‘What about Lacey’s phone?’
‘We’ve had mast data back,’ said Moss. She flicked the lights back on and went to her desk and picked up a printout. ‘There are three mobile phone masts in the area of the Blue Boar pub, and we triangulated the last signal from Lacey’s phone, which was at 8.21 p.m. on the fourth of January. After that there’s nothing.’
‘How far apart are these masts?’ asked Erika.
‘All within a mile of the pub.’
‘Okay. I want another door-to door in the area. I want to know if anyone saw anything. There’s houses, shops.’
‘There’s a big car park at the side of the Blue Boar. It backs onto a bus depot and it’s badly lit,’ said Crane, fiddling with his laptop and projecting another image on the whiteboards. This time it was a Google Street View image of the car park next to the pub. It had been taken on a summer’s day. The road was busy and the surrounding trees green.
‘He could have grabbed her there,’ said Peterson. ‘It was dark.’
‘And switched her phone off so her movements couldn’t be tracked,’ said Erika. She looked at the Google Street View image as Crane shifted the view along Widmore Road. A bus was passing in one photo. ‘Buses have CCTV. Find out what buses go on that route, and pull bus footage from TfL. It’s a long shot, but one of those cameras might have got something. What about Lacey’s laptop?’
‘It’s a priority case, but I’ve been told another twenty-four hours,’ said Jennifer.
‘I’ll have a word with them…’ Erika could see the team looked disheartened. ‘We have to keep asking questions, however stupid they may be: answers solve the case. This devil, whoever he may be, is in the detail. I’m going to talk to the Acting Superintendent to see if we can get some increased manpower for the door-to-door. And if we can get this e-fit image out to the public. It’s on the borough websites but it’s not enough. I’d also like to release the CCTV footage of Lacey, and appeal for any witnesses to her and the car… What about Janelle Robinson, any CCTV where her body was found in Croydon?’
‘Sorry, boss. It’s a CCTV black spot. Residential, no shops, and no buses pass down the street.’
‘Okay. Let’s keep on it. We’ll close in on this guy, I’m sure of it.’
Chapter Twenty-Eight
It was lunchtime in the large communal office where Darryl worked, which meant that between 11.30 a.m. and 2 p.m. the lifeless atmosphere took on a little excitement as packed lunches were opened and admired, and the best places to eat were discussed.
The anticipation of food and what was on television were the main topics of conversation during the day. The work was often an afterthought.
Darryl worked on a data entry team with four others: Terri, an anaemic blonde woman in her late thirties who was permanently cold; Derek, a dull, balding man in his late fifties, and Bryony, their Team Leader. She was a large woman in her mid-thirties, who, come rain or shine, wore black leggings and thick patterned acrylic jumpers. Her love of synthetic fabrics wasn’t matched in her personal hygiene. A beefy tang of body odour permanently hung over their section, a grid of cubicles in the centre of the office.
Darryl had worked with this firm for almost three years, and mostly kept to himself. He’d started as a temp, and laziness and the ease of regular money had meant the time had flown by. He hadn’t been to university, and after several disastrous attempts at working for his father on the farm, this job was an escape and an act of defiance. Since his brother, Joe, had died, Darryl was the only heir to the farm, and he was determined never to be a farmer.
Darryl had spent the morning inputting the results of a customer survey and, seeing it was seven minutes to one, he minimised the screen. He always took lunch at one, neatly halving the working day. Across the low partition, Bryony was sitting at her desk, chewing rhythmically like a cow, with a Big Mac in one hand, and a steaming cup of coffee in the other. She was reading something on her computer.
A tall, attractive girl came up to the cubicle next to her and took off her coat, shaking out her long dark hair. She placed a paper bag from a local deli on her desk. Her name was Katrina, and she was the new temp who’d started the week before.
‘Is this about that poor girl who they found in the rubbish bin?’ asked Katrina, indicating the screen.
Bryony swallowed. ‘Yes. They’ve released an artist’s impression of the bloke they’re looking for,’ she said and pushed the last of the burger into her mouth.
‘Where do you see this?’ asked Darryl, trying to keep his voice even.
Bryony flapped around, her mouth full.
‘On the BBC homepage, halfway down,’ said Katrina.
Darryl logged onto the website. It was a shock to see the e-fit, and details of the case. It had seemed like for so long the police hadn’t cared. Now he saw it on the screen it made him scared, scared and a little thrilled. Who led them to Nico? he thought. He’d been careful, using a VPN to mask his footprints online. There was nothing they could trace back to him. Had they found Lacey’s phone? Or got into her laptop? He took a deep breath. It was Okay. If that was all they’d done, then he was Okay. He scanned the rest of the article.
‘They did arrest a man, but they let him go…’ Bryony was saying, brushing crumbs from her jumper. ‘I live quite close to New Cross.’
‘You do? Where?’ said Katrina, tilting her head in mock sympathy.
‘Well, a few miles. I’m just down the road, near Bermondsey.’
‘Don’t worry, I don’t think he’ll come after you,’ Katrina replied, patting her shoulder. Bryony gave her a look of pathetic gratefulness.
As far as Darryl could see from the article, a friend of Lacey’s had helped the police with the e-fit. It would figure that Lacey had shown her Nico’s profile.
‘Where do you live, Katrina?’ asked Bryony.
‘West London,’ she said, sitting and taking out a boxed salad and a bottle of water.
‘You’re making me look bad,’ said Bryony, glancing at her grease-spotted McDonald’s bag.
‘Don’t be silly. I pig out all the time,’ said Katrina with a flick of her immaculate hair.
What a liar, thought Darryl.
‘I’ve heard West London is really nice?’ said Bryony.
Katrina nodded.
‘You must take the District line to work then?’ said Darryl. Katrina looked across the partition, as if noticing him for the first time.
‘Erm. Sometimes,’ she said, tucking a long glossy strand of hair behind her ear and opening her salad. He kept eye contact with her and smiled.
‘Darryl, I make it one o’clock. Aren’t you on lunch now?’ said Bryony, tapping her watch.