Page 6 of No Safe Place
Dr David Moore.
A therapist and lecturer. Already there was speculation among some of the younger uniforms that it might have been one of his patients – chatter Field put a swift stop to.
They found a receipt for the twenty-four-hour petrol garage on Plumstead High Street in his wallet, timed for 12.14 a.m. A packet of cigarettes and a lighter – found in the gutter outside number 17.
It was between a nine- and sixteen-minute walk from the garage to where he was found, depending on which route he took. The shorter cut through an alleyway. Back at the station, five officers had been pulled off other cases to trawl CCTV on both routes.
David’s jacket was on the ground next to that first blood spatter. Possibly dropped as he backed away from his attacker.
Field squatted next to it.
‘I’ve got that,’ the crime scene photographer called over, holding up his camera. ‘If you want a look.’
‘Ta.’ Field lifted the jacket with a gloved finger. There was a book underneath it, and Field called the photographer back.
It was a crime novel, a pulpy police procedural.
A few clicks of the camera, and then the book and the jacket were both ready to be bagged.
Field was shattered, but running on adrenaline. She sat down on a garden wall. She’d worn new shoes, expecting a quiet night to break them in – and her feet were killing her.
A few metres away, SOCO were briefing the last of theparamedics on which bits of kit and uniform would need to be kept as evidence. Mike and Lea, the two who had been first on scene, were among the small group.
‘All right, boss?’ Riley took a seat next to her, adjusting the knees of his suit trousers.
‘You shouldn’t have taken your vest off yet,’ she said, mildly.
He scoffed. ‘I was about to pass out. And I don’t think our nutjob is getting through this circus.’ He gesticulated with his coffee mug. ‘Not any time soon.’
Field’s radio crackled and she tensed – expecting every broadcast to be “suspect apprehended”.
It was a domestic call in Thamesmead. Riley’s shoulders relaxed.
Opposite them, the group of paramedics broke up. Some of them went back to their vehicles, night carrying on as normal. At least some of them must be off shift by now.
‘My son is a paramedic, you know,’ she said, offhand.
Riley looked at her in surprise. Before he could ask any questions, the older paramedic, Mike, had walked over to them. They must be similar in age – early fifties.
He was in a too-large grey tracksuit, and Field couldn’t help smiling.
‘Don’t,’ he said, putting a hand up. ‘Your SOCO has my uniform. A mate had to bring me his gym kit, and let’s just say he’s a strapping young lad.’ He waved his phone in the air. ‘I thought I should let you know as soon as we heard – he’s out of surgery and they’ve stabilised him.’
Field felt the knot of tension in her stomach loosen, just slightly. ‘That’s great news.’
‘He’s still in ICU.’ Mike tucked the phone away. ‘But yeah – he’s stable.’
From down the road, a crime scene photographer was waving for them. Field nodded at Riley to go.
‘Right, well, pass on our thanks, won’t you?’ Riley stuck out a hand and Mike shook it. ‘All the best.’
Riley went to speak to the photographer and Field felt a flash of irritation. He could get a bit public school with paramedics and community support workers, liked to puff himself up with his detective status.
Mike looked unperturbed. He yawned. ‘I’ll sleep well when I get in, I tell you. Sun will be up soon.’
Field cleared her throat. ‘Thank you, for tonight.’
‘All in a day’s work.’ Mike took Riley’s spot on the low wall, with a slight groan.
