sure she had them well differentiated in her head did she approach her computer.
The database Shaz used hadn’t represented the leading edge of software development way back when she’d copied it from a fellow student, and now it was practically a candidate for display in a computing museum. But while it might not have all the latest bells and whistles, it was more than capable of performing what she needed. It displayed the material clearly, it allowed her to create her own categories and criteria for sorting the information, and she found its procedures in tune with her instincts and logic and thus easy to use. She’d been inputting data since early that morning, so focused on her work that she hadn’t even left the screen to cook lunch, settling instead for a banana and half a packet of digestive biscuits, upending her laptop afterwards to remove the crumbs from the keyboard.
Now, back in front of her screen, stripped of her glad rags and scrubbed clean of her make-up, Shaz was happy. The mouse pointer flickered as fingers clicked on buttons, summoning up menus that interested her far more than anything on offer at the restaurant. She sorted the so-called runaways by age and printed out the results. She followed the same steps for geographical area, physical type, previous police contact, various permutations on their domestic situation, drink and drugs experience, known sexual contacts and interests. Not that the investigating officers had been much concerned with their hobbies.
Shaz pored over the print-outs, reading them individually then spreading them over the desktop so she could more readily compare notes. As she gazed at the printed lists, the slow burn of excitement began in the pit of her stomach. She scrutinized them one more time, double-checking against the photographs in the files to make sure she wasn’t willing something into existence that wasn’t there. ‘Oh, you beauty,’ Shaz exclaimed softly, letting out a long sigh.
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. When she looked again, it was still there. A cluster of seven girls. First, the positive similarities. They all had bobbed dark hair and blue eyes. They were all fourteen or fifteen years old, between 5ˊ2˝ and 5ˊ4˝ tall. They had all lived at home with one or both parents. In each case, their friends and family had told the police they were baffled at the girl’s disappearance, convinced that she had no real reason to run away. In every instance, the girls had taken almost nothing with them, though in each case, at least one change of clothes appeared to have gone missing with them, which was the main reason why the police hadn’t seriously considered them as possible victims of abduction or murder. Reinforcing that view were the times of the disappearances. In each case, the girl concerned had set off for school as usual but had never arrived. She’d also given a false explanation of where she’d be spending the evening. And, although this couldn’t be quantified in a way the computer could digest, they were all of a similar type. There was a flirtatious sensuality in their looks, a knowing quality in the way they embraced the camera that indicated they had left childhood innocence behind. They were sexy, whether they knew it or not.
Next, the negative similarities. None of the seven had ever been in care. None had ever been in trouble with the police. Friends admitted to a bit of recreational drinking, maybe even the occasional joint or even a dab of speed. But no significant drug usage. In none of the seven cases was there any hint that the girls might have been engaged in prostitution or the victims of sexual abuse.
There were problems with the cluster, of course. Three had current boyfriends, four did not. The geographical locations were unconnected – Sunderland was the furthest north, Exmouth the most southerly point. In between were Swindon, Grantham, Tamworth, Wigan and Halifax. The reports also spanned six years. The intervals between the disappearances were not constant, nor did they seem to diminish as time went by, which Shaz would have expected if she were really dealing with the victims of a serial killer.
On the other hand, there might be girls she didn’t know about yet.
When Shaz woke early that Sunday morning, she tried to will herself back to sleep. She knew there was only one thing she could do that would advance her search for connections among her theoretical victim cluster and that single task wasn’t one that could be hurried. When she’d gone to bed around midnight, she’d promised herself she would achieve it with a lunchtime phone call. But lying wide awake with a racing brain at quarter to seven, she knew she couldn’t hold out that long.
Irritated by her inability to make progress except at someone else’s hands, she threw back the covers. Half an hour later, she was accelerating up the long incline where the M1 began.
Showering, dressing and swallowing a coffee with the radio news in the background had kept thought at arm’s length. Now that the empty black three-lane strip stretched out before her, she couldn’t hide behind distraction. The radio presenter’s voice wasn’t enough on its own. Not even Tony Hill’s words of wisdom could hold her today. Impatiently, Shaz pushed a cassette of operatic arias into the stereo and gave up the pretence of concentration. For the next two and a half hours, she had nothing to do but run memories through her mind like old movies on a rainy Sunday.
It was almost ten when she drove down the ramp to the Barbican complex’s underground car park. She was pleased to see the car park attendant clearly remembered her, as she’d hoped, though he looked startled to see her face smiling uncertainly round the door of his office. ‘Hello, stranger,’ he said cheerfully. ‘We’ve not seen you around for a long time.’
‘I’ve moved up to Leeds,’ she said, carefully avoiding any hint of how recent her move had been. It had been more than eighteen months since she’d last been here, but the reasons for that were nobody’s business but hers.
‘Chris didn’t say to expect you,’ the car park attendant said, getting up from his seat and walking towards her. Shaz backed out of the booth and down the steps as he followed her.
‘It was all a bit last-minute,’ she said noncommittally, opening her car door.
That seemed to satisfy the attendant. ‘Are you here overnight?’ he asked, frowning as he scanned the car park for an appropriate space.
‘No, I’m not planning on staying long,’ Shaz said firmly, starting her engine and crawling down the aisles of cars, following the attendant and slotting the car into the space he indicated.
‘I’ll let you into the block,’ he said as she joined him. ‘What’s it like up in the frozen north, then?’
Shaz smiled. ‘The football’s better,’ was all she said as he pulled back the massive glass and metal door and waved her inside. Just as well I’m not a terrorist sleeper, she thought as she waited for the lift.
On the third floor, she stopped halfway along the carpeted corridor. Taking a deep breath, she pressed the doorbell. In the silence that followed, she breathed out through her nostrils in a slow steady stream, trying to contain the nervousness that was turning her stomach into a jacuzzi. When she’d almost given up hope, she heard the faint whisper of footfalls. Then the heavy door inched open.
Tousled chestnut hair, bleary brown eyes with dark smudges under them and frown lines between, a snub nose and a yawn half-stifled behind a square hand with blunt, well-manicured fingers appeared in the gap.
For once, Shaz’s narrow smile made it as far as her eyes. The blaze of warmth melted Chris Devine, and not for the first time. The hand dropped away from the mouth, but the lips remained parted. Astonishment came first, then delight, then consternation. ‘Any chance of a cup of coffee?’ Shaz asked.
Chris stepped back uncertainly, pulling the door wide. ‘You’d better come in,’ she said.
Nothing
