Five minutes in the Scargill Street station was enough to make Carol wish she'd gone straight home. To get to the office she'd been allocated for the duration of the investigation, she had to walk the length of the main squad room. Copies of the evening paper were strewn over half the desks, mocking her with their thick black headlines. Bob Stansfield was standing with a couple of DCs halfway down the room and he called to her as she passed.
"The good doctor knocked off already, has he?"
"From what I've seen of the good doctor. Bob, he could give some of our bosses a few lessons in working overtime," Carol said, wishing she could think of some sharper putdown. Doubtless it would come to her hours later in the shower. On the other hand, maybe it was as well she hadn't come up with something too devastating. Better not alienate the lads any more than her assignment had already done. She stopped and smiled.
"Anything new?" she asked.
Stansfield detached himself from his juniors, saying, "Right, lads, get on with it." He moved over to Carol's side and said,
"Not as such. The HOLMES team are working flat out, smacking all we've got so far into the computer, see what correlations they can come up with.
Cross has ordered us to pull in all the nonces again. He's convinced one of them's our best bet. "
Carol shook her head.
"Waste of time."
"You said it. This bastard's not got form, I'd put money on it.
Kevin's got a team going out tonight to try something a bit different, though," he added, taking out and lighting his last cigarette. He tossed the packet in a nearby bin, an expression of disgust on his face.
"If we don't get a fucking break soon, I'm going to have to put in for a raise to cover my bloody nicotine consumption."
The, I'm drinking so much coffee I've got a permanent case of the jitterbug boogies," Carol said ruefully.
"So what's this idea of Kevin's?" Gently does it. First the rapport, then the question. Funny how getting information out of colleagues followed the same rules as interrogating suspects.
"He's got an undercover team going out on the gay scene, concentrating on the clubs and pubs with a reputation for S&M."
Stansfield snorted.
"They've all been down Traffic this avvy, scrounging leather trousers off the bike boys."
"It's worth a try," Carol said.
"Yeah, well let's hope Kevin's not sending in a bunch of closet pansies like Damien Connolly turned out to be," Stansfield said.
"Last thing we want is a bunch of CID fairies ending up wearing their own handcuffs."
Carol refused to dignify the comment with a reply and moved off towards her office. She'd got her hand on the door when Cross's voice boomed down the room.
"Inspector Jordan? Get your body in here."
Carol closed her eyes and counted to three.
"Coming, sir," she said cheerfully, turning back and walking the length of the room to Cross's temporary office. He'd only been in there a day, but already he'd marked it like a tomcat spraying his territory. The room reeked of cigarette smoke. Half- drunk polystyrene cups of coffee strategically placed on window ledge and desk top had butts floating in them. There was even a girlie calendar on the wall, proof that sexism was alive and well and working in the advertising industry.
Hadn't they realized yet that it was the women who stood in the supermarkets deciding which brand of vodka to buy?
Leaving the door open in a bid for air, Carol walked into Cross's office and said,
"Sir?"
"What's Wonder Boy come up with then?"
"It's a bit early for conclusions, sir," she said brightly. "He's got to read through all the reports I copied for him."
Cross grunted.
"Oh aye, I forgot he's a bloody professor." He spat the word out sarcastically.
"Everything in writing, eh? Kevin's got some more stuff on the Connolly business; you'll have to catch up with him. Was there anything else, Inspector?" he asked belligerently, as if she were the one who had imposed herself on him.
"Dr Hill has a suggestion, sir. About the burn marks on PC Connolly's body. He wondered if there was anyone on the HOLMES team who could do statistical pattern analysis."
"What the bloody hell is statistical pattern analysis?" Cross said, dumping the end of his cigarette into a coffee cup.
"I think it means-' " Never mind, never mind," Cross interrupted.
"Go and see if anybody down there knows what the hell you're on about."