to the woman’s identity, the distribution of photographs to the inquiry team became the logical next step.
Gemma’s empty cup squeaked as she crumpled it. “Will you release a drawing to the media?”
During the course of the afternoon, they had set the routine of investigation in motion; the first round of house-to-house inquiries, concentrated on the supermarket and the streets immediately adjacent to the park; the intensive search for physical evidence, always a race against contamination of the crime scene; the checking of the victim’s description against the Police National Computer’s missing persons reports. But he’d delayed speaking to the media until he’d prepared a formal statement describing the dead woman and asking the public’s help in identifying her or reporting suspicious sightings in the area. “No, not yet. We’ll try the description first, and if that doesn’t produce results, we’ll have the police artist make a sketch.” Finishing his tea, he tossed his cup in the bin and pushed himself away from the wall. “I suppose I’d better face the lions.” He pulled up the knot on the tie he’d rescued from the boot of the car, then ran his fingers through his hair.
Gemma smiled. “You’re quite presentable. They’re waiting in the ante—”
The incident room door swung open and Janice Coppin came out. Although the passing hours had taken their toll on both starched hair and suit, they’d done little to temper the inspector’s prickliness, although Kincaid had found her to be competent and patient with her staff. “There you are,” she said as she saw them. “The duty officer’s just rung from downstairs. There’s a bloke at the window raising holy hell because they won’t let him register a missing person until the twenty-four-hour limit’s up.”
Kincaid heard the intake of Gemma’s breath as she said, “A match?”
Coppin shrugged. “His girlfriend didn’t come home last night. Her name’s Annabelle Hammond, lives just at the end of Island Gardens. And he says she has long, red hair.”
CHAPTER 4
By 1797, over 10,000 coasters and nearly 3,500 foreign-going vessels were coming up to London annually. The West India vessels contributed particularly to the river’s traffic jam.… In September 1793, [the West India Merchants] held a meeting in an attempt to resolve it, which was to lead in due course to the building of London’s first commercial docks
.
Theo Barker, from
Dockland
“Bloody poser,” Janice Coppin muttered, jerking her head towards the interview room, where she had sequestered the man who wished to make a missing persons report. “Ought to have his mobile phone surgically implanted in his ear.”
Gemma knew the type all too well. They indulged in the prolonged and very public use of their mobile phones in the trendier cafes and coffeehouses, and this disregard for both cost and manners apparently served as a badge of social status. “Do you think we should take this seriously, then?” she asked.
“Can’t see him as a practical joker,” Janice answered reluctantly. “And his distress seems genuine enough. It’s just that he fancies himself a bit.” With a dark look at Kincaid as he came through the door at the end of the corridor, she added in Gemma’s ear, “But I imagine you’re used to that.”
Before Gemma could come up with a retort, however, Kincaid joined them. “I postponed the media a bit longer,until we see what this chap has to say. Have you told him anything?”
Janice shook her head. “Just that someone will speak to him. And I sent one of the constables in with a cuppa.”
“Right. Then let’s not get the wind up with an abundance of police presence. Why don’t you run a check on—what’s his name, Inspector?”
“Reginald Mortimer.” Janice articulated each syllable distinctly, crinkling her nose as if she found it distasteful.
“Run a check on Mr. Mortimer, then, Inspector, while Gemma and I have a word
Gemma’s empty cup squeaked as she crumpled it. “Will you release a drawing to the media?”
During the course of the afternoon, they had set the routine of investigation in motion; the first round of house-to-house inquiries, concentrated on the supermarket and the streets immediately adjacent to the park; the intensive search for physical evidence, always a race against contamination of the crime scene; the checking of the victim’s description against the Police National Computer’s missing persons reports. But he’d delayed speaking to the media until he’d prepared a formal statement describing the dead woman and asking the public’s help in identifying her or reporting suspicious sightings in the area. “No, not yet. We’ll try the description first, and if that doesn’t produce results, we’ll have the police artist make a sketch.” Finishing his tea, he tossed his cup in the bin and pushed himself away from the wall. “I suppose I’d better face the lions.” He pulled up the knot on the tie he’d rescued from the boot of the car, then ran his fingers through his hair.
Gemma smiled. “You’re quite presentable. They’re waiting in the ante—”
The incident room door swung open and Janice Coppin came out. Although the passing hours had taken their toll on both starched hair and suit, they’d done little to temper the inspector’s prickliness, although Kincaid had found her to be competent and patient with her staff. “There you are,” she said as she saw them. “The duty officer’s just rung from downstairs. There’s a bloke at the window raising holy hell because they won’t let him register a missing person until the twenty-four-hour limit’s up.”
Kincaid heard the intake of Gemma’s breath as she said, “A match?”
Coppin shrugged. “His girlfriend didn’t come home last night. Her name’s Annabelle Hammond, lives just at the end of Island Gardens. And he says she has long, red hair.”
CHAPTER 4
By 1797, over 10,000 coasters and nearly 3,500 foreign-going vessels were coming up to London annually. The West India vessels contributed particularly to the river’s traffic jam.… In September 1793, [the West India Merchants] held a meeting in an attempt to resolve it, which was to lead in due course to the building of London’s first commercial docks
.
Theo Barker, from
Dockland
“Bloody poser,” Janice Coppin muttered, jerking her head towards the interview room, where she had sequestered the man who wished to make a missing persons report. “Ought to have his mobile phone surgically implanted in his ear.”
Gemma knew the type all too well. They indulged in the prolonged and very public use of their mobile phones in the trendier cafes and coffeehouses, and this disregard for both cost and manners apparently served as a badge of social status. “Do you think we should take this seriously, then?” she asked.
“Can’t see him as a practical joker,” Janice answered reluctantly. “And his distress seems genuine enough. It’s just that he fancies himself a bit.” With a dark look at Kincaid as he came through the door at the end of the corridor, she added in Gemma’s ear, “But I imagine you’re used to that.”
Before Gemma could come up with a retort, however, Kincaid joined them. “I postponed the media a bit longer,until we see what this chap has to say. Have you told him anything?”
Janice shook her head. “Just that someone will speak to him. And I sent one of the constables in with a cuppa.”
“Right. Then let’s not get the wind up with an abundance of police presence. Why don’t you run a check on—what’s his name, Inspector?”
“Reginald Mortimer.” Janice articulated each syllable distinctly, crinkling her nose as if she found it distasteful.
“Run a check on Mr. Mortimer, then, Inspector, while Gemma and I have a word
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