‘Why? You feeling sorry for him?’ Dave countered.
‘No, but it does seem a bit . . .’
The low sun flashed on Jane’s ginger hair as she swept it back with one hand. ‘Harsh? Unethical? What do you think about what he does for a living, then? Pushing poison to our kids.’
‘I know, but . . . They have a choice, whether to get into it or not.’
‘So did he. And he had a choice of whether to talk to us or not,’ Pete said firmly.
Pete waited until they were all back in their cars, then took out his mobile and dialled.
‘Jane. We might not be able to put a tap on his phone, but I want surveillance on that bloke, from now on. I want to know who visits him or where he goes if he leaves the house. Get hold of Jill and Sophie Clewes. I’ll clear it with the uniform squad. And don’t let either of them tell anyone what they’re up to.’
‘You seriously think he’s got a source on the force?’
‘He’s still walking the streets, isn’t he? I don’t know what he’s got, but I’m not prepared to risk losing him at this stage so, bearing in mind his paranoia, be careful setting this up, right?’
‘Right, boss.’
He ended the call and dialled the station. ‘Bill, who’s the duty sergeant today?’
‘Andy Fairweather.’
‘Patch me through to him, would you?’
‘OK.’ There was a click, a pause, then a dialling tone. A phone was picked up. ‘Sergeant Fairweather, Exeter Police.’
‘Andy. Pete Gayle. Sorry for the short notice, mate, but I need to borrow Constable Clewes again.’
‘How long for?’
‘Not sure yet. Probably just today. Assistance with a surveillance op.’
‘All right. I’ll adjust the rota and get hold of her. Where should I send her?’
‘That’s OK. My DC will give her a call.’
‘Fair enough.’ Fairweather didn’t sound too happy at being kept out of whatever was going on, but Pete couldn’t afford to be oversensitive now.
‘Thanks, Andy. I owe you one.’
‘Another one.’
Pete nodded. ‘Yeah, I know. I’ll return the favour one day, if only by sending Fast-track on his way to an early grave with stress.’
‘You won’t stress that bugger. Cast iron, he’s made of.’
‘Damn brittle, that stuff, though.’
Andy laughed. ‘Good luck then.’
‘See you.’
Pete started his car and headed back to the station.
He pulled into the car park just moments behind Dick Feeney and Dave Miles. They were heading for the back door as he stepped out of his car. ‘Oi,’ he called.
Both men turned and Pete beckoned them across with a tilt of his head. They gathered beside Pete’s car.
‘Before we go inside,’ he said, ‘you realise that what we’ve done this morning could flush out Petrosyan’s contact here?’
‘Yeah,’ Dave said. ‘Or it could just make him run like a scared rabbit.’
‘Jane’s setting up covert observation on Petrosyan. Nobody outside of us and those directly involved is to know about it. I just told Andy Fairweather I needed someone for a surveillance op.’
‘OK.’ Dave nodded.
‘I don’t like this,’ said Dick. ‘Looking into our own oppos. It feels wrong.’
‘If you’re not comfortable with it, Dick . . .’
Feeney grimaced. ‘It just seems creepy, that’s all – that one of the guys is . . . well, bent.’
‘It is,’ Dave said. ‘But, there’s no point having a force that can’t be trusted. Unless you’re Robert Mugabe or Bashar al-Assad, I suppose.’
Dick grunted. ‘Which Fast-track isn’t, is he?’
Dave laughed. ‘I reckon he’d like to be though. Only way he’s going to get the respect he thinks he deserves.’
‘Also while we’re out here,’ Pete said, bringing the conversation back on track, ‘I want someone in the Blue Boar tonight, to see if Millic turns up there. If so, I want him followed. I want an address for him. But there’s a lot else to do before that. We’ve got a killer to catch.’
*
Pete draped his jacket over the back of his chair, sat down and switched on his computer. As he reached for the mouse, his phone beeped. He checked the screen. One missed call. Recognising the number, he called back.
‘Morning, Doc. You rang?’
‘I did. I have two exhumed bodies on the tables in the mortuary. And I think you ought to get here as soon as you can, Peter.’
Pete felt something swoop in his chest. ‘Any particular reason, Doc?’
‘Initial examinations suggest that our theory is probably correct.’
‘Ooh. OK, I’m on my way.’ He ended the call, switched off his computer and stood up again. ‘Going to the mortuary. The doc’s got something to show me.’
‘Careful, boss. Statements like that are what rumours get started on.’
‘Well, you concentrate on the other rumour we were talking about earlier and see if you can come up with something useful.’ He hooked his jacket off his chair and headed for the door.
*
Doc Chambers looked up from the steel cart he was working at, the overhead lights glittering on his short stubble of grey hair. He set down the large forceps he was using and stepped forward, stripping off his gloves to shake hands.
‘Peter. Good to see you.’
‘How’s it going?’
Two of the four steel autopsy tables were occupied. The bodies had been cleaned and laid out ready for examination. The pathologist had been in the process of laying out his tools to begin the first of them.
‘Interestingly,’ he said. ‘Basically, we were right. We have a serial killer in our midst, here in Exeter.’
Pete grimaced. ‘Show me.’
Chambers extended a hand to the body on his left. ‘First, we have the remains of one Donald Tennyson. He was found two months ago. Cause of death was recorded as acute cardiac failure – which, ultimately, is what kills us all, of course – with no clear cause. He had no record of cardiac issues, despite his obvious size, and shows no needle marks, unlike our previous victims. There are a couple of ways that can be achieved nefariously. One of them can still be tested for at this stage. The other can’t, I’m afraid, though it is recorded that he had a substantial amount of clear, colourless, non-alcoholic liquid in his digestive tract. He’d taken a large drink, possibly of water, though we’ll never know now. I’ll take samples in due course.
‘The other case . . .’ He nodded at the body on the second table. ‘A female, twenty-two to twenty-five years of age, identity unknown. Her body shows all the signs of addiction to Class A drugs and the kind of lifestyle often associated with that. In short, she was a prostitute. Tests showed that she was not high when she died. In fact,