BY THE TIME the morning meeting started Caffery had spoken to Virgo, an East London agency who represented twenty-two-year-old Kayleigh Hatch, stripper, sometime prostitute, full-time drug user. They remembered the Bugs Bunny tattoo, and when Caffery heard that the last gig Kayleigh had done was at the Dog and Bell, he asked Virgo to courier over a photograph.
He taped it to the whiteboard next to the shots of Petra Spacek, Shellene Craw and Michelle Wilcox.
"This pub's our starting point." He rested his elbows on the desk and looked at the assembled investigating teams. "We've got surveillance on it as of this A.M. but the DCS has made it clear that before we go in mob-handed he wants IDs on the victims. So today we're working on that." He nodded at the new photo. "Now-Hatch. At last a name. I think this is victim number four we're looking at. And the only one, if you think back to the PM protocol, who didn't have the wounds to the head. Other than that she fits the pattern: drug use, prostitution. And, like the others, she wasn't raped. If she had intercourse it was consensual and a condom was used." He paused, allowing that to sink in. "Hatch's mother put her on the missing persons two weeks ago. She's over in Brentford, so, Essex, you might like to make that an action for this morning. But notice that the only other person reported missing was Wilcox. All the others were suspiciously easy to spirit away, weren't they? Think about that when you're on the knock. Now, Logan." He addressed the exhibits officer. "How's that DNA coming along?"
"Almost worthless for much more than blood group, sir. Too degraded even for a polymerase chain."
"The blood group?"
"AB neg. Not Harrison's."
"Anything from toxicology?"
"Nothing at present."
"So we still don't know how he's sedating them?"
"Still no guesses."
"Okay." He took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes. He was tired. Last night Veronica had slid effortlessly into sleep beside him, while he, restless and wide-eyed, lay far into the night, staring at her back, as if he might see the specter of the cancer creeping through the soft muscles and veins. "Okay, Logan, let us know when you hear anything." He put his pen down and nodded at Maddox. "Yes. That's all."
"Right." Maddox leaned forward in his seat. "Now-I know I'm pissing in the wind here but I'm going to ask you nicely, very nicely, to make sure none of the team attach a moniker to this case. We refer to him as the 'target' or the 'offender.' None of this 'Birdman' shit I've been hearing. And I never want to come in here and find the blinds up, I don't care how hot it gets. The press are holding fire, but for how long is anybody's guess. So, just to reiterate, I can't say it enough times: be circumspect."
He looked around at the faces with his intense gray eyes, trying to spot a weak link. Everyone met his gaze. He nodded, satisfied.
"Right. Bollocking over." He put his fountain pen in his pocket. "That's all for now, gentlemen. Get those actions knocked out today, phone-ins every two hours and see you back here at seven. Be careful out there, and all that shit." He had risen from his seat and was gathering his papers when someone spoke from the back of the room.
"Yes, sorry, sir, there's something else."
All heads turned. DI Diamond, neatly shaved and dressed in a dark gray Pierre Cardin suit, sat tapping his fingers on his knee. Everyone in the room leaned forward a fraction.
"Inspector Diamond." Maddox sat down.
"A result from the door-to-door. A sighting."
The room became very quiet. Caffery reopened his file and put his glasses back on. This should have come up at the beginning of the meeting.
"A sighting?" Maddox frowned. "Why didn't you-?"
"It's a sensitive one. Sir."
"Meaning?"
"It's an IC3, sir. A black male. Sits in a red car outside the crusher's yard. Hangs around for hours, doing nothing, parked up, just his side lights on."
"Okay." Maddox opened his file and uncapped his fountain pen. "Any follow-ups? Plates?"
"No. Possibly might be talking a D reg. I thought, you know, being an IC3, might be a sensitive subject. Then there's this." He bent over and pulled a bag from under his seat. It was a plastic exhibits bag, tagged and double-labeled. He held it up; a few earth-caked bottles rolled against each other.
"You've lost me," Maddox said.
"Wray & Nephew rum." Diamond's face was pale, controlled, as if there was a smirk waiting in the cheek muscles. "These were found within five feet of the first body. More were found near the others." Maddox looked blank. "Wray & Nephew, sir. It's as Jamaican as signing on."
Caffery and Kryotos exchanged a look. Maddox put his pen down.
"Not necessary or constructive, Mr. Diamond." His face was tight. "And you need my permission to remove anything from the exhibits room."
"It's a lead."
"A lead, for fuck's sake?" Caffery muttered.
Diamond stared at him, suddenly cold. "And you've got a better idea?"
"Several."
"Okay," Maddox interjected, tapping his pen impatiently. "We'll add this as a slant to all interviews. If a name comes up find out subtly what color they are. And I do mean subtly." He capped his pen. "We'll apply for a second surveillance on the yard. Even if this isn't the target we still need to speak to him. And Diamond-"
"Yeah?"
"Cut the racist crap." He stood up. "Okay?"
