Chapter 27
There was no greater challenge than bringing a murderer to justice.
Unsaid promises were made to the victim’s families from the moment the news broke.
A vow had been made to Elea, too. The burden of these promises never weighed as heavily on Swann’s shoulders as they did now.
He sat at his desk, watching the grim crime-scene video for what felt like the hundredth time.
It had been filmed as dawn broke, with the rising sun colouring Lincoln’s West Common in an eerie sepia hue.
Each small sound was amplified in the stillness of the new day—a day that would bring pain to so many people, its aftershock wide-reaching.
Swann was familiar with every sound and sight.
Every breath that Linda had inhaled. The pressure of her boots driving the stepping plates deeper into the snow.
He closed his eyes, placing himself back there.
The whinny of horses in the distance. The rare kee-yaa call of a buzzard as it circled the skies above.
The icy breeze flapping the crime-scene tape—the air cold enough to numb the tips of your fingers and toes and to make your eyes and nose run.
He opened his eyes because he knew what was coming next.
The sight of twelve-year-old Jenny lying on her side, her face half buried in the snow.
The image was burned into the back of Swann’s mind.
The blueness of her lips. Her pale, mottled skin.
He rubbed his chin, missing the beard that Alice had forced him to shave off months ago.
It made him look old, apparently. But in reality it just made him look his age.
Swann watched the video pan slowly across the garland of fake flowers placed on the girl’s soft blonde hair.
According to forensics, she had been initially laid on her back, then later moved onto her side, her face placed downwards into a pillow of snow.
Had her killer returned to the scene? Been unable to stand the accusation in her open eyes?
Or had somebody else interfered? They might never know.
The camera moved slowly, capturing the white dress with its delicate ribbon and lace.
Hundreds of man-hours had gone into investigating the clothes Jenny had been found in.
The dress was home-made. It was old, and they hadn’t been able to source the material or the design.
It was too tight for her body, the zip at the back a little undone.
The screen showed Jenny’s slim ankles and her white patent shoes.
Shoes that weren’t scuffed or worn until that day, by the look of them.
Swabs had been taken from Jenny’s face and clothing, and tape used to pick up any fibres or DNA.
But there was nothing—apart from the bleach that the killer had washed her body in.
There were traces of plastic, too, most likely what she’d been wrapped in while they made the journey there.
Whoever put her down was forensically aware.
Hundreds of officers had worked on this case, as well as resources from other forces brought in to supplement staff.
Leads could come from any number of places, and Swann’s team had worked themselves into the ground to chase them all.
He had never immersed himself so deeply in a case, apart from when Liisa disappeared.
Ever since then, Swann had been careful when describing victims within his team.
It was something he’d learned from Elea—something that might not have occurred to him before.
Usually, in a briefing, words such as “corpse,” “cadaver,” “remains,” and “body” were bandied around.
Now he avoided such terms when he could.
Personalising the victims made them more real.
There were times when officers needed to distance themselves.
Their mental health was important, too. But when it came to Jenny Flynn and the other kidnapped girls, Swann continually personalised the case.
He told officers about her hopes and dreams. Showed them videos the girls had uploaded online.
Made them as real as somebody they knew: a daughter, a sister, a niece.
He worked with their media team to keep them alive in the press.
He had even been interviewed on Sky News and Good Morning Britain.
But now he couldn’t publicly reveal the biggest lead they’ve ever had—that it appeared as if the case of the Ice Angels and Operation Turnstile were linked.
It was too early for such a big presumption, and linking the case would get Elea kicked off the team.
Would it be such a bad thing? He dismissed the thought.
As unpredictable as Elea was, she got results.
Besides, he knew how much this meant to her.
She’d camp out, if she had to. She’d never leave this case now.
Swann stopped the playback. She would be here soon.
Had someone dressed Liisa like that? Placed her deep in the snow? Somewhere she would never be found?
Swann had spoken to Heikkinen again. He’d needed to know more.
The Ice Angel case had turned cold years ago.
It was hardly surprising, given how old it was.
Elea kept pushing for reinvestigation, becoming more insistent, more violent, until she was forced to take a break.
Swann had unknowingly thrown Elea a lifeline by inviting her to consult on this case.
And now she was returning to the station, having got nothing from Ant and Sienna.
She had left their address without fanfare as the couple refused to help.
But Swann knew Elea. She would never have given up on them so easily.
What was she up to now? He braced himself as she entered the office. He would find out soon enough.