the right direction.’
Carol smiled grimly. ‘Just point, and I’ll be off like a gun dog,’ she said. ‘What did you mean when you said you wondered whether he knew Damien Connolly was a bobby?’
Tony ran a hand through his hair, leaving it spiky as a punk’s. ‘OK. We’ve got two scenarios here. Handy Andy may not have known Damien Connolly was a bobby. It may be nothing more than a coincidence, a particularly unpleasant coincidence for his colleagues, but a coincidence nevertheless. That’s not a scenario I’m happy with, however, because my reading, based on the little I know so far, is that these aren’t random victims snatched by chance. I think he chooses his victims with care, and plans thoroughly. Would you agree with that?’
‘He doesn’t leave things to chance, that’s obvious,’ Carol said.
‘Right. The alternative is that Handy Andy knows full well that his fourth victim is a policeman. That in itself leads to two further possibilities. One: Handy Andy knew he’d killed a copper, but that fact is supremely irrelevant to the meaning of the killing for him. In other words, Damien Connolly fulfilled all the other criteria that Andy needs from his victims, and he would have died at this point whether he was a bobby or a bus driver.
‘The other scenario is the one I like best, though. The fact that Damien was a copper is a crucial part of the reason why Handy Andy chose him as his fourth victim.’
‘You mean he’s thumbing his nose at us?’ Carol asked.
Thank God she was quick. That was going to make the job so much simpler. She’d done well to get as far up the ladder as she had, given she had looks as well as brains. Either attribute without the other would have made promotion easier. ‘That’s certainly a possibility,’ Tony acknowledged. ‘But I think it’s more likely to be about vanity. I think he’d started to get pissed off with Detective Superintendent Cross’s refusal to acknowledge his existence. In his own eyes, he’s very successful at what he does. He’s the best. And he deserves recognition. And that desire for recognition has been thwarted by the police’s refusal to admit there’s only one offender behind these killings. OK, so the Sentinel Times has been speculating about a serial killer since the second victim, but that’s not the same as being given the official accolade by the police themselves. And I may have unwittingly added fuel to the fire after the third killing.’
‘You mean, the interview you did with the Sentinel Times?’
‘Yeah. My suggestion that it was possible there were two killers at work will have made him angry that he wasn’t being acknowledged as the master of his craft.’
‘Dear God,’ Carol said, torn between revulsion and fascination. ‘So he went out and stalked a police officer so we’d take him seriously?’
‘It’s a possibility. Of course, it can’t have been just any police officer. Even though making his point to the powers that be is important to Handy Andy, the prime directive is still to go for victims who fulfil his very personal criteria.’
Carol frowned. ‘So what you’re saying is that there’s something about Connolly that makes him different from most other coppers?’
‘Looks like it.’
‘Maybe it’s the sexuality thing,’ Carol mused. ‘I mean, there aren’t many gays in the force. And those that there are tend to be so deep in the closet you could mistake them for a clothes hanger.’
‘Whoa,’ Tony laughed, holding up his hands as if to fend her off. ‘No theorizing without data. We don’t know yet whether Damien was gay. What might be useful, though, is to find out what shifts Damien worked recently. Say, the last two months. That’ll give us some idea of the times he was at home, which might help the officers who’ll be questioning his neighbours. Also, we should be asking around the other officers on his relief, to check out whether he always left alone, or if he ever gave anyone a lift home. We need to find out everything there is to know about Damien Connolly both as a man and as a bobby.’
Carol pulled out her notebook and scribbled a reminder to herself. ‘Shifts,’ she muttered.
‘There’s something else this tells us about Handy Andy,’ Tony said slowly, reaching for the idea that had just swum into his consciousness.
Carol looked up, her eyes alert. ‘Go on,’ she said.
‘He’s very, very good at what he does,’ Tony said flatly. ‘Think about it. A police officer is a trained observer. Even the thickest plod is a lot more alert to what’s going on around them than the average member of the public. Now, from what you’ve told me, Damien Connolly was a bright lad. He was a collator, which means he was even more on the ball than most officers. As I understand it, a collator’s job is to act like the station’s walking encyclopaedia. It’s all very well having all the local information about known villains and MOs on file cards, but if the collator isn’t sharp, then the system’s worthless, am I right?’
‘Spot on. A good collator is worth half a dozen bodies on the ground,’ Carol said. ‘And by all accounts, Connolly was one of the best.’
Tony leaned back in his chair. ‘So if Handy Andy stalked Damien without setting any alarm bells ringing, he must be bloody good. Face it, Carol, if somebody was tailing you on a regular basis, you’d pick them up, wouldn’t you?’
‘I bloody hope so,’ Carol said drily. ‘But I’m a woman. Maybe we’re just a bit more on our guard than the blokes.’
Tony shook his head. ‘I think a copper as smart as Damien would have noticed anything other than a very professional tail.’
‘You mean we might be looking for someone who’s in the Job?’ Carol demanded, her voice rising as she spoke the unthinkable.
‘It’s a possibility. I can’t pitch it more strongly than that till I’ve seen all the evidence. Is that it?’ Tony asked, nodding towards the cardboard box Carol had deposited by the door of his office.
‘That’s some of it. There’s another box and some folders of photographs still in the car. And that’s after some serious editing.’
Tony pulled a face. ‘Rather you than me. Shall we go and fetch it, then?’
Carol stood up. ‘Why don’t you get started while I go and get the rest?’
‘It’s the photographs I want to look at first, so I might as well come and help,’ he said.
‘Thanks,’ Carol said.
In the lift, they stood on opposite sides, both conscious of the other’s physical presence. ‘That’s not a Bradfield accent,’ Tony remarked as the doors slid shut. If he was going to work successfully with Carol Jordan, he needed to know what made her tick, personally as well as professionally. The more he could find out about her, the better.
‘I thought you said you left the detective work to us?’
‘We’re good at stating the obvious, us psychologists. Isn’t that what our critics on the force say?’
‘Touché. I’m from Warwick, originally. Then university at Manchester and into the Met on the fast track. And you? I’m not great on accents, but I can spot you’re a Northerner, though you don’t sound like Bradfield either,’ Carol replied.
‘Born and bred in Halifax. London University, followed by a DPhil at Oxford. Eight years in special hospitals. Eighteen months ago, the Home Office headhunted me to run this feasibility study.’ Give a little to get a lot, Tony thought wryly. Who exactly was probing whom?
‘So we’re both outsiders,’ Carol said.
‘Maybe that’s why John Brandon chose you to liaise with me.’
The lift doors slid open and they walked through the underground car park to the visitors’ parking area where Carol had left her car. Tony hefted the cardboard box out of the boot. ‘You must be stronger than you look,’ he gasped.
Carol