Shooting in the Dark

Rossiter said.
    ‘It was opened by an associate,’ Sam said. ‘Janet Black. You’ve got her prints on file. She’s the only one who’s touched it.’
    ‘Where is it?’
    ‘My office.’
    ‘I’ll come and collect.’
    ‘Do that,’ said Sam. He looked at his watch. ‘We close in twenty-four minutes.’ He put the phone down. The police would get little from the note. It was a fair bet that there would be no usable prints on it.
    He nursed his right hand. It was cold and the nerve endings were singing, leaving a nagging ache, extending from just above the wrist into the length of his thumb. Forensic science was a useful tool, but too often it could only give the police a list of possibilities. Psychological and criminal profiling on the other hand were the stuff of fiction. The press loved it, the whole idea that each criminal left behind a signature, which, in the right hands, would identify him or her beyond any doubt. The results in crime novels and in film and television portrayals of clinical psychologists at work were always successful, but in the real world the overall results were pitiful.
    It was true that psychological profilers added something new to the task of investigating crime, but it would be a long time before their methodology was reliable. One of the biggest hurdles for the profession was that the police resented them, regarded them as interlopers and meddlers and usually disregarded their suggestions.
    Sam glanced at the note again. ‘Get the cash and wait.’ What was the guy’s next move gonna be? Another note? A phone call?
    Angeles had said she’d get the cash if Sam thought it would help. But she didn’t want to pay someone off who had killed her sister.
    He picked up the note with a pair of tweezers, folded it with the aid of a paper-knife, and inserted it in the original envelope.
    ‘I’m going,’ he called through to Celia. ‘The cops’ll be here in a minute to pick up the evidence. Tell Rossiter I was heartbroken to miss him. Give him my love.’

33
     
    ‘I’d have liked to see the original,’ Sly Beaumont told Marie. ‘But I would guess that all the letters come from the same magazine.’ Sly was the crime editor at the Yorkshire Evening Press, and he was speaking in his office looking out over Walmgate. He was a grizzled old bear of a man with creases in his leathery face that defied access to his razor. His suit looked as though it was still hanging in his wardrobe, draped from his coat-hanger shoulders but not touching any other part of his anatomy. A suit that shone with age and that spoke quietly of a time before its owner’s body had begun to shrink.
    ‘You can’t say which mag?’ asked Marie.
    He shook his head. ‘The headings are in Hermes, but they’ve used Times for the body.’ He made a face at the copy. ‘Arial condensed, which might be from a different mag, or for a special section within the same one. Something modern, probably aimed at a young audience. Professionally printed, but designed by someone without much imagination. That’s as close as I can get.’ He handed the photocopy of the note back to Marie. ‘How’s Sam doing? Never calls in to see me any more. Tell him he owes me a visit.’
    ‘I will. And thanks for the help with the note. It’ll narrow down my search.’
    ‘Any time.’ He gave her a smile that resembled a deflated football, then had another thought. ‘He still grieving over Dora?’
    ‘I don’t think so,’ Marie said. ‘He took it hard, but you know Sam: “life’s for the living”, all that practical philosophy he carries around with him.’
    ‘He got himself a woman?’ Sly asked.
    Marie shook her head. ‘There are signs that he’s beginning to think about it. Seems keen on our current client.’
    ‘A man needs a woman,’ Sly said. ‘You don’t have a woman, you end up looking like me.’
    Marie laughed with him. ‘Is that something you want me to tell him?’
    ‘It’s a warning. Sam’s the kind of guy needs all the advice he can get. He never listens, but that’s no reason to stop telling him.’
    ‘I’m writing this down,’ said Marie. ‘He’ll get every word of it.’
     
    El Piano for coffee and a piece of carrot cake to fill the gap caused by a missed lunch. Quiet at this time of day, just Marie and a thin man playing around with the chords of ‘Love for Sale’; humming the melody, his voice and the ivories clambering around each other like a wild red rose on a cross.
    She