The Trail Killer

Epilogue

But still her eyes remained glued to that damn bloody screen!

"Dirty Dancing's showing too," she responded.

What did that mean exactly, he wondered? That yes, she'd like to go to the cinema with him but only if he was prepared to make an unwarrantedly humiliating compromise over the actual film they'd watch? A bit like suggesting a trip to a Smiths gig only to be lurched into a village hall turn by some Abba tribute band.

Lord, why did women have to be so stubborn and indecipherable?

Further analysis would have to wait, however. DCI Garrick was at that moment striding towards him, a thin wad of fax sheets in his hand. As Hargreaves, he'd been transferred over from a neighbouring jurisdiction in the aftermath of the Trail Killer case. Though they had their moments, the air around the CID room was a generally harmonious and collaborative one - much more so than it had been under the Gooch regime, at least.

"This just came through from Wynmouth."

The inspector lowered the sheets down onto Bridcutt's desk.

"Seems there's been a development in the Trail Killer case. Bit of a shocker. Thought you'd want to take a look, sergeant."

*

Shields' office was only a couple of minutes' walk from the station. Despite the rain, Bridcutt decided to try there first before taking the Capri over to the semi on the other side of town.

Hemmed in between an off-licence and a laundrette halfway along a side street, the facade was as easily missable as it was uninviting - a grubby pane of glass looking into a tiny waiting area consisting of two chairs. Above the entrance door, the glass-covered sign had been cracked by a random act of vandalism.

Diane Shields Private Investigator

Bridcutt was glad to discover that the door sign read 'OPEN'. His entrance into the waiting area was signalled by the ding of an old-fashioned door chime. From the opened office door could be heard the clack of typewriter keys.

"Whoever it is out there," called a familiar voice, "you'll just have to wait a minute - am in the middle of something. Oh, and don't you dare bloody think about shaking your umbrella out onto the floor, eh."

And thus Bridcutt tinkled the front door back open, shimmied the excess drops from his half-closed umbrella out onto the pavement.

"Ok, you can come in now."

As he stepped through into the office, her gaze was concentrated onto the sheet of paper clipped to the typewriter roll before her. He seized the moment to observe her, drink her all in. Her beauty was even more accentuated than when he'd first met her two years previously. Partly it was due to her new coiffure, this much looser and more fetching than the fashion victim perm she'd used to sport. Mostly though, it was the way her skin seemed to glow, almost as if there was a permanent torchlight lodged somewhere within her skull. A woman in love, content once more with her place in the world.

He cleared his throat. "Good afternoon, Ms Shields."

The upturned glance was a mixture of surprise and joy - this fleeting however, her expression quickly darkening into a frown.

"Do I know you? Seem to recognise your face from somewhere."

Words which were intended as an admonishment: three or four months had passed since the last time he'd popped by, he realised.

Hooking his reasonably dry umbrella over the backrest, Bridcutt lowered himself down onto the chair opposite her. As the waiting area, the office was a somewhat drab and tightly-dimensioned affair. Other than a metal filing cupboard which looked vintage 50s, the furniture and fittings were from Ikea ranges he was dismally familiar with from his all-too-frequent visits to the Wynmouth branch - these due to his recent move to an unfurnished new-build apartment overlooking the Abbey Lawns park. Entire weekends had been spent grappling with screwdrivers and unfathomable instruction sheets, but at least there were no butchered animals within the vicinity.