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“It was dark. And we only saw him for a second. He had a hood pulled up. And a scarf over his chin and mouth.”
“But you saw his face?”
“Yes. But only a bit. And we noticed him because … what was on it.” She stops again. “It looked like blood. Across his cheeks. I said to Graham that it couldn’t possibly be. But then we saw the news and the reports of that girl’s murder. So we called you.”
“Could you describe him?” Jamie knows next door the man is already with a photofit artist, trying to construct a picture of the guy.
“A bit. Maybe. Not that tall. Shorter than Graham. Five foot nine or less. And he was walking quickly, but not striding. Short steps, like this.”
She pats the table, one hand after another, quick taps of her rings against the Formica.
“Thank you.” It seems insignificant, but you never know. Jamie continues: “White, black? Beard? Clean-shaven?”
“White. Couldn’t tell you anything else. As I said, most of his face was covered with the hood. And he didn’t look at us. Staring at the pavement.”
“What sort of hood? From a coat, or a hoodie?”
“A hoodie, yes. Black, I think.”
“Did it have a logo? Anything distinctive?”
She frowns, then her eyes widen. “Yes,” she says. She thinks again. “It was two triangles. Here.”
She points to the top right of her chest; Jamie pushes a piece of paper across, and she draws it. Two flat, wide isosceles triangles. One with the tip pointing downward; the other, on top, facing up. A diamond, split with a horizontal line.
“That’s helpful.” But it’s so generic, Jamie’s not sure how.
“Did he have a bag or anything else on him?” he asks.
“Bag? No. Nothing. Not that I remember. And he was making a noise.”
“A noise? Like what?”
She turns one of her rings around with the fingers from her other hand. “It’s hard to describe. Like he was crying.” The ring comes off; it falls on the tabletop, and the metallic clink jars in Jamie’s brain.
There’s a knock on the door, and Jamie looks up, nods, then turns back to the woman. “The photofit artist has finished with your husband. If you don’t mind taking a look?”
“Yes, of course.”
The artist is shown in. The laptop is placed down on the table, and the woman studies it carefully.
“Yes. Yes, that’s him. As much as we could tell.”
Jamie looks at the picture. A hood pulled low on the eyes, the shape of a nose, the scarf covering the rest. There’s little to go on. But to him it looks like …
He frowns. Everything is happening so fast. He can’t think straight. “Get this out to the media. You never know—it might jog someone’s memory.”
“Jamie?”
It’s Rom. She stands in the doorway, a piece of paper clutched in her hand. “We’ve been going through my father’s files. And we think we might have someone who can help.”
CHAPTER
62
THEY TAKE AN unmarked pool car, driving fast, using the siren to cut through the busy weekend traffic. Next to him, Romilly is filling him in on the details. Sandra Poole. Remarried, so they struggled to find her at first. The nurse from the surgery.
“She knew everyone.” She chews on her nail for a second. “She didn’t just work there. She had shifts all over the place: the hospital, with other GPs. She knew all the gossip. Who was cheating on their wives. Whose kids were skiving off school. If anyone can tell us who was close to Cole back then, it would be her.”
