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Chapter 19
Monday 15th February
Cheltenham Central Police Station
‘Nothing. Absolutely sod all, in fact, yet again. Sorry, everyone. Other than a nice little newspaper report over the weekend, criticising the lack of any developments in the case.’
It’s just after ten on Monday morning, and the police officers who’ve joined the virtual Operation Shearwater catch-up meeting are sharing their latest news.
And that’s not going to take very long, at this rate, thinks Steph who’s chairing the meeting, but she decides not to voice that observation. No point in making everyone feel even more despondent than they already are, so early into a new week. Instead she smiles sympathetically at DCI Priya Thomson, who’s just told the group that, other than the damning newspaper headlines, she has nothing whatsoever to report from Birmingham.
‘I know what that feels like,’ says Linda Lake. ‘We had a few journalists on our case here for a while. They’ll be onto the next big story soon, don’t worry. Memories like goldfish.’
Steph smiles at that too, then looks at Jess, who’s been sitting next to her, nibbling on a croissant. She frequently looks rather disinterested in the proceedings, Steph has noticed.
She’s so quiet. Rarely voices an opinion or asks a question. Bit of a strange girl, really, she thinks.
‘Well, we don’t have anything new here either. Do we, Jess?’ she says.
Jess, who’s now sipping from a cardboard coffee cup, puts it down on the table in front of her and shakes her head.
‘No,’ she says. ‘Nothing new. It’s been a week since Mary Ellis received that note from, we assume, the Diary Killer. No further contact since then, and no further reports from her of anything out of the ordinary. I’ve been in contact with her almost daily. She’s bearing up well, considering.’
‘Good,’ says Steph. The note in question had been rushed through forensics but, just like the diary before it, had yielded nothing of any use; no DNA or fingerprints, the pen and paper used of types found in pretty much every office, supermarket, and home in the country.
‘It was a black Bic ballpoint, similar to the one the diary entries were made with – but that’s not particularly helpful. It’s reported to be the most widely sold pen in the world, if you’re interested in trivia like that,’ said the forensic scientist who, unusually, had popped in to deliver the results in person. He was a huge man, over six feet tall and weighing, at a guess, around twenty-five stone, Steph thought, and he lived, apparently, just around the corner from Cheltenham police station. He had introduced himself to her, but she’d been eager to hear his findings and hadn’t paid much attention to his name; it still escapes her now.
‘And the paper is just a page from a bog-standard A4 wirebound notebook. Again, available everywhere. We think this is from a brand sold in Sainsbury’s, so again, not very helpful.’
He had, however, shared one small piece of potentially useful information, which had been gleaned from the (again, widely available, nothing special), envelope the note had been in. The stamp had been postmarked:
Royal Mail
BA, BS, GL, TA
Mail Centre
‘That means the stamp was cancelled – in other words the letter was processed – at the Royal Mail centre near Filton,’ he said. ‘It processes mail from the Bath, Bristol, Gloucestershire and Taunton areas – that’s what those letters stand for. It doesn’t indicate where the letter came from any more precisely than that I’m afraid. So, again … not much help to you. Sorry.’
He had sighed lugubriously and lumbered off, but it was at leastsomethingto discuss at the next Operation Shearwater meeting.
‘It’s a huge area though,’ DCI Bryn Lewis had said. ‘I mean, as we’ve mentioned before, our killer may well be from somewhere south of the Midlands, seeing as Birmingham is the furthest north he’s ventured, or threatened to venture, so far. But knowing he posted the letter in one of those areas isn’t a huge help. There are good motorway and A-road links right across this region, aren’t there? Pretty easy to jump in a car and drive for an hour or two from where you live to post a letter and send us off on the wrong track.’
They had all nodded, agreeing. The region, and all the towns and cities on the killer’s list, did indeed have good road links: the M4, the M5, the M40, and A40. The cities he’d already killed in, or was threatening to kill in, were all only a couple of hours apart, and the area the letter was posted in just a little further south. The postmark wasn’t really of much help at all. Nothing was.
The chat Steph had had with Edward Cooper and Satish Patel from Mary’s office had been a waste of time too, the team had concluded. She’d taken DI Mike Stanley with her, and once they’d got past the rather officious security guard at The Hub’s reception desk, they had found the two men both at their desks in the spacious, open-plan office. Looking puzzled – and in Satish’s case, a little scared, Steph noted – at suddenly being confronted with two police officers wanting to speak to them urgently, the men led them down a corridor and into a conference room, offering them two of the numerous comfortable black leather chairs which surrounded a long grey table. The room was bright and clean, with one glass wall, two painted white and the fourth emblazoned with what, Steph assumed, were supposed to be motivational words and phrases stencilled onto it in foot-high capital letters.
QUALITY WILL ALWAYS TRUMP QUANTITY
DETAILS MATTER
COLLABORATION REQUIRES COMMUNICATION
Steph and Mike had looked at the wall, looked at each other and simultaneously rolled their eyes. The two men sitting opposite them hadn’t seemed to notice; they were both shifting uncomfortably in their seats, clearly waiting to find out what the police officers were so keen to discuss with them. Edward was wearing a tight blue jumper which looked too small for him, the sleeves finishing several inches above his bony wrists. Satish was in a jacket and tie, his face flushed.
‘Right,’ Steph said. ‘I hope not to keep you from your desks for too long, but your names have come up in an investigation that’s currently ongoing over in Oxford, and I’ve been asked to pop in and have a quick word. It’s just routine, nothing to worry about, but I believe you were both in the city together for a night, on New Year’s Eve?’
Satish’s eyes widened, and Edward’s narrowed. He glared at her, then turned his head to the right for a few seconds, peering out through the glass wall into the corridor beyond it as if searching for someone. Then he looked back at her and said, ‘How do you know that?’
