The weather was playing its part. It was bleaching down again; a good excuse to tighten the drawstring of his hood without attracting unnecessary attention to himself. He’d bought his ticket online and entered the bus depot unseen – feeling lucky – with one aim in mind. He saw the unattended rucksack almost immediately, slipped his arms into the straps and hopped on the Kendal bus just as it was about to pull away. The theft was a risk worth taking. There was a hot drink and food inside, enough sustenance for days if he eked it out. Sliding his hand further inside the deep front pocket, he found maps and something resembling thin foil, folded into a small neat parcel. Further still and he hit the jackpot.
The warehouse was now sectioned off into manageable chunks. Under Carmichael’s watchful eye, the Tactical Support Group – a team of twenty officers – were rummaging through bag after bag, paying meticulous attention to what was inside. She could see on their faces how bored they were.
Carmichael was bored too.
And cold.
It was freezing in the warehouse and she couldn’t feel her feet. And it looked as though Ken Carruthers was going to be proved right: at this rate, the process of combing through the mountain of black plastic bags would drag on for weeks. Her mind wandered off to a warm incident room where many of her colleagues were getting stuck into the enquiry in a more meaningful way. An enquiry that could turn out to be the biggest and most notable the Northumbria force had ever seen. She wanted to be more involved – and she would have been, if Daniels hadn’t insisted that she come down here to keep up the pressure on the TSG, even though it was far from certain that their search would turn up the missing coat.
Ken Carruthers wandered over and stood next to her. He was wearing a knee-length sheepskin coat, gloves and hat with the earflaps turned down. Good move, Carmichael thought, making a mental note to dress more appropriately tomorrow.
And there would be a tomorrow . . .
And the day after . . .
And the day after that.
Carmichael was sure of it.
‘Nothing doing?’ Carruthers said.
‘’Fraid not,’ Carmichael blew on her hands and stamped her feet, which were numb with cold. ‘We knew it was a gamble. An expensive one, but a gamble nevertheless.’
‘How long will they keep searching?’
‘For as long as it takes.’
‘You want a coffee or something?’ He pointed upwards, towards an office in one corner of the warehouse. ‘It’s a little more comfy in there.’
‘If it’s all the same to you, I’ll have mine with the lads. It helps to keep up their morale.’ She pointed at a green Waitrose bag on the floor. ‘Got my auntie to make them a nice lemon drizzle cake. Secret family recipe. Should earn me some brownie points. I’ll keep you a bit, if you like.’
Carruthers smiled, patting his stomach. ‘I can already taste it,’ he said.
She watched him move off in the direction of his office, which was situated on the mezzanine floor above, accessible via a reinforced steel staircase. It was virtually a glass box on stilts with a good view over the warehouse. A warm fire. Coffee. Maybe even biscuits.
Just then, Carmichael heard a shout. Looking in the general direction of the call, she saw a TSG officer standing a little way off, holding his left hand in the air.
The signal could only mean one thing . . .
His actions resulted in his supervisor rushing over to examine the coat he’d found. Heart pounding, Carmichael made her way towards them. But before she got close enough to see for herself, the supervisor shook his head, frustration showing on his face.
It wasn’t the one they were looking for.
He slept . . .
Not well. She was waging war on his subconscious again, yelling like a woman possessed by the devil, her face contorted with hatred. She towered above him, ordering him to kneel on the floor, say his prayers and beg for the Lord’s forgiveness.
He cried . . .
She brought the stick down on his shoulder in the same place as yesterday, the gag in his mouth muffling his screams. He turned his face away, towards the locked door. She’d stopped yelling now. A bad sign. When he dared look up, her eyes were black with rage. It was already the third time today she’d done the thing she called discipline.
He scuttled across the floor as she raised the stick above her head again. Shutting his eyes tightly, he hoped one of her friends would knock on the door and then she’d leave him to go into the room for her meeting. Today was Tuesday. They always came on a Tuesday. Never missed. But the doorbell didn’t ring. Any moment now the stick would come crashing down.
He waited . . .
And woke with a start, feeling black and blue. He was breathing heavily and there were beads of sweat on his face. People were staring now. That same accusatory expression he’d seen in her eyes minutes earlier. What for? What the fuck were they all looking at?
Through the window, a thick mist hung – as if suspended in mid-air – obliterating the upper slopes. The single-decker bus snaked its way around the frozen lakeside, heading for the middle of nowhere.
Just two miles from Dorothy Smith’s house, a bell sounded. Three middle-aged walkers stood up. He made his move, tagging along close behind like he was one of them.
As if!
It would take more than a stupid rucksack to make him like them. They were nothing: nil, zero, zilch.
As for Dotty, she was only special because he’d chosen to kill her today.