charm; Vickers seems to have precious little. Let’s feed his name into the computer and see if we can get any hits.
Get in my car and phone in from there.’
They climbed in. Heather dialled the incident room on
her mobile. Foster checked the latest with Harris. They
had managed to get hold of Katie Drake’s application
details for RADA. Her address was a London one, not
Kent. They’d made a few inquiries that led them to a
studio flat on IfHey Road in Hammersmith. A secondary
school in Deal was listed. The school’s policy was to
destroy pupil records ten years after leaving; her details were long gone.
The harder they looked the more elusive her past
became. Was it even relevant? What was becoming clear
was how vulnerable Katie Drake appeared before her
death, as if she was undergoing some sort of mini midlife crisis.
Heather ended her phone call, green eyes galvanized by
excitement.
What is it?’
‘Trevor Vickers is on the Sex Offenders Register,’ she
replied. ‘He accepted a caution for possessing indecent
images of children on his computer in early 2006.’
‘Just a caution?’
‘The children were clothed apparently — or at least, they were wearing some clothes. But the poses were indecent.’
Foster snorted. He’d bang up anyone who had that filth
on their PCs for five years minimum. Clothed or not,
those kids were still being abused and exploited. ‘It’s a leap from having sordid pictures of kids on your PC to abduction and murder,’ he said. ‘But it’s a leap we’ve seen before.’
‘That’s not all,’ Heather added. ‘Because it was recent, under the guidelines he was asked to give a DNA sample.’
God bless Big Brother, Foster thought. ‘We need to
find out what she was wearing on Monday at work,’ he
said. ‘If it was the same outfit then his hair could have got on to her while they were lifting dead people’s clothes around. If it was different, well, it’s unlikely she would put on an unwashed top for her big date, isn’t it?’
‘I’ll go ask,’ Heather said, getting out of the car.
Foster watched her walk back towards the shop. The
reporter and photographer were about to enter but backed off when they saw Heather approaching. She looked them up and down before going inside. Foster thought about
Vickers. They knew he’d taken the day off on Monday,
which implicated him further. Something at the back of
his mind urged caution, but he was the only possible suspect they had.
Heather re-emerged. ‘Different. She was wearing a
black top and jeans on Monday. There’re also two reporters hanging …’
“I know. I’ve seen them,’ Foster interjected.
What do you want to do about Vickers?’ she asked.
‘It’s not my decision. Harris is calling the shots. We’ll let him know and see if he wants him bringing in. If that DNA sample matches the hair on Katie Drake’s clothes,
then we’ve got our man.’
The nation’s press and broadcasters laid siege to the charity shop. The two that Foster and Heather had witnessed loitering on the street had been the vanguard. Reinforcements arrived en masse as word spread that Katie Drake had worked voluntarily for Cancer Research, a morsel the press weren’t going to pass up. Her deification was under way. Maureen, Yvonne and Trevor spoke of her as some modern-day saint. Trevor Vickers in particular was especially effusive, breaking down in tears at the end of one interview. The rolling news channel Foster caught back at the office showed his collapse in an endless loop. They ran the picture of Naomi, a uniform standing sentry outside the house, tributes from old friends and colleagues, garnished with footage of Trevor dissolving into tears.
Calls and information poured into the incident room, all of it dutifully logged. But none of it brought them closer to Naomi Buckingham or her mother’s killer. The teenager was out there, somewhere, and the possibility of finding her alive was
Get in my car and phone in from there.’
They climbed in. Heather dialled the incident room on
her mobile. Foster checked the latest with Harris. They
had managed to get hold of Katie Drake’s application
details for RADA. Her address was a London one, not
Kent. They’d made a few inquiries that led them to a
studio flat on IfHey Road in Hammersmith. A secondary
school in Deal was listed. The school’s policy was to
destroy pupil records ten years after leaving; her details were long gone.
The harder they looked the more elusive her past
became. Was it even relevant? What was becoming clear
was how vulnerable Katie Drake appeared before her
death, as if she was undergoing some sort of mini midlife crisis.
Heather ended her phone call, green eyes galvanized by
excitement.
What is it?’
‘Trevor Vickers is on the Sex Offenders Register,’ she
replied. ‘He accepted a caution for possessing indecent
images of children on his computer in early 2006.’
‘Just a caution?’
‘The children were clothed apparently — or at least, they were wearing some clothes. But the poses were indecent.’
Foster snorted. He’d bang up anyone who had that filth
on their PCs for five years minimum. Clothed or not,
those kids were still being abused and exploited. ‘It’s a leap from having sordid pictures of kids on your PC to abduction and murder,’ he said. ‘But it’s a leap we’ve seen before.’
‘That’s not all,’ Heather added. ‘Because it was recent, under the guidelines he was asked to give a DNA sample.’
God bless Big Brother, Foster thought. ‘We need to
find out what she was wearing on Monday at work,’ he
said. ‘If it was the same outfit then his hair could have got on to her while they were lifting dead people’s clothes around. If it was different, well, it’s unlikely she would put on an unwashed top for her big date, isn’t it?’
‘I’ll go ask,’ Heather said, getting out of the car.
Foster watched her walk back towards the shop. The
reporter and photographer were about to enter but backed off when they saw Heather approaching. She looked them up and down before going inside. Foster thought about
Vickers. They knew he’d taken the day off on Monday,
which implicated him further. Something at the back of
his mind urged caution, but he was the only possible suspect they had.
Heather re-emerged. ‘Different. She was wearing a
black top and jeans on Monday. There’re also two reporters hanging …’
“I know. I’ve seen them,’ Foster interjected.
What do you want to do about Vickers?’ she asked.
‘It’s not my decision. Harris is calling the shots. We’ll let him know and see if he wants him bringing in. If that DNA sample matches the hair on Katie Drake’s clothes,
then we’ve got our man.’
The nation’s press and broadcasters laid siege to the charity shop. The two that Foster and Heather had witnessed loitering on the street had been the vanguard. Reinforcements arrived en masse as word spread that Katie Drake had worked voluntarily for Cancer Research, a morsel the press weren’t going to pass up. Her deification was under way. Maureen, Yvonne and Trevor spoke of her as some modern-day saint. Trevor Vickers in particular was especially effusive, breaking down in tears at the end of one interview. The rolling news channel Foster caught back at the office showed his collapse in an endless loop. They ran the picture of Naomi, a uniform standing sentry outside the house, tributes from old friends and colleagues, garnished with footage of Trevor dissolving into tears.
Calls and information poured into the incident room, all of it dutifully logged. But none of it brought them closer to Naomi Buckingham or her mother’s killer. The teenager was out there, somewhere, and the possibility of finding her alive was
Similar Books
