‘Not really. We dealt directly with Vicom, because we wanted them to run us a full demo before we committed ourselves to laying out that much dosh. Obviously, some specialist business suppliers sell it, but they wouldn’t be shifting it in bulk. That would be mail order, anyway. Most computer stuff is.’
‘The other stuff you mentioned – are they things that lots of people would have?’ Carol asked.
‘They’re not uncommon. Off the top of my head, say two or three per cent market penetration on the video stuff, maybe fifteen per cent on the scanner. But if you’re thinking of tracking down your man, I’d start with the Vicom end,’ Michael advised.
‘How do you think they’d be about letting us look at their sales records?’
Michael pulled a face. ‘Your guess is as good as mine. You’re not a competitor, and this is a murder investigation. You never know, they might be happy to cooperate. After all, if this guy is using their stuff, it’d be bad PR if they didn’t. I can dig out the name of the guy we dealt with. He was their sales director. Scottish bloke. One of those names you can’t tell which is the Christian name. You know, Grant Cameron, Campbell Elliott … It’ll come to me …’
While Michael searched through his contacts book, Carol refilled her glass and savoured the prickle of bubbles against her palate. Lately, pleasure seemed to have been in short supply. But if she could come up with some leads on her theory, all of that might change.
‘Got it!’ Michael exclaimed. ‘Fraser Duncan. Give him a ring Monday morning and mention my name. Time you got a break, sis.’
‘You’re not wrong,’ Carol said with feeling. ‘Believe me, I deserve it.’
Kevin Matthews lay sprawled across the rumpled kingsized bed, smiling up at the woman straddling him. ‘Mmm,’ he murmured. ‘That was a bit nice.’
‘Better than home cooking,’ Penny Burgess said, running her fingers through the dark auburn hair that curled across Kevin’s chest.
Kevin chuckled. ‘Just a bit.’ He reached for the remains of the hefty vodka and coke Penny had poured for him earlier.
‘I’m surprised you could get away tonight,’ Penny said, moving forward languidly so her nipples brushed his.
‘We’ve had so much overtime lately she’s given up expecting me home for anything except for a bit of kip.’
Penny let her upper body fall heavily on Kevin, thrusting the breath out of his body. ‘I didn’t mean Lynn,’ she said, ‘I meant work.’
Kevin grabbed her wrists and wrestled her off him. When they subsided, lying side by side, giggling breathlessly, he finally said, ‘There wasn’t much to do, tell you the truth.’
Penny snorted incredulously. ‘Oh yeah? Last night Carol Jordan finds body number five, the suspect is arrested trying to leave the country and you tell me there’s nothing much doing? Come on, Kevin, this is me you’re talking to.’
‘You’ve got it all wrong, darling,’ Kevin said magnanimously. ‘You and all the rest of your media cronies.’ It wasn’t often he got the chance to put Penny right and he intended to make the most of it.
‘What do you mean?’ Penny propped herself up on one elbow, unconsciously covering her body with the duvet. This wasn’t a bit of fun any more; this was work.
‘Number one. The body Carol found last night wasn’t one of the serial killer’s victims. It was a copycat job. The postmortem proved that beyond reasonable doubt. It was just another seedy little sex murder. Central should clear it up in a few days with a bit of help from Vice,’ Kevin said, the self-satisfaction obvious in his voice.
Penny bit on the bullet and said sweetly through clenched teeth, ‘And?’
‘And what, darling?’
‘If that was number one, there must be a number two.’
Kevin smiled, so smug that Penny made the instant decision that he was on the out just as soon as she had an acceptable alternative lined up. ‘Oh yes, number two. Stevie McConnell isn’t the killer.’
For once, Penny ran out of words. The information was shocking in itself. But more shocking was the fact that, knowing this, Kevin had said nothing. He had remained silent and let her paper run a story that was eventually going to make her look an ill-informed pillock. ‘Really?’ she said, in the superior accent she hadn’t used since the day she’d gratefully quit boarding school and made the decision to go vocally downmarket.
‘That’s right. We knew that before he legged it.’ Kevin lay back on the pillows, blissfully unaware of the look of distilled hatred that Penny was beaming in his direction.
‘So what exactly was that pantomime at court this morning in aid of?’ she demanded in tones her elocution mistress would have been proud of.
Kevin smirked. ‘Well, most of us had already decided that McConnell wasn’t our man. But Brandon had put a tail on him, so when he tried to skip the country, we were more or less obliged to pull him in. By that time, it was starting to look definite that McConnell isn’t the Queer Killer. Plus, he doesn’t fit the profile that Tony Hill came up with.’
‘I don’t believe I’m hearing this,’ Penny said sharply.
Kevin finally registered that all was not well. ‘What? You got a problem, darling?’
‘Just a fucking bit,’ said Penny, enunciating each syllable crisply. ‘You mean to tell me you’ve not only put an innocent man on remand, you’ve also let the world’s press broadcast the assumption that this man is quite probably the Queer Killer?’
Kevin propped himself up and took another swig of his drink, reaching out to rumple Penny’s hair with his other hand. She pulled away with a jerk. ‘It’s no big deal,’ he said patronizingly. ‘Nobody can get a lynch mob together and go round his house while he’s inside. And we reckon that telling the world between the lines that we’ve got the killer banged up might just provoke the real killer into getting in touch with us to make sure we know he’s still out there.’
‘You mean you want to drive him to kill again?’ Penny demanded, her voice rising.
‘Of course not,’ Kevin said indignantly. ‘I mean, to get in touch. Like he did after he’d killed Gareth Finnegan.’
‘My God,’ Penny said wonderingly. ‘Kevin, how can you sit there and tell me that nothing bad can happen to Stevie McConnell while he’s locked up in prison?’
While Penny Burgess and Kevin Matthews were arguing the morality of Stevie McConnell’s remand, in C Wing of Her Majesty’s Prison Barleigh, three men were taking turns to show Stevie McConnell what happens to sex cases in prison. At the end of the landing, a warden stood impassively, appearing as oblivious to McConnell’s screams and entreaties as a deaf man with his hearing aid switched off. And on the moors above Bradfield, a ruthless killer put the finishing touches to the torture instrument that would help show the world that the man in prison was not the person responsible for four perfectly executed serial punishments.
The HOLMES room was a quiet hum of activity, operators staring into screens and tapping keys. Carol found Dave Woolcott sitting in his office picking listlessly at fish and chips. He looked up when she entered and managed a wan smile. ‘Thought you were having a night off,’ he said.
‘I’m still hoping to. My brother promised to buy me a bucket of popcorn all to myself if I make it to the multiscreen before the film begins. I just wanted to swing by and run something past you.’ She dumped two plastic bags on Dave’s desk. Glossy computer magazines spilled out.
‘I’ve got this theory,’ she said. ‘Well, more of a hunch.’ For the third time, Carol outlined her idea about the killer importing videos and transforming them into supports for his fantasies.
Dave