‘What about the writing on his hand – “Connie Moore”? What’s that about?’ DC Sewell asked.
Mack turned in his chair to direct his response to her. ‘Well, there are various possibilities, but at this early stage we really can’t be sure about any of them.’
‘Like what, sir?’
‘Depends on who wrote it. If Hargreaves did, then we are never going to really know, but we could assume he had an obsession with her, perhaps. People don’t generally write names on themselves, more likely you write something you don’t want to forget – a number, an item you want from the shop.’
‘Or a name you didn’t already know, so that you remember it’s someone you need to speak to, or something?’ DC Sewell said matter-of-factly. ‘And if it was written by the killer?’
‘That’s where it becomes tricky,’ Lindsay said. ‘If the killer wrote it, do we assume it was for us? The body was deliberately left outside the prison, a place where it’d be found and police called quickly. So, was the killer leaving it as a clue – ensuring we follow up the lead and interview Connie Summers?’
‘Or,’ Mack added, ‘was it to make sure she knew? Knew that Hargreaves had been murdered, that he could no longer do harm to others.’
‘Like some kind of gift to her? The guy that ruined her career, served up cold on a platter?’
‘It’s a possibility.’
‘So our killer potentially knows her, wants to do this for her – a revenge killing, but for someone else’s benefit? Weird,’ Sewell summarised.
‘Well, they can’t know her that well. They used Moore, not Summers. They don’t know she changed her name.’
‘That’s a possibility, Clarke,’ Mack said, ‘unless they used Moore because that would make us believe it was something to do with her past – her role in the prison.’
‘Going back to revenge,’ Anika, the team’s new DC interjected, ‘Hargreaves raped a woman when he was released. It could be that his victim, or her family, decided to hand out their own justice.’
‘That’s a line of investigation we’ll be following up, Anika,’ Lindsay said.
‘Could he be in love with Summers?’
‘Careful, Lloyd. “He”’? We don’t know it’s a he.’
‘Must be, Guv. Surely. To overpower him, he’s not small. Then inflict that much damage and then move the body. And dump it quick as lightning at the prison gates before anyone can stop him?’
‘Could be more than one person involved,’ a voice piped up.
‘Could it also be a warning – that Connie Summers is going to be next?’ another DC asked from the back – the whole room was beginning to buzz with questions; possibilities.
‘Hang on, hang on, guys.’ Lindsay stood up, both hands held out in front of her. She looked to Mack, wondering if he’d voiced his earlier concern to any of the team. He didn’t meet her gaze. ‘Let’s keep calm; focused. We don’t want to jump the gun – talk serial killer just yet.’
The room fell silent. Lindsay continued.
‘I want us to concentrate on the most likely first. We won’t rule anything out, but let’s not get carried away either.’
‘We need that psychologist in here, so we can interview her. Get her to tell us everything she’s ever known about Hargreaves,’ DC Sewell offered. ‘And about any attention – male and female – that she’s had over the last year or two. That could lead to names we can check out, Boss.’
‘Okay. Yes, that’s more in line with how I wanted to approach things.’ Lindsay rubbed the back of her neck. ‘I was hoping to get her in as an advisor.’ She perched on the edge of the long table and crossed her arms. ‘I feel she’d open up more, talk freely, if we gave her a role rather than treat her as a person of interest.’
‘She’s worked with the police before,’ Mack said. ‘She’s given independent expert witness evidence, profiled criminals, that sort of thing; I think she’ll be helpful in that capacity. It’s just getting her here. Whatever route we take though, she’s the person who knows the most about the victim at this point, so we need to tread carefully.’
Lindsay was silent for a moment, then she nodded. ‘Agreed. Let’s sort a game plan then, shall we?’
So, she wasn’t as ‘out’ of the investigation as she’d planned. Connie closed her eyes, shutting out the faces of the other passengers. She failed to shut out the voices though. The ones in her mind – warning of danger to come. Her head lolled, until it touched the coolness of the window. It bumped gently against it as the train rumbled along the track towards Coleton.
It had become very clear during her conversation with DI Wade that one way or another she wanted her to be involved. Even if she’d point-blank refused, she knew Wade would get around it by bringing her in officially – as a suspect probably. Her name had been implicated – literally. There was a chance Ricky could have written it on himself, but her gut told her otherwise. For whatever reason, the murderer wanted her attention. It was the job of the police to find out why. There was no escaping it, she was already involved whether she liked it or not. It’d been naively optimistic for her to think she could just ‘opt out’.
She would have to find another psychologist for Steph.
The blur of green and brown fields suddenly changed to buildings – the short journey ending. She couldn’t wait to get home, have a long bath, eat the last remaining chicken and mushroom pizza, then snuggle on the sofa with Amber and watch a DVD. She wasn’t even going to entertain the idea of watching news, or any other normal programme. No. It was Ryan Gosling in Crazy, Stupid, Love all the way tonight. And she’d switch the phone off too.
She’d be in her own bubble. The one without Ricky Hargreaves. The one without a murderer who knew her by name.
She heaved herself from the seat and nudged past a few people standing in the way of the exit door. Why did people stand there when there were plenty of seats? They weren’t even getting off. She smiled tightly at a man who grunted as she moved in front of him. I just want to get off the train, she wanted to scream at him. She refrained.
Her heels clacked up the steps of the bridge to the other side of the station. Reaching the top, she hesitated. A figure stood at the other end of the footbridge, leaning against the side. She looked back over her shoulder. No one else had got off at this station. She continued, more slowly, squinting as she went, trying to make out some features. Man? Woman? Teenager? Trainspotter? As she approached, the figure surged forwards. Connie’s heart quickened. Should she turn and go back? No. She was being ridiculous. It was probably someone waiting to meet a friend, a lover, a family member, off the train.
It was a man. Definitely. He wore a trench coat, dark grey. Yet the weather had been hot. No showers. No need for a coat like that.
Unless you were hiding something within it.
Connie cursed her prison background. It’d made her ultra-cautious. Untrusting. Her imagination didn’t need much stimulation to become hyper-sensitive.
Keep walking. Keep walking. It’s nothing. He’s nothing.
She lowered her chin, subtly inching her way to the far side of the bridge, farthest from the man.