A Room Swept White by Sophie Hannah Read Free Book Online Page B

close it might even have been touching her. From the position of the body, it’s a strong possibility that she was in the corner of the room facing the wall when she was shot. A 9-mm bulletin the brain at close range doesn’t spin a person round. But there’s nothing on the wall next to where she fell, so what was she doing standing there? What was she looking at? Had he marched her over there to kill her because it’s the only part of the room that can’t be seen from the window? Or was she standing there for some other reason, and he came up behind her, knowing she wouldn’t see the gun?’
    Simon had missed some of that. He was still thinking about what Sam had said to him. ‘Better to focus on it and
dismiss
it?’ he said behind his clenched fist so that Proust wouldn’t notice. ‘Why are the Yardleys less likely to have a shooter than this dark-haired man we can’t find?’
    Sam didn’t sigh, but he looked as if he wanted to. He shook his head to indicate that he wasn’t going to risk answering. It occurred to Simon that Sam might find it a damn sight easier to work with the Snowman than he did at present if he didn’t also have to work with Simon.
    Stand in the corner. Face the wall
. Simon considered drawing attention to the symbolism – a teacher punishing a child – then decided against it. Today was one of those days when everyone would disagree with him whatever he said. And he would disagree with the world, as he so often did. A stranger murder? No. Proust was wrong. Collective police responsibility for Helen Yardley’s death because eleven out of twelve civilian jurors voted to send her to prison for murder?
Fuck off
.
    ‘Where are we with fingerprints and swabbing?’ Proust asked.
    DS Klair Williamson stood up. ‘Fingerprints – no matches with any on our database. Lots belonging to friends and family, quite a few sets unidentified, but that’s only to beexpected. We’ve swabbed everybody for forensic evidence of weapon discharge and got nothing so far.’
    ‘Predictable,’ said Proust. ‘Gunpowder residue perishes easily. If our killer knows that, he’ll have had a thorough wash. All the same, I’m sure I don’t need to tell any of you that it would be a grave mistake to drop this angle prematurely. Do your utmost to preserve every possible forensic opportunity. Keep up the swabbing until I say otherwise, and make a note of the names of anyone who gives you an argument about it.’
    ‘Yes, sir,’ said Williamson.
    ‘We also want the names of any unsavouries who have raised their heads above the parapet, so keep going through emails, letters, anything you can find – to JIPAC or to Helen Yardley personally. Our killer could have been unknown to her but obsessed with her.’
    Simon heard grunts of agreement; people seemed to like this idea. He didn’t. Why was no one pointing out the obvious? It wasn’t the simple either-or of someone close to the victim versus total stranger, not in this case. There was a third possibility. Surely he wasn’t the only one it had occurred to.
    ‘Moving on, then, to the most inexplicable aspect of this killing,’ said the Snowman. ‘The card protruding from Helen Yardley’s skirt pocket.’ He jerked his head in the direction of the picture on the board. ‘Her fingerprints are on it, as well as another set we can’t identify. It’s likely the killer put it in the pocket after he shot her and left the top half visible to draw our attention. Also likely is that the sixteen numbers on the card, arranged as they are in four rows of four, have some meaning for the killer. Any new ideas on this – from anyone?’
    All over the room, heads were shaking.
    ‘Right, well, we’ll wait to hear back from Bramshill and GCHQ.’
    There was a general groan and mutters of ‘waste of time’.
    ‘What about seeing if there’s anybody in the Maths department of a university who knows anything about codes?’ Proust suggested. ‘And I mean a proper