telly. Or, as one detective put it, using the ultimate epithet of cops the world over: "like a social worker."
What the DC came up with was: "Has anyone considered that a woman might have done it?"
It may be that Derek Pearce's brown eyes pulsed and swelled behind his eyeglasses. Maybe that repertory company beard of his started to twitch, or maybe he simply began his trick of levitation. Whatever, someone sensed a moment was forthcoming and switched on the tape recorder.
Pearce waited until all eyes were on him, until not a few cops leered like expectant hyenas. Then he said, "Yes, there might be a lot of women in these villages who prowl about at night with a plastic bag full of come concealed in their purses." He paused to let them consider that before continuing: "Mind you, not just common ordinary come. Oh dear, no. But bags full of PGM one-plus, A-secretor come!" They say he was a foot off his chair for the denouement: "And then they take their bloody missiles of PGM one-plus bloody come, and like some demon bloody bowler, they hurl it at the crotches of the victims they bloody well strangle before they stroll home for tea and bloody biscuits! "
The brainstorming was over for the evening. The tape machine was switched off. Everyone gathered up belongings and put things in drawers. The DC who dared to look like a social worker decided to call it a day. They all left Pearce to be spotted by Heathrow traffic controllers as he hovered between the campaniles and the towering chimney.
The murder squad had been decreasing in size as the clues petered out. From 150 officers, they'd dropped to 50, then 30, and by April they were down to 16, and suddenly they were 8.
The Caroline Hogg inquiry had entailed a lot of work and ended in disappointment, but they'd always believed her murder had been done in Scotland and the body dumped on them. Lynda Mann was different. She belonged to them.
"The answer is right here," Coutts always said, and Pearce agreed. "I never came to work," said Pearce, "without thinking that today we find him."
But by Easter it was essentially over. Coats went to Derek Pearce and said, "We've got to close it down. They won't let us go on." Then he added, "I havena' come in second many times in ma life." He choked back whatever else he wanted to tell his inspector.
At the last assembly in the cricket pavilion where he had so often addressed them in freezing weather with steam blowing from his lips, Ian Coats thanked his officers, told them how grand they had been and what a privilege it was to have worked with them. And when he began to express his personal regret that they would not be allowed to continue, the tears welled and he hastily concluded and left the room.
Some of them said it was difficult to believe that the Scotsman could cry. They said he was the archetypal soldier Scot, so hard and tough. But Ian Coutts had been born near Glasgow, a city known for tough, friendly, emotional people.
"If ever a man deserved a result from hard work, it was Jock Coutts," Pearce said. "He put all he had into the enquiry on Lynda Mann."
When it was over, DSgt. Mick Mason returned to Wigston Police Station after personally seeing to it that the files were transferred to a nominal Lynda Mann incident room set up in the communications headquarters of the Leicestershire Constabulary.
By summer, the eight officers had dwindled to only a pair: Mick Mason and one other. They had other duties, but still took occasional calls from someone who'd spotted a spiky-haired youth, a running youth, a crying youth, a husband, a boyfriend, a brother-in-law, or a neighbor with a fiendish glint who'd ogled a matron suntanning in the backyard of a cottage in Enderby.
By the end of the inquiry they'd given about 150 blood tests to potential suspects. The results were more than disappointing.
In August it ended altogether. When it was over they had a list of about thirty suspects who were "possibles." There were no
What the DC came up with was: "Has anyone considered that a woman might have done it?"
It may be that Derek Pearce's brown eyes pulsed and swelled behind his eyeglasses. Maybe that repertory company beard of his started to twitch, or maybe he simply began his trick of levitation. Whatever, someone sensed a moment was forthcoming and switched on the tape recorder.
Pearce waited until all eyes were on him, until not a few cops leered like expectant hyenas. Then he said, "Yes, there might be a lot of women in these villages who prowl about at night with a plastic bag full of come concealed in their purses." He paused to let them consider that before continuing: "Mind you, not just common ordinary come. Oh dear, no. But bags full of PGM one-plus, A-secretor come!" They say he was a foot off his chair for the denouement: "And then they take their bloody missiles of PGM one-plus bloody come, and like some demon bloody bowler, they hurl it at the crotches of the victims they bloody well strangle before they stroll home for tea and bloody biscuits! "
The brainstorming was over for the evening. The tape machine was switched off. Everyone gathered up belongings and put things in drawers. The DC who dared to look like a social worker decided to call it a day. They all left Pearce to be spotted by Heathrow traffic controllers as he hovered between the campaniles and the towering chimney.
The murder squad had been decreasing in size as the clues petered out. From 150 officers, they'd dropped to 50, then 30, and by April they were down to 16, and suddenly they were 8.
The Caroline Hogg inquiry had entailed a lot of work and ended in disappointment, but they'd always believed her murder had been done in Scotland and the body dumped on them. Lynda Mann was different. She belonged to them.
"The answer is right here," Coutts always said, and Pearce agreed. "I never came to work," said Pearce, "without thinking that today we find him."
But by Easter it was essentially over. Coats went to Derek Pearce and said, "We've got to close it down. They won't let us go on." Then he added, "I havena' come in second many times in ma life." He choked back whatever else he wanted to tell his inspector.
At the last assembly in the cricket pavilion where he had so often addressed them in freezing weather with steam blowing from his lips, Ian Coats thanked his officers, told them how grand they had been and what a privilege it was to have worked with them. And when he began to express his personal regret that they would not be allowed to continue, the tears welled and he hastily concluded and left the room.
Some of them said it was difficult to believe that the Scotsman could cry. They said he was the archetypal soldier Scot, so hard and tough. But Ian Coutts had been born near Glasgow, a city known for tough, friendly, emotional people.
"If ever a man deserved a result from hard work, it was Jock Coutts," Pearce said. "He put all he had into the enquiry on Lynda Mann."
When it was over, DSgt. Mick Mason returned to Wigston Police Station after personally seeing to it that the files were transferred to a nominal Lynda Mann incident room set up in the communications headquarters of the Leicestershire Constabulary.
By summer, the eight officers had dwindled to only a pair: Mick Mason and one other. They had other duties, but still took occasional calls from someone who'd spotted a spiky-haired youth, a running youth, a crying youth, a husband, a boyfriend, a brother-in-law, or a neighbor with a fiendish glint who'd ogled a matron suntanning in the backyard of a cottage in Enderby.
By the end of the inquiry they'd given about 150 blood tests to potential suspects. The results were more than disappointing.
In August it ended altogether. When it was over they had a list of about thirty suspects who were "possibles." There were no
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