Kate had been worrying unnecessarily because Jo had insight into her world. Unlike a member of the public, with no real clue how stretched the police were, the profiler was aware that response times were down, that officers were so thin on the ground she could scream all night and no one would come running. Knowing that she might get the shit kicked out of her – or end up like Hannah while waiting for the emergency services to arrive – was terrifying. She replied to Jo’s text with a smiley face:
With Jo safe at home, Kate put the device on silent mode and was finally able to focus. In view of the time, Hank agreed that they should concentrate their efforts on the date of Hannah’s death when she was inside the café, as highlighted in Wood’s email. What went on before and after was equally, if not more important, as it had the potential to pinpoint specific times and locations when the victim was last seen alive, an update on the information gathered from Jack and Peggy Shepherd. But that relied upon the presence of CCTV, public or private, which in a tiny fishing village like Craster could not be guaranteed.
As well as the time of day, the on-screen display showed the date in the bottom right-hand corner. Keeping a close eye on the counter, Kate stopped the video a few seconds before Hannah walked through the door.
She took a deep breath. ‘Ready?’
‘As I’ll ever be.’ Hank stopped chewing, the hand holding the chopsticks freezing in mid-air. He pointed at the remainder of his meal. ‘Mind if I finish this while we work?’
‘Go ahead.’ She pressed play.
Due to the ambient lighting conditions, the video was better quality than either detective expected. Watching Hannah made the hair on Kate’s head stand to attention, tightening her scalp, sending a chill right through her. Munro wasn’t wrong. Though Hannah’s hair was longer than in the photograph supplied by her father – the only image available for use as a comparison, other than the one taken at the time of her arrest – it was undeniably her.
Kate’s hands felt clammy. She didn’t dare look at Hank. He’d clock her emotional reaction immediately. She was transfixed, watching Hannah choose a table away from the window with a view of the door and the street beyond, a good move for a woman in fear for her life.
Slipping her arms out of her backpack, she placed it on the table.
Kate paused the tape, rewound slightly, paused it again and zoomed in. ‘Make a note of her bag. It wasn’t on O’Brien’s inventory. I’d like it traced.’
‘Good luck with that.’ Hank listed the item, adding the time beside it for future reference.
They studied the image closely. The backpack was entirely black with a flap over the front that spanned the whole width of it. There was a small light-coloured strip in the centre near the bottom.
Kate zoomed in on the brand name: MOLESKINE.
Smiling at Hank, again she pressed play.
On screen, Hannah took off her coat and hung it on the seat opposite, something Kate had done a million times when she wanted privacy, to give the impression that the seat was already taken. As they watched, Hank drew her attention to other customers in the café. There were only two, both women, neither of whom was paying Hannah any attention. Without prompting, he took a photograph of the screen and made a note on his pad to raise an action to trace them.
At this time of year, with any luck, they’d be local.
A third woman Kate assumed was Gemma Munro or one of her staff walked into shot, approaching Hannah’s table. They spoke briefly, then she disappeared as quickly as she’d arrived. Hannah sat down, only her left side visible to the CCTV mounted high above her head. She opened her bag and slid a space grey laptop out of it, together with a notepad, a pen and a mobile. She lined the items up, very precisely, as if they were exhibits being shown to a judge and jury.
Perhaps they were, Kate thought, but didn’t say.
Stopping the tape, she dropped her head in her hands and shut her eyes. The flashback arrived without notice: the oblong shape on the caravan seat, the only area of flowery fabric free of blood.
‘Kate? You OK?’
‘Yeah, sorry.’ She looked up at him. ‘It’s the pad and pen Hannah used to write her note.’
‘Could be.’
‘Is,’ Kate said emphatically.
‘I’m sorry, you lost me.’
‘Hannah is telling me it is.’ Kate ran the tape again. ‘Now watch how she lines the items up on the table, in a precise order. She’s doing that for a reason, laptop first, then the notepad. That laptop . . .’ Kate jabbed at the item on the screen. ‘Is a MacBook Pro.’
‘You sure?’
‘Positive, you’re looking at one.’ Kate flicked her eyes towards the device in front of him. ‘I don’t need a degree in maths or a tape measure, Hank. That’s a thirteen-inch laptop, diagonally. I know the dimension like the back of my hand. Measure it if you like. It’s a foot wide and eight inches deep.’
‘I’ll take your word for it.’
‘According to O’Brien, that’s an eight by six notepad.’ She nodded toward the monitor. ‘Now take a look.’
He stared at the image. The depth of the laptop and the length of the pad were practically the same. ‘You could be right.’
‘I am right.’ Again, Kate pressed play.
On screen, Hannah pulled the laptop towards her, flipped the lid open. The device was password protected. Hannah used her fingertip to wake it. The angle of the screen was oblique to the camera, the worst possible shot. Hank swore under his breath. What happened next shook Kate to the core.
Turning her head slowly, Hannah deliberately looked into the camera lens, earnestly and with an intense expression.
Kate wasn’t expecting it.
Neither, it had to be said, was Hank.
Kate’s stomach rolled over at the sight of her victim’s ice-blue, intelligent eyes. Though Hannah was looking at both detectives, it felt like she was communicating directly and very personally with only one of them.