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“We’ll need some kind of court order for those, won’t we?” I ask and unlock my car. “But we can start with the victim’s mother.”
Not a conversation I’m looking forward to, but that’s not something I’m going to dwell on.
“Good thinking,” he says and gets into the car on the passenger side. “She might even have some of the victim’s medical records. They lived together.”
Great. One more reason why this conversation will be hard. But necessary. With all these cases to sift through, we have to find a way to narrow it all down if we want to solve this quickly. Nothing stalls an investigation more than a mountain of evidence, I learned that the hard way over the years.
* * *
EVA
I normally love research and getting lost in the details of a case. More often than not, it’s some tiny piece, a bare whisper of a clue that cracks the case wide open for me. But that’s in the puzzling out stage of things when I’m still trying to work out if there is a case at all. We’re past that stage now.
The typed-up reports of the interviews, all neatly worded and concise, are also cold and clinical and devoid of all color and emotion. Nothing like speaking to the people in question in person. The paper some of them are typed on has also yellowed with age, which gives me the added feeling of moving away from the answers I seek, rather than towards them.
Also, I’ve been at it for hours, and nothing is jumping out at me. In the cases where women were the victims, which is seven out of the twelve cases we’re looking at, the boyfriend, or in one case the ex-husband, were identified as the main suspect early on and the investigations never veered far from that assumption afterwards. Only one was deemed a rape attempt gone wrong, and three remain unsolved. And in the cases of the male victims, two are unsolved, two were failed drug deals and one was a mugging.
The evidence that was gathered in the solved cases was solid enough to put the suspects away. But the suspects also all had criminal pasts that made it inviting to do that. Rapists, violent muggers, drug dealers and wife beaters. On paper, it all looks cut and dry. That’s another reason going over the reports is making me anxious. Because it’s feeding my uncertainty that I’m right.
The task force secretary, Mira just popped out to get some lunch, so Simon and I are the only two people in the office, not counting our forensic IT specialist, Rok. He is in his computer lab in the back. Brina finally sent him some CCTV to sift through earlier, and I could be in there helping him, but that won’t help my anxious mood.
I stifle a groan as I stand up from behind the table, even though there’s no one near enough to hear it but me. But with everyone treating me like I’m some sort of an invalid just because I’m pregnant has gotten into my head a little bit and could be part of the reason why I can’t sit still this morning.
“A few of the victims’ family members live and work around here,” I tell Simon loudly. He shakes slightly because I startled him, since he was completely engrossed with reading something on his phone. “I’m going to go and speak to them.”
He looks at me with very wide eyes, saying nothing for a few moments.
“I’ll be back in a couple of hours,” I add, and walk to the coat rack by the door where my parka is hanging.
“Right,” he says and clears his throat. “Do you want me to come with you?”
“I’m good,” I say and focus really hard on putting on my jacket to prevent saying anything more.
“I could do with some fresh air,” he insists.
“And I could do without everyone’s constant vigilance,” I say and leave the office with my long black parka trailing on the floor behind me because I only managed to get one arm in.
But by the time I’m out on the sidewalk, the crisp, moisture-laden air cooling my face, I don’t even feel bad from running out of there the way I did.
I need to investigate this case on my terms and the way I work best. And I am perfectly capable of judging my own limits, mainly because I’ve crossed them so many times.
David Farber, one of the two victims killed last November, lived in a flat above his family’s jewellery store on the river bank just a short walk from the task force office. A short walk that takes me almost fifteen minutes, but still.
It’s a family-owned business, and the sign above the door—gold letters on black—tells me it’s been in operation since 1892. The fine, custom-made jewellery store is sandwiched between a cafe on one side and an oriental whatnots store on the other. The cafe has big, comfortable looking lounge chairs outside that just call to me to take a break and have a snack in and the brightly colored linen pants the mannequin in the oriental store window look like they’d be heaven for lounging in—nothing to cut or pull anywhere—but those are just vague thoughts I have as I try the jewellery store door.
It’s locked, but a woman with short straight hair roughly the same color as mine—platinum blonde—is behind the counter, working on something under a huge magnifying glass using tiny, fiddly-looking pincers.
She shakes all over as I knock, then she purses her lips, which makes her look like a very strict teacher as she tells me they’re closed quite loudly.
“I’m with the police,” I say loudly too, causing the older man who was just passing to trip on his feet as he gawks at me.
“I have some questions about David,” I say in a more normal voice.
The woman is very pale, but her cheeks are the color of ripe apples and her hands are shaking as she unlocks the door and holds it open for me. She’s about fifty years old and very slender. The tight, black pants suit she’s wearing fits her like a glove.
The bell that goes off as I enter sounds like a wind chime but is much too loud and shrill.
“I’m Eva Lah, and I work for a Europol task force looking into David Farber’s death,” I tell her and offer my hand. “Are you his mother?”
