Sacrifice. Paul Finch

evening – to be specific between seven-thirty and eight-fifteen. The timing of that incident alone would make it unusual for a home-invasion by a stranger. In addition, the window of opportunity is too small. The husband, who found her, would have us believe that he’d driven off to the local golf club to pay his annual subs. He’d also have us believe that in this brief time, some headcase happened to walk up to an ordinary suburban home, ascertained that the female occupant was alone, forced entry, did the dirty deed, painted a clown face on her, and then vanished without anyone seeing or hearing a thing.’

      ‘It seems unlikely, but could that be what happened?’

      ‘We don’t close the door on any possibility – the perp may have scoped the house out beforehand and lain in wait. But the husband didn’t leave the premises as part of a regular routine. So that makes it improbable. On top of all that, the first victim was a male in his late twenties, the second a female in her early forties. There was no sexual assault in either case. Okay, it could be some complete madman who just gets off on drawing clown faces. But that’s not the sort of guy you’d expect to have kept his light under a bushel up till now.’

      ‘So … what happens next?’

      Heck sat back. ‘I send it to Gemma with my report. I don’t recommend that we get involved because I don’t see any need. Our main responsibility is to identify patterns, series and clusters that may indicate a repeat-offender, and then respond accordingly.’

      ‘What if Gemma disagrees with you on this?’

      ‘If she disagrees, some of us – almost certainly me, as I copped for the job in the first place – will be off to Kent, which would be great because that’d take me out of the office. But I can tell you now she won’t. Most likely she’ll just send our official observations.’

      Claire glanced further along the desk. There was another pile of similar folders awaiting his attention. Other desks in the room were equally weighed down. ‘Are all these files the same kind of thing?’

      ‘We get copied in on a lot of stuff,’ Heck said. ‘But most of it is what we call “slush”.’

      ‘Slush?’

      ‘Not relevant to our remit. Various types of crimes are automatically sent for our assessment. All stranger-murders of children, for example. All murders of prostitutes. All murders of runaways. All murders committed during burglary or rape. All murders involving exceptional violence, sadism or depravity. All murders where there are ritual or theatrical elements. All murders where there’s evidence of bizarre post-death behaviour – mutilation, dismemberment, necrophilia. All murders where the perpetrator has apparently tried to contact the police or press … left clues, cryptic messages, that kind of thing. All murders which may not satisfy any of these criteria but where there is reasonable suspicion that it’s part of a series. And basically any murder at all that we request to look at. No police force in England and Wales has the right to refuse us.’

      Claire glanced around the room again. In another corner, two more crime scene blow-ups were mounted on a noticeboard amid masses of scribbled notations. One was a close-up glossy of a middle-aged black woman. She looked to have been propped against a wall in a house or flat. Her grin stretched from ear to ear – literally, because someone had slashed her cheeks with a razor blade and had fixed a stick vertically in her mouth. The other had been taken in a bedroom, which looked like it had been wrecked by a hurricane. The bed occupied the centre of the image. A figure lay in it hidden by a sheet, though so much blood had soaked through this that a clear outline of the body was visible. On the wall above it, bloody handwriting proclaimed: ‘Hey Mum, he fucked me first!’

      ‘And this you call “slush”?’ Claire said, unable to conceal her revulsion.

      ‘It’s just a turn of phrase. Every one of these files represents a life lost. You can’t hide from that. But it’s an odd fact that by far the highest percentage of homicides committed in the industrialised West, however they may initially appear, are the work of family members or other so-called loved ones. Either that, or they’re one-off events committed by people who will probably never break the law again. The result of anger, greed, jealousy … course, we need to establish that before we send them back. Oh crap, your tea’s gone cold.’

      ‘Doesn’t matter.’

      ‘I’ll make you another.’ He attended to it. ‘If there’s one thing I’m supposedly good at round here, it’s brewing up.’

      Claire pulled a chair and sat down. She hoped Heck didn’t notice that she needed to.

      ‘The upside to all this,’ he said, as he handed her a fresh mug, ‘is that there’s no better feeling than getting justice for these people.’

      ‘It’ll make a change,’ she said. ‘Doing a job that feels worthwhile.’

      He sat down too. ‘You must have done some useful stuff in your previous jobs.’

      ‘No, you were right before. Telling lies to cover ministerial incompetence, massaging figures to make inaccurate departmental forecasts look good, putting out endless spin to save someone their one-forty-K-a-year salary … that doesn’t always make you feel like a useful member of society.’

      ‘There you are then,’ Heck replied. ‘You’re in the right place with SCU. No one ever screws up here.’

      She caught his sidelong glance, and couldn’t help but chuckle. Heck smiled – and almost on cue Gemma appeared in the doorway, peeling off her raincoat. She made a good job of disguising her double-take at the sight of them cosied up together.

      ‘Morning,’ Claire said, standing.

      ‘Morning Claire. Heck.’

      Heck stood up too. ‘Ma’am.’

      ‘None of the other sleeping beauties checked in yet?’

      ‘I’m sure they’re on their way.’

      Gemma glanced at her watch. ‘They’ve got forty-five minutes. If no one’s shown by then, start making phone calls. And don’t shy from using harsh language.’ She moved back out into the main corridor, but then reappeared. ‘Heck, you haven’t seen Joe Wullerton this morning, have you?’

      ‘Not so far, ma’am.’

      ‘I’ve got a note to go up and see him.’

      ‘Can’t help you with that.’

      ‘Okay.’ She breezed away.

      Heck turned to Claire. ‘Forty-five minutes. Enough time for breakfast?’

      ‘Breakfast?’

      ‘There’s a smashing little deli round the corner. They do a nice egg sandwich.’

      Claire glanced again at the photo of the woman with the stick in her mouth. ‘I’m not sure I can eat, but … hey, the fresh air can’t hurt.’

      Gemma watched from the other end of the corridor as they headed off together.

      For a thirty-year-old, Claire Moody was already very experienced. Her references had been among the best Gemma had ever seen, and she’d interviewed excellently. The girl’s good looks and lively personality were another bonus – the bulk of the detectives in SCU were men, and if that would make them more deferential around her, all the better; at least until she’d found her feet. It was no surprise that Claire was being hit on of course, though it took Gemma aback a little to see Heck’s interest.

      Not that she could afford to worry about that now. She let herself into her office, dumping her coat and brolly and thinking again about Joe Wullerton.

      She hadn’t known him very long – he’d only been in his post about half a year, having replaced the disgraced Jim Laycock, and from the beginning had set his stall out to be an affable, approachable boss with an even temper and easy manner. On first arrival, he’d voluntarily changed his official title, replacing the macho Metropolitan Police-style ‘Commander’