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Baxter had framed family photographs on his desk: wife with three children, shipshape and anchored around Dad. Rosen arched
his neck as he sat across from Baxter and noticed that the pictures had, very gradually, turned over time, so that they were facing more outwards to the room than towards the owner of the desk.
There was, Rosen noted, no photographic record of the WPC from Islington whom Baxter had been screwing for over two years.
    ‘Like to talk to me about today?’
    Not particularly
.
    Head back, pencil pointing, body stretched in a straight line. Rosen had, for a long time, tried hard to find something to like in Baxter, but even his shoes demanded disdain.
    ‘Which part of today do you mean?’
    ‘Which part do
you
think?’
    ‘Early morning, Brantwood Road.’
    ‘Correct,’ said Baxter.
    ‘Is there a problem?’
    ‘You tell me, David.’
    ‘Apart from the obvious problem of another missing mother and child and a murderer we haven’t caught yet . . .’
    ‘There is a
problem
.’
    ‘Go on, Tom.’ Rosen smiled briefly, falsely.
    Baxter held a hand up, fingers curled into a fist, thumb extended. He looked set to start counting with the assistance of his digits. Problem? Problems.
    ‘One, you went over a fence at a scene of a crime to get into the garden of number 24. Had that area been examined by Scientific Support? Don’t answer. It couldn’t possibly
have been, given the timescale, so, effectively, David, you contaminated a potential mine of information during the golden hour.’
    Rosen made a show of digesting Baxter’s words.
    ‘I understand your concerns, Tom. However, I was in charge of the scene, I took a calculated risk. That risk led me to the attic, the means of entry and a potential mine of information in
the golden hour!’
    A tide of red was rising past Baxter’s Adam’s apple, heading for his face. Rosen perceived that this was clearly meant to be a lecture, not a debate.
    ‘Two, David, and it’s a general point that’s not gone unnoticed by the team; two, you’re losing your focus.’
    ‘Explain, please.’
    ‘Your mind’s not on the case.’
    ‘For example?’
    ‘You’re a million miles away.’ He pointed at his own head and then at Rosen.
    ‘Could you give me an example?’
    ‘Making personal phone calls at the scene of an abduction.’
    ‘Ah, DC Robert Harrison.’
    ‘I have several sources—’
    No, you haven’t
, thought Rosen,
you’ve got Harrison
.
    Baxter smiled and shook his head slowly.
    ‘Look, David, how about you put in a request? Maybe a fresh pair of eyes on the case, maybe if you make room—’
    ‘Tom, please stop right there. It’s no secret this investigation has been dogged by sheer bad luck. But if you pull me off the case, you’re going to set matters back. Nobody
has my overview of events. A fresh pair of eyes will mean going back to square one in managing this investigation.’
    ‘Fine. But I must tell you what’s going to happen. I’m going to initiate a peer review of the way you’re handling the case. I’m going to bring in Steve Charlton and
Tom Ellis from Hammersmith to review the way you’ve been doing things. It will be a fair and very public exploration of your actions and strategies these past months.’ Baxter fell
silent, waiting for a reaction that Rosen didn’t deliver. ‘You can go now.’
    Between the desk and the door, Rosen mentally counted off seven senior investigating officers who had suffered directly at Baxter’s hands; seven men and women whose achievements had been
whitewashed over and whose minor failings had been orchestrated into symphonies of negligence and incompetence. He was good at that sort of thing, Baxter.
    Rosen stopped in the doorway, turned.
    ‘Tom. When Parker and Willis have finished their work, let’s sit down with two pieces of paper.’
    ‘I’m busy.’
    ‘We’ll make a list of all the forensic evidence—’
    ‘Did you hear me?’
    ‘—recovered from the loft space