Human Remains Page 27

  After an hour or so everyone in the office had left and it was dark outside. It made it easier to concentrate and it wasn’t long before the pattern crystalized and began to make more sense.

  There were some major differences between the statements of the victims. Judith Bingham, Noel Gardiner, someone I hadn’t heard of called George Armstrong who’d been discovered while I was away, some of the others—they all had phone bills that looked normal. They made and received several calls over a prolonged period of time. There were texts, missed calls, and voice mails.

  As soon as I looked at the others, though, the difference was sudden and acute. Rachelle Hudson’s phone bill was the first. It had only incoming calls, from one number. The calls started about two months before she was found and were regular—one call every evening, lasting a couple of minutes only. No texts. The last three lines of data showed unanswered calls on consecutive evenings toward the end of March. Rachelle had been found on April 21.

  I ran a search on the databases for the number that had called Rachelle’s cell, but it was unknown.

  I went back to the phone statements for Judith, Noel, and George and searched for the unknown number in their calls, but it did not feature in any of them. I looked for a different number that showed a similar calling pattern, regular incoming calls each evening, but there was nothing like that. I was beginning to feel more certain that these three were not part of the series.

  After that I looked at the statements for the two victims found immediately after the phone call that had been made to Sam, and the next discovery after them, someone called Edward Langton, and each showed exactly the same pattern as Rachelle’s billing—incoming calls only. One each evening, short in duration. For each set, the calls were made at slightly different times. Dana’s phone was called at 18:46, 18:42, 18:44—around a quarter to seven each night. The last two calls went unanswered, and then stopped. That was in August.

  Eileen’s regular incoming calls were earlier—18:31, 18:30, 18:27, 18:30. And then there was one isolated outgoing call, the night before she was found—a local landline. It must be the call that Sam had received. Momentarily distracted, I put the number into the search facility on the database. That was right: it came back as being the news desk at the Briarstone Chronicle.

  I looked at the statement for the phone found at the last address—the one for Edward Langton. And again, the same pattern. Incoming calls only, this time they were all around six o’clock. Sometimes a minute or two earlier, sometimes later, but always around six. There was something about the timings that bothered me. I frowned and scratched around in my head for what it was, but it wouldn’t come. Maybe it was the regularity of it, the boldness, the sense that this was something that was being organized, planned. I went back to the spreadsheets, and the phones found at Robin Downley’s address, and, finally, Shelley Burton’s. Each set of phone statements showed the same defined pattern: regular incoming calls at the same time each evening, then two unanswered calls—and then no further contacts. It was difficult to believe that they were not linked—but in each case the cell number that was making the calls was different.

  I used the internal address book to find Andy Frost’s cell number, reached for the phone, and dialed it. The phone rang once and then went to voice mail. I tried to think about it rationally but the excitement of how easy it might be to unravel the case kept me fidgeting on my chair.

  The sensible thing to do would be to document everything, finish recording the summary of the data on my spreadsheet, and then complete a report with recommendations for them all to peruse on Monday.

  I stared at the screen, then back to the phone, then I called his voice mail back and this time I left a message. “Hello, it’s Annabel. I’m in the office. Can you give me a call urgently, please?”

  I looked at the black windows and listened to the unusual silence that I hadn’t been aware of until that moment: no loudspeaker, no rattling of coffee cups in the kitchen, no laughter and chatter, no phones ringing. It was as though I were the only one left in the whole building. That wasn’t the case I knew. Custody would be just warming up for its busiest period of the week, Friday night, and night-duty staff would be coming in and changing over with the late-turn ones down in the patrol office. But up here—the MIR was asleep.

  I started typing up the report and before many minutes had passed I was engrossed in it, so focused that I didn’t even hear the door opening behind me.

  “Hello,” said a voice. “What are you doing here so late?”

  It was DCI Paul Moscrop, but I had been so absorbed in the spreadsheets that for a moment I couldn’t think of his name. “I just wanted to get this finished, sir,” I said.

  “I didn’t know you were back, Annabel. How have you been?”

  He was leaning against the door, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up. The Friday afternoon look, except it was Friday evening and he should have been at home by now.

  “All right,” I said. “Thanks for asking. I just wanted to get back to being busy I think.”

  “Sure,” he said. “Well, it’s good to see you.” He gave me a warm smile and turned to go. “Don’t stay too late, will you?”

  “Sir,” I said, “can you hold on a minute?”

  He turned in the doorway and although he smiled and said “sure!” again his posture said he’d had enough and wanted to go home. But dutifully he leaned over and looked at my spreadsheet. I explained that the similarities between the phone statements for Rachelle Hudson’s phone and the other five linked them—and that the rest seemed unlikely to be part of the group of victims.

  “Unless there was another phone that they were using, which either wasn’t found, or was removed before the bodies were discovered,” I said. “But, even so, their call patterns varied and some of them were receiving calls from more than one number—friends and family, I suppose—until a few weeks before they were found. So I think we can rule them out.”

  Paul Moscrop pointed at something on the screen. “What’s that?”

  “The list of numbers used to contact Rachelle and the others. A different one for each of them.”

  “But the pattern’s the same?”

  “Yes.”

  “Very interesting. Have you requested statements for these numbers—the ones that are calling the victims?”

  “No, sir. I’ve never done the requests myself before. But we need to get them urgently I think.”

  “Right,” he said. He took his cell phone out of his pants pocket and dialed a number. To me, he said, “Can you put all that in an e-mail to me, or something?”

  “I’m doing a report—” I started to say.

  “Keith? You still on the station? . . . Can you? That would be good. I need you to come up to the MIR when you get here. There’s been a development . . . No, nothing like that. I need you to sort out some more phone bills. Can you do that?”

  There was a pause. Presumably Keith, whoever he was, wasn’t particularly excited about showing up again for a “development” that involved filling in online forms.

  “I wouldn’t be calling you if it wasn’t important. And you are on call.” The DCI’s tone had taken on a distinct chill. Finally, “Thanks. Can you phone me when it’s done? Cheers. Have a good weekend. Bye.”

  He disconnected the call and looked at the handset, shaking his head slightly, distracted. Then he looked back at me.

  “Keith should be here in ten minutes or so. He’s on call, so don’t let him bloody complain about it, right? Tell him what needs doing and get him to e-mail them to me for authorization. With a bit of luck we should get the statements back quite quickly. Make sure he does them on priority. Is that OK?”

  “Thanks,” I said. “Any idea how long before they come back?”

  “Depends on the service provider—hopefully less than twenty-four hours. Maybe quicker than that. How do you feel about a bit of overtime this weekend?”

  “That would be great.”

  “Are you s
ure you’re all right doing this, Annabel? You’ve had a tough few weeks.”

  “I know. I need to stay busy. But thank you.”

  He was hovering. I sensed his sudden awkwardness, waited for whatever was going to come next.

  “They interviewed you, didn’t they?”

  “Yes.”

  “You haven’t remembered anything else? About what happened?”

  “I’ve been trying not to think about it, sir. I know that’s not very helpful.”

  “It’s all right. It’s not about being helpful. I just didn’t want you to think you can’t come and talk to us, you know. If you think of anything else.”

  What did he think I was going to do, suddenly recall everything the angel said to me and then keep it to myself, just for a laugh? I shook my head.

  He made sure I had his cell number and then he left, leaving me in the big silent office on my own waiting for Keith. I went back to the report.

  Colin

  The Chronicle’s campaign continues. Three weeks ago, there was a brief paragraph in their usual proselytization about a woman who had been found in a “state of distress” and taken to the hospital. Mr. Sam Everett used his column to put out an appeal asking for anyone who knew the person responsible to make contact with him. Responsible for what, exactly? Helping people escape from interfering well-wishers who don’t understand that sometimes the most blissful state of being is to be left in peace?

  There is nothing on the front page today, just the one article inside about maintaining contact with friends and loved ones wherever in the world they happen to live. And a brief interview with the man in charge of the investigation. Detective Chief Inspector Paul Moscrop. He looks like one of those Americans they describe as a go-getter—all even white teeth and management hair. He says the investigation is progressing well and that anyone with any information should come forward.

  Reading that, I feel momentarily like coming forward myself, emerging, blinking, from the crowd, and surprising all of them. As it is, the brief moment of recognition in the newspaper gave me a kick, and now I want another one. The thought of them getting bored with the story already—already!—when I have other surprises for them, other treats in store, makes me grit my teeth with frustration. They should be proud of me, of my achievements. They should recognize what I am doing and praise me for it—not push it aside and call it a crime as though I’d graffitied a wall or stolen a leg of lamb from the supermarket.

  If they are bored, I’ll have to give them something to wake them up a bit. I’ll have to show them exactly what I am capable of.

  Even though there are others out there, still alone, still undisturbed, transforming in the privacy of their own homes, I can feel I’m losing interest. I’ve observed so many of them now. And despite the differences, the variations in the process, there is little that happens that is truly surprising. So I need to introduce some variables, something new that will reignite the spark.

  In other words, the delectable Audrey.

  I got into the town center half an hour ago, at six thirty, while it was still crowded with people making their way home and I could blend in with the masses. Directly opposite the Italian restaurant called Luciano’s is a fast-food place with further seating upstairs. I bought a coffee at the register and took it upstairs with me. I should probably have ordered food as well but I am not willing to corrupt my digestive system with it or waste money by purchasing it. So it was just a coffee, and even that is scarcely drinkable.

  Nevertheless, sitting by the window overlooking the square, it gives me a perfect vantage point from which I can watch the restaurant and the various pubs and clubs. I can even see the taxi stand if I stand up and lean over a little.

  I see Audrey arrive with a female companion, at five past seven. She is wearing a short dress in a dark, silky fabric that clings to her thighs. Her high heels make her walk across the cobbled square look particularly hazardous. And yet, her thighs—I can’t tear my gaze away from them. I’ve been concentrating on them, gazing at various photos from her Facebook profile since Wednesday night, yet seeing them here, moving, rubbing against each other, the muscles under the skin and the flesh moving as she walks—the way her ass moves, visible through the outline of the tight, silky skirt—and the temptation to go out there and grab her, force her around to face me, and instead of speaking (for there is nothing, really, to say) to just run my hand up her thigh and push the fabric away . . .

  They go into Luciano’s and shut the door.

  I sip a lukewarm coffee that might as well be gravy, and wait.

  Annabel

  Keith Topping arrived about half an hour after the DCI had left. He seemed nice enough when he finally showed up—but I got the distinct impression that despite being on call he didn’t consider applying for phone statements to be reason enough to come back into the office on a Friday night, however urgent they were. In the end he showed me how to apply myself—not something that was technically supposed to happen, but it would save everyone a lot of time in the long run he said.

  “Won’t they need some sort of authorization? I thought you had to put in passwords and stuff,” I asked.

  “Usually you do. Not for something like this, though. As long as you use the Op Name—there, look,” he answered, leaning over me and granting me a whiff of his armpit. “You put in the DCI’s force number there. Right? Think you can manage that?”

  I was noncommittal. I wasn’t planning on doing his job for him. I had enough work of my own as it was.

  “So . . .” he said, as I started to write a list of queries for him to complete, “How have you been?”

  “All right,” I said.

  “We’ve all been really worried about you,” he replied.

  I looked up in surprise. “You don’t even know me,” I said, before I could stop myself.

  He looked a bit embarrassed. “Well—you know. You’re one of the team. We look after our own.”

  Really? I thought.

  “We got the CCTV back. That’s when it all went a bit mental. I don’t think any of us really believed there was someone behind it all until then.”

  “What CCTV?”

  “Of you. In the shopping center.”

  “I didn’t know there was CCTV.”

  Probably, if he’d thought about it for a bit longer, he wouldn’t have shown me, or even mentioned it in the first place. But he showed me where the file was saved on the Operation’s drive on the network, and before I knew it I was launching Media Player and waiting for the file to buffer.

  The footage from the shopping center wasn’t very good. The camera was facing into bright sunlight so there was a glare that obscured much of the image, leaving the rest dark and indistinct. Despite this, I saw a person standing outside the glass window of a store, and after a moment of thinking that I had a coat like that I realized with a jolt that it was me. Seeing yourself on film was always a bit strange, but this was worse. I didn’t recognize myself, not just because of the shadow but because the way I was standing was just so odd. I looked hunched into my coat, the slope of my shoulders and my bent head making me appear utterly defeated. Lost.

  As I watched, I realized that there was a second figure standing next to me, slightly to my right, and I saw myself nod, and then again—although I had no memory of any of it. He was talking to me. He had his back to the camera and the top half of him was obscured by the glare from the sun, so all anyone could really make out was that it was a man, wearing a short jacket of some dark color, dark pants, and proper shoes, not white sneakers.

  And then the man turned slowly away, and a few seconds later, without lifting her head at all, the figure that was me moved and then followed him, not exactly with reluctance but just with an attitude of utter dejection.

  “I can’t believe that’s me,” I said at last.

  “I know,” he said. “Weird, isn’t it?”

  “Was there any more CCTV? Did they look at ANPR?” This was the car number
plate recognition system used for tracing vehicles.

  “No,” he said. “We did check. There’s no ANPR at the shopping center; the nearest is on the beltway. But we had nothing to compare the data to, since we don’t know when or where he met any of the others. And it’s impossible to ID him from those images. Which is why we were all hoping you’d remember him.”

  “I don’t remember anything,” I said, mystified. “It’s like looking at someone else. I don’t remember being there and talking to someone at all.”

  He patted me on the shoulder, which made me flinch slightly. “Ah, well,” he said. “We’ll get him, Annabel. You know we’re throwing everything we’ve got at this, don’t you?”

  Until the next job comes along I thought, but I didn’t say it. I went back to my list of phone bill queries, thinking that it would probably be easier and quicker to give in and do them myself.

  Colin

  A long evening spent sitting on a custard-yellow plastic seat that was fixed to the floor has been rewarded, eventually. I have had to watch people coming and going for hours on end. I’ve seen fights, disagreements, five separate women falling over—a cocktail of alcohol, high heels, and the Market Square cobbles—and the police, showing up in the riot van and taking people away, wandering through the square in their fluorescent jackets, moving people on, helping drunk women get to their feet again.

  But at last I see Audrey and her friends leaving Luciano’s. It is ten to midnight—not especially late, but late enough. My arse is almost completely numb. And I can still taste that filthy coffee.

  I leave the restaurant promising myself I will never set foot inside it again, and step outside into the freezing air. I twist my muffler around my throat and over the lower part of my face, and pull the black thermal wool hat over my head to keep it warm, as well as for the benefit of the CCTV cameras that are by now paying very close attention to the masses thronging the square.