Simon Kernick - The Business of Dying

'You missed all the action, Dennis,' DS Capper said loudly. 'Where were you?' Capper was at his desk along with two of his DC cronies, one of whom was my last sexual conquest – if you can count two faked orgasms as a conquest.

I stopped in front of them. 'What happened, then? Did he confess?'

'He will do. Now that we've got the shirt he was wearing when he killed her. Covered in her blood.'

Capper looked far too self-satisfied for my liking. It was hard enough speaking to him when he was having a bad day, well nigh impossible when he was having a good one. I said to the room in general that it was a piece of very good news, smiled as if I'd just been told I had a really big cock, and sat down at my desk. Malik followed me and seated himself on the other side.

I looked at him with surprise. 'Shit, that all happened fast. When did you hear about it?'

'I saw it on Teletext first thing this morning and came straight in. That was a couple of hours ago.'

'Who found the shirt, then?'

'We got a tip-off. Apparently one of Wells's girls called in last night and said that Wells had admitted to her that he'd killed Miriam Fox and dumped the clothes nearby. They did another search of the area and found the shirt. It went off to forensics in the early hours of this morning. The preliminary tests show an exact match between the blood on the shirt and Miriam Fox's blood.'

'That was quick.'

'Time's of the essence, isn't it? By lunchtime we'll have already had him for twenty-four hours.'

'So it's not a done thing yet?'

'No, but it looks like it's going to go that way. It's definitely the murderer's shirt and we've got a good link between it and Wells.'

'Who was the caller? Did she give a name?'

Malik shook his head. 'No, but you can't blame her, can you? She's not going to want any publicity.'

I nodded slowly and lit a cigarette. It was a fair point.

'What's up, Sarge? You don't look totally convinced.'

I yawned. 'Nah, I'm just tired. I didn't sleep too well last night.' I had a bit of a hangover as well. I'd left the pub shortly after Carla had gone but had stopped off at the Chinaman on the way home for a quick one. Unfortunately it had turned into a slow three. 'You wouldn't do an old man a favour, would you?'

'That old man being you?'

'That's right.'

'What is it you want?'

'A bacon sandwich and a nice cup of tea.' He gave me a dirty look. 'Please, Asif, I wouldn't ask if it wasn't an emergency.'

'You've got to change your diet, Sarge. You eat nothing but crap.'

'Well, get me an apple as well.' I fished into the pocket of my suit and brought out two pound coins. 'Please. Call it a personal favour. I won't ask again, I promise.'

He took the money reluctantly, checking that no one was watching, and got up. 'This is a one-off, Sarge. Remember that. It's only because you look so bloody rough that I'm agreeing.'

'Your pity will be rewarded,' I told him piously.

When he'd gone, I started to think about this new development. I hadn't slept well because I'd been thinking about my conversation with Anne and the possibility that there was some sort of serial killer on the loose targeting underage prostitutes. It was a flight-of-fancy theory, really. Though they make ideal fictional villains and endless fodder for real-life documentaries, in reality serial killers are as rare as dinosaur turds. If there were more than two operating in this whole country of close to sixty million people at any one time, I'd be extremely surprised. But I suppose these things do occasionally happen, and if such a man was at work he'd picked the right sort of place and the right sort of victims to keep himself concealed. The only thing was, if Molly Hagger and any other girls had fallen victim to this man, where were the bodies? And why was Miriam Fox's left in such an obvious location?

These were the questions that had prevented me getting anywhere near the seven hours' slumber I need to function at what passes for optimum efficiency. I'd even managed to incorporate Carla Graham into the various theories and trains of thought I'd tossed about my brain. In the better ones, I'd solve the case, find the killer (even going so far as catching him as he prepared to despatch his latest victim), get a promotion, and end up fucking Carla's brains out.

Fat chance. But at least a man can dream.

The bacon sandwich tasted good anyway, and I was so hungry I even ate the apple down to the core.

At 9.15, Knox came into the incident room with a very tired-looking Welland. Welland sat down immediately and it looked like he needed to. Knox, meanwhile, addressed the rest of us. 'We've just told Mark Wells about the latest developments and once again he categorically denies any involvement, but, to use the old phrase, he would say that, wouldn't he? He certainly looks far more worried than he has been. As we all know, he's a cocky bastard, and he's lost a lot of that now. We should get the rest of the results on the shirt later this morning and they'll tell us whether it belongs to Wells or not, although from the way he's behaving, I feel fairly certain it's his.'

'So we're going to be knocking out the champers later, then?' This was Capper.

Knox smiled. 'It's far too early even to think about a celebration drink yet. We've done well, very well, and it's been a team effort, but until you hear otherwise, it's still business as usual.'

He strode into his office, leaving Welland where he'd sat down. One of the women DCs asked Welland if he was all right. 'Yeah, yeah, I'm fine,' he replied. 'Just a bit under the weather.' Someone suggested that he go home for the day, but he said he'd stick around and wait for Wells to be charged. 'I want to see that bastard squirm,' he said, with more vigour than I'd have thought his body would allow.

'He looks terrible,' said Malik quietly, turning to me.

'Yeah, I know. He should take a few days off. He needs it. And the taxpayer owes him a break. He's done a good job on behalf of society.'

Not that anyone had ever thanked him for it; or any of us, for that matter. It may be that it's not accurate to describe all coppers as unsung heroes, but neither is it fair to view them as the constant villains of the piece, which is usually the way we're portrayed whenever we get a mention on the box. And Welland, more than most, was one of the good guys. He'd put his all into policework, so now he might as well take something back.

'If I was him, I'd go for early retirement,' said Malik.

'If I was him, I'd have gone for it ten years ago.'

He gave me a disbelieving smile. 'No you wouldn't. You enjoy the whole thing too much.'

'Bullshit I do.'

My phone rang and I had a sudden rush of adrenalin, hoping it was Carla. But if she was the person I most wanted to speak to, then the person on the other end of the line had to be one of those whose voice I least wanted to hear.

'It's a Jean Ashcroft for you, Mr Milne,' said the civilian receptionist.

Christ, what the hell did she want? 'Thanks, can you put her through?' There was a pause as she came on the line. 'Hello, Jean. Long time no speak.'

'Hello, Dennis. Look, I'm sorry to bother you…' Her tone was strained, formal.

'It's no problem. No problem at all. What can I do?'

'It's Danny,' she said. 'I think he might be in trouble.'

'What makes you say that?'

'Well, he phoned me last night and, you know, he never normally phones me, so I knew something wasn't right. He didn't sound himself, Dennis. It was all very strange. I think he'd been drinking, or smoking something, and he was rambling, going on about changing his life, doing something different, saying that it was definitely time to make the break and go… and he said something about having saved up some money, a lot of money.'