‘So closed was more important than thorough?’ I ask.
At worst I sound disrespectful, at best naïve. But as much as I’ve taken a small shine to Oliver Cairns, all wife-less and cardigan’d in his unmanageably large home, he’s not my old mentor. He ain’t the boss of me.
‘Oh no, thorough is important, Cat. Thing is, they want thorough but they want it now. Same as any business. And o’course, anything this high-profile, it’s not just the family you’re answerable to, it’s the country, the politicians. Police cuts were big news back then. Rallies, marches, protests. Do you remember, Kate? Cut crime, not police. The Thin Blue Line Just Got Thinner. And it’s no better now. If it wasn’t for bloody Brexit, it’d still be front-page news.’
‘Enough,’ Steele says, hands up. ‘Do you know, Olly, I’ve banned the B word in the office unless it’s relevant to a case. Two years of everyone and his dog having an opinion; it’s too much. The job’s hard enough.’
‘Ah, you might be right,’ he says, although I get the sense that he’d gladly keep going. ‘Anyway, the point I was making is with all the noise around cuts, there was no way they wanted “The Roommate” case dragging on, giving the media more sticks to beat them with.’
Steele shifts closer to Cairns, leaning over the arm of the sofa. ‘But cuts have always been big news. And I get it was pressurised, but you and me had our fair share of high-stakes cases. Denny Grey, The Vauxhall Bridge shootings. Christ, I didn’t go home for six days when we were on the Carly Waters kidnapping . . .’
A twitch of a smile. ‘All right then, spit it out, Katie, love. It’s been a few years, but I know that face. What’s eating you?’
‘It’s just . . .’ She stretches forward, giving him a fond prod on the leg. ‘The best thing about you, Olly – the best thing for my career, my confidence, was that you always always trusted me. You were a guiding hand, a devil’s advocate if I needed one, but you let me take the lead, follow my nose. Yet with Tess, with this case, you put a leash on her. Why?’
‘Management isn’t one-size-fits-all, you know that. Tess was a different copper to you. You were always by the book, very fact based, and that’s easier to trust. I could give you more rope. Tess is all guts and glory, and while that can be great, it needs micro-managing.’ Steele throws me a pointed look – he could be describing me. ‘You know, I often thought if I could merge the pair of you, I’d have had the perfect detective.’
She takes the compliment, smiling gently. ‘It must have been tough, though, overruling her. You were so close.’
‘And as my bitch of a hangover proves, we still are. Tess didn’t take it personally. I think she was glad to have someone else make the decision.’
Steele’s surprised. ‘That doesn’t sound like the Tess Dyer I know.’
‘You heard about Paul, I assume?’
‘Her husband,’ I say, keen to keep a hand in the conversation, not let it fall into The Katie and Olly Show. ‘He was ill at the time.’
‘Very ill, which means she wasn’t exactly the Tess Dyer anyone knew.’ He looks at the floor, forcing a quivery smile. ‘Paul was a great fella. Public-school lad, brains to burn, but always wore it lightly, if you know what I mean? He’d been born with a heart defect, but he never let it hold him back. Top university, top marks, top career with the Civil Service.’ The smile fades fast. ‘But he got a bad infection around ten years ago that made whatever the problem was ten times worse. He was in and out of hospital for years, God love him. He’d get better, they’d get back to normal, and then bam, another setback. And all the while, Tess was climbing the ranks, haring up and down the motorway back and forth to the hospital while raising two kids – two fine lads, Ewan and Max. Ewan’s the sportsman – he plays for Chelsea’s Under 14s. Max is going to be the next Bill Gates, so they say. They’re a credit to her. To them both.’
‘So her head wasn’t in the game,’ says Steele airily. No hint to the fact she effectively nailed this in yesterday’s briefing.
‘Ah now, I wouldn’t say that exactly; this is Tess Dyer we’re talking about. But you can see why I went for the leash over the guiding hand. Tess downplayed Paul’s illness, but I knew the score. I knew she was struggling, and good management’s all about spotting when someone’s vulnerable and having their back. I had yours once or twice in the early days, Katie Steele.’
A beat of silence as something coded flies between them. Steele reddens, but she doesn’t back down. ‘See, to me, Olly, “having someone’s back” means giving them the courage to express themselves, safe in the knowledge you’ll listen, take it on board. Shooting down her accomplice theory straight away wouldn’t have done much for her confidence.’
‘Nor would Commander Turvill laughing her out of his office.’
‘Would he have?’ I ask.
‘Look, when we got Masters, we had our man, job done. It wouldn’t have done Tess any favours to go off spouting half-cocked theories. She was newly promoted. It was only her second case at the wheel. There’d already been talk of whether she was ready for it, and I wasn’t going to give Turvill – or anyone – the chance to doubt her. That’s what “having someone’s back” means to me. Keeping a clear head when they can’t. Stopping them racing off down rabbit holes. Protecting them from themselves.’
I nod, unsure whether I think this is first-class management or paternalistic horseshit. I’d probably go with the latter if it wasn’t for the fact that Parnell’s steadying hand has kept me sane time and time again, and kept me employed on more than one occasion.
‘Why did you think the theory was half-cocked?’ asks Steele.
‘Well, it seemed half-cocked back then, is what I meant. Pure hypothesis when we only had the time and manpower for hard facts. Tess got it in her head that Masters must have had someone else answering the calls, because no self-respecting young girl would still be interested in the room after two minutes talking to that old drone. I mean, there was something in what she was saying, but John Turvill would have kicked me into next week if we’d landed at his door with just that.’
‘What about the lack of drag marks on the victim’s bodies?’ I say. ‘Surely that was worth pause for thought?’
‘Pause!’ He tips his head back, letting out a laugh like a bark, a single scornful note. ‘I don’t think any of us paused once, from the time the first call came in until Masters got sent down. And anyway, have you looked at the Dulwich Woods photos?’ I haven’t; Holly’s my victim, Caxton, my crime scene. Luckily, Steele’s head is bobbing up and down. ‘Well then, you’ll know that Stephanie König was the heaviest of the girls, by some way. And where was she found?’
‘Much nearer to the road than the others,’ says Steele, taking his point.
‘Exactly. Masters couldn’t carry her the same distance so he had to bury her nearer to where he’d parked. Two people wouldn’t have had that problem, they’d have buried her near Bryony and Ling. That was my thinking.’