Chapter 18 Chapter Seventeen

The office door was open, and Moro hurriedly put on his coat and checked the keys and mobile phone in the bag, when Luther knocked lightly on the door. "Inspector Bannerman would like you to come to his office, Inspector." "Thank you, Luther." He slipped back into the corridor and Moreau called him back. "Why were you late at the task release meeting?" Ruther would never be a spy because his face was so expressive, she could already see the whole story just by the subtle changes in his facial expression: his two eyebrows were brought together because the reason he was late was that there was a Good reason, and it wasn't his fault, and then it occurred to him that being late wasn't a bad thing, that not getting a promotion was a good thing, and he had a small smile on his face, thanking himself for being so sharp.Finally he made it up: "Sorry, I overslept."

"At 5pm, you overslept?" He pretended to be confused, "This kind of thing won't happen again." Moreau stared at him and saw his face flushed, "Get out." He left happily. Morrow walked down the corridor to the door of Bannerman's office, the door was ajar, and he was talking to someone, "Yes, yes" and said non-stop.She knocked on the door, walked in, and found that he was on the phone, expressing approval to the person on the other end.He glanced at the chair in front of him and motioned her to sit down. She sat down, waited for him, and looked at his desk.

When they shared an office, his desk was always full, as if the host were declaring "what a person I am".Morrow doesn't believe in anything, but she finds it fun to read and to hone her skills of recognizing what's behind the surface.Bannerman eats healthy bars for lunch not because he's health conscious, but because he's afraid of getting fat.She wasn't fooled by the surfboard paperweight either: he wasn't much of an outdoor adventurer, except for the occasional sunbath.She hates him because she's seen how he's made it out of the cops and knows he can do it because he's ambitious and his dad was a cop and he knows the rules of the game.

After being promoted, Bannerman cared about nothing but control. He hangs up. "I'm going to take over part of the case myself, Moreau," he said unapologetically, "because of the money, which is very worrying, not just because it's in that place and it's huge, but because it's in euros." Another lie.The money was part of it, but he wanted more than the honor.He wants something else. "Have they checked the money for drugs?" she asked. "Yes, checked and found no signs, little or nothing. An inexplicable large sum of money, it seems to have been drawn directly from the bank. As for which bank, the serial number of the money is not sure. Not sequentially. We are investigating large euro withdrawals in this country, but the money could have come from anywhere."

"I guess New York." "Yes, there are enough euros out there that it's possible." She didn't know how to bring up the fact that the officers weren't going to do a good job for him, "Inspector: Discipline, they're having a competition to see who's the least useful—it shouldn't be like this." Bannerman looked behind her, lowered his voice and said, "I know, I've noticed it, and I'm going to give them a good lesson tomorrow morning." "No, please don't—" "Discipline is your job as well as mine, and if they don't discipline themselves, I'm going to have to use an iron fist."

Iron Fist: The boss's words, as if the enthusiasm of these people can be beaten with an iron fist.These guys are older, more confident, and not fresh out of police academy. "They're not that kind of team, Inspector." "I don't want to put too much work on Harris," came, his downcast eyes signaling vitally, "why don't you use Wilder more?" "Because he's a jerk." He glared at her, a warning, "Are you going home?" "Just going home," she said, gathering her things together, "I think Sarah Errol gave the impression that she was just a fashionable lady of the upper class in England, but it's not that simple, we asked her lawyer ,she--"

"I know, I see." She stops and looks at him, and he's literally taken over and there's nothing she can do about it. "Okay then," she said angrily, "see you tomorrow." "Good night." With the click of the door closing, she cursed softly. Luther appeared in the hallway again, just in time to take out her anger on him, "Are you going to hang out in the hallway all night, Luther?" Seeing that Moro was so angry, Luther was surprised and stammered, "No, I'm... I'm waiting for you, the preliminary investigation results are on your desk, and McCarthy has been checking Sarah's call records , she was a high-end whore."

"Oh, damn it." Moreau walked into his office, threw the bag on the desk, "get to work." Mark McCarthy, with his haemophilic complexion, was the most unhealthy-looking model Morrow had encountered in the police force.She was always surprised: how come he wasn't sent undercover in the Narcotics Squad? She walked over to his desk, and he smiled and said, "Good deal, boss, this phone has everything you want." She pulled up a chair and sat down, "Give it to me." "Okay," he took the phone out of the plastic bag, and his fingertips were still stained with black dust from the fingerprint search. "First, we got the front fingerprints. It's not hers, but it's very good."

"Anyone with a criminal record?" "No matches have been found so far." "Damn!" Moreau said so forcefully, all she really wanted was the home address of someone with the same criminal record so she could go home right away. McCarthy looked hurt. "It's still a good thing, isn't it?" "Oh, yes, yes, and what else?" "The last call made was ... this was sent by them." To impress her, he's already got the stuff sorted out: he moves the mouse back and forth, opens an audio file on the computer screen, selects "copy" from the menu, drags it to a USB stick, etc. When the download is complete, finally click Exit the U disk and hand it to her.After a busy day, Mo Luo was really touched by the undisguised indifference of too many people.

"Can you hear Sarah's voice?" "Yes, and..." McCarthy clicked on the e-mail list. Each e-mail began with the sender's name, most of which were from a man named Scott, and the subject line was "Glenaval" or "Real Estate Settlement," but as the mouse continued to scroll down, a series of older emails appeared, all from "Sabin". "See the titles of these emails? They all have a 'reply'... which means they're from another email and they're all about the same thing." McCarthy opened one. P will be on a business trip to London, heard about her from a friend who knows the scores and prices, hope they get together and have fun.He gave the name of his hotel and a phone number.They hooked up over the Internet.

"Did she reply?" Moreau asked. "No, if there's a little arrow on the side," he closes the email and returns to the list, "it means the letter has already been answered, and none of the previous ones. She stopped answering emails two months ago." "Since her mother passed away," Morrow said, "she no longer has to pay for a nurse, who is at home 24 hours a day, which is very expensive." McCarthy nodded, but she could tell he had only just realized it, and she didn't care if he knew it before, she just wanted him to pass it along to the others. "Does this phone have a camera?" "Yes," he returned to the main menu and selected the picture file, "This is an old Apple phone, she must have started using this phone very early: the memory is very small, it can only store about 100 photos, we are Check her laptop," he pointed to a silver notebook on the table, "but all her things have passwords, and each password is different." There are 87 pictures in the phone, some are people, but many are very strange things.When they opened the photos, they could see some yellow pages, listing the workers who built the roof and the engineers and technicians of the septic tank. The reason why she took pictures of these things was probably because this way she didn’t have to take notes. The rest of the things were Most recently, there are many New York street scenes, parks, and random shots of some passengers on a boat leaving Manhattan on a sunny day. "Does she download photos regularly?" "Yes, at the moment we think so." "I never remember downloading, my phone is full of old photos." She looks at the phone with a frown, which seems odd. "Show me those photo dates in New York." McCarthy moved the mouse over the photo, and the date was displayed, which was taken in the past week. "These are all new." Moreau bit his lip and watched, "Don't you think it's weird that she's been there seven times in the past year, and she's so excited to take pictures? It's like she's pretending to be a tourist." "Perhaps she is indeed a tourist." "But she's been there seven times in 11 months, who's going to take pictures like this after the seventh time?" "She was really sightseeing there, she was going to the museum, you see," he pointed to a suitcase on the display table, "she bought a museum catalog, she must like it very much, because The book was very heavy and tripled the weight of her luggage." Moreau looked at the small white suitcase, which lay open, containing a small pile of neatly folded clothes and a clear toiletry bag, next to a large book wrapped in cellophane. She stood up, went to the table, and checked the contents of the box. MoMA's huge pale green catalog is still sealed in cellophane, with receipts taped to it with scotch tape. The date of purchase happened to be during the last trip, and there was also a change of underwear in the box, a blue and pink lace romper, which was in the same series as the pair of underwear they found at Sarah's house, a silver Dresses, various creams and lotions were transferred into small flight-worthy bottles, packed in toiletry pouches and lined with clear plastic ziplock bags.Sarah has been taking medication. There were no home addresses in case they got lost, no photographs, no magazines, no memo notes, no old receipts, nothing superfluous. Moreau looked at the catalog and tried to pick it up with one hand. It was so heavy that he almost sprained his wrist.She grabbed the lid, closed it, looked at it, opened it again, and closed it again.The catalog took up almost half of the box, and she took it out again, set it on the table, and looked at it.Something is wrong, the cellophane is slightly loose, the seams are inconsistent, it has been touched. She took out the car key, aimed at the edge of the cellophane, cut a slit, tore off the packaging, and opened the book with the edge of the key. Moreau laughed.Inside, in the center of the book, in the midst of some crude black-and-white diorama collages, someone cut out a depression and put in a stack of 500 euros, bound by two rubber bands as thick as a brick.Sarah may carry the same catalog over and over, buying a new one and repackaging it in order to have a dated receipt.This explains why she checked her bags.If she had it with her, the catalog might look new to the naked eye, but a security X-ray scan would show a gray rectangle and inconsistencies in the paper.The photos of New York are just one of the ways in which she disguises herself as a normal tourist. McCarthy stood on the other side of the table, looking fascinated at the pile of money, and Luther joined him, and a young detective stood on tiptoe to watch. Moreau turned to look at them. Their mouths were open and their eyes were fixed on the money, but their minds had wandered to distant places, at the racetrack, at the car showroom, where they longed to be.The night shift assignment had to be rescheduled, and McCarthy and Ruther had to guard the cash until the van driver could be woken from his bed.Although it seemed unlikely that any trace of the murder investigation could be found in the catalog, Bannerman insisted on taking the catalog himself to the lab for processing.Moreau was left alone in the office to check the files on the phone. She found three photographs of a silver-haired man in a pile of photographs, and she took notes to see if they had been taken somewhere in Glenawah.Older pictures are of Sarah's mother, a small, slow-moving old woman in outdated clothing, and later pictures show her staring at the camera in brand new pajamas, pale blue, pink , with a blanket on her knees, in an armchair in the kitchen, on the bed, by the window.The old people in these photos appear compassionate and gentle.Sarah had to crouch down to be at eye level with her mother, all photographed in soft lighting.In some of the pictures in the kitchen, Kay appears in the background, smiling and looking back at the late Mrs Errol, looking motherly, and Moreau touches Kay's face on the screen and smiles. Almost all of the e-mails on Sarah's phone are about the house.Scott seemed determined to write to her and tell her every detail of the sale and settlement of the estate, no doubt charging each time.The emails were carefully worded and filled with flattery.She could imagine that this overly sycophantic tone would make Sarah look down on him even more, and feel a sense of pleasure in teasing him. Many other emails were written to Sabine about spending quality time together at a certain hotel at a certain time, but were vague about exactly what to do.It is unfortunate that she did such a thing.The police have no sympathy for sex workers, no matter how much training they have had.The only way to arouse the sympathy of most police officers is to position the victims as kids who have been tricked, calling them "girls" and "boys," or who have inadvertently become addicts: they did it for the drug.Whatever the reason, they have no choice. Moreau covered his face, thinking about Sarah.On some level, Sarah was supposed to know what was going to happen, and the work she did made that moment even more terrifying.No matter how horrific the crimes of the intruders, sex workers always blame themselves.Half the effort in making a rape report or detailing a savage assault is getting them to admit they were victims.Moreau imagined Sarah lying on the ground, and when a foot came towards her face, her last conscious thought was self-blame. Moreau sat back and rubbed his swollen eyes.It was late, the room was dark, and the corridor outside was very quiet.She wanted to go home and lie on the couch in front of the TV with Brian.As a final chore, she puts on her headphones and starts listening to the audio file of the 999 call. If Sarah had spoken 5 seconds earlier, she might have been saved, but unfortunately this is not the case. The pause between Sarah dialing and speaking made the operator think it was a silent call and put it on the tape recorder.Silent calls are usually made by drunk teens or pushy idiots, or unintentionally dialed by 5-year-olds playing on the phone while mom is in the shower.Voice Recorder is a useful statistics-based system for weeding out time-wasting calls.Almost always. As Moreau listened, she heard Sarah's soft, indistinct voice standing in the distance.She saw the empty and indifferent eyes of those police officers at the mission announcement meeting, and they were all anxious to return to their warm and safe homes. She listened to it and listened to it again.She found herself crying in the dark, not just for Sarah Errol, but for her own dead father, for JJ, for all the unloved, unlovable people. After listening to it for the second time, she wiped away her tears, listened to the voices outside the corridor, and then quietly slipped out of the gate of the police station.She walked around the huge flowerbed and along the base of the wall to the car parked in the dark of the street. She slid into the driver's seat, locked the door, and sat in the dark, feeling ashamed and hurt, feeling like she was just a fragile, stupid pregnant woman.