it turns up, then keep checking to see if you can find a link.’
He paces, glaring at me, glaring at Mack, glaring even at the goddamn walls.
‘I want this son of a bitch – or bitches – found. They must have left a trace somewhere – find it!’
We’re tossed out of the room. Nothing like a cosy chat with your boss when you need it.
‘Good motivational speech,’ says Mack, sarcasm slicing through his every word as he sticks a wad of chewing gum in his oversized mouth.
‘Inspirational, in fact probably the best so far – don’t you think?’
He nods in agreement. Bosses are always a complete pain in the arse, but this time we’d sure felt the old Doberman’s bite. We both knew he meant what he said, so unless we wanted to sit behind a desk until pension day, we’d better get a move on.
We spend the rest of the day trawling through computer records. I sit down at my computer and punch into the police national database. I thump in what little I have, behavioural aspects of both cases; timing, mutilation, strangulation and the hyoid bone. The machine whirrs into life, checking offenders that had any similarities and their last known whereabouts. I get about three hundred and eighty hits – great. Trawling through them I get nothing that smacks me in the face – that would’ve been far too easy, right? I pull up the recently released offenders and it whittles down to forty. Isn’t it nice to know that so many of Manchester’s finest are back out on the streets? I print them off and decide what the hell, leave it to the morning. I’m still waiting for the autopsy results, forensics and the local canvas statements. Perhaps when they come back it will help to narrow down the search. I have a hunch nothing is going to help us out on this one; we’re flying solo.
It’s got late, most of the office is empty now and finally the telephones are quiet, but the fax machine just keeps churning out more possible offenders from Mack’s search, and perhaps he’s having better luck than me so I think I’ll take a look. I pick up a pile of records and shove them on his already overflowing desk – that’ll teach him to leave early. He’d said he had some errand to do on the way home. Somehow I didn’t think it was for his wife Betty, so I didn’t ask, but I had a feeling that a pub was probably involved somewhere. I flip my files shut, close down the computer and push the thought of the cases to the back of my mind. Time to go home. Damn, I just remembered I was supposed to be meeting Connie for dinner! What time is it? After seven – shit, I was going to be late, and she detests anyone that’s not punctual. It’s not going to be a great start to the evening, and frankly I’m not much in the mood for company, let alone food. I have a sense that this is not going to be the romantic evening I’d originally planned.
Mack slowed down his old Volvo and spun it into a darkened alleyway. He blacked the lights. Getting out he heard the sounds of tins and trash being overturned, cats yelping and litter scattering as he walked. Drunks and old bag ladies lie on either side, oblivious to the world, high on booze or some illegal substance. He pulls out his torch, flicking the bulb into their faces, one by one. Finally he stops, yanking a guy bodily to his feet. The drunk is slow to respond, his tattered raincoat covering a bony skeleton frame, ravished by booze and a lack of good food.
‘What the…?’
‘Long time, Campo,’ said Mack.
‘I ain’t done nuthin’ – I’m telling you.’
‘I never said you did.’ said Mack pressing him up against a wall.
Campo tries to sober up and backs off.
‘Then what d’ya want?’
‘Information, what else?’
Campo’s eyes flick open, interest beginning to show.
‘Yeah?’
‘You know anything about the latest killings? We got any new guys on the patch?’
‘I ain’t heard nuthin’.’
‘Nuthin’ don’t buy you money now, does it?’ Mack
He paces, glaring at me, glaring at Mack, glaring even at the goddamn walls.
‘I want this son of a bitch – or bitches – found. They must have left a trace somewhere – find it!’
We’re tossed out of the room. Nothing like a cosy chat with your boss when you need it.
‘Good motivational speech,’ says Mack, sarcasm slicing through his every word as he sticks a wad of chewing gum in his oversized mouth.
‘Inspirational, in fact probably the best so far – don’t you think?’
He nods in agreement. Bosses are always a complete pain in the arse, but this time we’d sure felt the old Doberman’s bite. We both knew he meant what he said, so unless we wanted to sit behind a desk until pension day, we’d better get a move on.
We spend the rest of the day trawling through computer records. I sit down at my computer and punch into the police national database. I thump in what little I have, behavioural aspects of both cases; timing, mutilation, strangulation and the hyoid bone. The machine whirrs into life, checking offenders that had any similarities and their last known whereabouts. I get about three hundred and eighty hits – great. Trawling through them I get nothing that smacks me in the face – that would’ve been far too easy, right? I pull up the recently released offenders and it whittles down to forty. Isn’t it nice to know that so many of Manchester’s finest are back out on the streets? I print them off and decide what the hell, leave it to the morning. I’m still waiting for the autopsy results, forensics and the local canvas statements. Perhaps when they come back it will help to narrow down the search. I have a hunch nothing is going to help us out on this one; we’re flying solo.
It’s got late, most of the office is empty now and finally the telephones are quiet, but the fax machine just keeps churning out more possible offenders from Mack’s search, and perhaps he’s having better luck than me so I think I’ll take a look. I pick up a pile of records and shove them on his already overflowing desk – that’ll teach him to leave early. He’d said he had some errand to do on the way home. Somehow I didn’t think it was for his wife Betty, so I didn’t ask, but I had a feeling that a pub was probably involved somewhere. I flip my files shut, close down the computer and push the thought of the cases to the back of my mind. Time to go home. Damn, I just remembered I was supposed to be meeting Connie for dinner! What time is it? After seven – shit, I was going to be late, and she detests anyone that’s not punctual. It’s not going to be a great start to the evening, and frankly I’m not much in the mood for company, let alone food. I have a sense that this is not going to be the romantic evening I’d originally planned.
Mack slowed down his old Volvo and spun it into a darkened alleyway. He blacked the lights. Getting out he heard the sounds of tins and trash being overturned, cats yelping and litter scattering as he walked. Drunks and old bag ladies lie on either side, oblivious to the world, high on booze or some illegal substance. He pulls out his torch, flicking the bulb into their faces, one by one. Finally he stops, yanking a guy bodily to his feet. The drunk is slow to respond, his tattered raincoat covering a bony skeleton frame, ravished by booze and a lack of good food.
‘What the…?’
‘Long time, Campo,’ said Mack.
‘I ain’t done nuthin’ – I’m telling you.’
‘I never said you did.’ said Mack pressing him up against a wall.
Campo tries to sober up and backs off.
‘Then what d’ya want?’
‘Information, what else?’
Campo’s eyes flick open, interest beginning to show.
‘Yeah?’
‘You know anything about the latest killings? We got any new guys on the patch?’
‘I ain’t heard nuthin’.’
‘Nuthin’ don’t buy you money now, does it?’ Mack
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