probably wasn’t just the jacket that was too young for him.
In the corridor, Staffe catches sight of Josie, walking away. He walks double-quick to catch up with her but there’s no need. She stands by the coffee machine. As he approaches, she presses a button but nothing happens.
‘It’s out of order.’
‘What exactly is out of order, sir?’
‘I was wondering if maybe …’ He reaches his hand out, presses the flat of his palm on the wall that she is leaning against.
‘What?’ She smiles. ‘You know, I’ve heard you used to be a bit of a ladies’ man, sir.’
‘And I heard you should believe half of what you see …’
‘… and nothing of what you hear,’ she says, laughing. ‘My dad used to say that. Maybe he’s right.’
Staffe pushes himself up and away from the wall, runs a hand through his hair and takes a step back, tugs at his jacket. He’s seen Pennington coming down the corridor and takes another step back.
‘Wagstaffe, Chancellor,’ says Pennington, the merest break in his stride.
‘Sir,’ says Josie.
‘Your office, Wagstaffe. This Colquhoun debacle, a quick word, if you will.’
‘Debacle, sir?’ says Staffe, following the DCI into his office.
‘Chancellor!’ booms Pennington from the doorway to Wagstaffe’s office, ‘get Pulford and tell the clever dick to bring his university educated backside down here tout suite.’
Pennington takes the seat behind Staffe’s desk. Turning the tables is his style. Before he got the move upstairs, Pennington was one of the canniest coppers Staffe had come across. He must have been, to always be one step ahead of Jessop. Pennington picks up a pen and taps a 10 x 8 photograph that he has placed on the desk in front of him, spins it around so Staffe can see it.
In black and white, the carnage of Karl Colqhoun’s butchered body looks even more grotesque. Staffe leans forward , then stands back. He squints, to get the detail without getting too close – as if it might be contagious. When it was taken, only one of the testicles has been placed into an eye socket. By the side of the bed, someone is leaning over his body, twisting to look into camera. They are wearing a peaked hood with eyes and a mouth cut out – a hurried imitation of the KKK or a religious penitent. Their eyes are heavily made up with kohl and the mouth, smiling manically, is daubed with dark lipstick. Long blonde hair flows from the bottom of the hood. The figure is wearing white gloves, spattered with blood.
‘Is that Leanne Colquhoun?’ says Staffe.
‘I’ve got a bad feeling about this,’ says Pennington. ‘The last thing we want is publicity. You know what the commissioner is like. Sort this out fast, Staffe.’ He leans forward, hands Staffe a piece of paper. It’s a photocopy of a note that has been pasted together from a newspaper – the News – judging by the typeface.
SEE JUSTICE DONE.
‘What I don’t get’, says Pennington, ‘is Karl Colquhoun has never even done time. There was that allegation three years ago, but nothing came of it. It’s not a matter of public record, just a dead file down at the CPS. So if she didn’t want him dead, who would? And want him dead the way he went. These are sadistic bastards. The question is, Staffe …?’
This was a Pennington ploy.
‘The question is, sir …’ Staffe is trying to not only deduce the profile of the likely murderer, but do it within the template of Pennington’s own processes. ‘The question is … Who would have suffered so much at the hands of Karl Colquhoun to feel the need … Feel compelled to replicate that suffering. Like a mirror, to hold it up to him.’
‘I’m getting wind that you don’t fancy the wife for this one, Staffe. And she’s the only one that answers your question so far.’
‘There’s Debra Bowker, Karl Colquhoun’s ex-wife. She’s in Tenerife and according to Social Services she took her kids with her, away from Colquhoun.’
‘How old are
In the corridor, Staffe catches sight of Josie, walking away. He walks double-quick to catch up with her but there’s no need. She stands by the coffee machine. As he approaches, she presses a button but nothing happens.
‘It’s out of order.’
‘What exactly is out of order, sir?’
‘I was wondering if maybe …’ He reaches his hand out, presses the flat of his palm on the wall that she is leaning against.
‘What?’ She smiles. ‘You know, I’ve heard you used to be a bit of a ladies’ man, sir.’
‘And I heard you should believe half of what you see …’
‘… and nothing of what you hear,’ she says, laughing. ‘My dad used to say that. Maybe he’s right.’
Staffe pushes himself up and away from the wall, runs a hand through his hair and takes a step back, tugs at his jacket. He’s seen Pennington coming down the corridor and takes another step back.
‘Wagstaffe, Chancellor,’ says Pennington, the merest break in his stride.
‘Sir,’ says Josie.
‘Your office, Wagstaffe. This Colquhoun debacle, a quick word, if you will.’
‘Debacle, sir?’ says Staffe, following the DCI into his office.
‘Chancellor!’ booms Pennington from the doorway to Wagstaffe’s office, ‘get Pulford and tell the clever dick to bring his university educated backside down here tout suite.’
Pennington takes the seat behind Staffe’s desk. Turning the tables is his style. Before he got the move upstairs, Pennington was one of the canniest coppers Staffe had come across. He must have been, to always be one step ahead of Jessop. Pennington picks up a pen and taps a 10 x 8 photograph that he has placed on the desk in front of him, spins it around so Staffe can see it.
In black and white, the carnage of Karl Colqhoun’s butchered body looks even more grotesque. Staffe leans forward , then stands back. He squints, to get the detail without getting too close – as if it might be contagious. When it was taken, only one of the testicles has been placed into an eye socket. By the side of the bed, someone is leaning over his body, twisting to look into camera. They are wearing a peaked hood with eyes and a mouth cut out – a hurried imitation of the KKK or a religious penitent. Their eyes are heavily made up with kohl and the mouth, smiling manically, is daubed with dark lipstick. Long blonde hair flows from the bottom of the hood. The figure is wearing white gloves, spattered with blood.
‘Is that Leanne Colquhoun?’ says Staffe.
‘I’ve got a bad feeling about this,’ says Pennington. ‘The last thing we want is publicity. You know what the commissioner is like. Sort this out fast, Staffe.’ He leans forward, hands Staffe a piece of paper. It’s a photocopy of a note that has been pasted together from a newspaper – the News – judging by the typeface.
SEE JUSTICE DONE.
‘What I don’t get’, says Pennington, ‘is Karl Colquhoun has never even done time. There was that allegation three years ago, but nothing came of it. It’s not a matter of public record, just a dead file down at the CPS. So if she didn’t want him dead, who would? And want him dead the way he went. These are sadistic bastards. The question is, Staffe …?’
This was a Pennington ploy.
‘The question is, sir …’ Staffe is trying to not only deduce the profile of the likely murderer, but do it within the template of Pennington’s own processes. ‘The question is … Who would have suffered so much at the hands of Karl Colquhoun to feel the need … Feel compelled to replicate that suffering. Like a mirror, to hold it up to him.’
‘I’m getting wind that you don’t fancy the wife for this one, Staffe. And she’s the only one that answers your question so far.’
‘There’s Debra Bowker, Karl Colquhoun’s ex-wife. She’s in Tenerife and according to Social Services she took her kids with her, away from Colquhoun.’
‘How old are
Similar Books
