But Gill was in Paris, beginning what she insisted was only an intermission in their relationship. Milton knew she meant it sincerely but he still didn't really believe it. It was too big a step, and she was too good at what she did. The six-month temporary contract would be extended, and then become permanent. She'd talk to him about his moving out there but they'd both know it would never happen. And slowly, step by step, they'd drift apart and it would all be over.

  When she'd asked him if she should apply for the job in the OECD, of course he'd said she should. Her career was taking off. It wouldn't be right to get in her way. Privately, he'd hoped she wouldn't be offered the job but he'd always known that they'd select her. Why wouldn't they? She was, after all, wonderful. And so they had. But even then he'd managed to fool himself it wouldn't happen. That she'd turn down the job or that it would somehow fall through. That her current employers would make her a better offer. That she'd realise how he really felt and change her mind.

  But of course he hadn't said any of that to her. Everything had trundled on until, just over two weeks ago, he'd waved goodbye to her at Manchester Airport and the whole thing had finally become real. He'd driven back from the airport to a new-build townhouse in Sale that suddenly felt much too big for his solitary presence. He'd lived on his own before but he'd been with Gill for five years or more. She'd moved in with him when he'd finally come through his troubles and it had felt like a symbolic moment. Now, he wondered about the implications of her departure, temporary or not.

  Since then, he'd been drifting through his days as if semi-conscious. He'd lived on takeaways and supermarket meals-for-one, drunk too many bottles of wine and cans of beer in the evenings, and thrown himself back into his work. He and Gill spoke on the phone most days but even that felt hard work. Her life was full of new beginnings—a new flat in a supposedly up-and-coming arrondissement, new colleagues, new work challenges, a whole new lifestyle. His was more of the same. Even when something dramatic happened, like this new case, there was little he could tell her. The calls had already become a sequence of awkward silences, embarrassed bursts of conversation, uneasy and unshared laughter. He suspected that soon even the calls would become less frequent, and the ending would have begun.

  He found the last dregs of a carton of milk in the office fridge and made himself a strong coffee. Then he made his way back into the now-empty MIR and slumped at his workstation, wondering what to do. There was no point in going home. He wouldn't sleep. Even on the best of nights now he found himself lying wide awake, staring at the ceiling in the semi-dark, listening to the burr of traffic on the main road. He was up half the night, watching mindless TV, playing computer games, listening to music through earphones so as not to disturb the neighbours beyond the thin walls. Tonight, there'd be no point in even pretending he might sleep. Murrain would be in the same position, he knew, but at least he had Eloise to take care of him.

  There were still things he could do, if only just more re-reading and double-checking. He spent a few minutes working aimlessly through the interview reports, hoping to spot something, however trivial, they might have missed the first time through. According to the clock over the meeting room door it was 9.30pm. Maybe time for one more shot at getting hold of the elusive Kathy Granger. If she'd been out straight from work, maybe she'd be home by now. He found the number in the records and dialled. There was still no response. He allowed it to ring for several minutes in case she might be in the bathroom or even already asleep, but there was no answer, no voicemail.

  Frustrated, he ended the call and sat back. After a moment, he pulled out his mobile and flicked through his address book. He found the number he was looking for and pressed Call.

  This time, the phone was answered almost immediately. 'Hello? Joe?' Then, before Joe could answer: 'Blimey, mate, long time no hear. How you doing?'

  'Not so bad,' Joe said, deciding that his wasn't the moment to start discussing his relationship issues. 'All good with you?'

  'You know. Same old same old. But, yeah, OK.'

  Milton had met Rob Fletcher when they were both on a High Potential Development scheme course at Bramshill. Both had apparently been marked out as future leaders, whatever that might mean, and had undertaken the required mix of academic and hands-on training. That had been two years before, and both of them had now reached the dizzy heights of Detective Inspector. Fletcher was based up in Lancaster and, after the training course, they'd occasionally met up for a drink if either had reason to be in the other's patch.

  'Given the time of night, I'm assuming this isn't a social call, Joe.'

  'Yeah, sorry to disturb you—'

  'No problem. You've just dragged me away from the most mawkish bit of a chick-lit DVD so frankly I'm going to be eternally grateful, whatever you're about to ask of me.'

  'Just after a bit of information, really.' Milton briefly outlined the background to the case. 'Can't say a lot more because it's not really hit the media yet, but you get the drift.'

  Fletcher whistled gently. 'Christ, yes. Nasty one. And you've got nothing at all?'

  'Except what I've told you, no. We're pretty much clutching at any straw we can find. Hence the interest in the wedding.'

  'I can see that. Though I can't really see how it's likely to be relevant. Who were the bride and groom?'

  'Groom's a guy called Andy Barton.' He paused, peering at the screen. 'Ha. Only name we have for the bride so far is Julie Barton. She must have proudly signed into the hotel that way. So don't know the maiden name.'

  'Julie Welling,' Fletcher said instantly. Then there was a pause. 'And that'd be DI Andy Barton.'

  'You know him, then?'

  'Everybody up here knows good old Andy. He's a piece of work.'

  'You're not making that sound like a good thing.'

  'No, well, we've had one or two run-ins, me and Andy. But then a lot of people have had run-ins with Andy.' There was another silence, as Fletcher was clearly contemplating what to say. 'You know the type. Arrogant little prick. Not prepared to listen to anyone else. Makes himself look big by making others look small. Full-time tosser.'

  'You're not a fan, then?'

  'Not a huge one, since you ask. My impression, for what it's worth, is that he was probably an effective copper but he's out of his depth as a manager. He talks a good game and he gets his way by bullying. That's how he's got as far as he has, despite a few blots on his copybook.'

  'What sort of blots?'

  'Kind of stuff that gets hushed up. Suggestions that he's been on the take. One or two complaints against him. Inappropriate behaviour. By which I mean borderline sexual harassment. Another officer. A witness in a burglary. Never proven. You know the drill.'

  'I can imagine it.'

  'Didn't seem to stop him progressing, though. Moved into CID with you lot. Then took a side-step into an undercover role.'

  Milton felt his hand tighten on the phone. He couldn't imagine how this might be significant, but he felt somehow as if he'd just had a glimpse of light. Not a lead exactly, but something that might take them in a new direction. Jesus, he thought, I'm turning into Kenny Murrain.

  'Since then he seems to have gone from strength to strength,' Fletcher went on. 'Made DI a couple of years ago. I think he's more than reached his level of incompetence, but he has his champions on high.'

  'Right,' Milton said, trying to absorb this. 'And what about his new wife?'

  'Julie Welling, as was,' Fletcher said. 'I can't claim to know her except as someone to nod to in the corridor. Works in intelligence. Bit of a looker, and knows it. Maybe ten years younger than Andy Barton. Not difficult to see what he sees in her. Not so clear what she sees in him. Father figure, maybe, or sugar daddy. Or am I being too cynical?'

  'I've never known you be cynical, Rob,' Milton said, drily.

  'She's wife number two,' Fletcher added. 'First one divorced him on the grounds of multiple infidelities, I hear. So I wouldn't give the marriage much chance if Julie's expecting him not to play away.'

  'It's never easy to fathom other people's relationships,' Milton said. Or even, he added silently to himself, your own. 'That's really interesting.'

  'Maybe. Can't see that it's likely to shed much light on your murder, though. Unless you're suggesting that Barton got up to some really serious no good on his wedding night. Even for Barton, that doesn't seem likely. In any case, if I know Andy Barton, he'd have been too pissed to raise a knife.' He paused and laughed. 'Or much else for that matter.'

  'I'm happy to take your word for it. But, no, I can't see he's a serious suspect. But there might be a connection with someone who was there. It just feels like an odd coincidence. You know how it is. You pursue any avenue.'

  'Yeah, I can see that. Anything else I can do for you?'

  'Does the name Kathy Granger mean anything to you?'

  'Don't think so. Should it?'

  'Probably not. She was another guest at the hotel. The only solo female staying in the hotel that night, which is why we first noticed her.'

  'She's not your victim, presumably?'

  'No, she checked out safely on the Sunday. We assume she headed back home. She gave a Bury address. We've been trying to make contact but there's been no response on the number we have.'

  'Why the interest?'

  Good question, Milton thought. Because Kenny Murrain's instincts have pin-pointed her? Not the kind of thing you can say to a hard-headed Lancastrian DI. 'Nothing really. She's just another witness we want to speak to. Was staying on the same floor as the crime scene. But we've no reason to think she'll be able to tell us any more than the others have. Just occurred to me that she might be another Police colleague. She's not one of ours, so I wondered if she was with you.'

  'She could well be,' Fletcher said. 'There are a lot of us. Do you want me to find out?'

  'It's not urgent but, yeah, if you could, that would be helpful. We'll keep trying the number she gave with her booking, but if she's one of yours it might save us time.'

  'Shouldn't be a problem,' Fletcher said. 'If she does work for us, she'll be in the internal phonebook. I'll have a look in the morning.'

  'Cheers, mate,' Milton said. He wasn't sure he had a lot in common with Fletcher, but they got on well enough after a pint or two. Always paid to keep on the right side of people. 'I'll do the same for you sometime.'

  'Can't imagine we'll ever have the need to call for help from you spoiled city types,' Fletcher said. 'No, seriously—it's no problem. We going to grab a pint sometime?'

  'That would be good. I'll let you know when I'm next up your way.'

  'You do that, old son.'

  Milton ended the call and sat silently in the empty MIR, his mind still running over what he'd heard. Andy Barton sounded a real charmer but it was difficult to see how he might be linked to this killing. Even so, Milton felt a growing unease. This case had felt wrong from the start. This was a unique killer committing a unique murder. In a building filled with serving police officers. That felt like a strangeness too far.

  The clock said ten-thirty. Suddenly, the building felt cold and empty and Milton felt, for the first time in years, a clutch of those old familiar anxieties.

  Time to go home, he thought. Definitely time to go home.

  Even if it wasn't really home any more.

  TUESDAY

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  'You're sure?'

  Pete Warwick gazed at him without speaking. It was Murrain who, literally, blinked first. 'Yes, of course you're sure,' Murrain said. 'Dumb question. But it does change our thinking.'

  'I spotted them yesterday, but I didn't want to say till I'd had a closer look,' Warwick acknowledged. 'It was quite subtle.'

  'Subtle,' Murrain repeated. It wasn't the word he'd have used, but he and Warwick had different perspectives on the world.

  'It looks to me,' Warwick went on, 'as if he put something round her ankles and wrists to protect them. A padded bandage, that sort of thing. There weren't the lesions that you might normally find in that kind of situation. But there was some surface bruising. On all four limbs. So I don't think it's a coincidence.'

  'She was tied up,' Murrain said, as if to convince himself of the fact. 'Does that square with what you found, Neil?'

  They were in a small meeting room along the corridor from the MIR. It was what Joe Milton insisted on calling a case conference, but which Murrain just saw as an opportunity to share the few ideas they had. It also put pressure on Pete Warwick and Neil Ferbrache to share what they had even if they hadn't yet had time to finalise their formal reports.

  'Difficult to say,' Ferbrache said, pushing his glasses back up his nose as he peered at his notes. 'There's nothing inconsistent with that. She wasn't tied to the bed because the headboard was a solid unit and there was no footboard, so nothing to tie her to.'

  'I'd say her wrists and ankles were tied together, maybe with her wrists behind her legs to incapacitate her. Probably with those self-sealing plastic tie things,' Warwick said. 'But that's just a guess. There's no strong medical evidence.' He spoke as if this was a quite unacceptable state of affairs. 'And I think she was gagged. Not tightly. Again, there's just slight evidence of bruising. But I found some traces of cotton in her mouth.'

  'Enough to muffle any screams, though,' Milton offered.

  'I'd imagine so.'

  'It all indicates premeditation,' Murrain said, voicing the obvious point that they'd all been contemplating. 'Not a crime of passion.'

  'Very much so,' Warwick agreed. 'And the plastic ties suggest someone who had some idea what they were doing.'

  Murrain glanced at Ferbrache, who nodded. 'Links in with what we were saying yesterday.'

  Milton was frowning, working through the implications in his head. 'So she wasn't taken by surprise. When he stabbed her, I mean.'

  'Well, if she'd been tied up, I'm imagine she'd have had an idea his motives weren't wholly honourable, if that's what you mean,' Warwick said drily.

  Milton had had sufficient dealings with Warwick's brand of superciliousness not to be intimidated. 'Well, not exactly. I meant that yesterday we'd all drawn the conclusion that she'd been taken by surprise while sitting at the dressing-table, or some similar scenario. But that can't have been the case.'

  'It would seem not,' Warwick agreed. 'The angle of the knife wounds indicates she was stabbed from behind and slightly above. I think we'd assumed—we'd all assumed—that she'd been sitting at the dressing table with the killer standing behind her. Maybe she wasn't. Maybe she was kneeling and he was crouching behind.' He looked across to Ferbrache for support.

  'I think,' Ferbrache said cautiously, 'that's consistent with the blood patterns. Probably more consistent than if she was sitting at the dressing-table. When I came to map out the patterns, that didn't look quite right.'

  'So what are we saying?' Murrain asked. 'That he made her kneel down before he stabbed her. Was she still tied up at this point?'

  'My guess would be yes,' Warwick said. 'Though I should stress that there's—'

  'No strong medical evidence, no,' Murrain finished, wearily. It was one of Warwick's catch-phrases. He was a skilled pathologist, but he was even more expert at ensuring his own backside was well-covered. 'Why do you think he protected her wrists and ankles? Seems odd to be concerned about that if he was going to kill her anyway.'

  'That's more your territory than mine,' Warwick said.

  'Maybe he didn't know he was going to kill her,' Milton said. 'Maybe initially he had some other agenda.'

  'There's no evidence of any sexual assault, if that's what you mean,' Warwick said.

  'I don't know what I mean,' Milton went on, patiently. 'I just mean that perhaps he didn't start with the idea of killing her. Or that he didn't see that as the inevitable outcome. So he wanted to look after her at first.'

  'Or maybe he wanted to confuse us,' Murrain said. 'Make us think it was unpremeditated. That it was a crime committed in the heat of the moment.' He shook his head. 'None of it really hangs together, does it? Premeditated, carefully planned, by someone who apparently knew what they were doing, and knew how to clean up the scene afterwards. But he commits a murder like that.'

  It was the same incongruity Milton had been wrestling with the night before, that had driven him from the deserted building with a taste of the panic attacks that had plagued him years before. He'd made it home OK but sleep had eluded him and he'd been back in the office at first light, feeling washed-out but wanting to press on. Murrain had turned up half an hour later, looking less tired but similarly driven.

  'Anything else, Neil?' Murrain said.

  Ferbrache shuffled through his papers. 'Nothing of significance. More of the same, really. But, if you want my opinion, the room was too clean. Forensically speaking, I mean. The bed was like it hadn't been touched, let alone slept in or on. If the victim was tied up all night—and especially if she was terrified—there was no new contamination of the carpets, if you get my drift.'

  'I get your drift,' Murrain said. 'So what's that telling us? And don't just say that's our territory.'

  'It suggests to me first that the killer took some care of the victim overnight, maybe. But it suggests more that the killer was going to some length to minimise any risk of being identified. I suspect some protection was placed on the bed and maybe on the carpet too. Some sheeting the killer took with them. And, as before, that they cleaned up very thoroughly.'

  'The victim's bowels and bladder were relatively empty,' Warwick said, 'however that might have been achieved. I'd estimate she ate early the previous evening.'

  Murrain looked up. It was a question that, stupidly, he hadn't thought to ask yet. No doubt Warwick had been waiting smugly to point out his omission. 'Do we know what she ate?'

  Warwick smiled benignly. 'I was wondering when we'd come to that. It looks like her last meal was a nice poached salmon with some new potatoes and a salad. Most nutritious. There were some traces of alcohol in her bloodstream. I'd say she'd had a couple of glasses of wine.'

 

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