Broken Dolls by James Carol Page A

better use. Like tracking down the unsub.’
    ‘Fair enough, but if you change your mind I’ll be more than happy to play witness.’
    I lit a cigarette, offered one to Templeton, then pulled out my cell and thumbed through the list of recent calls.
    ‘Who are you phoning?’ Templeton flicked the Zippo to life and touched the flame to the tip of the cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth.
    ‘Are you always this nosy?’
    She laughed. ‘Of course I am. I’m a cop. It goes with the territory. So, who are you phoning?’
    I ignored the question and hit the button to connect the call. Hatcher answered on the second ring.
    ‘You owe me fifty pounds,’ I said.
    ‘I’ll need proof before I pay up,’ Hatcher replied.
    ‘Templeton was there when Greg Flight confessed. She’ll corroborate. Flight was having an affair at the time his wife was kidnapped. That means the pattern holds. All the victims’ husbands were having affairs. Any hits on the victim profile yet?’
    ‘Nothing so far, but it’s still early days.’
    ‘As soon as you get anything I want photographs,’ I said.
    ‘No problem. You were right about what happened in St Albans, by the way. Our man did park in Grove Road. A resident saw him.’
    ‘Did you get a description?’
    ‘Get this,’ said Hatcher. ‘We’re looking for a man of average height aged between thirty and fifty. He might have dark hair, then again he might not have. Probably white, but again he might not have been.’
    ‘What about the vehicle?’
    Hatcher was shaking his head on the other end of the line. I could sense the gesture in the tone of the silence that followed my question. A sigh, then, ‘It was dark and he parked away from the streetlamps, so the description of the car is as useful as the description of the bad guy. According to our witness it was a standard four-door saloon. Could have been a Ford, or a Vauxhall, or a Skoda. Might’ve been five years old. Might’ve been ten. As for colour. Pick a shade of grey.’
    ‘Don’t you just love witnesses?’
    ‘Tell me about it.’
    ‘On the plus side, the fact he parked in Grove Road means my theory that he’s trying to mislead the investigation holds up. We might not know what he looks like, or what sort of car he drives, but we have a better idea of how he operates. Remember, Hatcher, I want those photographs ASAP.’
    I killed the call and took a drag on my cigarette. Templeton was staring at me with those bright blue eyes.
    ‘What?’ I said.
    ‘You made a bet with Hatcher on whether or not Greg Flight was having an affair. I’m sure there are rules and regulations prohibiting that sort of thing.’
    ‘Probably. But it’s worth keeping in mind what’s important here.’
    ‘And what would that be?’
    ‘The fact I’m now fifty pounds richer means the drinks are on me tonight.’
    Templeton narrowed her eyes, giving me her cop stare. The difference between this one and the one she’d used on Greg Flight was that this time she was trying hard to keep a straight face. ‘I don’t remember agreeing to meet you for a drink?’
    ‘Granted,’ I said. ‘But let me put it another way. How many cops do you know who’ll turn down the offer of a free drink?’
    Templeton paused like she was giving this some serious thought. ‘What time?’
    ‘How about eight?’
    ‘Eight works for me. And just so we’re totally clear here, it’s going to take more than one drink to buy my silence.’
    ‘Have as many as you want,’ I said.
    We reached the BMW and I crushed my cigarette out under my boot heel. I kicked the butt into a nearby drain, got into the passenger seat and went to work on my cellphone.
    ‘Who are you calling now?’ Templeton asked.
    ‘I’m not calling anyone. I’m hoping my good friend Google can tell me who the best brain surgeon in London is.’

17
    Professor Alan Blake was the best brain surgeon in London. He was based at UCL’s Institute of Neurology, an imposing red-brick