I put myself on the line for you, Roy. You know that, don’t you?’
Not strictly true, but this wasn’t the moment to start splitting hairs. ‘I know,’ he said, ‘and I appreciate it.’
She pointed at the newspapers. ‘And this is how you show it? This is what you deliver?’
‘Come on, Alison, I’ve delivered Hossain.’
‘And now you’ve given his defence counsel a crack big enough to drive a coach and horses through.’
‘No,’ he said, rising to this. ‘That shoe had already been through forensics, signed out and signed back in. They can’t lay an exhibits contamination charge on me. They might be trying to take a pop at my methods, but this won’t have any material effect on the case.’
She raised her manicured fingers and started examining them. Roy could see the tips were black from newsprint ink. Her scent seemed to be getting stronger, as if she were an animal excreting venom. ‘You’re the senior officer, it’s your case. If you let them discredit you it could have a very big effect on the outcome. Why the hell did you do it?’
‘We have a murder trial and we don’t have a body. We know Hossain had Raymond Cohen murdered, right?’
She nodded. The evidence Grace had amassed was impressive and persuasive.
‘But with no body there’s always a weak link.’ He shrugged. ‘We’ve had results in the past from mediums. Every police force in the nation’s used them at one time or another. Leslie Whittle, right?’
Leslie Whittle was a celebrated case. Back in 1975 the seventeen-year-old heiress had been kidnapped and vanished into thin air. Unable to find any clues to her whereabouts, the police finally acted on information from a clairvoyant using dowsing techniques, who led them to a drainage shaft, where they discovered the unfortunate girl tethered and dead.
‘Leslie Whittle wasn’t exactly a triumph of police work, Roy.’
‘There have been others, since,’ he countered.
She stared at him in silence. Then dimples appeared in her cheeks as if she might be softening; but her voice remained cold and stern. ‘You could write the number of successes we’ve had with clairvoyants on a postage stamp.’
‘That isn’t true, and you know it.’
‘Roy, what I know is that you are an intelligent man. I know that you’ve studied the paranormal and that you believe. I’ve seen the books in your office, and I respect any police officer who can think out of the box . But we have a duty to the community. Whatever goes on behind our closed doors is one thing. The image we present to the public is another.’
‘The public believe, Alison. There was a survey taken in 1925 of the number of scientists who believed in God. It was forty-three per cent. They did that same survey again in 1998, and guess what? It was still forty-three per cent. The only shift was that there were fewer biologists who believed, but more mathematicians and physicists. There was another survey, only last year, of people who had had some kind of paranormal experience. It was ninety per cent!’ He leaned forwards. ‘Ninety per cent!’
‘Roy, the Great Unwashed want to believe the police spend ratepayers’ money on solving crimes and catching villains through established police procedures. They want to believe we are out scouring the country for fingerprints and DNA, that we have labs full of scientists to examine them, and that we are trawling fields, woods, dredging lakes, knocking on doors and interviewing witnesses. They don’t want to think we are talking to Madame Arcata on the end of Brighton Pier, are staring into crystal balls or are shifting upturned tumblers around rows of letters on a bloody Ouija board! They don’t want to think we are spending our time trying to summon up the dead. They don’t want to believe their police officers are standing on the ramparts of castles like Hamlet talking to his father’s ghost. Understand what I’m saying?’
‘I understand, yes. But I don’t agree
Not strictly true, but this wasn’t the moment to start splitting hairs. ‘I know,’ he said, ‘and I appreciate it.’
She pointed at the newspapers. ‘And this is how you show it? This is what you deliver?’
‘Come on, Alison, I’ve delivered Hossain.’
‘And now you’ve given his defence counsel a crack big enough to drive a coach and horses through.’
‘No,’ he said, rising to this. ‘That shoe had already been through forensics, signed out and signed back in. They can’t lay an exhibits contamination charge on me. They might be trying to take a pop at my methods, but this won’t have any material effect on the case.’
She raised her manicured fingers and started examining them. Roy could see the tips were black from newsprint ink. Her scent seemed to be getting stronger, as if she were an animal excreting venom. ‘You’re the senior officer, it’s your case. If you let them discredit you it could have a very big effect on the outcome. Why the hell did you do it?’
‘We have a murder trial and we don’t have a body. We know Hossain had Raymond Cohen murdered, right?’
She nodded. The evidence Grace had amassed was impressive and persuasive.
‘But with no body there’s always a weak link.’ He shrugged. ‘We’ve had results in the past from mediums. Every police force in the nation’s used them at one time or another. Leslie Whittle, right?’
Leslie Whittle was a celebrated case. Back in 1975 the seventeen-year-old heiress had been kidnapped and vanished into thin air. Unable to find any clues to her whereabouts, the police finally acted on information from a clairvoyant using dowsing techniques, who led them to a drainage shaft, where they discovered the unfortunate girl tethered and dead.
‘Leslie Whittle wasn’t exactly a triumph of police work, Roy.’
‘There have been others, since,’ he countered.
She stared at him in silence. Then dimples appeared in her cheeks as if she might be softening; but her voice remained cold and stern. ‘You could write the number of successes we’ve had with clairvoyants on a postage stamp.’
‘That isn’t true, and you know it.’
‘Roy, what I know is that you are an intelligent man. I know that you’ve studied the paranormal and that you believe. I’ve seen the books in your office, and I respect any police officer who can think out of the box . But we have a duty to the community. Whatever goes on behind our closed doors is one thing. The image we present to the public is another.’
‘The public believe, Alison. There was a survey taken in 1925 of the number of scientists who believed in God. It was forty-three per cent. They did that same survey again in 1998, and guess what? It was still forty-three per cent. The only shift was that there were fewer biologists who believed, but more mathematicians and physicists. There was another survey, only last year, of people who had had some kind of paranormal experience. It was ninety per cent!’ He leaned forwards. ‘Ninety per cent!’
‘Roy, the Great Unwashed want to believe the police spend ratepayers’ money on solving crimes and catching villains through established police procedures. They want to believe we are out scouring the country for fingerprints and DNA, that we have labs full of scientists to examine them, and that we are trawling fields, woods, dredging lakes, knocking on doors and interviewing witnesses. They don’t want to think we are talking to Madame Arcata on the end of Brighton Pier, are staring into crystal balls or are shifting upturned tumblers around rows of letters on a bloody Ouija board! They don’t want to think we are spending our time trying to summon up the dead. They don’t want to believe their police officers are standing on the ramparts of castles like Hamlet talking to his father’s ghost. Understand what I’m saying?’
‘I understand, yes. But I don’t agree
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