Free Charisma by Jo Bannister

because he wants to get straight to the main course, not fiddle around with the canapés first.’
    He glanced at the sad, tumbled little body now decently covered by a blanket. ‘But in that case, why touch the clothes at all? Why does he want us to think he’s a rapist when he thinks he’s something better than that?’
    â€˜To confuse us?’
    â€˜Not for long. He knew what the medical examination would
show. Did he think we’d continue looking for a sex maniac in the continued absence of sex?’
    â€˜It’s as if he’s playing with us – challenging us to discover the real reason he kills. And he can do that,’ Liz went on, developing the thought even as she was speaking, ‘because there’s a time limit of some kind. You’re right, he doesn’t live here, he may never have been here before and he doesn’t plan on staying. If we don’t find him soon he’ll have moved on.’
    Shapiro nodded slowly. ‘That fits. We know he’s an arrogant man – to kill twice in five days, both times in public places, the second time in broad daylight. That isn’t need or compulsion, it’s doing what he wants to do because he thinks no one can stop him. He thinks he can outsmart us. Not necessarily for ever, just for long enough.’
    Liz was thinking back. ‘If he’s so confident, why the change of heart about disposing of Charisma? We assumed that he panicked and had to go back later to tidy up. But this time he hardly troubled to hide the body.’
    Stuck for an answer, Shapiro only shook his head.
    Beyond the screens, beyond the barrier which had been erected at the end of the lane, a car pulled up and a door slammed. Liz said, ‘I’ve had someone ringing round the local stables, trying to get an identification on her. Maybe that’s it now.’
    It was a dark green saloon, discreetly prosperous, and the man hurrying towards them wore a business suit and a stunned expression. A constable stopped him at the barrier. The man tried to shake free but the policeman held him back, respectful but unyielding.
    â€˜The father?’ murmured Liz, and Shapiro gave a fractional nod. ‘Oh, God,’ she sighed.
    â€˜Are we finished with her?’ asked Shapiro. ‘Photographs? Scenes of Crime? You, Dr Crowe?’ The pathologist inclined his head in assent. ‘Then tidy her up a bit, would you? I can’t ask him to wait till we get her to the morgue to find out whether his daughter’s dead but we don’t have to show her to him like this.’ He moved out from behind the screens.
    Despite the suit and the dark car he was only a young man. Words spilled from him anxiously as Shapiro approached. ‘Alice? Is that my daughter? I was at the stables – she forgot her schoolbag – and somebody called and said there’d been an accident. A girl on a white pony. Is it Alice? Is she hurt?’
    Shapiro introduced himself. ‘It’s Mr Elton, isn’t it? – of Elton & Farrow, the accountants?’

    The man ran an agitated hand through his hair. ‘Yes, I’m Sam Elton. For God’s sake – is it Alice? Is she going to be all right? That damn pony—!’
    â€˜How old’s your daughter, Mr Elton?’ Partly he needed the information, partly he was giving Crowe time to tidy up behind the screen.
    â€˜She’s thirteen. She has blonde hair and blue eyes, she was wearing a denim jacket, a checked shirt and jodhs, and she was going to ride round the park then catch the bus to school. I left her at the stables – Mrs Skinner’s in Cobham Lane – at seven-thirty. When I got to the office I found her bag in the car. So I drove back, and while I was with Mrs Skinner someone phoned – a policeman, someone – and said there’d been an accident. For pity’s sake, Chief Inspector!’ His voice cracked. ‘Is it my