Townsend turned his cold stare back towards Anna and said: ‘I am not at liberty to discuss forensics reports publicly at the current time.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because such information may prejudice the ongoing investigation.’
‘Assuming you had such information,’ Anna said boldly. ‘Detective Inspector Townsend, I have a source inside Middlesex CID who has informed me that the forensics samples taken from the crime scene were contaminated due to mishandling by an inexperienced forensics team.’
‘Untrue,’ Townsend said bluntly.
‘And I have also been informed that CCTV footage from security cameras in the vicinity of 19 Elm Crescent – footage which almost certainly would have contained images of whoever attacked and abducted the Steiners – was not seized as evidence and has since been erased.’
‘Untrue,’ Townsend repeated, an edge of anger creeping into his voice.
‘And what’s more, Detective Inspector, that same source revealed to me that basic investigational procedures were not followed by you and your officers when you first arrived at the crime scene …’
‘Untrue.’
‘… resulting in evidence gained at that time being declared inadmissible in any subsequent trial.’
‘All untrue.’
‘And that, on account of budgetary restrictions, lack of manpower, and even shortage of available computers in CID, the investigation has in reality been postponed, or at the very least seriously curtailed pending financial review.’
‘Excuse me, are you who I think you are?’ Townsend spoke in a low, hard voice, glaring at her.
‘Anna Vaughan, After-Dark.’
Townsend nodded to himself, narrowed his eyes, and said: ‘I might advise you, Ms Vaughan, that your talents and capabilities could for once be put to better use than vilifying me and my department.’
‘And I might advise you, Detective Inspector Townsend, that I am merely making public the information that has been passed to me by a whistleblower inside your own department.’
‘Not so, Ms Vaughan.’
‘You’re accusing me of lying?’
‘I am accusing you of not adequately checking your sources. There is no such “whistleblower” in my department. It’s impossible. You are, I can assure you, the victim of a hoax.’
Various shouts and cried came from the press, but Anna strained her voice to be heard over the top of them: ‘Then where are the forensics reports? Where is the CCTV footage? Why has the investigation been scaled back so quickly? Why are there no leads? Why are there no suspects?’
But now Anna’s voice was drowned out completely by the bellowing coming from the other journalists. Townsend stood there at his podium, ignoring all the shouting and hollering, his eyes fixed icily on Anna, his mouth set firmly, his jaw muscles visibly flexing. It was an expression which said, without any shadow of a doubt: You have made an enemy here today, Ms Vaughan … believe me, you have made an enemy.
It was dark by the time Anna got home to her East London flat. Dark and cold and grim. The festive lights flashing and sparkling around the city did their best to alleviate the gloom, but they didn’t manage to lift Anna’s spirits. The image of Sharon Steiner’s innocently smiling face was etched into her mind. What nightmare was that poor young woman enduring at this very moment, alone and terrified and held captive by the psychopathic Santa? What state was she in? And what hope of salvation did she have when CID seemed so wilfully incompetent? The shoddiness of the investigation being headed by DI Townsend had left Anna feeing angry and depressed. Sharon Steiner’s life depended on those clowns doing their job right. How could they be so shoddy in their search for her? They were police officers, for God’s sake – did they not have consciences?
Back at her flat, Anna kicked off her shoes, poured herself a stiff drink, and slumped down in the sofa. Her head was buzzing. She was restless and agitated. Living alone was wretched at times like this, times when you felt the profound need to give voice to your feelings, to communicate, to discuss. She fiddled with her phone, scrolling through names, looking for somebody she knew would be around and willing to talk to her. Family, old friends from university, fellow hacks in the After-Dark offices … one after the other she flicked through their names and numbers, but somehow, for all the affection she felt for these people, it was always Miles Carter she wanted to speak to most when she had something serious on her mind.
She had stayed in contact with Miles, right through the years of his mental breakdown and slow, ongoing recovery. She liked him. He always seemed genuinely delighted if she rang or dropped by, he continued to take a keen interest in her work at After-Dark, and even now, despite the fragile state he was in and the lingering effects of the mysterious trauma he had suffered, he still possessed a silly, schoolboyish sense of humour and an honest warmth that always made her feel safe with him.
She scrolled through to his number and dialled it. And as ever, he was in. He never seemed to go out much these days.
She came straight out with, ‘Miles, I’m angry.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry. I apologise unreservedly.’
‘Not with you, you great dope, it’s CID!’
‘And what have they done?’
‘Nothing! That’s why I’m so mad at them! If you’d seen the press conference today you’d understand. Jesus Christ, don’t they understand they’ve got a serial killer on their hands? A young woman’s life is hanging by a thread and all they can do is dick about and screw up their investigation and give stupid press conferences to try and cover their useless arses! It’s obscene! It sickens me, Miles. I’m not standing for it. I’ll find that poor girl myself if that’s what it takes. I’ll find and save her because somebody has to! And then I’ll publicly roast hell out of CID with a whole series of articles! No, better than that, I’ll write a book! I’ll write a bloody great book that’ll sink so-called DI Townsend’s career once and for all! The bastard! The arrogant, useless, amoral bastard!’
There was a pause.
And then Miles said mildly: ‘Well, I’ve got a bit of sticky toffee pudding left over from yesterday so I’m happy as a sand boy.’
Despite herself, Anna grinned. This, of course, was why she had rung him up. She didn’t want to rail against the injustices of the world, not after having been railing against them all day already. She just wanted a friendly voice, a little dose of normality. And Miles could always be relied upon for that.
‘I’m sorry, Miles,’ she said, snuggling down with the phone and her drink. ‘It’s been a hellish day. I just needed to speak to somebody.’
‘I’ve been out of the game for a while, Anna, but I’m still a journalist at heart,’ Miles said. ‘I know exactly how you feel. No need to explain. Rant all you like, get it out of your system, I promise I won’t hang up. I would never hang up. I might sit here watching Come Dine With Me with the sound down while you drone on and on, but rest assured I would never actually hang up. Come to think of it, I might hang up if Come Dine With Me looked like it was getting really good. I mean to say, how could I not?’
‘Miles – thank you for talking your usual crap to me. I needed it. Big time. I feel grounded again. How are you doing over there in Hampstead?’
‘I’m getting through the days, Anna. I’m surviving.’
‘Any chance you’ll be feeling well enough to get back in the saddle some time soon?’
Anna was always asking him this. He was too good a journalist to waste his talents moping about the house all day. After-Dark