Poe stepped into the kitchen area and looked out of the back window. Flynn walked in, eyes down as she navigated the stepping plates. She was still on the phone.
‘That’s what he thinks as well,’ she said.
Poe raised his eyebrows and Flynn gestured towards the laptop.
He glanced over to the mahogany desk. He hadn’t looked at the lounge area from the back of the house. The angle was different and this time he could see the shadows of indentations in the carpet. Four of them, square-shaped, not unlike the indentations in the foam in the drawer.
He frowned. There was nothing obvious in the lounge that could have caused them. But there was from where he was standing.
‘Hard to say at this point,’ Flynn said, giving him a ‘what’s up’ reverse head nod. ‘She’s been reported missing by her ex-husband and the laptop indicates she left suddenly. On the other hand, there’s no sign of forced entry. And believe me, this isn’t a place you can get into without leaving evidence.’
Poe carried over one of Rebecca’s high-backed kitchen stools and held it above the indentations. The legs matched exactly. He tried to look out of the front and rear windows. He couldn’t – the stool had been positioned so it couldn’t be observed from outside the house. He studied the stool but saw nothing obvious. He brought it back to the kitchen bar and checked the other one.
There was a one-inch scuff mark on the varnish on each arm and the front two legs. If someone had been struggling while zip-tied these were the marks they’d have left.
It looked like the killer had been in the house. But he’d then waited before moving her somewhere else. Why take the risk? Why hadn’t he moved her straight away?
His thought process was interrupted as a tractor rattled its way past the front of the house. The silence it left was immediately filled with the sound of people chatting. Poe walked over to the window. He could just see the top of a bus-stop sign. The bus must be due soon.
And that, of course, was the answer: he hadn’t been able to move her, not during daylight. Dalston was a busy village – if he’d tried to move her during the day he’d have been seen. But, if he’d had the balls to wait until the sun had set and the buses stopped running, he’d have had a better chance of getting her out unobserved.
Flynn was still talking to Nightingale. ‘I’d say she could be who we’re looking—’
‘Boss,’ Poe interrupted.
‘Just a minute, Jo. What is it, Poe?’
‘I’m almost certain Rebecca Pridmore is one of the victims. Our man found a way to get inside, zip-tied her to this kitchen stool and held her captive until nightfall.’
Chapter 13
Flynn got a lift with uniform to go and meet Nightingale.
Poe stayed behind. He couldn’t work out how the killer had got inside. The door locks were anti-snap and drill resistant and, although an expert could have picked them, it would have taken time. From what Poe knew of the killer he didn’t expose himself like that. He preferred to blend in.
He could have bluffed his way into her house. Pretended to be a utilities man or a courier service with a parcel. Certainly doable, but with someone as security conscious as Rebecca it would have needed
supporting logistics. A van with the right markings, a uniform and ID card. And a utilities or courier bluff would have had to be carried out during the day on a busy road in front of nosey neighbours with nothing else to do but remember things.
Poe retraced his steps. He left the lounge and went outside. The wind wasn’t strong but it was biting. Ice crystals had reformed over the footprints they’d left on the doorstep. Poe reckoned the temperature was still a few degrees below zero. He hoped whoever was in charge of securing the crime scene took that into account and put everyone outside on shorter shifts. Nothing sapped vigilance like cold feet.
He checked the windows on the side of the bungalow. They were all closed and undamaged. There was no access to the back garden from the front, not without climbing a six-foot wall. He was wondering what to do next when the house phone rang.
Poe made his way inside, removing his BlackBerry as he did so. He began recording. He checked his watch.
‘House phone ringing at 15:05. Detective Sergeant Washington Poe answering it.’
The house phone was wireless and slim. Poe pressed the green button and held it and his BlackBerry to his ear.
‘Hello?’
There was a pause.
‘Er … hello, who’s this?’
Poe told him.
‘This is Andrew Pridmore, Rebecca’s ex-husband. I called the police earlier today. I didn’t think you’d take it this seriously.’