university, not a former polytechnic or an accredited branch of Pizza Hut.’
The reaction to his suggestion was disproportionately enthusiastic. Simon wondered how many tyrants questioned the rapture with which their every utterance was received. The sixteen numbers had been going round in his head all day: 2, 1, 4, 9 . . . Or maybe it was 21, 49, or perhaps you were supposed to start at the bottom and read backwards: 0, 2, 6 . . .
‘As a last resort, there’s always the press,’ said Proust. ‘We let them print the sixteen numbers and see what happens.’
‘We’d have every loony in the Culver Valley ringing in, saying they’d got the numbers off an extra-terrestrial’s lottery ticket,’ said Colin Sellers.
Proust smiled. A few people risked laughing. Simon pushed down a rising swell of anger. Any sign that the inspector might be enjoying even the briefest moment of happiness made him want to do damage to somebody. Luckily, such signs were rare.
‘What about a profiler?’ someone called out.
Someone else who doesn’t think the Snowman deserves a lighthearted moment and knows how to put a stop to it
.
Simon waited for Proust to breathe frost, but, surprisingly, he said, ‘If we make no progress on the card in the next twenty-four hours, I’ll be asking for a profiler to be brought in. In the meantime, while we wait for the code teams at Bramshill and GCHQ to get back to us, we do the dull legwork: whichretailers supply this kind of card? What sort of pen does the ink come from?
Well
?’ he roared suddenly. A collective shudder rippled through the room.
‘Sir, we’re still pursuing that,’ said the unfortunate DC from Silsford who’d been tasked to find out. ‘I’ll chase it up.’
‘You do that, detective. I want two hundred and fifty per cent effort from all of you. And don’t forget your ABC. Let’s hear it, DC Gibbs.’
‘Assume nothing, believe nobody, check everything,’ Chris Gibbs muttered, his face colouring. Simon was the one the Snowman usually nominated to make a tit of himself in front of a crowd. Why had he been spared this time?
‘Our mystery caller at 9 Bengeo Street might turn out to be a false lead, so let’s make sure he’s not our only lead,’ said Proust. ‘As someone’s already pointed out, we could be looking for a female. I want brains switched on and fully serviced round the clock. I don’t need to tell you all why this case matters more than any you’ve worked before.’
‘Don’t you?’ Simon murmured. Beside him, Sam was nodding. And yet the thing that marked out Helen Yardley as different from other murder victims had barely been mentioned, not this morning and not now.
‘It’s been forty-eight hours,’ said the Snowman. ‘If we don’t get a result soon, they’ll cut this squad in half, and that’ll just be for starters. You’ll all be going back to your own nicks – something I’m sure at least those of you from Rawndesley are keen to avoid. All right, that’s it for today. DS Kombothekra, DC Waterhouse – my office.’
Simon was in no mood to wait and see what Proust wanted. ‘How come you’re happy to ditch the “assume nothing” partwhen it comes to the gun?’ he asked, as soon as he’d slammed the door behind him. This time Sam did sigh. ‘Why’s Helen or Paul Yardley less likely to own an M9 Beretta than this dark-haired man we can’t find?’
‘Sergeant Kombothekra, explain to DC Waterhouse why a killer is more likely than his victim to bring a gun to the party.’
‘The Yardleys fought to keep their only surviving child, and they lost. Think about what that must have meant to them. You’ve got a daughter . . .’
‘Mention her name, Waterhouse, and I’ll yank your tongue out by the root. My daughter has nothing to do with this.’
You ought to hear what Colin Sellers has said about her over the years, what he’d like to do to which bits of her
. Simon tried again. ‘Paige Yardley lives less than two miles from
The reaction to his suggestion was disproportionately enthusiastic. Simon wondered how many tyrants questioned the rapture with which their every utterance was received. The sixteen numbers had been going round in his head all day: 2, 1, 4, 9 . . . Or maybe it was 21, 49, or perhaps you were supposed to start at the bottom and read backwards: 0, 2, 6 . . .
‘As a last resort, there’s always the press,’ said Proust. ‘We let them print the sixteen numbers and see what happens.’
‘We’d have every loony in the Culver Valley ringing in, saying they’d got the numbers off an extra-terrestrial’s lottery ticket,’ said Colin Sellers.
Proust smiled. A few people risked laughing. Simon pushed down a rising swell of anger. Any sign that the inspector might be enjoying even the briefest moment of happiness made him want to do damage to somebody. Luckily, such signs were rare.
‘What about a profiler?’ someone called out.
Someone else who doesn’t think the Snowman deserves a lighthearted moment and knows how to put a stop to it
.
Simon waited for Proust to breathe frost, but, surprisingly, he said, ‘If we make no progress on the card in the next twenty-four hours, I’ll be asking for a profiler to be brought in. In the meantime, while we wait for the code teams at Bramshill and GCHQ to get back to us, we do the dull legwork: whichretailers supply this kind of card? What sort of pen does the ink come from?
Well
?’ he roared suddenly. A collective shudder rippled through the room.
‘Sir, we’re still pursuing that,’ said the unfortunate DC from Silsford who’d been tasked to find out. ‘I’ll chase it up.’
‘You do that, detective. I want two hundred and fifty per cent effort from all of you. And don’t forget your ABC. Let’s hear it, DC Gibbs.’
‘Assume nothing, believe nobody, check everything,’ Chris Gibbs muttered, his face colouring. Simon was the one the Snowman usually nominated to make a tit of himself in front of a crowd. Why had he been spared this time?
‘Our mystery caller at 9 Bengeo Street might turn out to be a false lead, so let’s make sure he’s not our only lead,’ said Proust. ‘As someone’s already pointed out, we could be looking for a female. I want brains switched on and fully serviced round the clock. I don’t need to tell you all why this case matters more than any you’ve worked before.’
‘Don’t you?’ Simon murmured. Beside him, Sam was nodding. And yet the thing that marked out Helen Yardley as different from other murder victims had barely been mentioned, not this morning and not now.
‘It’s been forty-eight hours,’ said the Snowman. ‘If we don’t get a result soon, they’ll cut this squad in half, and that’ll just be for starters. You’ll all be going back to your own nicks – something I’m sure at least those of you from Rawndesley are keen to avoid. All right, that’s it for today. DS Kombothekra, DC Waterhouse – my office.’
Simon was in no mood to wait and see what Proust wanted. ‘How come you’re happy to ditch the “assume nothing” partwhen it comes to the gun?’ he asked, as soon as he’d slammed the door behind him. This time Sam did sigh. ‘Why’s Helen or Paul Yardley less likely to own an M9 Beretta than this dark-haired man we can’t find?’
‘Sergeant Kombothekra, explain to DC Waterhouse why a killer is more likely than his victim to bring a gun to the party.’
‘The Yardleys fought to keep their only surviving child, and they lost. Think about what that must have meant to them. You’ve got a daughter . . .’
‘Mention her name, Waterhouse, and I’ll yank your tongue out by the root. My daughter has nothing to do with this.’
You ought to hear what Colin Sellers has said about her over the years, what he’d like to do to which bits of her
. Simon tried again. ‘Paige Yardley lives less than two miles from
Similar Books
