The key to undercover work is subtlety. Not fannying about the place, overacting like a pantomime dame. It s a murder enquiry, not a game.
Come on, I was perfect: a devotee, a fan, an acolyte, exactly the kind of person someone like Steven Wallace loves to show off to, I mean, did you see his photo collection: there s not a single one in the entire house that doesn t feature him, he positively radiates an almost sociopathic selfishness, I mean look at this.
She held out the bear with his face on its T-shirt.
Who has these lying around the house, and he s got no alibi for the time Megan went missing yesterday, and he s in the media, so while he s an odious greasy little man he s a local celebrity, he s charming, he d tell a young girl exactly what she wanted to hear: I m famous and I can make you famous too. Now get in my funky VW camper van with the curtains on the windows.
I stopped. You think he s the Birthday Boy?
The little shite
She kept going, still skipping, holding the bear by the arm, swinging it back and forwards. Steven Wallace is a narcissist, no one else matters but him, he s lived there since he was a little boy so he knows the area and the park, and he s got the perfect vehicle for transporting unconscious teenaged girls, why do you think I got him to give us a tour of his house? Dr McDonald stopped, the bear hanging limp at her side.
It s a shame there wasn t anything there
We cadged a cup of tea in the marquee-sized SOC tent. A diesel generator droned in the far corner, powering the floodlights that lit the place like a cold summer s day, meaning the lumpy-nosed woman in the white coverall had to shout. We think we ve got another body: that s six.
Five more to go.
Warmth prickled at the back of my head. What if it was Rebecca? What if they d finally found her My stomach clenched. There was still time: she wasn t on the list of victims, it d take longer to identify her remains.
Sensational Steve Wallace it wouldn t take much to make him talk. A hammer, a pair of pliers, one of those little cr me br l e torches like Ethan had
And then what? Torture a confession out of him and the defence would tear us apart. Steven Wallace would walk out of court a free man with a big wad of compensation in his pocket.
Guv?
I blinked.
The SEB tech frowned at me, then pointed over her shoulder at a fresh cordon of yellow-and-black tape. I said the ground-penetrating radar s acting up we ve been giving it a bit of a hammering since we found the first one so we can t be sure till we excavate.
Something in my throat. Get digging: I ll square it with Weber.
Dr McDonald wrapped her hands around the chipped mug, steam curling out into the tent. Imagine lying here, buried in the cold ground for eight years, alone and afraid
Right The woman took a step back, one eyebrow up, the other down. Well, I suppose these remains aren t going to dig themselves up.
I looked out across the floodlit clumps of yellowy grass. Soil samples back from Aberdeen yet?
A shrug. You think anyone would tell us? Then she picked up her trowel and stomped away, ducking under the cordon.
Dr McDonald slurped her tea, watching me out of the corner of her eye. Do we suspect something?
Steven Wallace had the whole house remodelled eleven years ago. One year later the Birthday Boy snatches Amber O Neil. If you wanted to build yourself a hidden room to torture twelve-year-old girls to death in?
A frown. The wine cellar. But we would ve seen
For all we know, there s a whole Josef Fritzl Bat Cave hidden behind the merlot. I pulled out my phone, called DCI Weber and asked him about the soil samples.
How would I know? Dickie and his Party Crashers have muscled in, we re nothing but bloody support staff now. And before you ask: they re all off at the mortuary, playing doctors and cadavers, so if you want to beg for scraps, you know where to go.
Who pissed in your tea?
Who do you think: that slimy arselicker DS Smith and his new best friend ACC Drummond.
So give Smith something crappy to do and don t let him dump it on one of the DCs. Tell him he s the only one you can trust. He ll love that.
Hmm You want that friend s number?
Seven thousand, one hundred pounds. Maybe. You know anywhere good to hold a kid s birthday party?
The mortuary rang with the sound of refrigerated drawers being clunked in and out of the wall. Sorry about this Alf the Anatomical Pathology Technician ran a hand along his ponytail then tried another drawer. I know they re in here somewhere.
A small set of speakers dribbled boy-band blandness into the room the tiled walls and floor making the noise echo out of phase with itself. It complemented the eye-nipping stench of bleach.
Where are you? Another drawer. Nightshift did a stocktake yesterday took everyone out, cleaned the drawers, and put half the buggers back in the wrong place. Ah-ha! Here we go.
