At 6 p.m. that same evening, Grace sat in the Major Crime Suite conference room at the police HQ near Lewes, where his department was now based. Glenn Branson, DS Norman Potting, and several other members of his regular team, including a HOLMES—Home Office Large Major Enquiry System—analyst, an indexer, and a researcher sat around the oval table.
“This is the first briefing of Operation Podiatrist,” he read out from his notes. “The investigation into the discovery of a pair of female feet found at the West Brighton Domestic Waste Recycling and Landfill earlier today, which I am treating as a homicide investigation.”
Norman Potting began sniggering. Under Roy’s withering glare he raised an apologetic hand. “Sorry, Chief. Operation Podiatrist? Feet?”
Several others around the table also grinned.
No one could accuse the police computer, that randomly produced operation names, of not having a sense of humor.
Grace fought back a smirk too. “I don’t imagine the lady who’s missing them is finding it quite so funny.”
“I should think she’s hopping mad.” Potting chortled, looking around for appreciation, but all he saw were stony stares.
“One immediate line of inquiry,” Grace said, “is to see if there is anything similar out there on the database. We need to take a look on the Serious Crime Analysis Section system and also log everything we have so far on Op Podiatrist on it. Another will be to map out the exact area of the city all the refuse lorries collect from, and their delivery times to the site. One thing we do know is that it’s only refuse lorries that have access to the site. I want an outside inquiry team to list and interview all the refuse crews.”
Jack Alexander, a young DC, raised a hand. “Are you considering utilizing the volunteer search team for the other body parts?”
“Not at this stage, Jack,” Grace replied. “We have no idea where to begin. We don’t even know how far and wide the other parts could be scattered. If at all.”
“Seems to me,” DS Potting said, “that the victim’s giving us a right old runaround.”
IF IT WAS IN CYBERSPACE, Carol Jordan was convinced that DC Stacey Chen could find it. Barricaded from the rest of the room by an array of six monitors, Stacey’s fingers moved over her keyboard more quickly than the eye could follow. Nobody, Carol thought, was ever going to pick up her pin number shoulder-surfing at a cash machine. By the time they got back to the office, Stacey already had results from the scant information Carol had passed on to her.
She flicked a finger at the bottom right-hand screen.
“Out on a Limb is a specialized model agency.” Stacey caught Tony’s single raised eyebrow and gave him a long hard look. “Not that kind of specialized.”
Tony opened his eyes wide in a look of mock innocence. “I never said a word.”
“What kind of specialized?” Carol asked, cutting across the banter, eager to get to the point.
“I suppose you’d call it extremities,” Stacey said doubtfully. “They do hands and legs and feet, not whole bodies. Their clients sell shoes, tights, stockings, jewelry, that kind of thing. They’ve even got a selection of ears for modeling earrings.”
“I’d never thought about it. But I suppose it makes sense,” Carol said. “So is this Diane Flaherty on their books?”
“Not that I can see. But Dana Dupont is.”
Stacey tapped a trackpad and another screen rearranged its pixels. A shapely pair of calves appeared. Another tap and the image changed to elegant ankles and a pair of feet that appeared to be free from any of the myriad blemishes that most people’s feet reveal. No hard skin, no corns, no bunions, no dry skin, no fungal infections, no ingrowing toenails, no oddly shaped toes. Just a pair of immaculate, enviable feet that looked as if they’d never so much as bent a blade of grass.
“Anything on Diane Flaherty at all?” Carol asked.
“There’s a Diane Flaherty with an address in Bradfield. Self-employed, no criminal record, drives an Opel Corsa. Nobody else listed at her address.” Stacey woke up a third screen with an address and a driver’s license photo.
“That’s the dead woman,” Carol said. “We need to get a team round there, see what we can dig up. And I need to talk to somebody at Out on a Limb. You coming, Tony?”
He started, dragging his attention away from the pictures of Dana Dupont’s feet.
“Yeah,” he said absently. “And you need to get a list of people they send their catalogs to. If I was a foot fetishist, or I had a thing about ears or whatever, their catalogs would make me a happy bunny.”
“It takes all sorts,” Carol muttered.
“Otherwise we’d be out of a job,” Tony said, following in her wake.
THE PHYSICAL PREMISES OF OUT on a limb were a lot less glossy than their catalog implied. A narrow doorway on the Halifax road between a kebab takeaway and a cancer charity shop led up a steep staircase to a Spartan office where strenuously artificial air freshener battled with the smell of stale fat.
So far, the fat was winning.
The woman who had buzzed them up leaned against the desk in what might have passed for a provocative pose in someone twenty years younger and two stone lighter.
“You said on the phone you were the police?” she said, her voice surprisingly warm and almost seductive. “Can I see some ID?”
Carol produced her warrant card and Tony smiled. “I’m not actually a police officer.”
“Dr. Hill is a consultant,” Carol butted in before he could say anything unfortunate. “And you are?”
“Margot Maynard,” the woman said. “Out on a Limb is my business.”
“I’m afraid I have some disturbing news, Ms. Maynard. This morning, a woman’s body was found on the moors. In her bag she had a card belonging to one of your models.” Carol proffered her phone, where she’d taken a photo of Dana Dupont’s business card.
Margot Maynard paled and nodded. “That’s one of ours. Dana is our most successful foot model. You’re not telling me she’s dead?”
“We believe the dead woman is called Diane Flaherty. Do you know a Diane Flaherty?”
“Diane is Dana Dupont. It’s her working name. Oh my God, what’s happened? Are you sure it’s Diane? That can’t be right.”
Margot Maynard looked as if she might faint. Tony stepped forward and, taking her arm, led her to the office chair behind the desk.
“Can I get you anything? A glass of water?” Carol asked.
“No, I feel sick as it is. Diane? Dead? What happened? Was it a car crash? What?”
“I’m sorry to tell you that we’re treating Diane’s death as suspicious.”
“What does that mean?”
Tony squatted down beside her. “Diane was murdered, Margot. And the killer took her feet.”
She reared back in her chair. “Her feet? Oh my God, I always knew it would come to this one day.”