a damn fool,’ Hellier snapped. ‘Just wait for me to call you. I’ll think of something.’ He hung up.
Feeling better now, he rolled his head and massaged the back of his neck. He glanced at his watch. Time was passing. He needed to get back to work.
Sally sat in a side office at the Fingerprint Branch at New Scotland Yard. A tall slim man in his mid-fifties entered the room nervously. Sally stood and offered her hand. ‘Thanks for seeing me so quickly.’
‘No problem at all,’ said IDO Collins. ‘How can I help?’
Sally sucked in a lungful of air and began to explain herself. ‘This is a sensitive matter, you understand?’
‘Of course,’ Collins reassured her.
‘On the phone you said you couldn’t find Korsakov’s fingerprints. So what I need to find out is how the fingerprints of a convicted criminal could go missing.’
Collins smiled and shook his head. ‘Not possible. You can’t remove files from the computer database.’
‘Before that,’ Sally said. ‘Assume they went missing from the old filing system. Possible?’
‘Well, I suppose so.’ Collins began to chew the side of his thumb. ‘But they could only go missing for a period of time.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Well, on the old system, officers and other agencies would sometimes ask to look at sets of prints. Mostly they would view them here at the Yard, but occasionally they would have to take them away. For example to compare them with a person the Immigration Service had doubts about, or to compare them with a prison inmate if the Prison Service suspected funny business. Somebody trying to serve a sentence on behalf of somebody else. It does happen, you know. Usually for money, sometimes out of fear.’
‘Or to get away from the wife and kids?’ Sally half-joked.
‘Yes. Probably. I wouldn’t know.’ Collins laughed a little. He still sounded nervous. ‘Anyway. Prints might be taken away, but if they weren’t returned quickly, within a few days, we’d chase after them. We’d always get them back. Always. We simply wouldn’t stop pestering until they were returned. They’re too important to allow them to disappear.’
‘Then perhaps you can explain how this set vanished?’ Sally slid a file across the desk. ‘Stefan Korsakov. Convicted of fraud in 1996. He definitely had prints taken when he was charged. No mistake. Prints that you’re telling me have since disappeared.’
Collins looked shocked, but recovered quickly and smiled. ‘A clerical mistake. Give me a minute and I’ll search for them myself.’
She knew it made sense to double check. ‘If it’ll make you feel better, then it’ll make me feel better. I’ll be in the canteen. Give me a shout when you’re finished.’
DI Ross Brown waited at the old murder scene for Sean to arrive, the police cordon tape flapping loosely in the mild breeze, tatty and spoilt now.
It was getting late, but he didn’t mind waiting. His investigation had not been going well − stranger attacks of this type were extremely difficult to solve quickly. Unless you were out to make a name for yourself, they were every detective’s worst nightmare. And with only three years’ service remaining, DI Ross Brown wasn’t out to make a name for himself. If he thought Sean could help his case, he’d wait all night.
Sean found his way to Hornchurch Marshes and drove through the unmanned entrance to the wasteground. A single road wound its way over the desolate and oppressive land to a small outbuilding. Sean could see a tall, well-built man standing outside. He parked next to DI Brown’s car and climbed out. Brown was already moving towards him, his hand outstretched.
‘Sean Corrigan. We spoke on the phone.’
Ross Brown wrapped a big hand around Sean’s. His grip was surprisingly gentle. ‘Good of you to come all this way out east,’ he said.
‘I just hope I’m not wasting your time,’ Sean answered.
DI Brown pointed to the outbuilding. ‘She died in there. She was fifteen years old.’ He looked sad. ‘She’d run away from home. The usual story. Mum and Dad split up, Mum gets a new man, kid won’t accept him and ends up running away to London − straight into the hands of some sick bastard.
‘It’s not easy to get the homeless to talk,’ he continued, ‘to get their trust. But a couple of her friends have provided us with details of her last movements.
‘We’re pretty certain she was abducted in the King’s Cross area on the same night she was killed, about two weeks ago, give or take. We canvassed the area, but no one witnessed the abduction − our man is apparently extremely cautious and fast.
‘We tried to get the media interested, but we only got minimal coverage. It’s difficult to compete with suicide bombers, and they like victims to be the nice, top-of-the-class type, not teenage runaways.
‘The killer drove her to this waste ground. He took her into this abandoned building, stripped her, and then he cut her throat. One large laceration that almost cut the poor little cow’s head off.’
Sean could see Brown was disturbed. No doubt the man had teenage daughters of his own. The nearby giant car plant dominated the horizon. It all added to the feeling of dread in this place. ‘Poor little cow,’ Brown repeated. ‘What the hell must she have been thinking? All alone. Made to strip. There were no signs of sexual abuse, but we can’t be sure what he did or didn’t make her do. Fucking animal.’
‘The murder of Daniel Graydon occurred six days ago,’ Sean said without prompting. ‘His head was caved in with a heavy blunt instrument, not recovered. He was also stabbed repeatedly with an ice pick or similar, not recovered either. He was killed in his own flat in the early hours. No sign of forced entry. He was a homosexual and a prostitute.’
Brown frowned. He couldn’t see much of a connection to his investigation, if any. ‘Doesn’t sound like my man. Different type of victim, murder location, weapon used. I’m sorry, Sean. I don’t see any similarities here.’
‘No,’ Sean said, holding up a hand. ‘That’s not where the similarity lies.’ He began to walk to the outbuilding. DI Brown followed him.
‘What then?’ Brown asked.
‘The only usable evidence from our scene were some footprints in the hallway carpet. They were made by a man wearing a pair of plain-soled shoes with plastic bags over them. The forensic report said you recovered footprints.’
‘Yes,’ Brown said. ‘Inside the outbuilding.’
‘And no other forensic evidence?’ Sean asked.
‘Is that why you’re here?’ DI Brown asked. ‘Because neither of us have any forensic evidence, other than a useless shoeprint?’ Sean’s silence answered the question. ‘Then I guess we’re both in the shit,’ Brown continued, ‘because if you’re right and these murders are connected, then this is a really bad bastard we’re after here and he’s absolutely not going to stop until someone stops him.’
Sean’s phone interrupted him
