‘You were wonderful, only about seventeen. I thought you’d retired.’
‘No,’ Sonia said, still blushing, and the lady wished her good luck and went on her way, the dog leaping up at her, wanting to be released. I was amazed how awkward Sonia had been, almost embarrassed. She was shy and tongue-tied, but when she was with people she knew you couldn’t stop her talking. I nodded to her, she nodded back, I clicked the watch and she went plunging off into the woods. I put the stopwatch in the car, locked the doors and plodded after her.
The man with shiny shoes opened his scrapbook for 1998 and read about a hit-and-run case where the underage, over-the-limit driver had killed an elderly couple and escaped with a six-month sentence anda two-year driving ban. There were, the court was told, mitigating circumstances. The couple were wearing dark clothing as they crossed a busy road only fifty yards downwind of a zebra crossing. Very irresponsible. This had contributed in no small way to their unfortunate deaths. The youth was driving the car as a favour to a friend, not realising he was over the limit from a previous drinking session, and his overwillingness to help a friend in need had led to his downfall. Driving away from the scene was a moment of madness brought on by panic.
The man with shiny shoes noted the names and turned to his computer. He slid a CD of the whole country’s electoral roll (‘ 44,000,000 names and addresses at your fingertips ’) and clicked the icon on the screen. In seconds he was scrolling through names and addresses that could have belonged to the drink-driving youth.
‘Let’s have a look at what we’ve got,’ I said to the murder team, Wednesday morning. I wiped the whiteboard clean and tried a blue pen in the corner of it. It worked.
‘Are we convinced it’s murder?’ someone asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Right, in that case it was premeditated.’
‘Good.’ I wrote the word near the top of the board.
‘Organised,’ someone else added. That’s the buzzword. Killers are either organised ordisorganised. It covers a lot of ground. Some murderers are opportunists, some plan to the most minute detail. Organised went on the board.
‘How old is he?’ I asked.
‘Alfred was in his seventies, and his killer appears to have befriended him.’
‘So he’s probably not in the normal age range, twenty to thirty-something?’
‘No, he’s middle-aged.’ That went on the board.
‘Alf was a racist, so his friend would be a white man.’ I wrote it up.
‘What does he do for a living?’
‘He’s an electrician,’ John Rose suggested. ‘Murderers use what knowledge they have. Doctors use poison…um, that sort of thing.’
‘What sort of thing?’ Sparky asked, sensing John had backed himself into a corner.
‘You know what I mean.’
‘No I don’t.’
‘Mad axe men use axes,’ someone else suggested.
‘Exactly,’ John agreed.
‘OK,’ I interrupted, before the meeting degenerated. ‘Let’s just say he had a knowledge of electricity. He may be a plumber or similar.’
‘An artisan.’
‘That’ll do.’ I wrote artisan on the board. ‘What else.’
‘He’s police aware.’
‘Why?’
‘The white van. It’s not on any CCTV cameras.He left no prints. He had the sense to park some distance away.’
‘I’m convinced, but he could have picked that up from watching Crime Scene on TV.’ I wrote it on the board. ‘What about his education?’
‘Above average intelligence,’ someone said and everybody nodded. We like to think we’re up against master criminals. Up it went.
‘Marital status?’ I asked.
‘Divorced, with twin boys and another on the way.’
‘Keep it serious, please.’
‘Sorry, boss, but we’re getting into conjecture.’
‘I know, but let’s try.’
‘A sad loner,’ I was told.
‘No, they’re usually married to a devoted wife who thinks the moon and stars rise out of their backsides,’ someone argued.
‘OK,
‘No,’ Sonia said, still blushing, and the lady wished her good luck and went on her way, the dog leaping up at her, wanting to be released. I was amazed how awkward Sonia had been, almost embarrassed. She was shy and tongue-tied, but when she was with people she knew you couldn’t stop her talking. I nodded to her, she nodded back, I clicked the watch and she went plunging off into the woods. I put the stopwatch in the car, locked the doors and plodded after her.
The man with shiny shoes opened his scrapbook for 1998 and read about a hit-and-run case where the underage, over-the-limit driver had killed an elderly couple and escaped with a six-month sentence anda two-year driving ban. There were, the court was told, mitigating circumstances. The couple were wearing dark clothing as they crossed a busy road only fifty yards downwind of a zebra crossing. Very irresponsible. This had contributed in no small way to their unfortunate deaths. The youth was driving the car as a favour to a friend, not realising he was over the limit from a previous drinking session, and his overwillingness to help a friend in need had led to his downfall. Driving away from the scene was a moment of madness brought on by panic.
The man with shiny shoes noted the names and turned to his computer. He slid a CD of the whole country’s electoral roll (‘ 44,000,000 names and addresses at your fingertips ’) and clicked the icon on the screen. In seconds he was scrolling through names and addresses that could have belonged to the drink-driving youth.
‘Let’s have a look at what we’ve got,’ I said to the murder team, Wednesday morning. I wiped the whiteboard clean and tried a blue pen in the corner of it. It worked.
‘Are we convinced it’s murder?’ someone asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Right, in that case it was premeditated.’
‘Good.’ I wrote the word near the top of the board.
‘Organised,’ someone else added. That’s the buzzword. Killers are either organised ordisorganised. It covers a lot of ground. Some murderers are opportunists, some plan to the most minute detail. Organised went on the board.
‘How old is he?’ I asked.
‘Alfred was in his seventies, and his killer appears to have befriended him.’
‘So he’s probably not in the normal age range, twenty to thirty-something?’
‘No, he’s middle-aged.’ That went on the board.
‘Alf was a racist, so his friend would be a white man.’ I wrote it up.
‘What does he do for a living?’
‘He’s an electrician,’ John Rose suggested. ‘Murderers use what knowledge they have. Doctors use poison…um, that sort of thing.’
‘What sort of thing?’ Sparky asked, sensing John had backed himself into a corner.
‘You know what I mean.’
‘No I don’t.’
‘Mad axe men use axes,’ someone else suggested.
‘Exactly,’ John agreed.
‘OK,’ I interrupted, before the meeting degenerated. ‘Let’s just say he had a knowledge of electricity. He may be a plumber or similar.’
‘An artisan.’
‘That’ll do.’ I wrote artisan on the board. ‘What else.’
‘He’s police aware.’
‘Why?’
‘The white van. It’s not on any CCTV cameras.He left no prints. He had the sense to park some distance away.’
‘I’m convinced, but he could have picked that up from watching Crime Scene on TV.’ I wrote it on the board. ‘What about his education?’
‘Above average intelligence,’ someone said and everybody nodded. We like to think we’re up against master criminals. Up it went.
‘Marital status?’ I asked.
‘Divorced, with twin boys and another on the way.’
‘Keep it serious, please.’
‘Sorry, boss, but we’re getting into conjecture.’
‘I know, but let’s try.’
‘A sad loner,’ I was told.
‘No, they’re usually married to a devoted wife who thinks the moon and stars rise out of their backsides,’ someone argued.
‘OK,
Similar Books
