between ourselves and the boys in Leicester as is required . . .’
Thorne felt his mouth go dry. Twice in three weeks . . . as far as they knew .
‘. . . and if, as seems likely, they turn out to be linked, then we wil have the necessary protocols in place.’
By and large, the briefing was about practicalities from then on, as Brigstocke outlined the way forward. Neither force would want to risk the other screwing up their investigations, so it had been agreed that each would have ‘read only’ access to the other’s HOLMES (Home Office Large Major Enquiry System) account. As the Met team’s office manager, DS Sam Karim would be responsible for al case information inputted into their account and for liaising daily with his opposite number in Leicester.
‘Not a problem,’ Karim said.
‘Especial y not if his other half ’s a “she”,’ someone added.
It was a ‘delicate’ situation, Brigstocke said, and ‘potential y fraught’, but he trusted his team could handle it.
If his team needed any more reasons to try to make things work, Brigstocke waited until the end to give them the best one of al . He nodded, then turned to the screen behind him as the lights were flicked off. Many in the room had seen the picture of Emily Walker, but none save Brigstocke and his DIs had seen the photo of Catherine Burke that had been emailed across a few hours earlier.
The pictures had been taken from different angles, but projected next to one another, the similarity was evident . . . and horrifying. Though the limbs were splayed differently and there was a little more blood in one bag than the other, Thorne guessed that al eyes in the room would be drawn, eventual y, to the faces. To the shock and desperation etched into each woman’s chalk-white skin, just visible through plastic fogged with her dying breath.
When he had finished talking, Brigstocke left the lights out and waited for each officer to walk out past the pictures on the screen.
Thorne was the last to leave.
‘They’re nothing like each other physical y,’ he said. Brigstocke turned and the two detectives stood in the semi-dark, staring at the screen. ‘So, if we’re looking for a connection, it’s not like he’s got a type.’
‘ If it’s the same kil er,’ Brigstocke said.
‘You think it might not be?’
‘I’m just saying we don’t know for sure.’
‘Come on, Russel , look at them . . .’
Brigstocke gave it a few more moments, then turned away, walked across the room and switched the lights back on. ‘The forensics report came in,’ he said. ‘I haven’t had a chance to go through it properly, but they’re confirming that the cel uloid fragment is a piece cut out from an X-ray.’ He continued before Thorne could ask the obvious question. ‘No, they don’t know what it is either, but there are some very decent prints on it and they’re not Emily’s. We’ve got DNA, too. Some hairs on her sweater. Might not be the kil er’s, of course, but we’ve eliminated the husband, so if our sample matches the one from Catherine Burke . . .’
‘They’l match,’ Thorne said.
‘Sounds like you’re counting on it.’
‘He’s got plans, this bloke,’ Thorne said. ‘It’s probably the only way we’re going to catch him.’
‘As long as we do.’
Thorne leaned back against the wal and stared at the dozens of empty chairs. Already the men and women who had just left them would be settling down at computers and picking up phones; doing everything that could reasonably be done. But Thorne was beginning to sense that real progress was going to depend on the man they were after giving them something more to work with.
‘I might be wrong,’ Thorne said. ‘It might be piss-easy. One look at the stuff these Leicester boys have got and everything could get sorted.’
‘Christ, I hope so,’ Brigstocke said.
Thorne hoped so too, but he could not shake the feeling that this was one of those cases where a break would mean
Thorne felt his mouth go dry. Twice in three weeks . . . as far as they knew .
‘. . . and if, as seems likely, they turn out to be linked, then we wil have the necessary protocols in place.’
By and large, the briefing was about practicalities from then on, as Brigstocke outlined the way forward. Neither force would want to risk the other screwing up their investigations, so it had been agreed that each would have ‘read only’ access to the other’s HOLMES (Home Office Large Major Enquiry System) account. As the Met team’s office manager, DS Sam Karim would be responsible for al case information inputted into their account and for liaising daily with his opposite number in Leicester.
‘Not a problem,’ Karim said.
‘Especial y not if his other half ’s a “she”,’ someone added.
It was a ‘delicate’ situation, Brigstocke said, and ‘potential y fraught’, but he trusted his team could handle it.
If his team needed any more reasons to try to make things work, Brigstocke waited until the end to give them the best one of al . He nodded, then turned to the screen behind him as the lights were flicked off. Many in the room had seen the picture of Emily Walker, but none save Brigstocke and his DIs had seen the photo of Catherine Burke that had been emailed across a few hours earlier.
The pictures had been taken from different angles, but projected next to one another, the similarity was evident . . . and horrifying. Though the limbs were splayed differently and there was a little more blood in one bag than the other, Thorne guessed that al eyes in the room would be drawn, eventual y, to the faces. To the shock and desperation etched into each woman’s chalk-white skin, just visible through plastic fogged with her dying breath.
When he had finished talking, Brigstocke left the lights out and waited for each officer to walk out past the pictures on the screen.
Thorne was the last to leave.
‘They’re nothing like each other physical y,’ he said. Brigstocke turned and the two detectives stood in the semi-dark, staring at the screen. ‘So, if we’re looking for a connection, it’s not like he’s got a type.’
‘ If it’s the same kil er,’ Brigstocke said.
‘You think it might not be?’
‘I’m just saying we don’t know for sure.’
‘Come on, Russel , look at them . . .’
Brigstocke gave it a few more moments, then turned away, walked across the room and switched the lights back on. ‘The forensics report came in,’ he said. ‘I haven’t had a chance to go through it properly, but they’re confirming that the cel uloid fragment is a piece cut out from an X-ray.’ He continued before Thorne could ask the obvious question. ‘No, they don’t know what it is either, but there are some very decent prints on it and they’re not Emily’s. We’ve got DNA, too. Some hairs on her sweater. Might not be the kil er’s, of course, but we’ve eliminated the husband, so if our sample matches the one from Catherine Burke . . .’
‘They’l match,’ Thorne said.
‘Sounds like you’re counting on it.’
‘He’s got plans, this bloke,’ Thorne said. ‘It’s probably the only way we’re going to catch him.’
‘As long as we do.’
Thorne leaned back against the wal and stared at the dozens of empty chairs. Already the men and women who had just left them would be settling down at computers and picking up phones; doing everything that could reasonably be done. But Thorne was beginning to sense that real progress was going to depend on the man they were after giving them something more to work with.
‘I might be wrong,’ Thorne said. ‘It might be piss-easy. One look at the stuff these Leicester boys have got and everything could get sorted.’
‘Christ, I hope so,’ Brigstocke said.
Thorne hoped so too, but he could not shake the feeling that this was one of those cases where a break would mean
Similar Books
