Frozen (4 page)

Delva Lobelo was standing by the window when Megan walked in. Her African profile contrasted oddly with the icy grey backdrop of the canal. The wind was whipping up the water into white-capped ridges and people walking along the towpath were muffled in scarves, hats and heavy overcoats. In the warmth of the office Delva looked like an exotic bloom, long legs wrapped in a sarong skirt with a matching jacket of orange silk.

Megan suddenly felt drab. In her own office she had felt overdressed – not difficult amongst male academics – but here the black linen suit and cream wool sweater seemed dowdy. And her hair! Windblown wisps were trailing from the tortoiseshell clasp that was supposed to hold it in place. It was the same colour as Delva's, but there the resemblance ended. Delva's was braided into scores of tiny plaits drawn together in a dramatic swathe.

‘Megan! Great to see you.' Delva was her usual, welcoming self. She had a knack of putting people instantly at ease. ‘Let me get you a drink – I bet you're freezing, aren't you?'

‘Thanks, Delva – can I have a cup of tea? I've drunk about a gallon of coffee already today.'

Delva fetched the tea herself and led Megan through to a windowless room, one wall of which was lined with TV monitors.

‘We only finished editing it this morning. There's a gap at the very beginning where it's just shots of you in the office and at police headquarters – I'll be doing a voiceover to go with it, but I haven't had a chance to record it yet. You can see a transcript if you want to. It's a potted history of you: your meteoric rise to fame, that sort of thing.'

Delva smiled as Megan winced. ‘Come on, don't be modest – it's all true! How many other women in this country have made it to head of a university department at the age of 36, not to mention being a.k.a. Britain's Sexiest Sleuth!'

‘God, Delva, you're not quoting the gutter press in this documentary, I hope!'

Delva had a very loud laugh – the kind that made people smile when they were trying to be serious.

‘Don't worry, I wouldn't stoop to their level. Apart from the intro the fact that you're a woman is hardly mentioned. Mind you, I had a bit of a tough time convincing the producer. A real old dinosaur – came into TV from being a reporter on one of the tabloids in the seventies – he wanted shots of you “relaxing at home”, as he puts it – by which he means you wearing as little as possible, in the bathroom brushing your teeth, that sort of thing.'

‘You're joking. What on earth for?'

‘Oh, “the human face of the female super-sleuth”.' Delva shook her head. ‘I reminded him that if you were a man he'd ask for no such thing. He wasn't very happy but he's already been leaned on by the ITC for sexist innuendo in programmes, so he backed down without too much of a fight. Anyway, would you like to see the programme now?'

Megan spent the next hour uncomfortably watching images of herself on one of the monitors. For the past three months unknown editors and production assistants had been glued to every move she had made during the filming sessions last summer, deciding where to cut and which shot of her face or body to use. They must have grown sick of the sight of her, she thought, cringing inwardly.

She wondered how the dinosaur producer would feel if he found out she was involved in the prostitutes' case. Would he be cutting pictures of Donna and Natalie with hers? The victims and the professional expert, as if they were worlds apart. She wished she'd never agreed to this. Neil had talked her into it. He had a way of persuading her to do things she didn't want to do. Neil Richardson. The new male face of BTV news. Delva's co-presenter. No wonder poor Ceri was feeling insecure.

‘Don't worry – you look great!' Delva patted her arm, misreading her expression.

As the credits began to roll Delva stopped the tape and asked Megan what she thought.

‘It's fine,' Megan faltered.

‘You don't sound too convinced.'

‘No – it's really flattering. It's just that it makes me out to be someone whose job is catching criminals and it isn't. Occasionally I help the police narrow down the list of suspects, but I'm a researcher, not a detective.'

‘You're too modest, Megan.' Delva smiled as she opened the door and led the way back along the corridor to her office. ‘If it hadn't been for you West Midlands Police would never have caught the Metro rapist!'

Megan shrugged and shook her head. Yes, she had pointed the police to a man they had already interviewed but dismissed as an unlikely suspect. But it was only because she had been carrying out research at the Domestic Violence Unit at the time. Going through the records she had come across a man of the same name who had been reported for assaulting his wife. When she had questioned the officer who dealt with the case he had revealed that an earlier charge of rape had been dropped when the wife decided not to press charges. After that, everything had fallen into place. It had been a lucky break.

And there had been other cases. A series of armed robberies in Scotland; a paedophile ring in the south-east. The theories she had evolved from all those prison interviews had certainly helped. But that was what she was. A theorist. She lectured police officers, probation officers, social workers. Only rarely did she get the chance to apply her theories herself. And now, for the first time, she had been called in on a murder case.

‘When's it going out?' she asked.

‘Ten-thirty on the night after Boxing Day. Should be a big audience.'

‘Hmmm. I might be in Wales then. Don't think BTV reaches much beyond the border.'

‘Nice try, Megan, but you can't escape – it's being networked!'

‘I shouldn't have done this,' Megan said before she could stop herself. ‘God knows who'll see it, what nutters it'll stir up.' She picked up her coat. She turned to say goodbye and was shocked to see Delva's face. The lively brown eyes had lost their sparkle and a line had appeared between her eyebrows.

‘Delva?'

‘I'm sorry. Can I ask you something? I mean, I shouldn't be using this meeting to ask you for a favour.'

Megan had never seen Delva upset before. The confident, cheerful persona had fallen away.

‘I've been getting these awful letters'. Delva was staring out of the window at the narrowboats, their lights piercing the twilight. Megan thought she could see tears in the corners of her eyes.

‘I didn't take much notice at first. Newsreaders always attract nutters. It goes with the territory and most of them are harmless. But this guy is sick – really sick.' She turned to Megan, biting her lip. ‘I've told the police but they don't seem very interested. It's driving me crazy.'

‘Have you got them here?'

Delva pulled a briefcase from underneath her desk. She turned it upside down, spilling out a sheaf of letters in a rainbow of different coloured envelopes. The only colour missing was white.

‘I don't want you to have to read all these,' Delva said, ‘but it gives you an idea of how many I've been getting.'

‘Have they been fingerprinted?'

‘Yes – I mean the police dusted the first couple I got but there was nothing.'

‘So, either he's known to them and is smart enough to keep his paws off the paper or he's one of these rubber fetishists who likes to wear a pair of Marigolds while he's jacking off.'

Delva looked at Megan in astonishment. ‘How did you know – about the masturbating, I mean?'

‘Oh, it's very common with these sicko letter writers. I remember reading about a woman who did the same job as you at an American cable station. She got letters from a bloke who said he used to spray the TV set whenever she read the news.'

‘Ugh!' Delva smiled in spite of herself.

‘I know. When you read about it happening to someone else it seems laughable. But when it's happening to you, it's all horribly threatening.'

Megan opened a pink envelope on the top of the pile. ‘Is this the most recent one?' She peered at the smudged postmark.

‘Yes – it came this morning.'

Megan unfolded the large white sheet of paper. It was almost completely covered by a photograph which had been cut from a glossy magazine and glued down.

The woman was naked apart from a bodice made of black leather thongs. She squatted above the prone figure of a man, aiming a jet of urine over his face. Underneath the photograph was a scribbled message. It described the act of masturbation which had apparently gone on as the words were being written and urged Delva to urinate in the centre cubicle of the ladies' toilets on the first floor of the BTV building immediately after that evening's news bulletin.

‘Do any of these others specify locations at BTV?' Megan asked.

‘Er … yes – two or three. There's one in particular where he was asking me to rub myself against one of the machines in an editing suite. He actually wrote “Suite A”.'

‘So you don't need me to tell you that this guy is someone who's been in the building. Could even be someone who works here.' Megan looked at Delva, wondering if she already had an idea of who it might be.

If Delva did suspect someone, there was no hint of it in her face.

‘Is there anyone at work you might have offended?' Megan went on. ‘Or maybe someone who tried to flirt with you and got a put-down?'

‘The only person I've ever consciously offended was a security guard who told me off for parking in a loading bay – but he left a few months ago. BTV put things like security and catering out to tender and when the new firm took over they didn't re-appoint him.'

‘Hmmm, a security guard.' Megan instantly thought of the leering, impertinent man on reception. ‘The spelling and the punctuation suggest someone who hasn't been very well educated. I would have said it was someone in a blue collar job. But then again, we could be dealing with someone really smart who wants to make you think he's some semi-literate nutcase.'

‘But why would he do that?'

‘Well…' Megan hesitated, thinking aloud. ‘What if it was a colleague? Someone you work with in the newsroom. Possibly someone who's asked you out and been rejected?'

Megan caught her breath. A horrible idea had occurred to her. Please God, she thought, don't let it be Neil.

Delva had turned her face away and was staring at the lamplit canal basin beyond the window. It occurred to Megan that if Neil was the man Delva suspected, she was unlikely to say so. Delva knew perfectly well that Neil was Megan's brother-in-law. If she had suspected him would she have sought Megan's help in the first place?

‘I'm not sure…' Delva sounded like someone coming out of a trance.

‘Would you like me to talk to the police? I'm seeing Detective Superintendent Leverton tomorrow and he owes me a favour.' Megan sounded more optimistic than she felt.

Delva frowned. ‘I hate to put you to this trouble – I'm sure you've got enough on your plate.'

‘It's no trouble.' Megan wondered if Delva suspected her involvement in the prostitute cases. There must have been speculation in the newsroom over the deaths being linked. She picked up a handful of the letters. ‘Can I take these?'

‘Of course.' Delva gave her a grateful smile. ‘I'll walk you down to reception.'

They walked in silence along the maze of corridors. As they neared the stairs Megan stopped in her tracks.

‘What is it?' Delva caught her arm. ‘You look as if you've seen a ghost!'

‘It's okay.' Megan swayed slightly. Her insides had turned to ice. ‘It's her. Clare.'

Delva followed Megan's eyes. Standing on a landing below them was a young woman in a red dress. The fabric was stretched tight over her enormous belly. ‘Oh Megan, I'm so sorry – you didn't know?'

Megan shook her head, her lips white.

‘Come back to my office. I'll make you some more tea.'

‘No.' Megan swallowed hard. ‘No, thank you – I'm fine, really. Just a bit of a shock.' She didn't want to talk about it. Had made a point of not talking about it. Not even Ceri knew why things had gone so badly wrong between her and Tony.

Megan knew all about his office fling. Had hardly been surprised when she'd discovered he'd been taking his pleasures elsewhere. Tony had left BTV soon after she'd rumbled him. He'd taken a job at the BBC. Said he needed a fresh start. Now she knew why it hadn't worked. Why he'd moved out within weeks of begging for her forgiveness. Clare was about to do what she could never do. Tony was going to be a father.

Megan made herself walk to the reception desk. Past Clare. She didn't see whether the woman recognised her or not because she kept her eyes firmly fixed on the stairs. Delva followed silently behind her. ‘I'll be fine, now, honestly.' Megan forced a smile as the security guard took back her visitor's pass.

Delva looked at her, concerned. ‘Take care, you hear?'

Megan braced herself for the blast of cold air that buffeted her as she stepped through the doors. Glancing back she caught the guard leering up at Delva as she climbed the stairs.

Megan sat in the car for a few minutes before driving off. Why hadn't Neil told her about Clare being pregnant? She wondered if he'd said anything to Ceri. It was more than likely. She put herself in Ceri's shoes, realising what a burden that knowledge would be to her sister.

It was through Ceri and Neil that she had met Tony. Tony and that other bastard. Back in Birmingham after four years' absence, she'd been happy to be drawn into Ceri's hectic social life. In those days Ceri, Neil and Tony had all been reporters at Radio Heartbeat. She felt her stomach tighten as she remembered the party at Neil's house. What happened that night would stay in her mind until the day she died.

Biting her lip, she started up the engine. Work. She had work to do. A careful analysis of the files Leverton had given her. Donna and Natalie. The faces of the dead girls filled her mind's eye, pushing out the image of the girl on the stairs. And the memory of that other face.