Page 98 of The Other Side

A faint smile twitched at Simmons’ mouth.

Drum continued. “Then I’d look at the victimology.”

“The what?” Ruskin asked.

“The victims.”

“I know what the bloody word means.” Ruskin took a step forward.

“Enough,” Purbeck snapped.

Silence settled again. Drum carried on as though nothing had happened.

“Sonita Sharma and Joan Motson are elderly. Different backgrounds. Different addresses. But they were both vulnerable. Both lived alone. One left her key under a flowerpot. Bettina could easily have had a key to her mother-in-law’s flat.”

Purbeck nodded once. “Keep going.”

“If Bettina wanted one murder hidden inside another, she’d need a first victim who looked random. Someone with no connection to her. Or little connection.”

“So why Sharma?”

“I don’t know. But Stan Motson had a run in with Sonita about money. Maybe Bettina thought she might as well do him a favour. I’d want details of every movement Bettina made for the month before Sharma died. Every regular journey. Shops. Cafés. GP. Hairdresser. Did she ever go near Sharma’s house? Did she volunteer anywhere? Charity work? Did they use the same pharmacy? Same supermarket? Did they ever cross paths without anyone noticing?”

Now Simmons was nodding too.

“People don’t usually kill complete strangers,” Drum said. “Not unless they have to.”

Purbeck looked across at Simmons. “That’s worth a look.”

Simmons made a note. Drum realised he’d forgotten himself again. He’d stopped talking like a PCSO several minutes ago. Purbeck was still watching him.

“You’ve thought about this,” Purbeck said.

“I think about most things, sir.”

“I’ve noticed.” Another pause. Then Purbeck pushed himself off the desk. “Right. Simmons, get Digital to prioritise the warrants if they come through. Ruskin, start pulling Bettina Motson’s movements for the last six weeks. See if there’s any overlap with Sharma.”

Ruskin frowned. “Seriously?”

“Do it.”

Ruskin looked as though he wanted to argue, thought better of it, and walked away.

Purbeck waited until he was out of earshot. Then he turned back to Drum. “One more thing.”

“Sir?”

“How did a PCSO know the phrase ‘victimology’?”

Drum’s stomach tightened. He had half a dozen lies ready. None of them sounded convincing. “I told you I read a lot. I like crime documentaries.”

Purbeck stared at him for several long seconds. “A PCSO my fucking foot,” he whispered. “What are you?”

Drum pressed his lips together, then exhaled. “WitSec. Please don’t push.”

“Seriously?”

Drum nodded. “It would be good if that photo of me wasn’t on the board or on social media.”