“Ah,” he said. “That. Well, we’ve a bit of a problem.” He went on to lower the boom. “Can’t be done, love. There’s no MCIT available at the moment to be sent to Casvelyn. You can ring Dorset or Somerset and try to get one of theirs, of course, or I can do it for you. In the meantime, I do have a TAG team I can send you.”
“A TAG team,” she said. “A TAG team, Ray? This is a murder enquiry. Murder. Major crime. Requiring a Major Crime Investigating Team.”
“Blood from a stone,” he returned. “There’s not much more I can do. I did try to suggest you maintain your incident room in?”
“Are you punishing me?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You’re the one who?”
“Don’t you dare go there. This is professional.”
“I think I’ll have Pete with me till you’ve got a result,” he said mildly. “You’re going to be quite busy. I don’t want him staying on his own. It’s not a good idea.”
“You don’t want him staying…You don’t…” She was left speechless, a reaction to Ray so rare that its presence now left her even more speechless. What remained was ending the conversation. She should have done so with dignity but all she managed was to punch off the mobile and throw it onto the closest desk.
When it rang a moment later, she thought her former husband was phoning to apologise or, more likely, to lecture her about police procedure, about her propensity for myopic decision making, about perpetually crossing the boundaries of what was allowed while expecting someone to run interference for her. She snatched up the mobile and said, “What? What?”
It was the forensic lab, however. Someone called Duke Clarence Washoe?and was that name bizarre enough…what in God’s name had his parents been thinking??ringing up with the fingerprint report.
“Got a real stew, mum,” was how he broke the news to her.
“Guv,” she said. “Or DI Hannaford. Not ma’am, madam, mum, or anything suggesting you and I are related or I’ve got royal connections, all right?”
“Oh. Right. Sorry.” A pause. He seemed to need a moment to adjust his approach. “We’ve got dabs from your vic all over the car?”
“Victim,” Bea said, and she thought wearily about what American television had done to normal communications. “Not vic. Victim. Or Santo Kerne, if you prefer. Let’s show a little respect, Mr. Washoe.”
“Duke Clarence,” he said. “You c’n call me Duke Clarence.”
“That delights me no end,” she replied. “Go on.”
“Eleven other different sets of prints as well. This is outside of the car. Inside, we’ve got seven sets. The vic…The dead boy’s. And six others who also left prints on the passenger door, fascia, window handles, and glove box. There’re prints on the CD cases as well. The boy and three others.”
“What about on the climbing equipment?”
“The only decent prints’re on that tape wrapped round it. But they’re Santo Kerne’s.”
“Damn,” Bea said.
“There’s a nice clear set on the boot of the car, though. Fresh ones, I’d guess. But I don’t know what good that’ll do you.”
None at all, Bea thought. Someone crossing the bloody road in town could’ve touched the damn car in passing. She would send forensics the prints gathered from everyone remotely connected to Santo Kerne, but the truth was that identifying whose fingers left dabs on the boy’s car probably wasn’t going to get them anywhere. This was a disappointment.
“Let me know what else you turn up,” she told Duke Clarence Washoe. “There’s got to be something from that car we can use.”
“As to that, we’ve got some hair caught up in the climbing equipment. That might turn up something.”
“Tissue attached?” she asked hopefully.
“Yes, indeed.”
“Keep it safe, then. Carry on, Mr. Washoe.”
“You c’n call me Duke Clarence,” he reminded her.