A Body in the Lakes by Graham Smith (great books of all time .TXT) 📕

‘Sir.’ Beth didn’t know what else to say, but she could tell the chief super was expecting a response from her.

‘I’m not one to pander to public opinion and neither is the chief constable. However, your little outburst has drawn a lot more attention to your case than anyone wanted. From now on, you will lead all press conferences related to your case. I must warn you though, now the press know that they can get a reaction from you, they’ll all be doing their best to provoke you into saying something untoward. I’m glad you kept your wits about you the last time and didn’t give away any sensitive details. But I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that if you had, there would be a formal disciplinary hearing instead of this friendly word.’

‘Sir.’

‘That is all.’

As Beth made her way back to the office she tried to work out what had just happened. Instead of the industrial-strength bollocking she was expecting, she’d been almost praised.

She supposed Hilton’s comments about the press conferences were her punishment for speaking out the way she had. The way he’d dangled the threat of disciplinary proceedings was him exerting control over her in the future.

This would only be a real issue if Tom Gracie turned out not to be the Lakeland Ripper. If he was the Lakeland Ripper, there would be a short press conference to announce they’d caught the killer and then she’d go back to her normal life, away from the glare of the public. If Gracie wasn’t the killer, she’d have to admit to the assembled press that they’d wasted their time on a dead end. She expected that if she did so, the press would turn on her and criticise not just her work but that of the entire FMIT.

Forty-Two

Tom Gracie lived in Penrith which made things simpler in terms of getting to his house. Working all around the county often meant long drives on narrow rural roads with all the hindrances they held, but at least they didn’t have to do that today.

Before they left the office, Beth had run the suspect’s name and address through a couple of databases and got his national insurance number and the licence number for his van. Gracie was employed as a maintenance man at the Whinfell Forest holiday camp on the outskirts of the town.

Beth and O’Dowd had established that Gracie wasn’t at home, so they were now at the security gate of the holiday camp. A guard checked their warrant cards and directed them to the maintenance sheds. If Gracie wasn’t there, his manager would be able to let them know where he was.

The maintenance sheds were in a small clearing in the towering pine trees. They were low buildings clad in panelling which matched the bark of the surrounding pines. A small forklift was parked to one side of the sheds and there was a long greenhouse like those found at plant nurseries beyond them. As they rounded the sheds, they saw a man loading a four-wheeled barrow with pointed posts and some timber rails. A large hammer lay on the barrow and there was the smell of fresh-cut timber in the air.

The man stopped what he was doing and looked their way. His eyes danced past O’Dowd and settled on Beth. The examination he gave her made her skin crawl as he ran his eyes over her body. Every instinct and piece of intuition she possessed told her that the man giving her a lecherous look was Tom Gracie. He was mid-fifties, thin and had shoulder-length grey hair that looked as if he’d dipped it in chip fat.

O’Dowd strode forward. ‘Are you Tom Gracie?’

‘Yeah. What of it?’

As soon as the DI flapped her warrant card open and introduced herself, Gracie’s whole manner changed. Instead of looking at them with affability, he took on a look of panic.

The barrow was shoved at them as Gracie wheeled away and sprinted towards the door at the back of the maintenance shed.

While O’Dowd grabbed the barrow before it crashed into her, Beth was off and running; she skirted a pile of timber and navigated her way past a row of lawnmowers and strimmers. When she got to the door at the back of the maintenance shed, she saw Gracie disappear into the greenhouse. Beth surmised he knew of another door out of it and plunged after him.

Forty-Three

The computer on Forster’s desk was logged into Facebook, and while he didn’t use the social-media site much himself, he knew of its power. He had a second window open and that showed his Twitter account. He’d been alerted to the fact Beth’s rant at the press conference had gone viral by the member of staff who managed his social-media profile. Since he’d found out, he’d checked the stats every hour and was pleased to see they were still rising at a consistent rate.

It had been a no-brainer for him to use the clip for his own agenda and he’d written a short message praising Beth and calling for more police officers to share her zeal. He couldn’t wait to see her deliver the speech she’d handed to him last night. In terms of impact, it would make this already viral clip seem like a bland after-dinner speech delivered by an adenoidal trainspotter.

For perhaps the tenth time since she’d handed it to him, he read the statement again. He didn’t need to look at the paper as he’d memorised every word, but he found that when he looked at the page, he could picture her delivering the words to camera.

The statement was handwritten in a neat cursive script that was easy to read.

My name is Beth Young. I’m a detective constable and I would like you to listen to what I have to say.

As I’m involved in (insert name of charity) you’re no doubt thinking that I have been raped. That I have suffered the soul-stealing indignity that so many women, and yes,