Page 6 of No Safe Place
Wednesday | Morning
Field
One of the benefits of being the Senior Investigating Officer was the power to follow whatever thread you deemed most important, without having to answer to ten people first.
Next on her list, and a persistent gripe at the back of her mind: the sheet of paper she’d recovered from David’s torn clothes. Field strode over to the car that the evidence was being placed into, nodded at the squeaky-voiced youngster in charge of the exhibits.
She rifled through the paper bags, finding the one she wanted at the back.
The sheet of typed A4, badly bloodstained, but legible through the plastic. She scanned the first page.
The Disordered Approach to Diagnosis: a pilot study of the impact of misdiagnoses on young people with complex presentations of obsessive-compulsive disorder, and subsequent group-therapy treatment
It was the title page of a paper or an article. It didn’t have an author’s name, but she assumed it was something David was working on, possibly brought home from work with him in a pocket.
Not necessarily the smoking gun she’d hoped for. The attacker’s bank statement or something, dropped as he legged it.
Field leaned closer to the sheet, flattening out the plastic window of the evidence bag. Most of the bottom half of the page was smeared with blood.
There was always a chance that the attacker dropped it deliberately. Pointedly.
Field’s phone buzzed in her back pocket.
She answered the call reluctantly, and only because she had no excuse not to.
The superintendent didn’t wait for her greeting. ‘Quite a morning you’re having over there, DCI Field?’
‘Yes, sir,’ she said, then stopped speaking.
Field put the sheet of paper back in the boot, and walked to a patch of road where there were fewer people to eavesdrop.
‘I can have this case reassigned. Say the word.’ The superintendent was using his best kindly-and-calming voice, and Field could picture his smug smile on the other end of the line.
Prick.
She kicked at a crumbling garden wall and didn’t answer.
‘You’ve got a lot on, and that case coming up at the Bailey, and you’ve got the most junior team. We can get someone else—’
Meaning someone male.
‘—to take over from you, if you’d prefer. DCI Raynott, maybe?’
Field did not prefer. DCI Raynott was an arse. They were basically the same age, but unlike her, Raynott had never had children – and unlike him, Field had never had Botox.
Field had been the DCI for Major Investigation Team 4 for six years, and a DI for another seven before that – but somehow MIT4 still ended up with the shit cases.
Reassigned from anything meaty and given the months-old dregs.
It didn’t help that they were a DI and a DS short compared to the other South London teams, and there was no budget to fill out the ranks.
Field had also ended up in the awkward in-between career position of giving keen newly transferred DSs their first run-around. Just as the young fuckers knew what they were doing, they’d get promoted to a growing task force or a different MIT with a juicier caseload.
‘Like I said,’ the super simpered down the phone, ‘it’s a big case, could be national news.’
Because how could a perimenopausal DCI with twenty-five years’ experience be expected to handle a case of this magnitude?
‘It’s fine, guv,’ she said, finally. He hated being called guv. ‘I was first on scene, and anyway, I’m about to go and inform the wife. It should be me.’
Field shouldn’t use informing a woman her husband was in a coma to points-score against her boss, but needs must.
The super let out a deep sigh. ‘Field—’
‘Sorry, I need to go. Briefing.’
She ended the call before he could object.
It wasn’t exactly a lie. The team were gathering for an improvised briefing in one of the front gardens. An elderly lady tottered through the front door with a tray of more coffees and teas, and Wilson rushed forward to help her.
Field took a particularly garish mug with frolicking kittens on. The black coffee was cool enough that she could gulp it, imagining the caffeine fizzing through her veins.
Most of the sixteen officers she’d been assigned were on house-to-house. Two DCs and a community support officer had been held back.
DS Riley was leaning against the house with his hands in his pockets, and DS Wilson was standing upright next to him.
The five of them stared evenly back at her.
Wilson and Riley had clashed ever since Riley joined the team, six months ago. They were fiercely competitive, determined to be promoted before each other.
After three years of Criminology at Manchester and a master’s at UCL, Riley had worked a boring private sector job for a few years, before joining the Met on a direct-to-DC scheme.
Wilson, on the other hand, had started her career as a PC at eighteen and spent years on Response, before her DC posting.
Despite being in their thirties now, Wilson resented Riley for taking what she saw as a shortcut, and she wound Riley up about his lack of experience in the “real world” of policing.
It was evident that even with his degrees, Riley found Wilson intimidating.
She had achieved ridiculously high scores in every exam.
She made a name for herself among the higher-ups, while she was still a PC in Hackney, by voluntarily leading the local widening participation programme.
On her days off, Wilson visited schools and chatted to pupils about her experiences as a young, black officer.
They were two of the most impressive officers Field had welcomed onto her team for years, and she doubted either of them would be with her long.
Despite that evening’s dramatic turn of events, Riley still managed to look immaculate, his sharply pressed shirt tucked into grey suit trousers, sleeves rolled up to the elbows.
Wilson’s wardrobe was a lot less try-hard – thrown-on monochrome clothes, paired with Doc Martens.
Some DCIs would demand that they sort out their differences, but Field approved. Their need to outdo each other made them work harder.
‘Right,’ Field began. ‘It hardly needs stating, but let’s all remember that this is an attempted murder inquiry. Evidence logs, witness statements – everything about how we conduct this case needs to be impeccable. Wilson, can you give DC Ayres a call? She can act as family liaison officer.’
‘She’s already on her way in,’ Wilson said. Behind her, Riley rolled his eyes.
‘We identified Moore from his driving licence,’ Field went on. ‘The victim was wearing a wedding ring and has a photo of a woman in his wallet – presume that’s the wife. We’ll need to inform her as a priority.’
Riley straightened up, tired eyes calling for her to pick him, but this was a big case. Field couldn’t let him cut his teeth on this particular distressed spouse.
‘Wilson – you and I will go to the address as soon as we’re done here.’
Wilson’s face remained impassive.
‘What else do we know about Dr Moore?’ Field asked.
Riley reached into his suit jacket for his daybook, but Wilson was already on the page.
‘Dr David Moore, forty-nine. Married. He came up on the King’s College University website.
He’s a lecturer in clinical psychology – a specialist in obsessive-compulsive anxiety disorders, but he also works for the NHS trust.’ Wilson read on.
‘There’s a news article on the site too – last year he received a medal at Buckingham Palace for his charitable work, as well as his part in numerous academic studies, research projects. ’
A good man, then. Field took a beat.
‘Nikki, Cat—’ Field turned to the DCs. ‘I’d like you to co-ordinate door-to-door. We’ve got no CCTV on the street itself, but they’re not cheap, the houses around here. There’ll be private cameras, Ring doorbells.’
The uniforms nodded.
‘Anything noteworthy, email me. Riley – make a start on the decision log and open a case file on the system. Crack on with making a list of his patients, okay?’ She made a snap decision.
‘And there’s an exhibit in evidence – a page of an article or something, that he was working on. Check it out, please.’
‘Yes, boss,’ he drawled, snapping his notebook shut without writing anything down.
A cloud shifted and Field had to raise a hand over her eyes. ‘Wilson, we’ll leave in five.’