I had planned too well, every risk minimized and balanced against the benefits it would bring. The only account of my work will be this journal, which will not see printer’s ink until my last breath is a distant memory. My only regret is that I won’t be around to read the reviews.
I was back at my post by four, even though I’d never known Adam leave work before a quarter to five. I sat in the window of Burger King on Woolmarket Square, perfectly placed to watch the mouth of the alley leading to his office. Right on cue, he emerged at 4.47 and headed for the tram stop. I joined the knot of people waiting on the raised platform, smiling quietly to myself as I heard the tram hoot in the distance. Enjoy your tram ride, Adam. It’s going to be your last.
The fact was, I ‘fancied’ him, and resolved to commence business upon his throat.
When Damien Connolly failed to turn up at the start of his shift as local information officer in F Division’s station on the south side of the city, the duty sergeant hadn’t been unduly worried. Although PC Connolly was one of the best collators in the force, and a trained HOLMES officer, he was a notoriously bad timekeeper. At least twice a week, he came hurtling through the doors of the station a good ten minutes after his shift was due to start. But when he still hadn’t shown up half an hour after he was due on duty, Sergeant Claire Bonner felt a twinge of irritation. Even Connolly had enough sense to realize that if he was going to be more than fifteen minutes late, he had to phone in. Today of all days as well, when headquarters were demanding a full turnout of HOLMES officers on the serial-killer investigation.
Sighing, Sgt Bonner checked Connolly’s home number in her files and dialled it. The phone rang and rang, till finally it was automatically disconnected. She felt a prickle of concern. Connolly was something of a loner outside the job. He was quieter and maybe more thoughtful than most of the officers on Sgt Bonner’s relief, always keeping his distance when he joined in the social life of the station. As far as she was aware, there was no girlfriend in whose bed Connolly might have overslept. His family were all up in Glasgow, so there were no relatives to try locally. Sgt Bonner cast her mind back. Yesterday had been a day off for the relief. When they’d knocked off from the previous night shift, Connolly had come for breakfast with her and half a dozen of the other lads. He’d not said anything about having plans for his time off other than catching up on his kip and working on his car, an elderly Austin Healey roadster.
Sgt Bonner went through to the control room and had a word with her opposite number, asking him to have one of the patrol cars swing round by Connolly’s house to check he wasn’t ill or injured. ‘See if they can check the garage, make sure that bloody car of his hasn’t come off the jack with him underneath,’ she added as she went back to her desk.
It was after eight when the control room sergeant appeared in her office. ‘The lads have checked Connolly’s house. No answer to the door. They had a good scout round, and all the curtains were open. Milk on the doorstep. No sign of life as far as they could make out. There was only one thing a bit odd that they could see. His car was parked on the street, which isn’t like him. I don’t have to tell you, he treats that motor like the crown jewels.’
Sgt Bonner frowned. ‘Maybe he’s got somebody stopping with him? A relative, or a girlfriend? Maybe he’s let them stick their car in the garage?’
The control room sergeant shook his head. ‘Nope. The lads had a look in the garage window, and it was empty. And don’t forget the milk.’
Sgt Bonner shrugged. ‘Not a lot more we can do, then, is there?’
‘Well, he’s over twenty-one. I’d have thought he’d have more sense than to go on the missing list, but you know what they say about the quiet ones.’
Sgt Bonner sighed. ‘I’ll have his guts for garters when he shows his face. By the way, I’ve asked Joey Smith to stand in for him in the collator’s office for this shift.’
The control room sergeant cast his eyes upwards. ‘You really know how to make a man’s day, don’t you? Couldn’t you have got one of the others? Smith can barely manage the alphabet.’
Before Sgt Bonner could argue the toss, there was a knock at the door. ‘Yeah?’ she called. ‘Come in.’
A PC from the control room entered hesitantly. She looked faintly sick. ‘Skip,’ she said, the worry in her voice obvious from the single word. ‘I think you’d better have a look at this.’ She held out a fax, the bottom edge ragged where it had been torn hastily off the roll.
Being nearer, the control room sergeant took the flimsy sheet and glanced at it. He drew in his breath sharply, then closed his eyes for a moment. Wordlessly, he handed the fax to Sgt Bonner.
At first, all she saw was the stark black and white of the photograph. For a moment, her mind automatically protecting her from horror, she wondered why someone had gone over her head and reported Connolly missing. Then her eyes translated the marks on the paper into words. ‘Urgent fax to all stations. This is the unidentified murder victim discovered yesterday afternoon in the back yard of the Queen of Hearts public house, Temple Fields, Bradfield. Photograph to follow later this a.m. Please circulate and display. Any information to DI Kevin Matthews at Scargill Street Incident Room, ext. 2456.’
Sgt Bonner looked bleakly at the other two officers. ‘There isn’t any doubt about it, is there?’
The PC looked at the floor, her skin pale and clammy. ‘I don’t think so, skip,’ she said. ‘That’s Connolly. I mean, it’s not what you’d call a good likeness, but it’s definitely him.’
The control room sergeant picked up the fax. ‘I’ll get on to DI Matthews right away,’ he said.
Sgt Bonner pushed her chair back and stood up. ‘I’d better go round to the morgue. They’re going to need a formal identification as soon as possible so they can get weaving.’
‘This makes it a whole new ball game,’ Tony said, his face sombre.
‘It certainly ups the stakes,’ Carol said.
‘The question I’m asking myself is whether or not Handy Andy knew he was giving us a bobby,’ Tony said softly, swinging round in his chair to stare out of the window at the city rooftops.
‘Sorry?’
He gave a twisted smile and said, ‘No, it’s me who should apologize. I always give them a name. It makes it personal.’ He swung back to face Carol. ‘Does that bother you?’
Carol shook her head. ‘It’s better than the station nickname.’
‘Which is?’ Tony asked, eyebrows raised.
‘The Queer Killer,’ Carol said, her distaste clear.
‘That begs a lot of questions,’ Tony said noncommittally. ‘But if it helps them deal with their fear and anger, it’s probably no bad thing.’
‘I don’t like it. It doesn’t feel personal to me, calling him the Queer Killer.’
‘What does make it personal to you? The fact that he’s taken one of yours now?’
‘I felt like that already. As soon as we got the second murder, the one I was handling, I was convinced we were dealing with a serial offender. That was when it got personal for me. I want to nail this bastard. I need to. Professionally, personally, whatever.’ The cold vehemence in Carol’s voice gave Tony confidence. This was a woman who was going to pull out all the stops to make sure he had what he needed to do his job. Her tone of voice and the words she’d chosen were also a calculated challenge, showing him she didn’t give a damn what he made of her desire. She was just what he needed. Professionally, at any rate.
‘You and me both,’ Tony said. ‘And together, we can make it happen. But only together. You know, the first time I got directly involved in profiling, it was a serial arsonist. After half a dozen major