IT’S ALMOST 5 P.M. and Joanne has spent the last couple of hours building up a picture of Guy Riverty. The plan is to head to Troutbeck to question him, just as soon as McAleese gives them the say-so. McAleese first wants the properties Guy owns around Troutbeck searched, then they’ll widen it if that turns nothing up.
Ron Quigley’s been assigned ViSOR – the Violent and Sex Offender Register – and he’s not a happy bunny. He keeps tutting and shaking his head, periodically mumbling, ‘Fucking sickos.’ Which Joanne supposes is only natural.
Sex offenders must confirm their registration each year. Meaning they have to inform the police of any changes in their personal circumstances – their address, their job, and so on and so forth. Failure to do so results in a penalty of up to five years’ imprisonment. Which should be a good enough deterrent.
But is it?
Do sex offenders really inform the police of their every move? Joanne supposes not.
Ron’s looking for movement of individuals into the Cumbria area within the last six months. But, by the sounds of it, he’s becoming sidetracked by their offences. Unsurprisingly, Guy Riverty is not on the register, but McAleese has told Ron to keep going over it, should this new lead on Guy amount to nothing.
Pushing the chair out from her desk, Joanne says, ‘I’m getting a coffee, Ron. You want one?’
‘Aye, okay. You’ve not got any Rennies in your handbag, have you? My stomach needs settling.’
‘It’s all that pastry you keep eating for breakfast. Get your wife to make you some porridge.’
Ron gives her a look. He is not really a porridge type of guy. ‘I was fine before I started looking at these sick bleeders.’
‘Fair point. I’ll see if I can find you something.’
Joanne leaves the office as Ron’s muttering, ‘Like a needle in a haystack of Gary Glitters, this is—’
She walks down the hallway, past DI Pete McAleese’s office, where he’s shouting and bawling at someone on the phone. She’s humming Gary Glitter’s ‘Rock and Roll Part 2’, louder than she probably ought to … not really the done thing if you’re working on a child-rape case.
Shame about Gary being such a fuck-up, Joanne muses. She always did like his music.
She presses buttons on the machine for two milky coffees and thinks about Guy Riverty. She can’t shake the feeling he’s involved somehow and so has been checking online which of his properties are occupied by holidaymakers. Not many. Most are empty right now, the next bookings coming just before Christmas.
They’re nice, his properties. All high spec. Gone are the days of the cheap and cheerful B&Bs, the fifteen-quid-a-nighters, including a full cooked breakfast. That doesn’t exist any more. The Lakes has a different clientele now. The walkers, hikers and outdoorsy types still frequent, but the place caters more for the country-retreat brigade. They want marble-tiled bathrooms as big as Joanne’s house. They want Michelin-starred restaurants. They want midnight cruises with pink champagne.
Guy Riverty’s holiday lets are all listed as five-star. He goes a bundle on a modern finish, and underfloor heating comes as standard. For a while this afternoon Joanne had become lost in dreaming up her ideal life in one of his cottages over at Hawkshead. Walking around barefoot, her feet padding softly on the solid-oak flooring, her hand running over the built-in espresso machine, across the wall-sunk TV. No wires dangling down to annoy her here. A faceless, nameless, good-looking Adonis lying on the bed upstairs, waiting for her …
That’s when she’d snapped herself out of fantasy mode and got back to work.
She tracks down some Rennies for Ron from Mary, the station cleaner, and returns with his coffee to find him looking grave.
‘D’you want the bad news or the bad news?’
She perches on the edge of his desk. ‘Fire away.’
‘Another girl’s gone.’
‘Shit. How?’
‘No details yet, I’ve just heard. Which means—’
‘Which means he’s not let Lucinda Riverty go. Which means she’s probably already dead.’
‘Do you want the other bad news?’
‘Go on.’
‘Desk sergeant’s fighting off the tabloid press downstairs. McAleese wants you to stand in on the statement, thinks it’ll look best with a woman officer present … and—’ he says, sighing out a long, unhappy breath.
‘There’s more?’
‘Yeah. Your Mr Riverty was nowhere near where this one was taken. Sorry, Joanne, but it’s just not him.’