Merrick nodded. ‘I’ll have a coffee this time, Kevin,’ Carol said. ‘And chuck us a menu, would you? I’ve got a feeling I’m in for a long session with the doc, and he’s got a nasty habit of forgetting about food.’
Kevin ordered the drinks then turned back to Carol. With the persistence that had won him promotion, he said, ‘I’m right though, aren’t I? To plant the leather like that, not only has he had access to it, he also knows how unusual it is.’
‘Agreed,’ Carol said.
‘So it’s not a waste of time trying to source it, is it?’
‘I never said it was,’ Carol said patiently. ‘Now, are you going to fill me in on what happened with Tom Cross, or do I have to copy our murderer and bring out the torture gear?’
While Kevin explained what had happened, Merrick’s attention drifted. He’d already heard the tale more times than enough. He leaned against the bar and surveyed the clientele. The Sackville Arms wasn’t the nearest pub to the Scargill Street station, but it sold draught Tetleys from Yorkshire and Boddingtons from Manchester, which inevitably made it the police local. The pub was on the outer fringes of Temple Fields, which had given it an added attraction for the local officers when Scargill Street had still been open. The location had meant that hookers or petty villains who wanted to drop a word in the ear of their personal contact on the force could manage it unobtrusively. However, in the few months that Scargill Street had been mothballed, the pub had subtly changed. The regulars had got used to having the place to themselves, and there was a clearly discernible distance between the coppers and the rest of the customers. The officers who’d been using the pub in an attempt to recruit new sources from the community’s underbelly had met with a chilly reception. Even with a serial killer on the loose, no one wanted to get back into the habit of informing now they’d kicked it.
With his policeman’s eyes, Merrick slowly scanned the room, classifying the drinkers. Hooker, dealer, rent boy, pimp, rich man, poor man, beggar man, wimp. He was jolted out of his scrutiny by Carol’s voice. ‘What do you think, Don?’ he caught.
‘Sorry, ma’am, miles away. What do I think about what?’
‘That it’s about time we developed some of our own snouts among the toms, instead of having to rely on the Vice Squad’s girls. They’ve been round the houses so many times, I’d go outside to check if they told me it was raining.’
‘Never mind the hookers,’ Merrick said. ‘We need to know a damn sight more about how the gay community works. I don’t mean the lads that are out of the closet and down the Hell Hole. I mean the secretive ones. The ones that don’t flaunt it. They’re the ones who might have come across this guy before. I mean, from all I’ve ever read about serial killers, sometimes they don’t actually kill the first time, they just have a go. Like the Yorkshire Ripper did. So maybe there’s some frightened little guy in the closet who’s been on the receiving end of a bit of violence that got out of hand. That might be the road to a break.’
‘And God knows we need a break,’ Kevin said. ‘But if we don’t know how the connections are made, how do we connect?’
Carol said thoughtfully, ‘When in doubt, ask a policeman.’
‘Do what?’ Kevin asked.
‘There are gay officers in the Job. More than most, they must know about keeping a low profile. They’d be able to tell us.’
‘That doesn’t answer the question,’ Kevin protested doggedly. ‘If they’re so busy keeping it quiet, how do we know who they are?’
‘The Met has an association of gay and lesbian police officers. Why don’t we get in touch with them, in confidence, and ask for their help? Somebody must have some contacts in Bradfield.’
Merrick stared at Carol with admiration, Kevin with frustration, both wondering silently how it was that Inspector Jordan always had an answer.
Tom Cross glanced down at the front page of the Sentinel Times, a smirk of satisfaction twitching his cigarette up and down. Ms Burgess might have thought she was in control of their little encounter the night before, but Tom Cross knew different. He’d played the spider to her fly, and she’d done exactly what he expected of her. No, credit where it’s due. She’d done better than he’d expected. That line about the police staggering lamely in the wake of the Sentinel Times when it came to seeking out Dr bloody Hill was a corker.
There were going to be a lot of angry men in Bradfield police today. That was the revenge element of Tom Cross’s game with Penny Burgess. But someone else was going to be angry too. When he read tonight’s paper, the killer was going to be more than a little put out.
Tom Cross stubbed out his cigarette and slurped from his mug of tea. He folded his paper and placed it on the table in front of him and stared out of the café window. He lit another cigarette. He’d set out to provoke the Queer Killer. Provoked, he’d start to get careless, to make mistakes. And when Stevie McConnell did that, Tom Cross would be ready and waiting. He’d show those sorry bastards in command how to catch a killer.
Tony was back in the office by ten to three. Even so, he wasn’t early enough to beat Carol. ‘Inspector Jordan’s here,’ Claire said as soon as he opened the outer office door. She gestured with her head towards his office. ‘She’s in there waiting. I told her you’d be back.’
Tony’s responding smile was strained. As he gripped the door handle, he clenched his eyes tightly and took a deep breath. Nailing what he hoped was a welcoming smile on his face, Tony opened the door and stepped into his office. At the sound of the door, Carol turned away from the window she’d been staring out of and gave him a cool, appraising look. Tony closed the door behind him and leaned against it.
‘You look like a man who’s just stepped in a puddle that’s deeper than his shoe,’ Carol remarked.
‘That’s an improvement, then,’ Tony said with more than a trace of irony. ‘Usually I feel like I’ve stepped in a puddle that’s deeper than my head.’
Carol took a step towards him. She’d rehearsed what she was going to say. ‘There’s no need to feel like that with me. Last night … well, you were less than candid and I misread the signals. So can we please forget the whole thing and concentrate on what’s important between us?’
‘Which is?’ Tony sounded impersonal as a therapist, his question conversational rather than challenging.
‘Working together to nail this killer.’
Tony pushed himself away from the door and made for the safety of his seat, careful to keep the desk between them at all times. ‘That’s fine by me.’ He gave a crooked smile. ‘Believe me, I’m far better at professional relationships than the other kind. Think of it as a lucky escape.’
Carol walked round to the opposite side of the desk and pulled up a chair. She crossed her trouser-clad legs and folded her hands in her lap. ‘So let’s have a look at this profile.’
‘We don’t have to behave as if we’re strangers,’ Tony said quietly. ‘I respect you, and I admire the way you’re so open to learning new aspects of the job. Look, before … before what happened last night, we seemed to be moving towards a friendship that went beyond work. Was that such a bad thing? Couldn’t we settle for that?’
Carol shrugged. ‘It’s not easy making friends after you’ve exposed your weaknesses.’
‘I don’t think showing someone you’re attracted to them is necessarily a weakness.’
‘I feel foolish,’ Carol said, not quite sure why she was opening up like this. ‘I had no right to expect anything from you. Now, I’m angry with myself.’