Like This, for Ever

that’s as far as we’ve got. Equally, we’ve had no luck unearthing our mole.’
    ‘Bit of a worry, that one.’
    ‘I don’t think it’s anyone on the immediate team, Sir,’ said Dana. ‘There’s any amount of information they could have passed on if they’d been inclined. We’re still looking, of course, but it’s a question of priorities.’
    Weaver nodded. He knew all about priorities. ‘Still think we could be looking for a female?’ he asked.
    Dana told herself to stop obsessing over Lacey Flint. The fact that the woman was perfectly capable of murder didn’t, in itself, make her actually guilty of it. ‘Some slightly encouraging news on the footprints,’ she said. ‘They believe the depth of the prints isn’t consistent with what you’d expect from even an average-sized bloke. There’s also some evidence of the edges of the prints being indistinct, as though the boots were sliding around. They believe it’s perfectly possible that the boots were worn by someone much lighter and smaller than the size-ten prints would have us believe.’
    ‘A woman trying to give the impression of being a bloke?’ said Weaver.
    ‘Exactly. And Oliver Kennedy believed he was abducted by someone of a similar size to his fourteen-year-old brother. We also have the possible use of fake blood in the abductions, as a way of throwing the kids off their guard, and the use of pressure-point compression to subdue them. It all points to our perpetrator not having the brute strength of a man.’
    ‘Well, I can’t say I’m exactly excited by that news, Dana,’ said Weaver. ‘Unless you have some actual female suspects for me.’
    Almost of their own accord, Dana’s eyes moved back towards Tower Bridge. A woman on a beach on a wet winter’s night. A woman who’d run.
    ‘Found your mystery female yet?’
    ‘No Sir, I’m afraid not.’
    ‘Anything else?’
    ‘Do you remember that Facebook page we were monitoring and had blocked?’ she went on. ‘Facebook wanted to remove the block and we agreed. So far the visitors seem to be behaving themselves. There’s no sign of Peter Sweep anywhere.’
    ‘What’s the latest thinking?’
    ‘Split between those who thought he was a complete time-waster who got scared by the furore he created, and those who believe he is the killer, whom resourceful Oliver Kennedy managed to foil.’
    ‘What do
you
think?’
    ‘Susan Richmond believes he wasn’t the killer, and she makes a very convincing case. She thinks Peter Sweep is a teenage prankster with good enough IT skills to be able to stay one step ahead of the publicly available information.’
    Weaver was nodding. ‘Clocks change soon,’ he said. ‘Evenings will be light again. He’s going to find it a lot harder to dump bodies along the Thames without being seen.’
    ‘Well, that’s something to look forward to.’
    ‘You don’t think he’s stopped, do you?’
    ‘Guv, nobody thinks he’s stopped.’

54
Tuesday 11 March
    ‘BARNEY!’
    Barney stopped at the door of the changing room and turned to face his PE teacher. ‘Well played today,’ said Mr Green as he caught up with the line of boys. One by one they disappeared inside the changing room, leaving Barney and Mr Green alone in the corridor.
    ‘Thank you, Sir.’
    ‘Some good passing. You’re a generous player, you don’t hog the ball.’
    Barney smiled. He’d tried, once, to explain that it was watching the patterns the ball made on the field that gave him the buzz, far more than the ability to put the ball in the back of the net, and the recipient of his rather long-winded explanation had glazed eyes before he’d finished his third sentence. He hadn’t tried since. Let people think he was a generous player.
    ‘I was wondering if you wanted to join the élite training squad on Tuesday and Thursday evenings,’ Mr Green said.
    Mr Green’s élite squad was made up of the best players in their school, the adjacent secondary school and several other local schools. Jorge, Lloyd and Harvey were all part of it, Sam was desperate to be asked.
    ‘Thank you, Sir, I’ll ask my dad.’
    From beyond the changing-room door came the scuffling, banter and high-pitched giggling of several young boys in a confined space, free of clothes and supervision. Mr Green hammered on the door. ‘Quieten it down, you lot,’ he yelled.
    The noise abated fractionally, then picked up again.
    ‘It finishes at eight, which is quite late,’ said Mr Green, who was