“I’ve had to request more support from West Sussex Police—Media Liaison here can’t cope with the level of press interest that bloody headline has generated. It’s not just British press either—we’ve had France, Holland, even bloody Brazil on the phone. Who was sitting on Angie? How did Garanita get to her?”
“Family Liaison had a chat with her, but she wasn’t the victim of a crime, and I couldn’t justify uniform babysitting her, not when there’s so much going on—”
“What did you say to Garanita? She quotes you directly.”
“Nothing unusual. I gave her the basic facts and promised our cooperation, as you requested.”
“Did you say we were hunting a serial killer? Did you use those words?”
“No.”
“Well, Garanita bloody did. That’s all anyone wants to talk about now. A prostitute who kills her clients. Revenge on the Ripper. It goes on and bloody on.”
“It’s not ideal. But it is the truth, ma’am.”
Harwood shot Helen a look.
“Have you ruled out Sandra McEwan as a suspect?”
“Yes.”
“So what can we give them?”
“Give who?”
“Don’t be obtuse, Helen. The press. What can we give the bloody press?”
“Well, we’ve got a partial description we can put out. And I think we need to appeal directly to possible punters to stay off the streets. I’m happy to—”
“And risk driving her underground?”
“It’s about saving lives. We don’t have a choice. Three men are already dead.”
“So we’ve got nothing to give them?”
Harwood’s anger was all too clear now.
“Well, we’ve got lots of lines of inquiry, but I don’t think opening ourselves up to the press in that way is going to help, and with the very greatest of respect,” Helen continued, talking over Harwood’s attempted interruption, “I don’t think our agenda should be dictated by what the press are saying.”
“Grow up, Helen,” was Harwood’s withering response. “And don’t you dare say ‘with the greatest of respect’ to me ever again. I can have you taken off this case in a second.”
“Except that wouldn’t play very well in the press, would it?” Helen retorted. “I’m a copper, ma’am, not a spin doctor. I chase up leads and hunt killers. Icatchkillers. You can’t do that through protocols, or liaison or bloody politics. You do it through intelligence, risk taking and sheer bloody hard work.”
“And this conversation is a waste of your valuable time?” Harwood replied, daring Helen to agree.
“I’d like to get back to my duties now,” was all Helen said in response.
Helen left shortly after, biking fast back to Southampton Central. She cursed herself for opening up another front in this war, but she’d had little choice. What would happen next was hard to say. All that was clear was that Harwood was no longer her friend, but her enemy.
47
Finally he had a bite. Tony had been driving the streets for hours, slowly climbing inside his new identity as a lonely businessman looking for sex. He’d been up and down Bevois, but the streets were strangely quiet. It was a Tuesday night—a long way from payday—but still he’d expected to see more business than this.
He’d tried Empress Road, only to find it deserted. Too much police activity round there recently to encourage a vibrant night trade. So he’d diverted a little farther north to Portswood. This was more promising, but the girls who hung their heads through his car window didn’t fit his spec. They were mixed race, Polish, too short, too fat, too old, too transgender. The description of the killer hadn’t been that detailed, but it ruled out most of these girls. As he terminated negotiations and drove off quickly, he received a healthy dose of abuse.
In frustration, he’d driven south to the docks. He was both angered and relieved by his lack of progress. He wanted to find this girl, wanted to bring this thing to a close, but still his heart thumped, beating out his fear and anxiety. He assumed he’d be able to handle himself against her, but how could he know that for sure? She was organized, ruthless and violent. What if she got the upper hand?
Tony shook the thought from his mind. He must remain focused on the job in hand. Driving the side streets near the Western Docks, his eyes slid back and forth, searching for signs of business. The girls that worked down here were the busiest, servicing a never-ending stream of punters from the cruise ships and dockyards. Prostitutes loomed into view intermittently, but he could tell even from a distance that none of them fitted the bill.
