And that’s what we did. We spent the evening at a very pleasant Italian not far from Jim’s flat, had a few glasses of Chianti with the pasta, and followed this up with an early night – a restful one too, I might add.
When I woke up the next morning Jim had already left. There was a note on the pillow: “Didn’t want to disturb you, thought you needed the rest – catch you later. J.”
“Christ,” I said aloud. It was still only six-thirty; he was becoming an insomniac. Or, it occurred to me before I turned over again, perhaps this case – in parallel with his promotion – was making him obsessive.
It was eight o’clock before I finally decided to get up. I had a laze in the bath, a light breakfast with two cups of coffee, resisted the urge to have a cigarette – I had stopped three months earlier – and then gave Connie a ring to see how she was settling in. She was still asleep, which had to be a good sign, so I left a message to say I’d ring her later, and then set off on foot for the station; I had left my car in the pound the previous evening, and I guessed Jim must have forgotten. Not that I minded, really. I could have caught a bus from Edgbaston but it was such a lovely day, with blue skies, freckled with occasional wispy, cotton clouds, and a warm sun that prompted me to put on my shades, it would have been a waste to miss out on it. It was one of those ‘good to be alive’ days, even though there was nothing to feel good about. I strode out purposefully, enjoying the morning. The streets were fresh and shining, as if they had just been spring-cleaned. I smiled at one or two people in passing, even though my mind was elsewhere.
My eye suddenly caught a news bulletin, featured on a billboard outside a newsagent’s shop. The headline seemed to scream at me: “Missing girl believed dead.”
A feeling of dread welled up inside me, as I went inside the shop to buy a paper. According to the article, forensic evidence, recently “uncovered”, had identified bloodstains from an item of Josephine Marsden’s clothing as originating from the missing child. It then went on to speculate that, after speaking with the Marsdens, it had been established that the killer had contacted them by telephone, informing them about the clothing left in a field outside Birmingham, and also advising the parents that their child was dead and her body would never be found.
As a journalistic piece it was, without doubt, the most insensitive and cruel example I had ever come across. It was also evident from the phraseology that the Marsdens, in their distress, had been taken advantage of and ‘conned’ into making these comments. What I found even more disturbing was the reference to the DNA testing of the blood sample. I was reminded again of the recent references to a ‘leak’ from somewhere inside the force. How else could the paper possibly have obtained that kind of privileged information?
I grabbed a passing taxi and headed for the Steelhouse Lane station, knowing that Jim would be going ‘ape shit’ about this development. Christ almighty! It was like fighting a battle with our hands tied behind our backs! I gave it some more thought during the taxi ride; for example, how many people apart from forensics knew about the blood test? It certainly wasn’t common knowledge inside the incident room. So, discounting the superintendent and the DCI, for obvious reasons, that only left Frank Kewell and me – and it sure as hell wasn’t me!
But that just didn’t make any sense. Aside from being a career copper for many years, Frank would certainly know that, even under the media’s confidentiality screen, he was bound to be the prime suspect. And for what? Thirty lousy pieces of silver? No; I couldn’t buy that. It had to be someone else. And whoever that someone was, he, or she, had to have an entrée into either the forensic department or the incident room itself.
I was still shaking my head, puzzled, as I went into Jim’s office. He already had the paper on his desk. He tossed it over to me, his expression, predictably, one of furious rage. “You’d better read this,” he said, an angry furrow creasing his brow.
“I’ve already read it. Sickening, isn’t it? But I still don’t believe the leak came from inside here.”
“No. I agree with you. But I’m damned if I know where else it could have come from. How about that friend of yours in forensics? What’s her name?
“Emma?” I exclaimed sceptically. “No, Jim. You’ve got the wrong one there. Emma wouldn’t tell you the time of day unless you had a warrant! She’s about the most security-conscious person I know.” I shook my head, more in frustration than anything. “And if you’re thinking there might have been a leak from forensics, you can forget it. Their admin procedures are as tight as a drum; pretty well everything’s on a need-to-know basis.”
“Well, the super’s meeting with the paper’s editor-in-chief at the moment, although I doubt he’ll discover anything there – you know what those people are like. I can’t see them disclosing their source, can you?”
“Hardly. But if we’re discounting the possibility of an internal leak then there’s only one other source it can be.”
“How do you mean, Ange?”
“The killer! It has to be the killer. Who else would know about the bloodspots on the shoes? Who else would know they came from the body of the little girl? Paul Simmons warned us he wanted to play games; this is just another example. Just like leaving the clothes in the field and then phoning the Marsdens. It’s a bloody game, Jim; he’s doing his best to make us appear stupid.”
“If you’re right,” he growled, “then he’s bloody well winning.” He leant forward, placing his chin into the cup of his hands and pondering the suggestion. “It’s a good point, though. I should’ve thought of that myself. The only problem now is: how do we check it out?”
“We don’t,” I asserted. “We assume I’m right and we ask Dr Simmons – Paul – to help us devise a strategy for dealing with it. Offhand, I’d say we somehow get the newspapers to play ball; see if we can tempt him out into the open.”
“Yeah, well, the doc’s due back sometime this afternoon, so we’ll raise it with him. In the meantime, we say nothing of this to anyone. Agreed?”
“Totally.” I said, but only after a hesitation.
“Go on, Ange. What else is on your mind? It’s not going to cost us money, is it?”
I smiled. It was extremely difficult to maintain any sense of humour under circumstances such as these. There was very little, if any, escape from the relentless pressure. When you could, I found it helped lighten things a little, and that had to be welcome.
“It’s nothing dramatic,” I assured him; “it’s only that I’m expecting to hear something later today about the primary results from the DNA sample. Do we keep that between ourselves as well?”
He sighed. “Let’s not go overboard on this. We’ll wait to see what, if anything, the analysis shows; then we’ll decide. But I doubt it’ll reveal very much – it’s too early. Okay?”