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The CC directed a warning look at Jamie, then ushered him away. To talk politics, no doubt. To smooth away possible lawsuits, bad feeling from the fact that a senior detective had been murdered at his own nick by the very killer they were searching for.
Jamie sighs and turns his thoughts back to his paperwork. There’s a lot that needs to be done before Maggie Clarke can go to trial. The evidence needs to be catalogued, every scrap recorded precisely so she can be convicted without a shadow of a doubt from the jury. And there’s such a lot of it. The fingerprint found at Wayne Oxford’s house is gone, smudged out of all recognition in Maggie’s own lab. But others have been found: at Ellie’s, in Jamie’s own hallway. Blood is present on clothes at Maggie’s house, blood Jamie knows will match that of the woman killed at the park, the victims found on the wasteland. Not to mention the horrific samples in the fridge.
They are combing through the VW Transporter now and will no doubt find hair, skin, DNA. She hadn’t even tried to be careful. Jamie assumes she only needed to bide her time long enough to complete her mission. Answer Cole’s whims. She hadn’t cared about her own future.
He knows any defense lawyer worth his salt will claim insanity. That she didn’t have the mens rea to know the nature and quality of the act she was committing. And it’s not so hard to believe. Her mind is certainly diseased, even before you consider the corruption from Cole. But while this was all going on, she’d carried on going to work, and none of them had noticed a thing.
He turns his attention to the list of names in front of him. The visitor logs from HMP Belmarsh, and Maggie’s name crops up, again and again. She’d gone to see him at least once a month for five years. Obsessed, reverent, a disciple. Why had nobody flagged it?
But she hadn’t been the only one. He scans the list: a few coppers from the case, Cole’s lawyers—visits getting less frequent as time passes. Then a collection of other names, ones he doesn’t recognize. He types the first into the PNC. No record, so he enters it into Google. A few random matches, then a link to a true crime website. So that’s it. Sick fans, wanting to meet their idol. He frowns and picks up a pen, making a note for someone to follow up, ensure there are no red flags. They don’t need more acolytes right now.
He runs his highlighter across the line, marking the name that needs a background check, then is aware of someone standing by his side. He looks up and blinks in surprise at DCI Cara Elliott, a person of infamy and gossip, from the other nick, whom he’s never met before today.
“I’m sorry to disturb you,” she says. Her voice is soft. Sad. “But they said you were in charge.”
“I … I guess,” he replies. “In the absence of anyone better.”
She smiles, no more than a flicker. “I wanted to come in and help. To … you know. Pull the investigation together.” She stops and stares resolutely at the table for a moment. “Marsh … he was a good boss. He was good to me.” She looks at Jamie again, and there are tears in her eyes. “Anything I can do. Please. What do you have there?”
“Prison logs. Names that need to be checked.”
“Sure. Whatever.” She sits down at the desk next to his and holds out her hand.
“But you’re a DCI,” Jamie says. “You can’t be doing paperwork.”
“Not today. It’s my day off.” She waits, and after a moment he hands her the list.
There’s no pause. No request for coffee. She just boots up the computer next to her, logs in, and starts tapping away. Slow, methodical work. He glances her way. Her dark hair is tied back in a neat ponytail at the nape of her neck. She’s wearing faded denim jeans and a checked shirt, a delicate silver chain resting on her collar bone. To Jamie she seems okay, not the destroyed mess he’s heard about from the rumors around the station.
“DCI Elliott?” he says, and she looks up, her light brown eyes on him. “Do you mind me asking, how did you cope? After?”
He doesn’t need to give any more detail; she knows what he’s referring to. Her gaze slides back to the list in front of her, but her pen pauses on the paper.
“I didn’t, I guess,” she says after a moment. “I went back to work. Didn’t stop. I thought if I carried on that somehow things would be okay.”
“And they weren’t?”
She laughs softly under her breath. “No. After something like the Echo Man—” She looks up at the incident room. “Like this,” she adds. “It’s a lot to process. That another human being could act in this way. Inflict so much violence and hatred and pain. Especially when it’s so personal.”
She looks back to Jamie. “Take some time, DS Hoxton,” she says. “That would be my advice. To think. To grieve. To feel and work through everything that’s happened. And remember the good times. The ones we love are more than the events that befell them. More than the things they did to hurt you.” Jamie knows she’s not talking about Pippa now; she’s gripping her pen so hard her knuckles have blanched white. “There are the good memories too,” she continues softly. “They were loved for a reason.”
“And how are you doing now, Cara?”
She looks up suddenly, staring at him for a moment. Jamie worries he’s overstepped the mark. “I’m sorry, DCI Elliott. I shouldn’t have—”
“No, it’s fine.” She smiles, more warmly this time and her face is transformed. “It’s just no one ever asks me that. Everyone always assumes …” She sighs. “I don’t know, quite honestly. At the beginning, I was numb. And then I was angry. Fucking furious. At everyone and everything.” She makes a quiet snort. “You can hardly blame me, but I wasn’t pleasant to be around. And now? Now I have hope. Hope that my children will stay ignorant to everything that happened that day. Hope that I will get a full night’s sleep. And hope that the good in people will always triumph over the bad and that I’ll be able to continue to do my job.”
“I hope that too, DCI Elliott. Maybe we’ll even get to work together one day.”
She blinks hard, as if pulling herself from a trance, then looks at him and smiles. “Maybe. And how is DCI Bishop? He’s at home, or in hospital?”
“Yeah, at home. He’s doing okay, thank you.”
She nods, gives a tight smile, and goes back to the list.
Jamie doesn’t mention that Adam is on his way to Belmarsh. Visiting the person behind your own kidnapping and attempted murder probably isn’t high on the list of advice for self-care after trauma, but he understands why Adam is going.
“What if he shares something important?” Adam said last night when Jamie voiced his concerns. “What if he wants to speak to me for a reason?”
