Steven Dunne - Deity

‘Actually we don’t know who’s doing the texting, Rob,’ said Noble. ‘But that’s a valid point unless we assume they want us to know it was Kyle’s phone and that it was on Exeter Bridge this morning.’

‘They?’ queried Charlton.

Brook shrugged. ‘He. She. Whoever.’

‘All part of messing with our heads,’ nodded Charlton.

‘Exactly.’

‘And since the text?’

‘The phone was turned off as soon as the text was sent.’

‘So we can’t triangulate his present location,’ said Charlton, for once on sure ground.

‘No.’

‘And the phone didn’t have GPS?’

Brook looked over at Cooper for help. Cooper shook his head. ‘No. But we have a few CCTV images which put the suspect on the bike path travelling along the Derwent, past Pride Park, towards Borrowash.’

‘On a bike?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Great,’ said Charlton with a sigh. ‘So our students are hiding out somewhere to the east of Derby. That narrows it down to about a hundred square miles.’

‘Maybe they’re kipping down with The Embalmer.’ Cooper grinned.

Charlton’s glare prevented further jocularity. ‘Do we know what the text message was?’

‘ I hate you, Jake. I hope you’re ashamed of yourself. You betrayed me when I needed you most ,’ Brook recited from memory.

‘Funny thing to say to someone who tries to save you from a beating,’ muttered Charlton.

‘It’s complicated,’ answered Brook, deciding not to elaborate further. ‘But after receiving it, Jake McKenzie tried to kill himself. He’s recovering in the Royal.’

‘So it was Kyle on the bridge?’

‘The text message seems to point that way, sir,’ agreed Brook.

‘Any forensics from the crime scene?’ asked Charlton.

‘Crime scene?’ said DC Cooper, before he could stop himself.

‘Even if that boy jumped of his own accord, whoever’s filming from the trees is assisting a suicide,’ said Charlton in his direction. ‘That’s a crime — last time I looked.’

‘The Chief Superintendent’s right,’ announced Brook. ‘Until we get the PM results, all bets are on. We found tablets on the body which the lab should identify by tomorrow.’

‘So there’s a possibility Wilson was drugged to soften him up.’ Morton nodded. ‘He looked a bit shaky.’

‘At last — an old-fashioned murder,’ smiled Noble.

‘He could have self-administered,’ pointed out Gadd.

Charlton held up his hands. ‘Well?’ he said, to restate his question. ‘Were there any forensics?’

‘SOCO did take a look in the bushes, but it’s a public space, sir,’ said Noble.

‘And it was over a week ago,’ said Charlton. ‘Fair enough. What about the bridge?’ He glanced briefly at Brook before answering his own question. ‘Not even worth trying — no, I can see that. When’s the post mortem on Woodrow?’

‘Tomorrow morning, sir,’ said Noble.

Charlton waved an arm at the screen. ‘Why do you think he was filming you?’

‘I strongly suspect one or both of these home movies will make up a Deity broadcast,’ said Brook, looking at his watch. ‘Maybe even this afternoon.’

‘How long?’

‘Fifteen minutes.’

‘Anything else?’

Cooper stood up. ‘We’ve made a start on Fern Stretton’s computer to see if she’s got any pictures or messages.’

‘Fern who?’ asked Charlton, with a heavy sigh.

‘Best friend of Becky Blake and the girl who started the Facebook memorial site, dedicated to the disappearances,’ answered Cooper. ‘Lots of chit-chat with Becky, going back a year or more, but nothing of interest yet. No messages from Russell, Kyle or Adele. Various other Friends have tagged photos of our missing students and I’ve put a hard copy of them all on display. Nothing untoward that I could see, just the usual posing and gurning.’

Charlton stood up from the table. ‘Weren’t we searching the fields behind the Kennedy house?’

‘We had fifty uniformed officers all over that area. Nothing,’ said Noble, tight-lipped. ‘And cameras on the A38 drew a blank. We still don’t know how they left the estate.’

Charlton surveyed the room with barely concealed frustration. ‘So what are we doing now?’

‘We’re doing what everybody else is doing,’ answered Brook. ‘Waiting for the next broadcast.’

‘And if it shows the film of Wilson jumping into the river, we’re going to have a media storm on our hands,’ snapped Charlton. He began to pace about. ‘We have to be seen to be doing something.’

‘The next broadcast-’ began Brook.

‘The next broadcast, the next broadcast!’ Charlton shouted now. ‘So we’re going through the motions waiting for four eighteen-year-old college kids to spoonfeed us clues, is that what you’re saying?’ He looked round at the wary faces, all trying to avoid his eye. ‘If that’s all we have to say at tonight’s press briefing, Inspector, then you’re the one who’s going to be saying it.’ Charlton’s finger jabbed at Brook. ‘No sick-notes this time.’

Brook nodded. A second later he broke the silence. ‘There is one thing. It may be a bit of a tangent but we’ve discovered a link between Russell Thomson’s mother and Len Poole, Kyle Kennedy’s future stepfather. It’s a bit delicate because Poole has connections to this Division.’

‘The ex-pathologist.’ Charlton nodded.

‘Yes, sir. They’re both from North Wales and we think they once had a relationship. Russell might even be Len’s son.’

Charlton smiled sarcastically. ‘And you want to trot off to Wales to follow it up. If you can’t stand the heat-’ He stopped in mid-sentence. He’d gone too far and he knew it at once. Never in front of the troops. Never. Turning valid criticism into humiliation was a recipe for disaster . ‘I’m sorry. That was uncalled-for.’

All eyes turned to Brook. After a second he smiled. ‘Forget it, sir. We’re all under a lot of pressure. Let’s take a break before our next spoonfeeding.’ There was a ripple of nervous laughter around the room and even Charlton managed a toothless smile as he hurried from the Incident Room.

Noble pulled out his cigarettes and sidled up to Brook. ‘Coming outside for a quick one while Charlton changes his underpants?’

Brook shook his head. ‘Go easy on him, John. It took a lot of guts to apologise to a serial failure like me.’

‘You’re mellowing in your old age.’

Brook raised an eyebrow.

‘Late middle,’ conceded Noble from the door.

Brook watched his nicotine dealer leave and resisted the urge to follow. The countdown stood at nine minutes. He strolled over to the new photo array and examined the pictures from Fern’s Facebook site. Naturally enough most of the pictures were of Becky — she was Fern’s best friend and an aspiring model, after all. Some of the pictures he recognised from the glossy pile torn from her wall and hidden under her bed. All of them showed the blond-haired student striking the regulation poses to be seen in every Sunday supplement.

Kyle and Adele were less well represented, being mainly tagged in group shots. Kyle seemed naturally shy in most of the pictures but what few there were of Adele showed her confident and staring defiantly at the camera. The dearth of pictures of Adele showed she didn’t thirst for attention like most aimless young people.

There was only one shot of Russell Thomson, though it was hard to tell it was him; one half of his face was covered by his camcorder as he filmed himself in his bedroom mirror. Brook looked closely at what detail was visible — his lank, dark brown hair, his pallid skin and shaving rash. His hands were long and artistic and the one eye not covered by the camcorder was squinting to allow the other eye to see through the lens.