As Gemma descended the stairwell from Joe Wullerton’s office at New Scotland Yard, she felt a tad more upbeat than she had done earlier. That meeting could actually have gone much worse. At least she still had a job and a team, though both still felt as if they were hanging by a thread. Outside, thunder rumbled; through every window she saw a London sky so grey it was almost green, the effect of which was to create an eerie, shadowy gloom inside the building. Jags of lightning sparked in the distance. Rain bounced from the encircling rooftops.
She’d now decided that Wullerton – who was in his fifties and of burly build, with a thick moustache, sleepy eyes and a preference for cardigans and open-collar shirts – wasn’t pretending when he gave the impression he was a genial sort. But beneath the avuncular exterior, she’d always suspected there lurked a core of steel, and today he’d shown it.
‘Let’s analyse what’s going on here, Gemma,’ he’d said heatedly. ‘The Serial Crimes Unit was specifically designed to provide intelligence and consultative back-up to regional investigations into major crime sprees. There is no one else more qualified than you and your team to tackle this kind of case. No one. You’re our last line of defence. But how’s that going to make the public feel if you can’t pull it off? The truth is that none of us may stay in our posts after this. I’m Gold Command remember. In the eyes of many, I’m at fault too. The very existence of the National Crime Group may be on the line here – are we an elite crime-fighting outfit or an expensive luxury? It’s your call, Gemma.’
When she reached the Serial Crimes Unit, it was virtually unmanned, which was understandable given that almost the entire crew was up north. In truth, that was a relief. She didn’t feel like speaking to anyone as she trekked along the main corridor, took her keys from her coat pocket and let herself into her office, where she kicked her shoes off and slumped into her chair.
Joe Wullerton’s parting words still echoed in her head.
‘I’m not the sort of boss who says “I don’t care how you do it” … we have a system we need to operate within, but use every means you have available, push every envelope, think outside every box. Just catch these psychos, Gemma … catch them now!’
She switched on the television in the corner, put the kettle on and threw a teabag and a few pinches of powdered milk into a mug. While the kettle bubbled, she sat back at her desk and channel-hopped, only stopping when she caught a news item regarding the case. Claire Moody was in the midst of chaotic reportage. Her hair was a mess and her cheeks ashen. It didn’t look great, but it hardly mattered as long as she did her job.
‘So are you able to tell us in which police station the two suspects are being held?’ a reporter asked.
‘For security reasons, no,’ Claire replied.
If only they did have two suspects in custody, Gemma thought. Garrickson had rung earlier, catching her just before she went in to see Wullerton, with Heck’s suggestion that they release a phony story in an effort to save the missing prostitute, Gracie Allen. Gemma had okayed it almost without thinking. It wasn’t the best idea, but what other choice did they have? On screen, the tough line of questioning continued. Claire was indoors this time, making it into a proper, pre-prepared press conference. That was sensible. It would help create an impression the team were on top of things. That said, Claire was alone. At the very least, Garrickson should have been seated with her.
‘Can we expect there to be more arrests?’ someone asked.
‘That’s our hope, yes.’
‘But is it your expectation?’
‘It’s too early to say.’
Gemma bit her lip. That hadn’t been a convincing response. Claire should have said ‘yes’. Why the hell not? They were already lying through their teeth. The idea had been to smoke the culprits out, not lull them into thinking they weren’t in any danger.
‘Which of these particular murders are these arrests in connection with?’ another reporter asked.
‘I believe the … erm …’ Claire faltered. ‘I believe the … Tara Greenwood murder.’
Gemma’s heart sank.
There was a brief silence, and then an explosion of amazed questioning.
‘Tara Greenwood was murdered in Lincolnshire back in 2009!’ a TV crime editor said. ‘Does that mean the enquiry’s been widened?’
‘Was Lorna Arkwright also a Desecrator victim?’ another voice shouted.
‘I’m sorry … I’m sorry,’ Claire said hastily. ‘I made a mistake. The suspect we currently have in custody is not being held in connection with Tara Greenwood.’
‘The suspect? Earlier, you told us that two arrests had been made.’
‘Yes of course …’
‘Are the suspects being held in connection with different murders?’
‘Yes, I believe they are.’ Claire didn’t look as if she believed any such thing. Her eyes were blank as they reflected the flash-bulbs.
‘Is either of them being held in connection with Tara Greenwood?’
‘No … forgive me. The Tara Greenwood homicide has nothing to do with this particular series.’
‘So exactly which murders are the suspects being held for?’ the crime editor asked.
‘Our main suspect is being held on suspicion of murdering Ernest Shapiro.’
‘Can we just clarify that there is another suspect?’ someone else said. ‘You don’t seem very certain.’
‘The other suspect was arrested in Manchester,’ Claire said.
‘There’ve been several murders on this side of the Pennines, Miss Moody. So in connection with which crime?’
‘Tara Greenwood,’ Claire said. ‘Sorry no, she’s not … the suspect, I mean. She’s not being spoken to on that basis …’
‘She? Does that mean the second suspect is female?’
‘There is no … sorry, I meant Tara Greenwood. No, Ernest Shapiro. There is no second …’
‘There is no second suspect?’
‘No, I mean the second suspect is not female …’
Gemma hit the ‘off’ switch and slammed her mobile to her ear.
‘Ma’am?’ came Garrickson’s distant voice. ‘Everything alright?’
‘No it bloody isn’t! And you shouldn’t even need to ask that question! Pull her out now!’
‘In mid-conference?’
‘Where are you, Mike? Hiding in the fucking toilets? Get her out of there before we look an even bigger set of tools! And when I get back up there, you’d better have a written explanation waiting on my desk as to why you weren’t sitting at that conference table taking some of the heat off her!’
After she cut the call, she hurled her mobile on the floor.
As a rule, Gemma Piper didn’t cry. There’d been many times during her career when she’d wanted to – for the grieving spouses, for the abused children, for the rape and robbery victims who’d wept and shivered as they’d tried to explain to her what had happened. But she’d always resisted crying for herself. Her late father, who’d never risen above the rank of inspector, had drummed this into her. ‘This is a man’s job, darling,’ he’d said the day she told him, beaming, that she’d been accepted for interview. ‘Always has been, always will be. So whatever happens out there, do not let them break you. You do, and they’ll come down on you like a ton of horse poo. Whatever they say, whatever they do – don’t blink, don’t flinch, and don’t you dare shed a single tear. Because that’s all they’ll need to tear you down.’
She’d clung on to those wise words many times, and now she clung on to them again – almost as tenaciously as she clung on to the edge of her desk.