daughter?â
Shapiro took his elbow and guided him through the barrier. âIâm not sure, Mr Elton. From your description it could be. In a minute Iâll ask you to look at her and tell us. But first, Iâm very sorry to have to tell you that the girl is dead.â
The blood drained from Sam Eltonâs face. His mouth opened and closed twice, then his knees buckled and he went down.
8
Dr Crowe had done a good job in the short time heâd had. Heâd closed her eyes, folded his jacket under her head to close the gaping wound in her throat and drawn the blanket up to her chin. She still wore the Pony Club-approved hat that was designed to protect her from any misfortune she met while riding but was no defence at all against a man with a knife. Under it the long fair hair framed her face. With the wound hidden she hardly looked dead, just somehow a little more stolid than a child asleep. She couldnât have looked less like Charisma.
Sam Elton whispered, âMy baby.â Then he began to cry.
Shapiro took him home. Liz was relieved that it wouldnât be her breaking the news to the girlâs mother. When Elton was safely installed in his car, Shapiro turned back and his face was grim. âWeâre going to take flak on this one.â
âBecause of who she was?â
He nodded. âBecause of who she was. Because of her age. Because of where and when it happened. If a thirteen-year-old girl from a decent family canât ride her pony in a public park in broad daylight without getting her throat cut, nobodyâs kid is safe. We have to get this man, Liz. This townâs going to be in a state of panic until we do.â
âIâll start a house-to-house round the park,â she said. âAt least this time we know where and pretty well when the attack took place. People are getting ready for work about eight, someone may have seen him. The ground staff start about then too: Iâve got them together in the park-keeperâs hut, Iâll talk to them next. Somebody may have seen him this time, even if they didnât see anything suspicious.â
Shapiro indicated assent. She was making all the right moves, a fully functioning detective inspector again. âIâll go back to the office when Iâm finished with the family. I want to start a search for this manâs MO. I bet heâs left a trail of young girls with slit
throats: weâll know more about him when we find out where heâs been. Iâll get Donovan on to that: itâll keep him away from Bailie if nothing else.â
âWhat about Bailie? Do we ask him about this?â
For a moment Shapiro was undecided, then he shook his head. âI donât see much point. His connection to the last one was tenuous enough, to this one itâs non-existent. Unless we get a description, of course, in which case weâre into a whole new ball game.â He winced. He hated using expressions heâd picked up from Donovan.
The park-keeperâs hut began life as a garden pavilion for the family at Belvedere House. They kept their croquet mallets and tennis racquets there. When private enjoyment gave way to municipal endeavour it became a repository for scythes, billhooks and pruning shears, and the place where the gardeners took their tea and sandwiches. It was also where they punched their time-cards as they came on and off duty.
There were four of them: an old man well past retirement age, gnarled and bent enough to have been undergardener to Adam; a powerful middle-aged man, a young man and a boy. The boy, who might have been about seventeen, was clearly shocked. He was trying to drink from the mug of his flask and his teeth were chattering on its lip.
Liz took their names and addresses and asked when each had arrived at work that morning. The old man was the foreman: he fetched the time-cards from the clock. His deputy and the younger man arrived a few minutes either