Within an hour the first lot of new data had arrived. Phone, credit cards and bank records for the victims had been accessed and Bradshaw busied herself with running it all through one of her existing analytical programs.
The door opened and Coughlan entered. He’d brought back a selection of snacks from the canteen vending machine. Crisps, dry sandwiches and Kit Kats. He put them on the table then wandered over to the murder wall.
Poe tucked in.
Bradshaw looked on in disgust. ‘Poe, you’re like a seagull: you’ll eat anything.’
‘Squawk,’ he said through a mouthful of cheese Quavers. ‘I thought I’d told you that you had to eat five bits of fruit …’ She stopped and frowned at the screen on her laptop.
‘That can’t be right,’ she said.
‘What?’
‘Nothing. Just checking something.’
Five minutes later she picked up her mobile, scrolled down her contact list and called someone.
‘Malcolm Sparkes, this is Matilda Bradshaw from the National Crime … oh, you remember me?’ She covered the phone with her hand. ‘He remembers me, Poe!’ She removed her hand and continued, ‘I’d like you to tell me if Rebecca Pridmore had access to a car we don’t know about … yes, please, to the email address I gave you.’
She hung up and Poe looked at her.
‘I’m sure it’s nothing,’ she said.
Knowing that it was pointless asking her to voice unproven theories – she’d tell him only when she had something concrete – Poe picked up an egg and watercress sandwich and joined Coughlan at the murder wall. He stared at it while he chewed on the stale bread and the claggy filling, the egg congealing on the roof of his mouth.
Poe reread the victim summaries. Tried to will a new thought into his head. The only one he could summon, though, was that the differences between them couldn’t have contrasted more.
Amanda Simpson was a no-frills working-class girl. Happy. Optimistic. Active circle of friends and a boyfriend she adored. She had a full employment record but it was obvious she worked to live rather than lived to work. She frequently changed jobs but stayed in the retail sector, mainly clothes shops.
Rebecca Pridmore was the polar opposite: she lived to work. Her career was everything, and although she didn’t appear to be ruthlessly aggressive, she obviously loved what she did and took it very seriously. Despite Bradshaw’s mysterious phone call to Sparkes, Poe had dismissed her as the favourite to be the ‘one murder that counted’. She did have access to sensitive information, and while a bad report from her might send the share prices of some multi-billion-dollar private defence contractors plummeting, Malcolm Sparkes hadn’t been worried and he undoubtedly had information he wasn’t sharing. If the MoD were convinced she hadn’t been killed because of her work then, for now at least, Poe was too.
Poe moved on to the third victim.
Howard Teasdale. Fifty years old and fat. A self-employed web designer. Despite living on the top floor of a townhouse, he was a poster-boy basement dweller. The inventory of his possessions would have kept teenage boys wanking for years. Despite not being allowed to access the internet for pornography, he had every category there was saved onto his computer: Asian, BDSM, fisting, lesbian, threesomes, amateurs, gay, everything. Nothing illegal. If he was still into children, he was no longer sating it online.
Of the three victims, Howard was currently Poe’s favourite. He spent his life online and was the type of person who’d stick his nose into the darkest corners of the web. Had he stumbled across something he shouldn’t have?
Poe sighed. It could have been any of them.
Or all three as it turned out …
Chapter 52
‘You’re now saying the three victims are linked?’ Nightingale said.
‘We are, ma’am,’ Poe replied.
Poe had taken Bradshaw’s findings straight to Nightingale’s office. He’d brought along Bradshaw to explain it and Coughlan to stop him gossiping. Nightingale would want a lid kept on the new information, at least until she’d decided what to do with it.
Her office was roomy with a decent-sized conference table. Manuals and force policies were neatly arranged on her bookcase. Her desk had a computer, an empty in-tray and a photograph of her family. The coasters on the conference table were corporate, as were the mugs from which they were drinking. Other than that it was bare – it was an office to work from, not one to enjoy being in.
Bradshaw was about to begin when Flynn walked in. Coughlan stood and offered her his seat. Poe winced; Flynn hated chivalry in all its forms but, to his relief, she accepted gratefully. She took off her shoes and began massaging her feet.
‘Tilly’s found something, I gather?’ she said.
‘She has,’ Poe said.
Bradshaw hadn’t had time to put together a presentation. She flicked through some papers until she found the ones she wanted.