The Trail Killer

Epilogue

17 months later,

Friday 27th November, 1987

Heavy rain pummelled the window of the CID room as Bridcutt squinted disinterestedly at a half-finished report of an ABH on the screen before him. The wall clock above indicated half past four, knock off time approaching. Bored, impatient for the weekend to begin, his right hand reached instinctively to his Newton's cradle and gave a swing.

Above the Macintosh monitor of the other work station veered the scowling face of DC Lorraine Hargreaves.

"Stop it with that damn clacking would you!"

Bridcutt couldn't help smile to himself: both in words and tone, the rebuke was identical to those which Shields had used to bark his way whenever guilty of the same crime.

He glanced down with affection at the rhythmic sway of the two end spheres and the power-thrummed stillness of three central ones. A gift from his grandfather to celebrate his graduation, it was without doubt his most treasured possession.

"It's more than just a toy, you know, but a physical depiction of the conservation of momentum and energy."

"And you, sarge, are a physical depiction of someone who talks out of their backside."

The sly smirk which accompanied the words - yes, this was very much Diane Shields too. There the similarities ended, however. Hargreaves' hair was much longer, raven-coloured and unpermed. Her work station was ordered almost to the point of military precision. She knew how Macintosh computers worked without having to ask his help every five seconds. Though equally as incomprehensible and unforgiveable as Abba, her favourite group was in fact U2. Perhaps most importantly, she was younger than him, had never married and as a consequence was much less world-weary. Oh, and she drove her car at a reasonable speed too.

"Wouldn't want me to file in an official complaint of insubordination, would you, constable?"

Squeezing his palms to both end spheres, he snubbed the kinetic energy from the mechanism, brought the clacking to an end.

He watched as Hargreaves turned her attention back to her computer screen, the clanking of the keys just as loud as the Newton's cradle but without the natural, soul-soothing rhythm.

Maybe there was one other similarity with Shields, he reflected - that strange sensation in his stomach, the way her image remained imprinted on his mind even when he closed his eyes.

"What?"

She was scowling at him once more, her concentration this time disturbed by the lingering nature of his gaze.

He glanced over at the glass-walled corner office, where the wiry, grey-haired figure of DCI Garrick could be viewed through the half-drawn blinds. There was a frowned expression on his face as he observed some documents at that moment being fed through on his fax machine.

Satisfied that no prying third party was within earshot, Bridcutt feigned interest at the green, flickering words on the screen before him.

"Got any plans for the weekend, constable?"

The fact she didn't even flick her eyes up at him suggested that she perhaps hadn't quite understood the heart-thudding tension in his chest.

"Get drunk. Sleep. Get drunk. Sleep."

As a plan, it sounded vague enough for him to continue.

"The film Cry Freedom's showing at the Odeon. Heard it's good. You know, an astute cinematic exploration into the theme of apartheid. You wouldn't, er.... wouldn't care to accompany me, would you?"