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JIM
When you work a case like this one, you long for a lead. When you get one, you’re all over it, and
that’s how I felt about Nicola Forbes. I’d been ready to chase her to the end of the line.
What you don’t expect is for something else just as strong to turn up, because then it’s a bit like
being in a shooting range, trying to decide what to aim at, what’s a decoy and what’s real. Friend or
enemy? Where should your sights land?
You can’t always tell straight away, but sometimes you are presented with a clear and immediate
threat, and it’s obvious that you must respond to that.
That’s what happened on day six of the case. The letter arrived, and it changed the game
completely.
It came in the morning post. Postmark BS7, addressed to Fraser directly, at Kenneth Steele House.
Fraser’s secretary opened it. Her scream could be heard out in the corridor at the far end of the
incident room and she bolted out of her office.
Fraser pulled us in straight away. The letter was in an evidence bag by then, and the secretary was
already having her fingers inked next door so we could eliminate her prints. She was shaking and
tearful, an extreme reaction for somebody who regularly got to file crime scene photographs.
‘Jim,’ Fraser said once we’d closed the door behind us. ‘Get John Finch in.’
Emma was there too. She didn’t look as though she’d slept. Under her make-up her skin was dull
and strained. To anybody else she probably looked more or less her usual self – a tired version of
herself, of course – but I could see a few extra small signs of disarray. Her hair wasn’t tied up as
neatly as usual, and her shirt didn’t look fresh. You can do that if you want to know every inch of
somebody better than you know yourself. I wanted to put my arm around her, ask her if she was
coping, but I couldn’t of course. Not there, not then.
Emma’s phone rang just as Fraser finished filling us in. She glanced at it. ‘It’s Rachel Jenner, boss,’
she said. ‘Should I tell her?’
‘Nuh uh,’ said Fraser. ‘Not a word, not yet.’