Roberts had familiarized himself with the case, lest he be called in, said:
‘They weren’t exactly the most popular people on the planet.’
Porter was impressed, said:
‘Right, they were noted for their rudeness, treated the world like dirt.’
Roberts digested the information, said:
‘Sounds like you’ve got a player.’
Porter began to bite at his thumb, a habit he had managed to break, then said:
‘My big fear is another letter detailing those deaths. I’ve put the nom de plume, “Ford” in the computer and got thousands of hits but nothing usable, tried various acromyns, but zip.’
Roberts stood up, said:
‘Well, you know one thing.’
‘Do I?’
‘Sure, the guy likes to play. Did you ask Brant about the name? He’s got a way of cutting through the crap.’
Then Roberts was gone, his pint barely untouched. Porter continued to worry his thumb. He hadn’t heard from Trevor in two days and wondered if the needles had spooked him. He decided to call round after work to the bedsit where Trevor lived. Meanwhile, he hoped like hell that the Super hadn’t gotten any mail.
8
McDonald was in the car pool, leaning against a van they used sometimes for surveillance. Falls approached and he eyed her with distaste. She moved right up to him, and he said:
‘Hey, you’re in my personal space.’
She smiled, said:
‘Like a bit of rough, do you?’
His eyes lit and he sneered:
‘What, tired of women already?’
She looked round then pivoted, used her body weight to swing her right hand, and hit him in the left eye with the knuckle-duster. He fell back against the van and she turned, walked away, saying:
‘That rough enough for you?’