The Trail Killer

Seven

Shields pressed the side of her hand to the one-way glass as she squinted through into the interrogation room. Alongside her were Gooch, Bridcutt and the stocky, moustached figure of the on-duty custody officer, Sergeant Hodge. The centre of their attention was Gupta folded into his seat there at the table - steel toe-cap boots, dusty work clothes, a lowered face mask still hanging around his neck. The leg which jiggled and fidgeted beneath the table seemed a visible sign of trepidation, of a growing fear he might never experience freedom again. Beside him, the young legal aid lawyer he'd been assigned appeared equally nervous and apprehensive. Shields couldn't recall ever coming across him before; had probably never been handed a case more serious than a drunk and disorderly.

It was Sergeant Hodge who offered the first comment.

"Taller than I was imagining."

Bridcutt nodded. "An inch or two taller than myself, and I'm six feet."

Dragging his thrusting stomach with him, Gooch swivelled ninety degrees, directed his words to Hodge.

"Tell the duty sergeant to have all available cars head over to the Cranwell Road area - you know, where's there's all those curry houses and what-not. We need to start rounding up a few of his fellow darkies for the ID parade. Dunwick already bringing the lad over as I speak."

Hodge stepped dutifully away towards the corridor. "I'll get straight on it, inspector."

"Oh, and Hodge, tell 'em to look for fairly short ones. No taller than five ten say."

The sergeant turned a knowing smirk before disappearing through the door. "I got you, inspector. I got you."

Shields and Bridcutt exchanged a frowned glance. As the more senior in rank, Shields felt it her responsibility to voice their misgivings aloud.

"Given the seriousness of the case, I really don't think it's appropriate to rig things like this, sir."

Gooch let out a dismissive snort. "Nobody's trying to rig anything, sergeant. We're just giving the lad a helping hand, that's all. Not the sharpest tool in the box, see. Came across as a bit... you know..." - he seemed to search a more polite way of putting it, but was unable to find one - "well, retarded."

"Forgive me, sir," countered Bridcutt, "but I fail to see what someone's intelligence level's got to do with their capacity to identity someone. The two things just aren't connected."

To which Gooch directed the constable an admonishing glare. "Still a little green around the ears, aren't you, lad? Not quite worked out how things work in a smalltown police station like ours."

The inspector nodded back towards the one-way glass. Gupta's eyes were focused on the door in front of him, expecting it at any moment to swing open. Little did he know that it was standard procedure in high profile cases to make the suspect wait before the interrogating officers appeared. Squeeze the tension in their chests ever more sharply. Have them wonder as to what further evidence was in the meantime being collected. The fact was, they had a maximum of ninety-six hours before any eventual charge needed to be made. All the time in the world.

"We've got him," Gooch continued. "This is the bastard right here. Got to be. How on earth could the lad have known we'd already got an Indian guy in our sights? No harm in making sure he picks the right one out of the parade, absolutely none at all. The more grenades we can gather together to lob Gupta's way, the better. More chance of him caving in, offering up a confession. Better for us, better for the courts and" - his gaze fell over towards Bridcutt once more - "better for the bastard himself, constable."

With that, Gooch lumbered off towards the corridor. "The university professor I told you about phoned to say he'll be here in an hour or so."

There was an unsuccessful attempt at masking an eager, urgent smile.