Читать книгу Broken Hearts - Grace Monroe - Страница 14

DI Duncan Bancho rested his head on his cluttered desk and lightly banged his forehead off it until an unpleasant ache made him stop. The pain took longer to come than it had the last time–or the time before that. He knew that he was pathetic; his life was shit, no money, no promotion and no sex. It was the latter that was really bothering him just now. Peggy had been his last serious fling, and that had been disastrous. Actually, disastrous didn’t even come close. The lies and betrayal had cut him deeper than he cared to admit. Well-meaning friends tried to set him up on blind dates, but he wasn’t a man who enjoyed sex with strangers. He missed the dull, domestic routine: sitting in on a Saturday night with a carry-out pizza and a cheap bottle of plonk watching crap telly with someone he liked would be his idea of heaven.

Bancho acknowledged that his current attitude was affecting the team; even the assistant chief constable had pulled him in for a pep talk. Given that the actual words were, ‘Pull your fucking socks up you miserable bastard, you’re getting on everybody’s nerves,’ he wasn’t too sure how helpful it was, but he had to recognize that things were bad. He needed to socialize more, extend the hand of friendship to his colleagues, and all that bollocks. The detective pushed back his chair and wandered out to the operations room to grab a coffee. He put a smile on his face, which he hoped didn’t look as forced as it felt–otherwise it would frighten those of a weak disposition.

The chatter in the operations room didn’t stop when he walked in the door–that was always a good sign. He wasn’t an official weirdo yet. His colleagues were hard at work and looked just as tired as he felt; a few of them even raised their heads and nodded in his direction. Bancho straightened his tie and ran a hand through his hair. PC Tricia Sheehy didn’t look too shabby in this light and, even in his miserable state, he had started to notice that she was the one thing that was keeping him going at work. Sometimes the thought of her even cut a few seconds off his banging-head-on-desk routine. She poured him a cup of tar-black coffee out of the percolator.

‘Where’ve you been hiding?’ she asked as she tucked a stray blonde hair behind her ear. She was medium height, medium to look at, but with a spark in her brown eyes that penetrated his deadened senses–a bit.

‘Bancho! The ACC wants you to call,’ shouted a secretary.

Bancho didn’t acknowledge her. He sipped his coffee and continued to look at Tricia Sheehy.

‘I said, where have you been hiding? You deaf?’ Tricia asked again.

‘He says it’s important,’ the secretary bawled even louder this time. ‘And I thought he sounded like he actually meant it.’

‘I heard you’ve already been in to see the boss this week…you know he doesn’t like to be kept waiting. You best go–sir,’ said Tricia. She briefly placed her hand on his arm to emphasize that he needed to move, and a quick tingle spread through his body.

Bancho refilled his cup and took it back to his office, which seemed to have got dirtier and lonelier in the five minutes he’d been in the ops room. He put his feet up on the desk, opened the bottom drawer, took out a chocolate digestive biscuit and dialled the ACC.

‘What’s the problem?’ he asked, no preamble necessary between the two men, who knew that formalities only wasted time in the real world.

‘Another one’s turned up.’

Bancho stared into space. Christ.

‘His name is Alan Pearson, thirty-six, he was a mortgage broker,’ said the ACC.

‘Suicide then? Money problems?’

‘Well, that would be bloody convenient, wouldn’t it, Bancho? But why the hell do you think I’d be calling you about that? Not a snowball’s chance in hell. This is yours now; you and your bloody fancy training sessions in America need to come to the fore, my man. Get this solved, sorted, ended, whatever you want to call it–fast.’

Bancho got over his quick bout of wishful thinking and asked, ‘MO? Is it the same as the others?’ If so, this was the third in the series of killings.

‘Yes. No sign of a struggle, a syringe filled with pure heroin in the right internal jugular, massive overdose, leading to a coronary…then the heart was removed post mortem. We’ve managed to keep the removal of the heart out of the papers, but it’s only a matter of time. You’re going to have to take over on this one, Duncan, it’s definitely a series.’ The ACC said it in a way that left no room for objection. Bancho swore under his breath, regretting the day he’d ever let Lothian and Borders Police send him to Quantico for a residential course on serial killers. He’d hated it, hated the bloody Americans, all looking as if they’d stepped out of a film with their chiselled jaws and perfect hair, and hated all the serial-killer profiling stuff which he couldn’t see translating to Edinburgh. America was different, too different he thought, the geography, the people–none of it was the same over here; even while on the course, he’d constantly questioned whether there was any point to him being there.

‘Right sir,’ he said, sighing deeply. ‘I’ll get the details into the system, see what we can come up with.’ Both men fell silent, sending out an outspoken prayer that the updated version of HOLMES–the Home Office Large Major Enquiry System–would come up with something. Anything.

‘You up to date with the victims so far?’ asked the ACC.

‘Surface details–men in their thirties with good jobs, married with kids. Bodies left in their cars. We’re still checking to see if there is any connection between the first two men. I take it the new one falls into that pattern?’

‘Yes, he does. What about the small stuff on the other two? Do they support the same football team, go to the same bookies, escort agency?’

‘The team are going down those avenues and a million more besides,’ said Bancho, not holding out much hope, given that nothing had been turned up so far. ‘So this is the third body in as many weeks…he’s working fast. We’d better hope he doesn’t accelerate. Forensics is baffled. Even the lab boys are stumped. The bodies are clean except for a stray hair, they’ve analysed it, but whoever it belongs to is not on any database.’

Bancho wasn’t surprised; he knew better than to rely on someone coming up with an instant answer. When this case was solved it would be as a result of legwork and good old-fashioned detective skills, he told himself–no matter what the public thought.

‘I want results before the press know what we’ve got on our hands. Someone out there must know something…You find the bastard. That’s an order, Bancho. Find him quickly.’