The Red Room (15 page)

19

The press conference was organized at the very last
minute but there was a buzz about this one and nowhere in the
Stretton Green police station was remotely
big enough, even though a good half of the rooms had
now been stripped of all their furniture. A
conference room was hastily booked at the
Shackleton Hotel just around the corner and it was
jammed with jostling men and women in suits shouting
into mobile phones. The room was horribly hot
and I saw a man in a uniform trying and failing
to open a window. I stood right at the back, near
the door, where there was a welcome breeze of
slightly less unpleasant warm air.
Four men in gray suits swaggered through the
door. Oban, Furth, Renborn and
Renborn's deputy, Paul Crosby. They
almost brushed against me, but didn't notice,
insulated as they were by three uniformed officers as
well as by their air of businesslike urgency.
They made their way through the crowd and up 247
onto the platform at the far end. They sat down
at the table and were instantly blasted by television
lights, which suddenly made them look more real than
anything else in the room. A female officer
came forward with a jug of water and four glasses.
They all took sips with serious frowns. There was
a microphone on the table. Oban tapped it with a
finger. It sounded like someone banging on the wall with a
broomstick. The noise subsided as if he had
turned a dial.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he began, "most of
you won't know me. I'm Detective Chief
Inspector Daniel Oban from Stretton
Green. I won't beat about the bush. We're
here to announce a significant step forward in the
Philippa Burton murder inquiry." There was
a slight buzz and Oban, big ham that he
was, paused, visibly savoring the moment.
"Ten days before the murder of Mrs. Burton, a
young woman, known to her friends as Lianne, was found
murdered by the stretch of canal that passes through the
Kersey Town area. We now believe that these
two murders were committed by the same person."
After saying this, he took a sip of water then
clenched his jaw. I suspected that this may have been
to prevent himself breaking into an inappropriate
smile of pleasure at the excitement his words had
provoked.
"If you'll let me finish," he said. "One
result of this is that two separate murder
inquiries will now be combined. I happen to be the
senior officer and I will take nominal charge.
But it goes without saying that Vic Renborn and his
team have been doing an outstanding job so far and
we'll be working closely together."
He gave a somber nod at Renborn, who
gave a brief, businesslike inclination of his
head in acknowledgment. There was an immediate forest of
hands at the front. Oban pointed at someone I
couldn't see. "Yes, Ken?"
"What's the basis for the connection?"
"As most of you probably know, fiber
analysis is generally used to establish connections
between a body and a suspect. But in this case we
found matching fibers on the clothes of the two
women."
"What sort of fibers?"
"Originally we thought the two women had been
murdered where they were found. We now suspect they
were killed elsewhere and that they were then 249
transported in a vehicle to a relatively
secluded spot where the body was dumped. We
believe these fibers may come from the vehicle in which
they were transported. What we found was a form of
..." Oban looked down at a piece of paper
on the table, his... synthetic polymer that is
common to both bodies."
Someone else stood up. A woman holding a
microphone. "But how did you come to make the
connection?"
Now Oban allowed himself a slight smile.
"A crucial aspect of any murder inquiry
is the control of information, and the pooling of it between
different parts of the Metropolitan Police and
beyond. I would like to say that this has so far been a
model of co-operation and I'd like to pay tribute
once again to Vic Renborn and his team."
"But why did you compare the two murders? Are
they very similar?"
"Not at first sight, no," said Oban. "But
there are one or two possibly linking
factors."
"Such as?"
He looked mysterious. "I hope you'll
understand if we don't discuss these at this time."
"Can you say anything about the sort of person
you're looking for?"
Oban looked across. "Vic? You want
to take this one?"
"Thanks," said Renborn, giving a modest
smile. "What we think we're seeing here is a
progression. The first victim, Lianne, was
what we call a soft target. She was a
runaway, living in hostels, in a world of drugs
and prostitution. She was accessible and vulnerable.
With Philippa Burton he was bolder. I'm
not saying anything against Lianne, who was of course
tragically murdered, but Mrs. Burton was a
respectable woman with a child. She was a more
difficult target. This is a person who
committed what you might call an easy murder and
has now moved on to a more difficult one."
Another hand bobbed up. "Have you got anything more
specific?"
"The murderer makes use of a car. We had
also had advice from a highly experienced
psychological profiler with an excellent
track record."
I knew who this was. Seb Weller.
"He has provided us with a 251
tentative profile of which I'm authorized
to give just a few details. He's white.
Twenty-five to thirty-five, probably the
upper end of that range. We suspect that he
saw Philippa Burton, and the murder was partly
committed because the killer didn't just desire her,
he envied what she had, she was obviously
well-off, with a child."
"So you're saying it's a serial killer."
"No," said Oban hurriedly. "Let's be
sensible here. I'm just saying that we've got a
dangerous man moving around, probably in a
vehicle, so we ask for any possible
co-operation from the public."
"So he'll strike again," shouted a voice from
the back.
"I certainly don't want to alarm anyone,"
said Oban. "He will be caught. But in the meantime
people--especially women in public places--should
exercise especial caution. Let's keep
'em skinned, all right?" He looked around.
"Any further questions?"
A middle-aged woman stood up. "You
haven't explained what made you compare these two
cases."
Oban dealt with this himself. "That's not an easy
question to answer," he said. "As you've heard, an
investigation like this depends on highly technical
forensic analysis but also on old-fashioned shoe
leather. We have already interviewed hundreds of
potential witnesses, we've dragged the canal,
we've conducted house-to-house inquiries,
we've conducted intensive searches of the two areas
where the bodies were found. But all the same, some of
it comes down to experience and instinct." Now he
gave an avuncular smile. "Call it the
copper's instinct, for want of a better term.
We had a feeling that there was a connection, even if
we weren't sure exactly what it was. That was
what made us check it out. Things just rang
bells."
"Why did he choose those victims?"
"We believe the choices were opportunistic.
He saw his chance, acted. That's what makes
psychopathic killers of that kind especially
difficult to catch."
"Do you have any suspects?"
"I don't want to make any comment about that at
this time. I'll just say that we're interviewing some
people." 253
"Is it true that you're employing a psychic
to find the killer? And is it a proper use of
taxpayers' money?"
"For a start, I am not employing any
psychics. On the other hand, if someone can help
me find the killer, I don't care if they use
tea-leaves to do it. And on that hopeful note,
I think we'd better draw proceedings to a
close. Rest assured, we'll keep you in touch
with any developments. For the moment you'll understand that
it's back to business. We've got work to do."

Twenty minutes later we were sitting in the
Lamb and Flag, a nearby pub that was
decorated with a large collection of horse
brasses and much frequented by policemen. Oban
took a sip from his pint of bitter and held the
glass reflectively up to the light.
"When I was talking about "us coppers,"
obviously you were included, Kit. I know that in
an ideal world I should have singled you out for credit.
..."
I took a sip of my fizzy water and felt
very prim. I didn't want to seem like a dour
teetotaler but it was only eleven on a weekday
morning. "I'm not interested in credit ..." I
began.
"The point is," Oban continued, "that it's good
for morale to talk about how well they've done.
Deserved or not. But rest assured, if it all
goes wrong, we'll single you out for public
blame."
"Yeah," said Furth, from across the table. He
had just placed a second pint next to the first, which
was looking dangerously close to empty.
"We'll see you all right, Kit. As long as you
don't walk out again. I can never keep track with
whether you're on or off the case. You've
retired more often than Frank Sinatra.
Anyway, cheers."
The final contents of pint number one
disappeared. This was the boys being nice to me. It was
often difficult to distinguish it from when they were being
nasty. I wasn't always sure whether I was
getting a slap on the back or a jab in the
ribs. Perhaps you needed to be a bloke to tell.
"I wasn't sure about your profile, Vic,"
I volunteered gingerly.
"Don't blame me, love. I just was quoting
Seb. Are you saying he's wrong?" 255
"No. But what we're doing is playing the
odds. We're saying the killer is white because
most serial killers don't cross racial
divides. I know all that. The danger of these
profiles is that they cut off lines of
inquiry."
"I thought that was the point."
"It's not much good if it cuts off the right line
of inquiry."
"I've heard your theory," said Furth, a
bit too loudly. "A nice psychopathic
killer. Wanna crisp, by the way?"
Offering me his crisps. I was certainly back
on board. I took one and crunched it loudly.
"I wasn't saying he was nice. But there are
nice killers, in a kind of way I mean."
There was a guffaw from somewhere. "I mean it. I've
come across a case where a child was murdered and buried
by its mother, and the mother had wrapped it up as if she was
putting it to bed. I just think that we should be careful
about making assumptions," I said. "That's all."
"So what do we do?" said Oban. "That's our
problem. You keep saying what it isn't. But
what is it? Where do we look?"
"I don't know," I said, and swallowed the
last of my water. "We need to be open
to possibility, that's all."
"Nah," said Furth. "You're making it too
hard for yourself, darling. He started being careful, then
he snatched someone in broad daylight. He's
getting bolder. He needs to get the same
buzz. I'll bet you anything he'll get more and
more careless and we'll pick him up the next time
or the time after that. And guess what? His name will be
Mickey Doll."
I ignored the mention of Doll. "You make it
sound like a game."
"No," said Oban. "That's not fair." He
took a deep drink and wiped his mouth with the back
of his hand. "We may behave like a bunch of piss
artists, but that doesn't mean we are."
"Er, it does actually, guv," said Furth,
to great laughter. It was like having a meeting in the
middle of a rugby club dinner.

20

I had a free afternoon after the morning at the
clinic. I bought myself a warm croissant stuffed
with cheese and spinach from the deli for 257
lunch, then ate a heaped bowl of raspberries,
which were large, purple, cool from the fridge and
sweet with the hint of fermentation. I ate them
slowly, one at a time, relishing this oasis of
empty time. The fruit stained my fingers.
Outside, the air was thick and bright after last
night's rain. The leaves shone on the trees,
glossy. I tried to think. I thought about
Lianne and Philippa, letting their faces
glow in my mind. I knew what Philippa had
looked like alive--there had been so many
photographs, with her slender, toned body and
silky cap of hair, every bit of her looking
buffed and polished. I only knew what
Lianne had looked like dead, bitten nails and
ragged hair. I didn't know the color of her
eyes or the shape of her smile. I needed to know
about these two young women, because even random violence
has a kind of reason. And I wanted to start with
Lianne because she'd died first, but she seemed to have
left no trail.
I finished the last raspberry and rinsed out the
bowl. The police weren't any real help. They
didn't know who Lianne was; they didn't know
where she came from; they hadn't tracked down people who
had known her; they could tell me nothing except
what I already knew, that she had been a
runaway, one of the missing thousands who drift
round the streets of the big cities. The police
came across people like Lianne all the time.
Runaways took drugs. Runaways stole.
Runaways became prostitutes. "They are
victims and then they turn into criminals," said
Furth, and I opened my mouth to snap something at
him, but then closed it. We were back to being
enemies pretending to be friends.
I didn't know what else to do so I turned
to Pavic again. I had to nerve myself to call him.
In each of our meetings, I had been at a
hopeless disadvantage, but the last had been the
worst. I took a deep breath and dialed the
number. A woman answered and said he wasn't
there, but he was expected at any moment. I
left my number, almost relieved. Then I
waited, prowling around the flat, looking out of the
window, picking up magazines and letting them
drop again, but really just waiting.
The telephone rang fifteen minutes later.
I picked it up on the third ring so he wouldn't
think I was sitting by it. 259
"Will Pavic here."
"I'm really sorry to bother you again," I said.
There was a pause, which he didn't fill. "I
need your help."
"So I assumed," he said drily.
"I need to talk to people who knew Lianne. Just
a pointer in the right direction."
"Kit ..."
"Please."
"All right."
"God, that was easier than I expected."
He didn't laugh. Maybe he'd forgotten how
to. "Shall I come to your center?"
"Let's see. Are you free at, say,
six?"
"Yes."
"Meet me at the car-wash center on
Sheffield Street. It's just up the road from
here."
"The car-wash center?"
"That's right. Big place. You can't miss it.
See you then."
"About the other day--was I said, but he'd already
gone.