THIRTY-FOUR

‘What?’ Open-mouthed. ‘Are you sure?’ On the phone to forensics, Sarah grappled simultaneously with the wrapping around a prawn mayo sandwich. She’d been chasing the lab for days and the earlier spat with Harries had acted as even more of a spur to get concrete results. Apart from the pit stop in the canteen, she’d put the call in as soon as she sat at her desk. The way she saw it, forensic evidence had a damn sight more credibility than the dubious benefits of TV coverage. Even so, it was difficult to get her head round what she’d just heard. Wasn’t fish supposed to be brain food? Good call. She popped a prawn in her mouth.

‘I can’t give you a cast iron guarantee, Sarah. Believe it or not the notes weren’t signed.’ Phil Sewell. Everybody’s favourite funny man. Not. The lab boss bore a passing resemblance to Hugh Grant, fancied himself rotten and took condescension to a new low.

‘I appreciate that, Phil.’ She forced a smile into her voice. ‘I’m really surprised, that’s all.’ And picked out another prawn.

Who wouldn’t be? Sewell’s theory was that the notes, believed to be from the kidnapper, probably emanated from two writers. Well, cut and paste merchants. He felt whoever had tucked the note under Caroline King’s windscreen wiper wasn’t responsible for the one placed in Sarah’s apartment.

‘All I’m saying, Sarah, is that the only common factor is the newspaper they came from.’ God. He even sounded like a drama queen.

‘And they were cut from the Sun, right?’

‘Yes. I’ve sourced the issues, can tell you which headlines and articles. But I’d have expected the paper they were stuck on and the glue that was used would be the same. The fact they’re not doesn’t prove they were composed by different people but it does point that way.’

‘Points but no proof,’ she murmured. And definitely no prizes. She was almost talking to herself.

‘I’ve already said that.’ Yeah yeah. She curled a lip. He was probably stroking a superior eyebrow. ‘All I know is that when I’ve come across this sort of thing in the past, the stuff used is invariably identical. Think about it.’ Like she wasn’t? ‘How many people have several different writing pads and glues in the house? Or bother going out to get them?’

Her fingers tapped the desk. On balance he was probably right. What he’d said was true enough but not good enough. Not good-in-a-court-of-law-enough anyway. Sitting back, she gazed through the window where jet trails formed a perfect cross against a pale blue sky. ‘What about the lock of hair, Phil? Anything on that, yet?’

‘I think I might have mentioned it, don’t you?’ She pulled a face at the phone. ‘I take it you’re aware by now how long these things take?’ She knew his next line, mimed it in synch. ‘It’s not CSI here, dear.’ Mr Sarky Git was right again. Even fast-tracked they were looking at a fortnight before the finishing post.

‘A girl can wish, Phil.’ She’d not let Sewell wind her up; pain in the butt or not, he was at the top of his game. ‘So, summing up on the notes . . . there’s either one smart cookie in the frame.’ Sharp enough to use different materials to misdirect the cops. ‘Or we’ve got two letter writers on our hands.’

‘I’d go for the latter. Given how well the inquiry’s going – shame they’re not in your hands.’

‘Why don’t you piss off?’ This time she was talking to herself. Much as she’d like to tell him where to go, he’d already hung up.

‘Why doesn’t who piss off?’ Harries hovered in the doorway, lips twitching.

‘Knock next time, eh?’

‘It was open, ma’am.’ His smile broadened as he stepped inside. ‘Those phone skills, boss. Where’d you pick them up?’

She softened her mouth. ‘It was Sewell over at the labs. I think he must go to the same charisma classes as Baker.’ Shit. ‘You didn’t hear me say that, OK?’

He made a play of cupping his ear. ‘Pardon?’

She rolled her eyes. ‘Do you want to wait while I finish this?’ They’d be heading out to Small Heath shortly, following up a couple of calls that had come in to the incident room. ‘You might want to read it too.’

‘Sure.’ He looked over her shoulder as she typed an email to Baker précising Sewell’s thinking. When she hit send, he gave a low whistle, strolled back to take a seat. ‘If it is two writers, yours would have to be from a copycat. Someone who’d heard the original on the news.’

She took a bite of sandwich. ‘Yes, but . . . ?’ She narrowed her eyes.

‘What?’

‘They’d know the wording that way, but how would they know it was cut from the Sun?’

‘Coincidence. Lucky guess.’

She shook her head. ‘Did Caroline King’s report carry the name of the paper, a close-up of the note?’

‘I don’t think so. Actually I’m not sure.’

‘It needs checking.’

‘I’ll get on to it, boss.’ He nodded at the desk. ‘Are you finishing lunch before we go?

She smiled. ‘Yeah. Why not?’

‘So, did Sewell upset you as well?

‘As well?’ She paused, sandwich halfway to mouth. ‘Why’d you say that?’

‘I know you didn’t tell me to piss off, but you didn’t exactly go a bundle on my Crimewatch idea.’

‘Yeah, sorry about that.’ On reflection her crack about the cavalry had been a touch below the belt. ‘I’m sure you were trying to be constructive.’

He waited until she swallowed, then: ‘I hear a but in there.’

‘I’m not a fan of programmes like that. Actors playing villains. Cops playing to the gallery. The only real people are the victims. The distinctions get a bit blurred somehow.’

He turned his mouth down. ‘It’s had quite a few successes, boss.’

‘They’re not going to trumpet the failures, are they? And how many people has it scared stiff? All that “don’t have nightmares” bollocks makes me sick.’

‘You’ve really got a down on the media. What’ve they done to you, boss?’ It was a gentle tease that went with the glint in his eye.

She knew he was joking but there was an old saying about true words and jests.

‘Nothing. I’m sure they’re OK in the right place, at the right time.’ But when they’re not? In her mind’s eye she saw a street in London, an officer covered in blood. Heard the shot again, a single scream. Stop it, don’t go there.

‘You OK, boss?’

Grimacing, she ditched the rest of lunch in the bin, grabbed some water, then walked to the window and perched on the sill. His concerned gaze was still on her face. He was emotionally intelligent, almost certainly sussed her hostility to the press had a personal edge. Pre-empting any probing on that score, she steered the conversation back to the professional conflict. ‘Don’t get me wrong, David. I know they can be useful but their priorities are different to ours. We catch criminals. They catch the next bulletin. We chase detection figures, they chase viewing figures.’ She gave a thin smile. ‘I swear some of them make it up as they go along.’

‘That’s a bit sweeping, isn’t it?’ He ran a hand through his hair.

She shrugged. ‘I’m not saying they’re all sharks. I’ve come across some sharp operators out there. On the other hand, I’ve read stories after press conferences and couldn’t believe the reporters had been in the same room as me.’ She slipped off the sill, wandered back to the desk, started gathering papers. ‘They probably get their heads together afterwards and work out what angle to take. If enough of them say the same thing, well, there’s safety in numbers.’

‘That’s pretty harsh, boss. They can do a lot of good exposing scandals and cover-ups, highlighting injustice, corruption, even just passing on info.’

Lip curved, she glanced up. ‘You sound like a public service announcement, David.’

‘Yeah, but fair’s fair. You know what I mean.’

‘Then it’s a shame the stupid and unscrupulous give the rest a bad name.’

He held her gaze. ‘You could say the same about the police.’

‘I think you’ll find the press already do. Anyway, are you coming, or what? It’s time to hit the road.’ She was rummaging in her briefcase. Where the hell were the car keys?

He was on his feet, heading for the door. ‘If you’re looking for your keys, boss, I saw them on your desk.’

‘Clever dick.’