Closing In. Sue Fortin

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      ‘Remember when I said to Izzy that sometimes it’s best to say things in your head and not out loud?’ He gave Ellen a sideways glance, his eyebrow raised. ‘Well, that.’

      There was no dancing feeling of words this time. The silence that filled the rest of the car journey was more like a funeral march. Donovan clearly had no intention of talking about Izzy’s mother and Ellen cursed herself for mentioning it.

      Ellen’s thoughts turned to Kate and how she was going to get to a computer.

      ‘Do you know if there are any internet cafés in Felpham?’ she asked breaking the silence.

      ‘We’re not exactly a bustling metropolis. We can do the cafés but it’s more likely they will have blackboard and chalk than Wi-Fi.’

      ‘I suppose I could use the library. I take it there is a library here?’

      ‘In the main town but you don’t have to do that. You can use my laptop. I’ll sort it out for you when we get in.’

      Ellen thanked Donovan. She was pretty sure the IP address couldn’t be traced unless she actually sent an email. She had set up a new email account and shared the details with Kate. They had agreed to communicate by email but, rather than sending the electronic messages and thereby leaving a cyber-trail, they were saving the emails to draft without actually sending them. Once Ellen had saved an email, Kate could log onto the account from her own computer and read the draft email. She would then delete it and compose a reply, which would be left in the draft box for Ellen to pick up. This way there was no footprint or record of their communications. Not that Toby was some computer geek who could trace these things, but she wasn’t taking any chances.

      Once they had got back to The Lodge, it didn’t take Donovan long to produce the laptop for Ellen. ‘It needs charging, I’m afraid,’ he said.

      ‘Oh, thank you,’ said Ellen. ‘I really appreciate this. I’ll give it back to you as soon as I’m done.’

      ‘No rush. I don’t use it that often. I prefer the main computer in my office.’ Donovan passed the laptop to her, wrapping up the lead and placing it on top. ‘My documents are all password protected so you’re safe using it. You won’t stumble across any confidential information or client details.’

      Carla came out of the office. ‘Oh, Donovan. I’ve just had DCI Froames on the line. He wants to know if you can go down and interview a suspect. Apparently, he mentioned it to you yesterday?’

      Donovan frowned for a moment while he recalled the conversation. ‘That’s right. To do with an attack on a young woman in her home. Okay, tell Ken I’m on my way.’

      ‘That doesn’t sound very nice,’ commented Ellen.

      ‘No, it’s not, but if it means it leads to someone’s arrest and conviction, then I regard it as a positive thing.’

      ‘I suppose that’s the best way to look at it.’

      ‘Definitely. Something good out of something bad. Justice for the victim and punishment for the criminal.’ He smiled at her. A smile that Ellen found hard to match to the job he was about to undertake.

       Chapter Seven

      As much as Donovan loved his job, he hated it too. He loved the analysis, the breakdown of potential suspects, the building up of criminal psychological profiles but hated the scenarios; the often skin-crawling and despicable crimes this role brought him into contact with.

      He fixed his gaze on Oscar Lampard across the interview desk. Donovan looked for any signs, any body language that would give a clue as to whether Lampard was telling the truth or even uncomfortable with his responses. Lampard held Donovan’s gaze equally, a look of defiance lingering behind his eyes, his arms folded as he sat back in the chair, his ankle casually hooked over his opposite knee. He toyed with a brown asthma inhaler, turning it up one way and then the other. So far Donovan hadn’t managed to get Lampard to so much as break into a sweat. He doubted very much the inhaler was going to be needed.

      ‘So, how am I doing, Doc?’ said Lampard. ‘Have I passed?’

      ‘Passed?’ Donovan raised his eyebrows in question.

      ‘Yeah, passed your tests, like. Have I answered all your questions properly or have I let slip something that can tell you all about me?’ said Lampard beginning to look as though he was enjoying himself. ‘Have you been able to work out if I’m some psycho nutter who had a poor relationship with his mother? Did my mother dress me up as a girl and, as a result, I hate women, which means I attacked my neighbour. That’s how it goes, doesn’t it?’

      Gut instinct played a big part in Donovan’s work. Today his gut was shouting loud and clear. Oscar Lampard had something to hide but was he hiding the attempted murder of his neighbour Stella Harris? Time to play hardball.

      ‘You’ve got the general idea,’ said Donovan. ‘However, I’d probably go down the route of what was your first sexual encounter like? Was it with a girl or a boy?’ Donovan paused looking for a reaction. Yep, there it was. Subtle but it was there. Lampard’s face remained impassive but the inhaler was now clenched in a firm grip, no longer being casually worked up and down on his knee. Donovan continued. ‘A member of your family even. Or one of your mum’s special friends, you know, an uncle who’s not really an uncle.’

      Lampard was clearly fighting to prevent his smile turning to a sneer. ‘Maggie Harting. Behind the youth club. I was fourteen she was fifteen. Big tits. In fact, big everything. She wasn’t shy about putting it out.’

      ‘Too big for you?’ said Donovan. He continued without giving Lampard a chance to voice his obvious displeasure at the innuendo. ‘Did she have a laugh at your expense afterwards? Tell everyone what a little boy you really were?’

      The sneer broke free and Lampard leaned forward in his chair. ‘Piss. Off.’

      Donovan didn’t flinch. ‘All the other kids laughed at you after that, I expect. You were the spotty, lanky kid who none of the girls fancied and you only got a chance with Maggie because, as you said yourself, she wasn’t shy putting it out. Kind of backfired didn’t it? Instead of the girls thinking you’re some sort of hotshot, turns out Oscar Lampard is, in fact, a let-down.’

      Lampard sat back in his chair, apparently in control again. He waved a dismissive hand in Donovan’s direction. ‘Whatever you say, Doc.’

      Donovan flicked open the file in front of him. He didn’t really need to look at it but he wanted to give Lampard a few moments to let what had been said settle in his mind.

      ‘So, Oscar, it’s all right if I call you that, isn’t it?’ Oscar shrugged. Donovan continued. ‘Stella Harris, the girl who was attacked. You told my colleagues that you were on first-name terms with her and chatted when your paths crossed, but that was about it.’

      ‘Yeah and what of it?’

      ‘Fancy her, did you? She’s quite a looker, well she was, before her face became a punch bag. Lovely blonde hair, pretty delicate features, great figure. Come on, you must have fancied her.’

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