him that, Pete thought. It was just a question of whether he would realise it was him they were talking about. Which would probably depend on whether they used the initials, as Dave had, or the full version, Fast-track Phil. If the latter, what he’d just endured would be nothing in comparison . . .
He shook his head. ‘If we get a conviction then he might get his promotion. Not until then.’
‘What do you mean, if?’
‘Nothing’s certain in this life, Dave. Anyway, now’s not the time to be taking the piss out of the chief.’
‘Feeling sensitive, is he?’ Dick Feeney, the oldest member of the team, asked with a grin.
‘Distinctly tetchy would be closer to the mark. So, what have you lot been up to while I was getting my balls chewed off?’
Pete had explained the situation to his crew before he’d reported the email and text links between his still-missing son, Tommy, and Rosie Whitlock, the victim of the abduction they had been investigating. The team had understood and supported him but they’d all known that DCI Silverstone would not.
It was now just over a week since the girl was rescued and Dave arrested the suspect after a brief car chase through the streets of Exeter. When the tech team at Headquarters had found the link between Rosie and Tommy on her computer, Pete had kept it to himself. He knew it was against the rules, but, as he’d said to the DCI, it was a judgment call. There was no way that Tommy could have snatched her and there wasn’t time to waste on following protocol when the girl’s life was at stake. Or, at least, that was what he’d told himself.
Thinking it through afterwards, he’d accepted that DI Colin Underhill could have taken over. He was a bloody good copper – had taught Pete everything he knew – but, having only just stepped back into the fold after five months’ compassionate leave following Tommy’s disappearance, the last thing Pete had wanted was to be pushed straight back out to the sidelines.
And, in the end, he’d been right. They’d nailed the guy. He’d been arrested before he could harm anyone else, including Rosie.
‘You know how it is, boss.’ Dave leaned back in his chair, fingers linking behind his head. ‘While the cat’s away . . .’
‘Well, I’m back now, so let’s get to it, eh? We need every i dotted and every t crossed on this one. No chance of him wriggling out of it for any reason at all.’
Including some smart-arse DS hiding the fact that his son was connected to the victim.
Pete pushed the thought aside as soon as it popped into his mind. As lead investigator, it was up to him what was relevant and therefore what would go to the CPS lawyers. As long as the defence team didn’t get hold of it and, more importantly, of the fact that Pete knew of it . . .
‘There’s no way he’s wriggling out of this, boss,’ Dave said, sitting forward again and tugging his black waistcoat back into place. ‘His van. His barn. The stuff at his house. The girl’s testimony. We’re safe as houses.’
‘Even so. Every i and every t.’ Pete wasn’t going to allow Malcolm Burton to get away with anything, if he could possibly help it – especially laying the blame off on Tommy, as he’d been trying to do since he was arrested. The boy had had his problems. Pete had been aware of some of them, of course, but had found out a lot more since he disappeared, back in May – and more especially since he’d come back to work the week before last. He couldn’t accept that he was a rapist and a killer as Burton and his solicitor were trying to suggest, though. He was only thirteen years old, for God’s sake.
Pete’s phone rang. He blinked, returning to the here and now, and picked it up. ‘DS Gayle.’
‘Peter. It’s Tony Chambers. I’ve got something here that I think you ought to see.’
‘What’s that, Doc?’
‘Fatality in a house fire last night, out to the east of the city. Dental records have just confirmed the identity of the victim as the house owner, Jeremy Tyler, aged forty-two. It looked like an accident during an auto-erotic pursuit, but a couple of things don’t ring true.’
Pete pictured Chambers, small and lean in his green scrubs, his greying hair little more than stubble, sitting at his office desk, his free hand clicking through crime scene photos on his computer while he talked.
‘Such as?’
‘For one, there’s a needle mark in the right trapezoid – which is a strange place to find one – and the fire chaps tell me there was definitely no syringe at the scene. And for another, there was a half-finished plate of food on the side table in the lounge, as if he’d been eating his dinner and got interrupted. Yet, he was found upstairs, seated in front of his computer. I mean, even a sex maniac would finish his dinner first, surely?’
Pete blinked and sat forward in his chair. ‘Hang on. Jeremy Tyler, you said?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are we talking about the registered sex offender Jeremy Tyler?’
‘That’s right. Why?’
‘Name’s familiar, that’s all. Came up in the Rosie Whitlock case, but he had a solid alibi. And no syringe. We sure on that?’
‘That’s what the fire investigator tells me. And the needle would have survived, even if the syringe itself didn’t.’
‘Yeah, that’s right. OK, I’ll come over.’
‘Thanks, Peter.’
‘You got something, boss?’ Jane asked as he put the phone down.
‘Maybe. The doc reckons he might have a murder on his table. House fire, last night.’
‘Ooh.’ She grimaced.
Pete pushed his chair back. ‘I’m off to the mortuary, to have a look-see.’
She flicked her ginger hair back from her face. ‘Sooner you than me. I hate the smell of burners. Put me off barbecue for life.’
*
With no alternative, DI Underhill being in Bristol on a course for the week, Pete reluctantly knocked on DCI Silverstone’s door for the second time that day.
‘Come.’
Silverstone was seated at his desk, reading through a report. He looked up from it as his door opened. ‘Peter. What can I do for you?’
‘I got a call from the pathologist earlier. Been looking into what he said and it seems we may have a serial killer in the city, sir.’
‘In Exeter?’
Pete tilted his head. ‘Can happen anywhere, I suppose.’
Silverstone pursed his lips. ‘Hmm. What have you got?’
‘Registered sex offender Jeremy Tyler was killed in his home around seven-thirty last evening. A house fire was used to cover it up. Clever job, made to look like an accident, but it wasn’t.’
‘One
