it?’
‘She was an independent woman.’
Culverhouse's eyebrow rose at this last word.
‘Yes, Inspector. A woman. That is how I saw my daughter. She was very mature and we had no qualms about helping her set up on her own.’
‘What sort of work did she do, Mr Bryant?’ Wendy asked.
‘I don't know. She didn't say much to either of us about it. I think she was a little embarrassed.’
Wendy's eyes met Culverhouse's. As Culverhouse opened his mouth to speak, Wendy decided it was best if she continued.
‘Embarrassed about what, Mr Bryant?’
‘Please, call me Gerry. I don't know what she was embarrassed about. I got the impression she'd had to take up work in a shop of some sort after she lost her office job. She was a very proud woman, Detective Sergeant. It would have pained her to take any sort of menial employment, never mind having to tell her parents about it.’
‘Do you know for certain that it was a shop job?’
‘Not for certain, no.’
‘Did it involve unsociable hours, do you know?’
‘It's hard to say. We used to speak to her at different times of day on the telephone but I assumed it was because she was part-time or on that flexi-hours thing.’
‘Is it possible that Nicole might have been mixed up in some sort of additional work or something she might not have wanted to tell anyone?’ Culverhouse asked.
‘As I said, she wouldn't have wanted to tell anyone if she had a menial job. She was very proud.’
‘I’m not talking about pride, Mr Bryant. I'm talking about whether her job was socially or legally acceptable.’
Gerry Bryant looked confused; Jack Culverhouse looked exasperated.
‘I’m sorry, I'm not quite sure what you mean.’
‘Oh, for crying out loud, man! Were you born with your head up your arse? Was your daughter a prossie or what?’
‘Jack!’ Wendy barked.
‘I beg your pardon, Detective Chief Inspector! Just what are you insinuating?’
Patricia Bryant showed the first signs of emotion as she began to howl with tears.
‘I am insinuating, Mr Bryant, that your daughter was killed in a very similar manner to, and very probably by the same person as, a couple of prostitutes we've found dead round here recently. Now, I couldn't give a rat's arse if your precious daughter was on the game or not, but if it turns out to be the missing link that stops us from catching whoever killed these three women, I'm not going to be a very happy bunny.’
Gerry Bryant rose slowly to his feet, his hands shaking and his face turning a deep shade of red.
‘Get out! Get out of my house! I won't have that sort of talk around here!’
Wendy tried to pacify the situation.
‘Mr Bryant, I'm sure DCI Culverhouse is very sorry. If we could just—‘
‘Just nothing! Get out of my house!’
Although Gerry Bryant was technically obliged to provide any evidence which may be useful to the case, Wendy felt the safest option would be to head back and see the Bryants once they'd had a chance to cool down, and she'd had a chance to make sure Culverhouse wasn't within twenty miles.
‘Nice one, Knight,’ Culverhouse said as the door slammed behind them.
‘I beg your pardon? What did I do wrong?’
‘We need to get evidence from that man to help our investigation. If we don't find out whether or not Nicole Bryant was a hooker, we could end up scraping another dead body off the streets tomorrow morning and I'll be for the fucking chopping block when Chief Constable Hawes finds out.’
‘Perhaps if you'd managed to exercise a bit of tact, we might have got the evidence we wanted. Unfortunately I don't have a time machine which can stop anyone else getting murdered in the meantime, nor can I go back to five minutes ago and put some sodding gaffer tape round your mouth, so I'd appreciate it — no, I demand, that you let me deal with witnesses and grieving families from now on, Inspector.’
Culverhouse stopped dead in his tracks.
‘You demand, DS Knight?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Wendy said, a little more subdued. ‘I demand.’
‘You kinky bitch.’
After dropping Culverhouse back at the station that afternoon, Wendy drove to the hospital.
Her mind was overflowing with mixed feelings as she walked towards Michael's ward. Was it wise to bring a recovering addict back into her home? What's to say he was even recovering? Was it really worth jeopardising her career? The angel on her opposite shoulder kicked the devil into touch, declaring that Michael was family and families stuck together. Except when they go and die on you.
Walking onto the ward, Wendy noticed that Michael looked much better than he had the last time she saw him. He looked fit, happy and healthy.
‘Ah, my chauffeur! Betty, this is my sister, Wendy.’
Wendy shook the nurse's hand.
‘You look much better, Michael.’
‘I feel better, Wend. It's amazing how being forced into a situation makes you to come to terms with the way you saw things before. Sometimes it's only when someone forces you into that situation that you actually see the world for what it really is.’
‘Painkillers talking?’
Michael smiled. ‘Something like that.’
‘Come on, then. Let's get you out of here. I've got a lamb joint in for tonight.’
‘Lamb! You remembered!’
‘How could I forget? You used to run around the house like a delirious lunatic every time mum cooked lamb.’
‘That was probably a reaction to the foul smell it makes when it's cooking. You don't mind if I keep well away from the kitchen before dinner, do you?’
‘As long as you eat it all, I don't care, because you're not getting any pudding unless you do.’
Michael gestured a sarcastic salute. ‘Yes, ma'am!’