‘we could never have reached a successful conclusion in the Gemma Hardy case without you.’
‘Thank you.’ And we know what happened with that , she thought, almost running along behind him.
Fenwick must have picked up her thought telepathically. ‘Of course, what happened afterwards, none of us could have predicted. And for that I am most deeply, deeply sorry. I am just so pleased that it was concluded successfully.’
And that I never sued the department , she mentally added.
‘I’m fine now.’ She was glad he wasn’t level with her, couldn’t see her eyes.
‘I’m delighted to hear it. Delighted.’ His voice changed, the pitch deepening. Through another set of double doors. ‘Of course, there will be nothing like that this time. Nothing. You have my personal word on that.’
King Cliché , she thought. Of course. How could she forget?
‘Thank you. Heard you on the radio on the way in, Ben,’ she said. ‘A double murder? Two women?’
Fenwick nodded, rounded a corner. ‘A flat in that new development. Parkside Quarter. Neither showed up for work today. Both stabbed to death. Nasty. Very nasty.’
Marina nodded, already processing the information, making quick assumptions. Women, stabbing. The blade a surrogate sexual organ. Since her specialisation was psychosexual deviancy, that was obviously why she had been called in. ‘Right,’ she said. ‘What else have you got?’
‘Well . . .’ Fenwick stopped walking, looked at her. She instinctively pulled her coat close around herself. A specially bought swing-cut coat to hide the baby bulge. And something told her she should disguise it. Despite numerous diversity training courses, she still believed that the police as an organisation remained not only institutionally racist but sexist too. And always would be: a brick house is always a brick house and no amount of beechwood cladding is ever going to change that, she thought. It was just something she had to accept if she wanted to work alongside the police. But she didn’t want any of her findings being dismissed as the misguided thinking of a hormonally overcharged woman.
Fenwick sighed. And she saw beyond his politician’s bonhomie a worried, weary man. ‘We think it ties in with another two murders we’ve had,’ he said. Marina could clearly see the stress lines etched on his face. ‘It’s a biggie. A real biggie. Under a lot of pressure on this. A hell of a lot. We’ve got to come up with a result, and soon.’ Another sigh. He rubbed his eyes, then, aware that she was watching him, rallied. ‘Come on. I’ve got the case files ready for you. And a desk too, come to that. This way.’
She was led through more corridors. She tried to remember the layout from the last time, but this time she was being taken somewhere different. Fenwick opened the door to the bar. She frowned, followed him in. The pool tables were covered over, turned into desks with computers and phones on them, likewise the tables, banquettes and booths. Filing cabinets next to fruit machines. And there were plenty of people working. More than she had seen last time.
‘Bit unorthodox,’ said Fenwick. ‘Major Incident Squad is usually based up at Stanway, but they’re having asbestos removed in the interview rooms. Plus we need a lot of space for this one. Lot of space.’
The shutters were down over the bar, whiteboards placed in front, dominating the room. They kept the team focused, reminding them all what they were working towards; the desks, tables and chairs in the bar were in satellite formation to them.
She looked at one of the whiteboards, saw photos of four women’s faces. All smiling, anyone else cropped, leaving them the centre of attention, all unaware through their smiles that they would one day end up here. Names were attached: Lisa King, Susie Evans, Claire Fielding, Julie Simpson. Ordinary names, extraordinary deaths. Marker-pen lines linking them together like a grisly
‘Thank you.’ And we know what happened with that , she thought, almost running along behind him.
Fenwick must have picked up her thought telepathically. ‘Of course, what happened afterwards, none of us could have predicted. And for that I am most deeply, deeply sorry. I am just so pleased that it was concluded successfully.’
And that I never sued the department , she mentally added.
‘I’m fine now.’ She was glad he wasn’t level with her, couldn’t see her eyes.
‘I’m delighted to hear it. Delighted.’ His voice changed, the pitch deepening. Through another set of double doors. ‘Of course, there will be nothing like that this time. Nothing. You have my personal word on that.’
King Cliché , she thought. Of course. How could she forget?
‘Thank you. Heard you on the radio on the way in, Ben,’ she said. ‘A double murder? Two women?’
Fenwick nodded, rounded a corner. ‘A flat in that new development. Parkside Quarter. Neither showed up for work today. Both stabbed to death. Nasty. Very nasty.’
Marina nodded, already processing the information, making quick assumptions. Women, stabbing. The blade a surrogate sexual organ. Since her specialisation was psychosexual deviancy, that was obviously why she had been called in. ‘Right,’ she said. ‘What else have you got?’
‘Well . . .’ Fenwick stopped walking, looked at her. She instinctively pulled her coat close around herself. A specially bought swing-cut coat to hide the baby bulge. And something told her she should disguise it. Despite numerous diversity training courses, she still believed that the police as an organisation remained not only institutionally racist but sexist too. And always would be: a brick house is always a brick house and no amount of beechwood cladding is ever going to change that, she thought. It was just something she had to accept if she wanted to work alongside the police. But she didn’t want any of her findings being dismissed as the misguided thinking of a hormonally overcharged woman.
Fenwick sighed. And she saw beyond his politician’s bonhomie a worried, weary man. ‘We think it ties in with another two murders we’ve had,’ he said. Marina could clearly see the stress lines etched on his face. ‘It’s a biggie. A real biggie. Under a lot of pressure on this. A hell of a lot. We’ve got to come up with a result, and soon.’ Another sigh. He rubbed his eyes, then, aware that she was watching him, rallied. ‘Come on. I’ve got the case files ready for you. And a desk too, come to that. This way.’
She was led through more corridors. She tried to remember the layout from the last time, but this time she was being taken somewhere different. Fenwick opened the door to the bar. She frowned, followed him in. The pool tables were covered over, turned into desks with computers and phones on them, likewise the tables, banquettes and booths. Filing cabinets next to fruit machines. And there were plenty of people working. More than she had seen last time.
‘Bit unorthodox,’ said Fenwick. ‘Major Incident Squad is usually based up at Stanway, but they’re having asbestos removed in the interview rooms. Plus we need a lot of space for this one. Lot of space.’
The shutters were down over the bar, whiteboards placed in front, dominating the room. They kept the team focused, reminding them all what they were working towards; the desks, tables and chairs in the bar were in satellite formation to them.
She looked at one of the whiteboards, saw photos of four women’s faces. All smiling, anyone else cropped, leaving them the centre of attention, all unaware through their smiles that they would one day end up here. Names were attached: Lisa King, Susie Evans, Claire Fielding, Julie Simpson. Ordinary names, extraordinary deaths. Marker-pen lines linking them together like a grisly
Similar Books
