Reading sample The Lies Within

Prologue

The barrister tilts his head back. “Members of the jury, I turn your attention to Grace Daniels, the woman who stands before you this afternoon.”

The eyes of the courtroom descend upon Grace. She searches for a gap in the sea of faces, desperately trying to maintain her composure while avoiding the anxious gaze of her youngest daughter, Lydia, seated next to the rest of her family in the public gallery. Right now she wants nothing more than to be swaddled in the comfort of their support. But even the shortest of glances will induce fresh tears to her eyes. And she can’t allow that to happen. Not now.

The barrister, James Sheldon, a tall, slender man with curls of thick brown hair that tumble out of the back of his wig, pauses for the briefest of moments. “During the course of this trial you will hear accounts from friends, family, neighbours and employers about her good character and nature. She is a mother, sister-in-law, daughter and grandmother. A woman who works and contributes to the fabric of society. But you are not here to consider her character. You are here to examine the facts.” His words hang in the air as he moves down the line, pulling the eyes of every juror with him.

Grace notices Lydia turn away and risks a fleeting glance. When her girls were young she’d impressed upon them the importance of being honest. ‘You have nothing to worry about if you’ve done nothing wrong,’ she would say. What would Lydia make of that today? She’s sixteen now, although her blue eyes bulge with the same trepidation they held on her first day at school.

Grace flicks her gaze to the jury. Seven women and five men. On the face of it, they seem a reasonable mix. Earlier that morning, several of them faltered over their words as they were sworn in. It was strange to think that they could possibly feel more nervous than she. The woman on the end wears a dark jumper overlaid with a colourful vintage scarf. Sheets of hair are tucked behind her ears, her expression kind and comforting.

Sheldon is concluding the prosecution opening with the assured confidence of a man skilled in his art. In spite of the curled wig, the black gown that flaps behind him as he moves, his gestures are convincingly subtle. A simple touch. A gentle, considered turn. No sweeping theatrics. Not a moment’s hesitation in his voice.

Grace looks across at the profile of Eleanor Talbot-Deane, her defence barrister, through the glass screen that separates her from the courtroom. Eleanor is as still as stone. His words haven’t fazed her, yet Grace feels her hands start to tremble and squeezes them together.

“Over the next few days the Crown will produce compelling evidence to support the fact that this woman meticulously planned a cold-blooded murder.”

Grace recoils, aware of Lydia’s eyes boring into the side of her face. They’d talked about this moment several times. Together. With her solicitor. With her barrister. As a family. But no amount of talking could prepare her for the real prospect of losing her mother to the confines of prison walls. No child should ever have to watch a parent on trial.

“You will hear evidence that places her at the scene, witnesses who heard her plan the murder,” Sheldon continues. “Plan how to kill a woman who considered herself a friend.”

A head on the jury turns. The woman with the vintage scarf. Grace imagines she is just like her, with a job and a family; a small dog that sits beside her on the sofa while she watches MasterChef on television. But there is no familiarity in her expression, no sorority. Just cold, hard shock.

Grace’s throat constricts. Even though she has been briefed on how to react: what to say, what not to say. Even though she has been dragged through hours of police questioning, nothing can truly prepare her for the exhausting fatigue that exudes from the intensity of hanging on to every word, every tiny detail, still trying to find a hole in the evidence mounting against her. And this is only the beginning of a trial that is scheduled to run for days.

“Be under no illusions by her smart clothes, her kind face, her eloquent manner. Do not form judgements. I implore you to keep a clear mind and consider the evidence in front of you. And that evidence alone. This woman is guilty of murder. And by the time this trial has finished, you will be in no doubt that she should go to prison for life.”

Chapter One

Detective Inspector Will Jackman watched the brown fluid ooze into the Styrofoam cup. It was surprising how quickly he’d developed a taste for this excuse for coffee when it was all that was available. The iridescent lights buzzed and flickered as he made his way back down the corridor.

It was darker in his office, a single desk lamp providing the only light in the small area. A nest of photos stared back at him as he sat and sipped his drink. Jackman had seen many shocking images over the years: bodies gouged with gunshot wounds, stab victims left in a pool of their own blood, dismembered body parts after car accidents. Every one of them stayed with him, but none more so than the living. The bright eyes of these young women had screamed of youth, opportunity, vitality. Until they were brutally assaulted.

He moved the photos aside and instead stared into the faces of the victims after the attack. Seventeen-year-old Eugenie Trentwood’s long hair was the only resemblance she bore to the original photo. Her right eye was swollen to twice the size; a gash in her temple resembled a puckered pair of lips. Almost immediately, detectives linked the case with the unsolved attack on Shelley Barnstaple, nine years earlier. Just a year older than Eugenie at the time of the incident, the swelling around Shelley’s crown was so severe it gave the appearance of an odd-shaped head. Dark smudges sat beneath her eyes. Both women had been attacked on their way home from a night out, within a mile of each other in Leicester’s Oadby district.

He dug out the map, slowly ran his finger along each of their routes on the nights of the incidents. Eugenie had been walking down a side alley, almost home. Shelley had taken a shortcut across waste ground. Both had a ligature thrown around their neck. They awoke later to find themselves on the ground. They’d been sexually assaulted. Eugenie’s stilettos had disappeared. Shelley’s necklace was stolen. Neither saw anything.

Jackman sat back in his chair. He’d protested fiercely when Superintendent Janus had called him into her office, a few weeks earlier, and told him she was assigning him to special projects. ‘The force are rewriting their public protection policy. I’d like you to be the regional lead on adult sexual offences.’ She’d dressed it up as a developmental move, temporarily promoting him to Chief Inspector, seconding him to region to visit neighbouring forces and review outstanding cases with a view to looking for links and streamlining methods of working. ‘It’ll be a good opportunity to see how other serious crime teams work, to network with other senior investigating officers,’ she had said, peering up at him from beneath her heavy fringe. Jackman could see the merit of review teams: a fresh pair of eyes, a new approach when all previous leads had dried up. But the prospect of several weeks of being confined to a desk, picking through the bones of someone else’s investigation with a view to overhauling working practices just left him numb.

He switched back to the photos. Bruising and indentation on their necks indicated the presence of a ligature. Both women had been taken to within an inch of their life, and yet they hadn’t been killed. Whoever had done this had wanted them to live with the enduring terror.

In spite of an army of CSIs dispatched to comb both scenes, they’d recovered nothing of any significance. Stranger attacks were relatively rare. Most people were assaulted by someone they knew, someone close to them. Yet officers hadn’t found anything in either of the girls’ backgrounds to indicate a stalker or somebody acting out of the ordinary and, apart from the fact that they were both of slight build with long curly hair, there was nothing to indicate why the assailant had picked those two, or to explain the time lapse in between.

Speculation about a serial offender grew in the media as confidence in the police waned. He looked back at the fresh-faced photo of Eugenie. Seventeen years old. Her family claimed she was a diligent student with an ambition to become a lawyer. This time last year she would have been studying for her GCSEs.

But endless hours of interviewing officers, trawling through bank records and phone logs and rereading witness statements had yielded nothing new. Even after visiting the victims and their families, hopeful faces staring across at him, imploring some new evidence that might put an end to their terror, Jackman was no closer to finding a motive, let alone a suspect. And he had nothing to help him write the first part of his tedious policy report.

He glanced across at the pile of boxes on the desk opposite. The word archive made him flinch. It suggested a pile of historical documents, or old bank records, not statements, phone records or items of bloody clothing belonging to real people. These women were somebody’s sister, somebody’s daughter. Victims of real crimes left unsolved. The investigation was code-named Operation Ascott. Files would be kept open, fresh appeals put out for information, but the evidence of those crimes that had cast a shadow over their lives and of those around them was destined to be bundled up and shut away in the confines of a dark box.

The window rattled in the light breeze. Jackman checked his watch. Almost midnight. Not for the first time, he cursed the roadworks on the Coventry roundabout. He knew there would be cars almost at a standstill, even at this late hour. The subsequent tailbacks and delays on his commute from Stratford this past week had forced him to check into a hotel nearby. Although, right now, he was hardly in a rush to get to the bland hotel room.

The sound of his mobile buzzing at this late hour startled him. He fished it out of his pocket.

“Sir, this is Inspector Peters, Leicester control room. The body of a woman has been found in rural Leicestershire. Our duty SIO is handling a drugs-related kidnapping in the east of the city. You’re listed as reserve.”

Jackman grabbed his pen. “What do we know?”

“A cyclist discovered the body on his ride home from work at 23.18 hours and called it in. The CID nightshift are escorting him back to the station to make a statement. The victim is naked, thought to be late teens. Looks like she’s been strangled. Nothing to indicate her ID.” He relayed the address.

“No other witnesses?” Jackman asked, jotting down the details.

“Not as yet. Uniform have cordoned off the area. CID have called in CSI and a pathologist. DS Wilson is at the scene. She’ll fill you in.”

Jackman stood, dislodging a pile of papers on the corner of his desk in his haste.

“One other thing.”

He watched the papers splash to the floor. “Yes?”

“The body shows signs of sexual assault.”

Leicester Lane was a quiet country road flanked by trees on one side and a ditch that ran practically its full length on the other. Bare fields unrolled into the open countryside beyond.

Jackman parked up at the end of a line of cars. Under the obliging light of a full moon, he could see a huddle of CSIs further up the road, skirting around a temporary lamp.

The blue-and-white police tape flapped in the breeze as he climbed out of the car and opened the boot. He was struggling with the zipper on his holdall when he heard a voice behind him. “You must be our SIO.”

He whisked around, just as the woman pulled back her hood and proffered her hand. “Sergeant Dee Wilson.” Her words sent a spray of white air out into the night.

“Will Jackman.” He shook her hand.

Her white teeth gleamed against her dark skin as she smiled back up at him. “Have the control room filled you in?”

“Pretty much.” Jackman relayed the scant details. “Anything else I should know?” He retrieved some coveralls from the bag and started pulling them on.

“I don’t think so. There’s not much to go on at the moment.”

Jackman was bent down, snapping on his overshoes when he felt another presence nearby.

“Sergeant Wilson!”

He followed the voice and stood back to see a heavy-set man in a dark jacket approach. Raven hair was gelled back from an inquisitive face.

Wilson turned. “Well, well. Artie Black, Leicester Herald’s finest. Caught a whiff of this one quickly, didn’t you? You’d better keep out of our way, otherwise you’ll be in line for the next sniffer dog intake.”

The journalist gave a fake chortle.

“Can’t tell you anything at the moment, Artie,” Wilson added.

“Come on, now. You must have something?” The journalist pointed at Jackman. “Who’s this?”

“This is DCI Jackman,” Wilson said. “You’re wasting your time, Artie. He won’t tell you anything either.”

Artie reached out a hand, which Jackman reluctantly shook. The handshake was firm, eager. Jackman withdrew to find a business card in his palm. “Give me a shout as soon as you’ve got something,” Artie said. “I’m sure we can work together on this.”

Jackman shook his head and shoved the card into his pocket as Artie disappeared into the shadows. He fleetingly wondered how much time the journalist spent skulking around, watching, waiting for the next scoop. It was pitiful.

Tiny stars peaked out of the inky blue sky above. Jackman scanned the surrounding area. It was remote and unlit. “I understand the informant was a cyclist,” he said as they started to walk towards the other officers.

Wilson nodded. “He’s back at the station, giving a statement.”

“What was he doing cycling down here in the middle of the night?”

“This road links the back end of Market Harborough with Airfield Business Park. Mostly warehouses and factory units. Many of their workers are on shift patterns. We’ll check it out, of course, but I’m guessing he was on a late shift.”

“Anything on the victim?”

Wilson shook her head. They’d reached the edge of the tape now and she turned her attention to the officer guarding the cordon, exchanging pleasantries as they paused to sign the incident log.

They drew closer to the light. A CSI was moving around, photographing the body from all angles. A woman in blue coveralls was crouched down in the ditch examining the body.

“Morning, Celeste,” Wilson said as they approached. “This is DCI Jackman, our SIO.”

The pathologist stood, stretched her shoulders back and beamed. “I know Will Jackman,” she said, a rich French accent coating her words. She snapped off a glove, pushed away the wisps of dark hair escaping from her hood and shook his hand, then looked towards Wilson. “We worked together… goodness, it must be ten years ago now, when I was training.”

“Good to see you again, Celeste,” Jackman said. “How’re you doing?”

“Okay, thanks. Nothing a couple more hours of sleep couldn’t cure. How are your lovely family?”

Jackman hesitated for a second before he replied. “Fine, thanks.” He lowered his eyes to the victim. She was petite, her face ornate, almost doll-like, even with her glassy eyes hung open. Brown hair was swept back and coiffed into a twist, making the dark ring that encircled her neck all the more prominent.

Celeste inhaled a long breath before she spoke. “Looking at the welt around her neck and the enlarged tongue I’m pretty sure the cause of death was strangulation. Bruising on the inner thighs indicates possible sexual interference.” She pulled off her other glove, scratched the side of her face. “Rigor is just starting to set in. I’d estimate time of death within the last 4–5 hours. Looking at the environment and the state of the body, I’d say she was attacked elsewhere. She looks too clean to have been killed here, but I’ll be more sure when I get her back to the lab.”

Jackman crouched down. The blueish tinge on the victim’s torso made her look cold and exposed. He felt an urge to cover her over. “Any signs of a struggle?”

“Some sporadic grazes and bruising on her forearms. Could be defensive. Not enough to suggest she put up much of a fight though.”

“Possibly someone she knew then?”

“Maybe. I’ll know more when I get a better look at her.”

As Jackman stood he noticed a CSI wandering towards them holding an evidence bag out at an odd angle. A single piece of jewellery slipped about in the bottom. “Not sure if this is relevant, but we found it in the hedge up the way.” Jackman followed his gaze to a line of hawthorn hedging. It couldn’t have been more than ten yards from the body.

Jackman thanked the CSI, took the bag and peered in closer. “Looks like an earring of some sort.” He pulled out his torch and shone it on the contents. It was silver, inlaid with what appeared to be blue, white and black circles of glass. There was a tiny chip in the side, but it didn’t look weathered. It hadn’t been there long.

“It’s an evil eye,” Wilson said. “They were all over the place when I went on holiday to Turkey last year. Supposed to protect you against bad luck.”

Jackman looked back at the victim. Her ears were bare. “Why remove her clothes, yet leave something like this nearby?”

Wilson shrugged. “Maybe it slipped out, or they dropped it?”

Jackman glanced around him at the rough scrub. “After taking the trouble to strip her, bring her out here?” He turned to Celeste. “What do you think they used to strangle her with?”

“The marks are distinct, fairly straight and deep,” Celeste said. “Some kind of strapping, I’d say.”

“Dee, has anyone checked for missing person reports?”

Wilson snapped a nod. “Already done, sir.”

“Good. Get them to check the National Missing Persons Database too, will you? And ask someone to compile a list of all known sex offenders in the area. We could do with checking their movements yesterday evening.”

Wilson walked away, pressing her mobile phone to her ear. Jackman stared out into the darkness. It seemed a strange place to leave a body, especially with the promise of traffic, albeit a slow stream, running through from the nearby industrial estate.

Shoes squeaked on the tarmac behind him. Wilson pocketed her phone as she rejoined him. The whites of her eyes looked oddly eerie in the darkness. “Done. The list should be ready by the time we get back to headquarters.”

The mention of headquarters reminded Jackman he wasn’t on home territory. Unlike his home force of Warwickshire, Leicestershire preferred their incident rooms to run out of their head office and had designated suites for them. He wouldn’t get away with calling in favours and setting up a room in a nearby station here. He took another look at the surrounding countryside. A quick scan of the map earlier showed the small market town to be on the edge of the Leicestershire border, almost twenty miles from the Enderby-based headquarters.

“Okay, take the cordon out wider and make sure it’s guarded,” Jackman said. “We don’t want any more visiting reporters. And get a tent erected over her, please.”

Chapter Two

The first thing Jackman heard as he entered the incident room was the shrill sound of phones ringing in unison in the background. He immediately thought of Artie Black, back at the crime scene. It didn’t take long for the vultures to descend.

A single photograph of the victim sat beside a map of the area on the board at the front.

Officers in plain clothes gathered around the board as they entered. Wilson moved to the front, briefing them on their findings so far. “ID is our current priority,” she said. “Who does the earring belong to? Let’s get the victim’s photograph circulated to neighbouring forces, and keep trawling through the Missing Persons Database.”

She looked across at Jackman. “Some of you will have met DCI Jackman, who’s been with us reviewing our sexual offences cases over the past couple of weeks. We’re very fortunate to still have his assistance as SIO at the moment. He came out to the scene with me tonight.”

Jackman stepped forward and turned to address the array of faces in front of him. “Thank you everyone, for coming in at short notice. I really appreciate your input. Please speak up if you have any thoughts at all, however insignificant you may think they are. Sometimes the smallest point can lead us in the right direction.” He smiled as he continued. “Most of us haven’t worked together before, so please raise your hand when you wish to speak and introduce yourself.” He turned to the map again, pointed at the single marker indicating the crime scene. “Okay, the pathologist is pretty sure that the victim was killed elsewhere and moved to this point. Why there? We need to check all routes leading to Leicester Lane for police cameras and scrutinise the CCTV footage for vehicles heading in that direction. Who interviewed the informant?”

A hand rose at the back of the room. A female officer, wearing a stretched white shirt that looked like it could probably have done with a damn good iron, and dark hair pulled back into a high ponytail, spoke up: “DC Emma Parsons.” A brief smile flickered across her face. “I interviewed the informant. A Ray Shields. He’d just finished a ten-hour shift at Carlson’s Distribution Centre and was cycling home to Main Street, Great Bowden in Market Harborough when he noticed the body at the side of the road. He says he thought the local kids had been messing about at first, leaving a shop mannequin with her hair all tied up in the ditch. When he dismounted and saw it was a body, he called the police.”

“Thanks, Emma. What are your initial thoughts?”

“He was shaken, understandably so. We contacted his workplace. His account checks out, they have a clocking-in system and CCTV. He lives with his wife. There’s no police record or intelligence on him. We took his clothes for forensic examination, just in case.”

“Thanks. Let’s run all the usual background checks on him, bank accounts, phone and so on, to make sure that he’s not linked to the victim in any way.”

The officer looked up from her notes and nodded as Jackman continued. “We’ll need to contact the key holders for the units at the nearby industrial estate. Get details of who was working and when they finished. Did they employ security firms that visited the site at night and might have passed through Leicester Lane?” He paused for a moment. “Is there any news on that list of registered sex offenders in the area?”

“We’ve gathered it together.” Jackman followed the Scottish accent to a grey-haired bear of a man with his shirt-sleeves rolled up at the back of the room. “It’ll take a while to work our way through it. Is there any chance our victim could be linked to Operation Ascott?”

“And you are?”

“Stuart McDonald, sir.”

“Thank you, Stuart.” Jackman thought back to the body. “It’s difficult to say at this stage. The victim’s profile fits with the other girls: female, late teens, sexually assaulted, ligature marks around her neck. No suggestion she was beaten though. The pathologist reckons she was strangled with a strap or belt. But if it is linked, they’ve changed their approach. She wasn’t merely assaulted. She was killed and stripped naked. Initial thoughts are they moved the body afterwards. Why?”

“Maybe something went wrong?”

“It’s possible. The autopsy is scheduled for this morning. They’ll run the usual toxicology tests. The scene has been secured. We’ll get a POLSA search team out at first light to examine the surrounding area and see what else comes up. Let’s focus on missing persons and see if we can identify the victim. We’ll get a press appeal out for any sightings, so brace yourselves for more phone calls. Thank you, everyone.”

Wilson sidled across as the officers dispersed to their desks. “Do you have somebody on call in your press office?” Jackman asked her. “We could do with putting an appeal out for witness sightings as soon as possible, for late-night dog walkers, people that were in the area to come forward. The press have already got hold of this. Let’s give them something to report before they have a chance to start poking about themselves.”

Wilson nodded. “I’ll get hold of someone.”

“Thanks.”

Jackman wandered down the corridor to his office and dumped his coat over the back of the chair. The pile of papers was still scattered haphazardly on the floor. He bent down to gather them up and pulled out the photo of Eugenie Trentwood taken after her attack. Her face looked pale, sallow. He stood and replaced the case notes and photos in a wire tray on the corner of his desk, settling down to outline their findings, something that would form the basis of a structure for an investigation. He was vaguely aware of a mug of coffee pushed under his nose, phones ringing in the background, officers passing in the corridor, the sound of keys tapping through the open door.

By the time Wilson put her head around the door frame, he was watching the footage of the informant’s interview on his laptop. Ray Shields was a thin man with pinched features, swamped by the dark jogging suit he’d changed into to replace his cycling clothes. His voice held the edge of a stutter as he diligently answered the questions. Jackman watched his body language, looked for signs of latent guilt. But all he saw was a terrified middle-aged man, haunted by the images he’d witnessed earlier that evening. Images that would no doubt revisit his thoughts on many occasions in the upcoming days, weeks and months ahead.

“Sir, I think there’s something you should see,” Wilson said.

The excitement in her voice caught Jackman’s attention. He followed her down the corridor and into the incident room. Officers were searching through filing cabinets, watching footage, talking into phone receivers.

Wilson moved over to DC McDonald in the corner, who was working his screen with his mouse, and beckoned Jackman to join them. “CSIs found a student discount card in the hedging, about fifty yards from where the earring was found,” she said. “It belongs to a student named Jo Lamborne, from the University of Nottingham.”

“We’re thinking the card belongs to the victim?”

“It’s a photo ID card. We’re just getting it enlarged.”

McDonald tapped a few more keys and sat back. “There.”

The head of a young woman filled the computer screen. Her face was stretched into a wide smile; corkscrew curls rested on her shoulders. Her brown eyes sparkled and at this angle, she appeared to be staring back at them. It was slightly disconcerting. Seconds later, the photo was reduced to make room for the image of the victim to fit alongside. Jackman switched from one to the other. The curls were missing, the hair twisted gently back behind her head, but the resemblance was striking.

“Do we know what she was doing in Leicestershire?” Jackman asked.

McDonald clicked a few more keys. The photos were replaced with a page of broken text. He paused a few seconds, and then highlighted a couple of lines close to the middle of the screen. “Jo Lamborne, on the voters’ register at 102 Arden Way, Market Harborough. Also registered there are Grace and Philip Daniels. And there’s a minor living at the same address, a Lydia Lamborne.”

“Different names,” Wilson said.

McDonald scrolled down. “Grace was previously known as Lamborne. Looks like she changed her name, remarried maybe.”

“Are any of them known to us?” Jackman asked.

“No, not that I can see.”

Jackman turned to the rest of the room. “Okay, it looks like we might have identified the victim as a Jo Lamborne, a student from The University of Nottingham, possibly home visiting friends or relatives. Let’s see what we can find out about her. What was she studying at Nottingham? Does she have a boyfriend? Who are her friends, acquaintances, family? Who did she go out with tonight? Keep it low key at the moment. Sergeant Wilson and I will head out to see the family. We don’t want any details of the victim getting out before she’s been formally identified.”

Jackman thanked the room and followed Wilson across to the board at the front. She stretched a hand up towards the top of the map, pointing out 102 Arden Way, Market Harborough, then followed it down to a marker near the bottom, indicating the crime scene. “The address is only a couple of miles from where the victim was found,” she said. “Everything is pretty close in Market Harborough, it’s such a compact little market town.”

“Morning!” Jackman followed the eyes of the room to Detective Superintendent Taylor, who beamed as he entered. “Thanks for putting in the extra hours,” he said. He weaved through the desks with the agility of a man far younger than his years and smiled at Wilson as he reached them. “Hi, Dee. How’s it going?”

“Good, thanks sir. We’ve just got a potential ID on the body.”

“Excellent. Keep me posted,” he said and abruptly faced Jackman. “Could I have a word?”

Jackman followed the superintendent down the corridor, past the office he had been using this past two weeks, until they reached the door before the lift. Cool air rushed out of the room as Taylor opened it and switched on the light. It looked like a meeting room of sorts, with a round table in the middle, a couple of cushioned chairs surrounding. Taylor undid his jacket and sat, indicating for Jackman to do the same. The light glistened through the thinning grey hairs around his crown.

He settled back into his chair. “Why don’t you bring me up to speed?”

Jackman checked his watch. Almost 6am. He was impressed to see Taylor in the office so early, although not surprised. In the short time he’d been seconded to Leicester HQ he’d had several dealings with Taylor, who managed the Homicide and Major Incident Team. Taylor was a trained detective himself, showed a personal interest in the cases under his watch and knew each of his staff by their first name. Jackman sighed inwardly. With talk of direct entrant inspectors, that kind of old school, hands-on experience was likely to be on the decline. He laid out their progress so far.

“Nothing from the press appeal yet?” Taylor asked as Jackman finished up.

“Not yet, but it’s still early. The radio has promised to put out hourly bulletins, asking for anyone that passed through the area last night, or close by, to contact us, and the Herald have already put our appeal on their web page. I’ve made a start on a policy log, outlining the current strategies and priorities.”

“Very thorough. We appreciate your help.” He leaned forward. “If you let me have your notes, we’ll take it from here.”

Jackman took a breath and held it a moment before he answered. “I’d like to be Senior Investigating Officer on this one.”

Taylor stared at him and frowned slightly. “You’re seconded to region. I should bring in another SIO.”

“There are possible links with Operation Ascott. I’ll work with Wilson. If it’s the same perpetrator, I’ll spot the links.”

“I’m not sure.”

“We have a live-time situation here. If you bring somebody else in there’ll be a delay at a crucial part of the investigation.”

A muscle flexed in Taylor’s jaw. “What are the possible links with Op Ascott?”

“A woman attacked, sexually assaulted, late teens. Ligature marks around her neck.”

“Is that it?”

“Do you need any more?”

“She could have been attacked by a boyfriend.”

“It’s possible,” Jackman said. “The first two women were attacked in relatively quiet, isolated areas. This one is different. They took the trouble to drive her out to a rural area. Moving the body was risky.”

“So, we don’t think it’s the same offender?”

“It’s a different approach, but that doesn’t necessarily mean it’s not the same person. Maybe it’s not connected. Or maybe it is and they are changing the way they work, growing in confidence, adapting.” He mentioned the presence of the journalist in Leicester Lane that morning.

“Artie Black. He’s just a pain in the arse.”

“Whatever we think right now, these are high profile cases that remain unsolved. The attacker is still out there. The press are bound to make links. We need to act fast, reassure the public.”

Taylor walked across to the window, rested his hands on his hips and stared out into the night, deep in thought.

“Look at it from the public’s point of view,” Jackman continued. “You are pulling out all the stops, assigning the regional lead on adult sexual offences to the case. Shows initiative, positive action.”

Taylor rubbed his chin and turned back. His face brightened a little at the last words. It never ceased to amaze Jackman how sometimes you had to massage an ego in order to sell a decision. He also knew that Taylor was due to retire in a few weeks. He’d heard talk in the office, they were planning his retirement party. No detective, especially one with a record as decorated as his, would want to leave under the shadow of such a high profile investigation, still ongoing.

“I’ll speak to your Super and the Assistant Chief Constable. But I’m not making any promises.”

A door clicked open behind them. Wilson’s face appeared around the door frame. “We really need to go, sir.”

Jackman switched back to Taylor. “Do you mind?”

Taylor stood. “Okay, continue as you are for now. I’ll see what I can do. But keep your phone with you.”