‘Yes,’ replied Roddis. ‘Unless the victim was a total recluse, you would expect to find alien prints at the scene.’ He paused for a second and began again. ‘Could these alien prints belong to our killer? Well, yes they could, but somehow I doubt it. The killer has gone to great trouble to avoid leaving evidence at the scene, so I think it unlikely he would be so kind as to leave us a nice clear fingerprint.’
He could see Sean was about to jump in again, but he wasn’t ready to surrender the floor just yet.
‘However, the prints we have recovered have already been sent to Fingerprint Branch for searching. At the very least it may tell us something about who the victim associated with. Always useful.’
Sean nodded his appreciation.
‘And last, but not least, we are lucky the carpet in the hallway is new and of good quality. It was nice and deep and we found the scene quickly enough to recover some interesting shoe marks that hadn’t yet degraded.’ Roddis took a series of photographs from his file and attached them to the board like a doctor preparing X-rays for viewing. The shoe marks looked like negatives.
‘This set –’ he pointed to two photographs – ‘belonged to the victim. We matched them easily enough. They belong to a rare type of Converse training shoe and the unique marks on the soles, the scars if you like, matched the individual cuts and marks on the victim’s shoes.’
Roddis took a step to his left and pointed at another footprint photograph. ‘This size ten Dr Marten belongs to the PC who first entered the scene. Fortunately he remembered his training and walked along the side of the corridor the door closes on, so he didn’t destroy what I’m about to show you.’ Again Roddis took a step to his left and pointed to the board.
‘This mark,’ Roddis continued while tapping the next photograph, ‘was made by someone else entering the scene. It was made by a flat-soled leather shoe that was bought recently. We can see by the almost total lack of scars these shoes have hardly been used at all. Even if we recovered the shoe that made this indentation, there wouldn’t be enough unique marks on the sole to be of much evidential value. We would need approximately fifteen unique scars before evidentially we could prove they were one and the same.’
‘Are you suggesting this guy deliberately wore new shoes to avoid leaving a distinctive footprint?’ Sally asked.
‘I’m not here to suggest anything, DS Jones. I’m just here to tell you what we found. Suggestions are your field, I believe.’
Roddis moved to the final set of images. They looked strange even in the photographs. Long scars ran across the sole in all directions and appeared too thick. Roddis touched the photographs, tracing the scars with his finger.
‘We puzzled over this for quite a while,’ he told them. ‘We ran a lot of tests to try and replicate the marks. Nothing. Then, in the absence of any other bright ideas, we tried something. We put normal plastic shopping bags around the soles of a pair of shoes and bingo, exactly the same sort of marks. I’m no betting man, but I’d put my pension on the fact this mark was made by the same shoe as here –’ he pointed at the previous photograph he’d discussed. ‘Only now the shoe has a plastic bag over the sole. You can still see the shape of the shoe sole, and it certainly matches the other sole for size as well.’
Sally spoke again. ‘Why put bags over his shoes? He’s already walked the scene without bags, so why bother to try and hide his prints with plastic bags on the way out?’ The room was silent in thought.
Think simply, Sean reminded himself, break it down. They were jumping ahead – trying to guess the killer in a game of Cluedo before one throw of the dice. Concentrate on the basics. It made no sense to walk into the scene without covering his feet and then cover them to leave. So if he didn’t do it to hide his shoeprints, why did he? Sean’s imagination came to his rescue, taking him back to the murder scene, looking through the killer’s eyes, seeing his hands as he bent over and carefully pulled the plastic bags over his shoes and secured them. Seeing what he saw. Feeling what he felt. The answer leapt into his mind.
‘We’re trying to be too clever,’ Sean said. ‘He didn’t do it to hide his shoe marks. He had the bags over his feet to make sure he wouldn’t get blood on his nice new shoes.’
Sally picked up the train of thought. ‘And if he went to the lengths of protecting his shoes, then it’s probable he protected everything. His whole body.’
She and Sean stared at each other. Everybody in the room was thinking the same thing. The killer was a careful bastard. The killer knew about forensic evidence. The killer knew what the police would be looking for. The killer could think like a cop? Sean broke the silence.
‘Okay. So he’s careful. Very careful. But he will have made a mistake somewhere. We haven’t had the lab results yet, so it’s too early to assume the killer’s left a clean scene. Let’s not give this man too much credit. He’ll probably turn out to be another anorak living at home with his mum, trainspotting and masturbating when he’s not out stalking celebrities − probably watched too many cop shows on the Discovery Channel and now he wants to put all his new-found knowledge to the test.’
The atmosphere in the room lightened. Sean was relieved. He didn’t want a tense team. They mustn’t already fear the investigation could be a sticker, an investigation that dragged on and on without getting anywhere. Failed investigations felt like a contagious disease, infecting all those involved for years, limiting future career options, moves to the more glamorous Metropolitan Police units such as the Flying Squad or the Anti-Terrorist teams.
He spoke again. ‘Sally, did your team finish off the door-to-door?’
‘Pretty much, guv’nor. Nothing to add since last time. Nobody can remember much coming and going from his flat, which fits with the lack of other people’s fingerprints inside the scene. He had the occasional guest, but certainly no parties.’ Sally shrugged. ‘Sorry, boss.’
He moved on. If Sally hadn’t turned up any eyewitnesses, there weren’t any. Sean had no doubt about that.
‘Dave?’ Sean looked at Donnelly, who shifted in his seat.
‘Aye, guv’nor. We’ve been working through the victim’s address book and have got hold of most of his closer friends. The ones who appear frequently in his diary. We’ll track down the remaining friends and associates soon enough.
‘So far, they all say the same thing − victim was a nice kid. He was indeed a homosexual. One of his buddies, a guy called Robin Peak, had a relationship with him in the past. He was pretty sure Daniel was working as a male prostitute. Not hanging around public toilets in King’s Cross, though. Apparently he was relatively high-end, hence the decent stuff in his flat, but this Robin guy said Daniel would hardly ever take clients back there. Only a select few who could afford to pay the extra hundred pound or so he charged for the privilege. He would usually go to their places or a decent hotel, or sometimes he would take care of a punter in nearby toilets, though it cost extra if you wanted him to slum it.
‘His flat was very much a secret hideaway. Only a handful of people knew where he lived, and we’ve spoken to most of them. None of them come across as the knife-wielding maniac type. We have all their details anyway.
‘According to Mr Peak, the victim liked the club scene. The gay club scene. It’s also how he met most of his clients. He’s well known at a number of gay nightspots. We’ll begin checking them out as soon as.’ Donnelly looked around the room.
‘How many?’ Sean asked.
‘About five or six.’
‘Have any of his friends been able to tell us where the victim was on Wednesday night, Thursday morning?’
‘No. But the consensus is that he would probably have been at a club called Utopia, down in Vauxhall. Under the railway arches. His usual Wednesday hang-out.’
‘Good,’ Sean said, before passing