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  “Well, I’ve found one.”

  “Seriously?” Kate bent lower, looking at his computer screen. She lowered her voice. “Have you told Anderton yet?”

  “Not yet.”

  “But you’re telling me first?”

  Theo grinned. “I’m nice like that. Also, you’re subbing me in the run.”

  “Oh, that.”

  “Yeah, so I owe you. Anyway, look here.” He tapped keys and brought up one of the database screens. “Murder of a prostitute in Brighton. Ingrid Davislova, age twenty-two years. Originally from Poland. She’d only been here a year or so, poor cow.”

  Kate read the rest of the details. The victim had been short, slim, dark-haired, and the murder weapon, which hadn’t been found, was estimated to be some sort of serrated kitchen knife.

  “This was just under eight months ago.” She ran her eyes over the words and numbers on the screen once more. “It’s good, Theo. It sounds like it could be our guy.”

  “I’m going to tell the boss. Give us a hand up, will you?”

  Kate helped him up and balanced him while he tucked the crutches under his arms.

  “Shall I tell him you know already?” asked Theo, stuffing the papers under one arm and wobbling a little as he attempted to turn around.

  Kate shook her head.

  “Not yet,” she said. “Not just yet.”

  Kate’s task for the afternoon was to interview Mandy Renkin’s foster parents. Adele Watkins opened the front door of the Victorian-terraced house. She was a massive woman, not tall, but very overweight, with a fat, still-pretty face and short, curly grey hair. Clearly unembarrassed by her size, Adele wore loose trousers and a tunic in jewel-bright colours, and her chubby fingers sparkled with rings. Kate warmed to her immediately.

  The house was very cluttered, the furniture was battered and the carpets were worn, but there was still an air of homely comfort throughout. A greyhound, as thin as its owner was fat, was curled in a dog basket in the messy kitchen, its sharp, bony muzzle resting on the side of the basket. Liquid brown eyes followed Kate as she walked past to the chair that Adele indicated at the table, and the dog’s whip-like tail thumped. It whimpered softly.

  “All right, you old softy,” said Adele, and the dog jumped up immediately and came over to Kate, wiggling its bottom like a Caribbean dancer. Kate, charmed, stroked the head that had been laid in her lap as she listened to Adele talk about Mandy.

  “Nice girl, lovely girl. Kind and intelligent. Too intelligent for her own good, I always thought. She had a tragic history. Well, my dear, they all do, to be honest.”

  “Have you fostered many children, Mrs Watkins?”

  “Seems like hundreds. It’s not, of course, but I’ve been doing this for – oh, twenty years now. I couldn’t have any of my own. That’s what got me started.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” said Kate, automatically. She pulled the dog’s silky ears gently, and it gave a whimper of pleasure.

  “Well, perhaps it was for the best,” said Adele. “I’ve been able to help a lot of children over the years, and if I’d had my own, well who knows whether I would have fostered any? No, I can’t complain. I feel we’ve had a family, Bernard and I. It’s very satisfying to know that you’re able to give a child a stable home. There’s so many kids out there who need one.”

  “Barbara Fee said as much. She said Mandy settled here really well.”

  “She did. She was a bit younger than the ones we usually have. We made a point of having the teenagers here if they need a place.”

  “Why is that?”

  Adele pushed a plate of biscuits over to her. “Well, no one else wants them, my dear, you see? Most foster carers, most people who adopt – they want the babies, don’t they? The littlies.”

  Kate flinched, unable to help herself. When would that ever stop hurting? She coughed, keeping her face as blank as she could.

  Adele didn’t seem to have noticed her momentary wince. She was looking out the kitchen window at a garden filled with a trampoline, a rusting swing and several bikes leaning up against the wall of a shed.

  “Mandy had been in and out of care homes since she was five. She was desperate for a real home, somewhere where she could feel like she was in a family.”

  “Did she have any contact with her birth family at all?”

  “No. No she didn’t. Her mother was a chronic alcoholic. She’s dead now, poor woman. I think she actually had Mandy put up for adoption, though. I mean, rather than Mandy being removed from her care.”

  Kate was careful to keep her voice steady when she asked the next question.

  “How old was Mandy when that happened?”

  Adele ran chubby fingers through her grey curls.

  “I’m not sure, my dear, to be honest. It was such a long time ago now. I think she was two – two, maybe three?”

  “And Mandy went into care? She wasn’t adopted?”

  “No, unfortunately not. No, they couldn’t find a placement for her.”

  Kate scratched at the dog’s ears, and it whined again with pleasure.

  “That’s sad,” she murmured.

  “Yes,” said Adele, briefly. “It’s amazing that she was as bright and as – well – normal as she could be by the time she came to us. Still, it took its toll though, those years in care. Yes, it took its toll.”

  “So Mandy came to you when she was ten?”

  Adele nodded. “She settled immediately. Did well at school, made friends. We even thought she might go onto university.”

  “So what happened?”

  Adele Watkins sighed. She eased her bulk a little in the slightly too-small kitchen chair.

  “Oh, my dear,” she said. “I could tell you that it was her boyfriend’s fault. That would be the obvious explanation.”

  “Would this be Mike Fenton you’re talking about?”

  “Mike, yes – that was his name.” Adele fell silent for a moment. Then she heaved herself off of her chair and went over to the kitchen dresser, crammed with crockery, cookery books, plastic toys, a child’s sock, an empty beer bottle, a blackening banana and other assorted household detritus. From the chaos she extracted a small, framed photograph and handed it to Kate.

  Kate looked at the picture. A teenage girl, bright-faced and smiling, dressed in her school uniform, with a slightly crooked fringe and freckles. Kate thought of that copy of Great Expectations in Mandy’s room, the inscription on the flyer. Then she saw Mandy’s dead face on Doctor Telling’s examination table. She felt her fingers clench on the wooden frame.

  “She was lovely,” she said in a low voice.

  Adele sat down again, heavily.

  “She was. It’s not—”

  For a moment, her voice cracked. She turned her head sharply away from Kate to look again out of the window as if the view of the suburban garden fascinated her.

  “It’s not fair,” said Adele after a moment. She cleared her throat. “Life’s not fair though, is it, my dear?”

  Kate said nothing but handed her back the picture, gently. Adele took it and propped it up against the vase of flowers that stood in the middle of the kitchen table.

  “So, Mike Fenton is the one you blame?” asked Kate.

  Adele looked at her with a gentle smile.

  “No, I said that would be the obvious explanation. He was the one who introduced her to drugs after all. But no, I don’t really blame him. Mandy made her own choices. She just made bad ones because she was missing something, you see.”

  “Missing something?”

  Adele picked up the photograph again, regarding the bright, pretty face of the young girl trapped within the frame.

  “I don’t think you can conceive of the damage it does to a child when she has the kind of upbringing – or lack of it – that Mandy had,” she explained. “When your mother doesn’t want you – when you know your mother didn’t want you – when you’re rejected from that early an age, there’s a part of you that doesn’t ever rec
over. I think, somewhere deep down, you’re always aware of the lack, you know. There’s always a part of you that’s missing.”

  There was a long moment of silence. Adele looked up at Kate.

  “I’m sorry, my dear, are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” said Kate with a clenched and frozen smile. “Thank you for seeing me, Mrs Watkins. You’ve been very helpful.”

  Adele looked a little surprised but heaved herself to her feet.

  “Any time, my dear. I hope I’ve been of some help.”

  “Very much so,” said Kate. She shook hands on the doorstep and handed over her card. “Thank you very much.”

  “Goodbye.”

  Kate made herself lift a hand in farewell as she reached the garden gate. Then she hurried around the corner, out of sight, and burst into tears.

  Chapter Eight

  “All right, all right,” said Anderton. “I can see you’re all eagerly eyeing up the booze behind me. Before we get stuck in, I want a quick rundown of where we’re at. Who wants to start?”

  They were all gathered in the once-pristine office, which was rapidly returning to its usual state of messiness. Behind Anderton’s pacing figure stood a table with four bottles of champagne and a variety of glasses ranging from champagne flutes, a novelty shot glass from Ibiza and a beer mug. Real champagne too, not cheap fizz.

  “Anybody?” asked Anderton.

  Kate waved her hand.

  “I interviewed Mandy’s foster mother this afternoon. Mandy lived with the family for about five years until she left home to live with her boyfriend.”

  “Would this be the junkie one? Mark Fenton?”

  “Mike Fenton, sir. Yes, that’s the one.”

  Anderton propped himself against the table, causing the bottles to chink against one another.

  “Whoops.”

  “Don’t spill it,” said Olbeck, grinning.

  “God forbid. Anyway, what about this Mike Fenton? He’s the one who introduced Mandy to drugs, got her on the downward spiral. I suppose we have eliminated him from our enquiries? Anyone checked on his whereabouts?”

  Jane put her hand up.

  “I did, sir. Did that as soon as I had the name from Kate and Mark’s interview with Claudia Smith.”

  Anderton looked pleased.

  “You did? Quick work Jane, well done.” Jane smiled a bashful, modest smile. “So, what have we got?”

  “Well sir, it definitely wasn’t him.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because he’s dead. Died about four years ago.”

  “Aha.” Anderton eased himself from the edge of the table and began walking up and down again. “Let me guess. Drugs overdose?”

  Jane shook her head. “Funnily enough, no. He was killed in a car crash.”

  “Well, there we go. He’s still dead. Not our guy. Okay, what else?” He looked keenly across the room. “Theo?”

  Theo was from necessity sitting down; his plastered leg stuck out in front of him.

  He smiled rather self-consciously.

  “There was a case, in Brighton, that strongly resembles our case here. Same sort of murder weapon. Same type of victim. The Brighton case was unsolved.”

  Anderton nodded. Kate, looking around at the other faces, saw a variety of expressions: uneasiness, excitement, scepticism, eagerness. Jerry was staring out of the window, his thoughts clearly far from this room.

  Anderton raised his hand as if to quell a hubbub, although there was silence in the room.

  “Now, I should mention that I asked Theo to look for cases with a similar MO,” he said. “Don’t go leaping to any enormous conclusions or anything. It’s just something I thought should be looked into, that’s all.”

  Olbeck asked the same question Kate had asked a few days ago.

  “You think there will be more, sir? Are we talking another Ipswich, or something?”

  Anderton had stopped pacing. He lifted his shoulders and dropped them.

  “I don’t know. I have no idea. I hope—” He was silent for a second. “We’re planning for the worst, that’s all. I hope I’m wrong.”

  There was another short period of silence, more loaded than the last. Then Anderton broke it.

  “Now, don’t go getting all panicky. I just want someone to follow up on the possible Brighton connection, that’s all. Get a bit more info. Jerry!” Jerry almost jumped. “You’ve got contacts there, haven’t you? Could you give one of them a ring, take a visit, that sort of thing?”

  Jerry looked for a moment as if he were going to refuse. Then he shrugged.

  “Okay, then. I’ll go tomorrow.”

  “Good. Right then, if no one else has anything, I think we can call a halt to the official proceedings and prepare to declare this new office open.” He turned to the table behind him and picked up the first bottle, ripping the gold foil from the top.

  “Anyone got anything they want to say?”

  “May God bless this new office and all who sail in her,” said Olbeck, laughing.

  “Quite right,” said Anderton and the cork exploded from the bottle, ricocheting of the ceiling before a spume of froth shot out from the neck of the bottle, all over the new flooring. Jane shrieked and Rav whooped.

  “Shit,” said Anderton, grinning. “Don’t just stand there, get me some glasses!”

  Anderton began the slow journey around the room with a tray full of brimming glasses. He paused in front of Kate, Theo and Olbeck.

  “Here you go,” he said. The men took a glass each. Anderton went to leave.

  “Wait,” said Kate, suddenly reckless. “I’ll have one.”

  All three men did a genuine double-take. Anderton was first to recover his composure.

  “Right you are.” He inclined the tray so that the biggest glass was nearest Kate’s hand. “Why not? If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em, eh, Kate?”

  Kate took the glass and took a sip. Anderton moved on with the now-depleted tray.

  Kate became aware of both Theo and Olbeck boggling at her.

  “What?” she said, a little annoyed.

  “Where is Kate Redman, and what have you done with her?” asked Olbeck.

  “Check her pulse, she could be an alien imposter,” said Theo, grinning.

  “Oh, leave it out,” said Kate. “I do have the odd drink, you know. I’m not totally teetotal. I’ve even got pissed with you both once.”

  “That was eight months ago,” said Olbeck. “And you’ve not touched a drop since, at least that I’m aware of. What’s the big occasion?”

  Kate shrugged.

  “Don’t know. Just felt like it, I suppose.”

  “Well, damn it – cheers then.” Olbeck clinked glasses with her, and after a second, Theo followed suit.

  “You got any more on the Brighton case, Theo?” asked Kate after they’d all taken a drink. “Anything that you haven’t told us?”

  Theo was opening his mouth to answer when Olbeck cut across him.

  “No, no,” he said. “I absolutely forbid it. For once, we are not going to talk shop. Let’s talk about something else. Anything.”

  “Wait while a deathly silence falls,” said Kate. Then she relented. “All right, why not. Anyone seen any good films lately?”

  Once the champagne ran out, the team decamped to the pub. Jane cried off, citing childcare arrangements, but everyone else headed for the battered old tavern three streets away that had almost become a second, unofficial office. Kate, Jerry and Olbeck sat down at the usual corner table next to the flashing fruit machines. Anderton and Rav headed for the bar, and Theo hobbled out to the garden for a cigarette.

  Olbeck’s phone rang. Answering the call, he waved an apology at Kate and Jerry and squeezed past them to take his phone call out in the relatively quiet street.

  Kate and Jerry sat in an awkward silence, made somehow worse by the friendly tumult going on around them. Kate resisted the urge to check her own phone for messages. The unaccustomed champagne made
her bold. Without stopping to think about whether it was a good idea or not, she turned to Jerry.

  “So, why can’t we be friends, Jerry? Why do we have this awkwardness between us? Is it something I’ve done?”

  The smaller, sober part of her was aghast. Jerry was looking at her as if she’d just got up on the table and urinated in his pint glass.

  “You what?” he said after a moment.

  The tone of his voice should have warned Kate off, and if she hadn’t drunk the best part of a half a bottle of champagne, she would have laughed and changed the subject and possibly ran out of the pub on the flimsiest of excuses. Instead, she repeated her question.

  The long moment of silence that followed was lengthy enough for Kate to begin to feel rather unpleasantly sober. Then Jerry, not taking his eyes off hers, spoke.

  “Yeah, you’re right,” he said. “I don’t like you. Why would I?”

  “Why would you?” Kate was aware she was blinking rapidly and shaking her head. “What do you mean? Why – why would you feel that way?”

  Jerry scoffed. He turned to look back at the beer garden, the light dimming as the long summer twilight gradually gave way to night.

  “Why wouldn’t I?” he said. “Why? Why would I like, much less respect, someone who gets ahead by getting on her back?”

  For a frozen moment, Kate thought she’d misheard him. Anderton was making his way back to the table with another tray full of drinks, Rav bringing up the rear.

  “You what?” she asked, shock mangling her grammar.

  “You heard me,” said Jerry. “Slag,” he added, almost as an afterthought.

  Kate felt her hand go out without even thinking about it. Two seconds later, the remains of her glass of wine was running down Jerry’s astonished face.

  “Fuck!”

  There was a confused scrimmage and a loud ‘hey, hey’ from Olbeck, who was making his way back to the table. Kate saw Jerry’s hand clench into a fist, draw back. Time seemed to slow down. She was dimly aware that her lips were drawn back over her teeth, bared like an animal’s.

  “What the fuck? Jerry—”

  Olbeck had his hand in front of Jerry’s wine-drenched face, blocking his arm. Anderton and Rav were at the table, crashing down the drinks. There was a loud shout of “Oy! Take it outside!” from the bar. Kate and Jerry sat glaring at each other until Anderton clamped a hand about Kate’s wrist and virtually dragged her outside into the street.