The Insider

Book 2: Stone and Oliver

by Mari Hannah

Genres: Mystery; Thrillers

Synopsis

The thrilling second novel in the acclaimed Stone and Oliver series by award-winning author Mari Hannah.

After their success in their last investigation, DCI David Stone has been promoted and moved to the Murder Investigation Team, taking DS Frankie Oliver with him. But there's a catch: the case they are given is the latest in a series of undetected murders. It's a baptism of fire for MIT's newest recruits.

In the incident room, the murder wall makes grim reading: three women have been killed within the past year, and nothing links the crimes: no day of the week, geographical area, similarity between victims and, most importantly, no forensic evidence.

Joanna Cosgrove is the latest victim, her body discovered fully clothed close to a railway line on the south side of the river in the Tyne Valley. The MO is the same as the other three, but the words 'serial killer' are not welcome in Northumbria force.

And the manner in which she was killed is too close to home for Frankie....

Release date: November 1, 2018

Publisher: Orion Publishing Group

Print pages: 416

Sample

 

1

It was the news they had all been dreading, confirmation of a fourth victim. For DS Frankie Oliver, the journey to the crime scene brought back memories of her father driving her around Northumberland when she was a rookie cop, pointing out the places where he’d been called to investigate serious incidents throughout his own police career, giving her the benefit of his advice along the way. He’d been doing this since she was a kid, only with less detail, leaving out the unspeakable horrors the locations represented. Back then, they were words. Just words. Narratives that, if she were being honest, excited her in ways they should not. And then there was the night he stopped talking: an experience etched on their collective memory forever more – a night too close to home.

 

Flashlight beams bobbed up and down, illuminating sheets of horizontal rain. The detectives stumbled along the Tyne Valley track, heading east on the Northern Rail line linking Carlisle to Newcastle. No light pollution here. Under a dark, forbidding sky, it was difficult terrain, rutted and sodden so close to the water’s edge. The swollen river thundered by, a course of water liable to flash flooding. Red alerts for the area were a regular occurrence. At midday, Northumberland’s monitoring stations had warned of a serious threat to those living nearby. If the Tyne rose quickly, Frankie knew they would be in trouble. Many a walker had slipped into the water here by accident.

Few had survived.

Lightning forked, exposing the beauty of the surrounding landscape. A high-voltage electric charge, followed by the rumble of thunder in the distance, an omen of more rain to come. The lead investigator, Detective Chief Inspector David Stone, was a blurred smudge a hundred metres in front of her, head bowed, shoulders hunched against the relentless downpour.

Mud sucked at Frankie’s feet as she fought to keep up, two steps forward, one back, as she tried to get a purchase on the slippery surface. Her right foot stuck fast, the momentum of her stride propelling her forward, minus a wellington boot. She fell, head first, hands and knees skidding as she tried to stay upright. Dragging herself up, she swore under her breath as brown sludge stuck to her clothing, weighing her down.

Unaware of her plight, David was making headway, sweeping his torch left and right in a wide arc close to Eels Wood. He had one agenda and Frankie wasn’t it. With a feeling of dread eating its way into her gut, she peered into the undergrowth blocking her passage. Where was a stick when you needed one? As she parted the brambles, there was an ear-splitting crack, a terrifying sound. Before she had time to react, a tree fell, crashing to earth with an excruciating thump, unearthed by a raging torrent of water filtering off higher ground, its roots unable to sustain the weight of a century of growth, landing metres in front of her.

Frankie blew out a breath.

Only once before had she come closer to violent death. Hoping her luck would hold, she vaulted the tree and ploughed on. From an investigative standpoint, the situation was grim. Had there been any footprints adjacent to the line, they were long gone. As crime scenes go, they would be fighting a losing battle to preserve evidence, assuming they ever found the body spotted by an eyewitness, a passenger on an eastbound train. Where the fuck was it?

Frankie expected to see the dragon ahead, a wide-eye LED searchlight used by emergency services, an intense beam of white light guiding her. As far as the eye could see there was no light visible, other than the beam of David’s flashlight. Worrying. Exasperating. Frankie couldn’t be arsed with this. Pulling her radio from her pocket, she pressed the transmit button hoping her link to Control wouldn’t be affected by the appalling weather. It would be a heavy night in the control room, for sure.

‘Oliver to Control. We’re in position. Can you repeat the coordinates? We’re seeing bugger all out here.’

Silence.

‘Damn it! DS Oliver to Control. Are you receiving? Over . . .’

A pause before her radio crackled to life: ‘Control: go ahead.’

Wiping rain from her nose with the back of her hand, Frankie repeated her request, yanking at the drawstring on the hood of her raincoat to stop water getting in. A useless exercise. She was well and truly drenched. ‘Have a word with first responders, will you? If they’re guarding a crime scene, they should know where the bloody hell they are. We need help here.’

‘Copy that. I’ll get back to you.’

Ending the transmission with one eye on Stone, the other on the rising river level, Frankie stopped walking. There was no point continuing without an update. By now it was glaringly obvious they were in the wrong place, a thought that seemingly hadn’t occurred to Stone. He was still on the move, the space between them extending with every second that passed.

‘Guv, hold on!’

She was wasting her breath, her voice lost on the wind. David was head down, keen to reach the scene and do what was required. Back at base, he’d been distracted. Before Frankie had time to ask him why, the call came in and they were racing to the car, burning rubber as he sped out of Northern Command HQ, barking orders into his radio to get things underway. It was unlike him to lose his cool. What in hell’s name was eating him?

What happened next shook Frankie to her core . . .

An icy shiver ran down her spine, every hair on her head standing to attention, a physiological reaction to imminent danger. With the roar of the wind, she couldn’t hear but she could feel. She looked behind her. Nothing. There it was again. A definite vibration through her unbooted foot. She swung round. Eyes front. Up ahead Stone was oblivious, his worst nightmare on its way. She screamed at him to get off the track. He kept going. A man on a mission with no clue of what was going down. Kicking off her remaining boot, Frankie sprinted barefoot, precariously close to the water’s edge, dislodged gravel cutting her feet as she ran – or tried to – a sudden release of hormones providing a vital burst of energy.

‘Guv, stop!’

He was too far in front to hear her cries.

As the south side of the river burst its bank, she clung to a tree for safety, self-preservation her priority now. Unable to go on or go back, she had to do something. If she didn’t get out of there soon, she’d be swept away in the raging torrent and washed downstream.

If David didn’t move . . . She didn’t want to think about that.

The vibration through the soles of her feet increased. Frankie panicked. Realising she’d never get to him in time, she used her torch – three short bursts; three longer ones; three short – a last-ditch attempt to save her boss from certain death. International Morse code was the distress call every police officer was sensitive to and, finally, she had his attention.

As if in slow motion, he turned to face her, lifting his hand to shade his eyes as she shone the torch directly at him. In the distance, over his shoulder, Frankie spotted a pinprick of light.

Oh fuck!

It disappeared as her guv’nor blinded her with his own flashlight, peering through the darkness, with his back to imminent danger. Seeing the depth of water all around her, he’d be more worried about her predicament than his own. Frantically, she waved him off the track, a sob leaving her throat as he walked towards her. He thought she was calling for help.

‘No!’ she screamed.

A horn blasted behind him. Simultaneously, the light illuminating Frankie’s face disappeared and the freight train was upon her. It whooshed by, feet away, rattling down the track. Frantic, she shone her torch along the railway line. No movement. She dry-heaved. Thirty seconds later, David rose to his feet. He’d thrown himself clear with seconds to spare. Frankie sunk to her knees, almost waist deep in water. Jesus! That was a close call.

 

2

The late news was full of it. They knew nothing. The way he liked it. Last week, the third victim had been identified: Margaret something-or-other – his grandma’s name, not that that was of any consequence. Margaret had served a purpose, though the fact that she too was a grandmother pricked at his conscience slightly. Not enough to stop the hatred boiling in his gut or to make him reconsider. She’d done nothing to him personally. It was what she represented that made him choose her. He liked to think of her as – what was the term? A means to an end.

For days, he’d dominated the headlines, everyone talking about the killer who’d evaded Northumbria’s elite murder squad. Inept was the word reporters used. They took every opportunity to knock the police and, when an informant tipped them off that the Senior Investigating Officer had abandoned not only the case but his profession too, the press had a field day, claiming that the stress of an accelerating triple-murder investigation had got to him. A carefully planned retirement was the excuse given. It was bollocks, of course.

What did they know?

And now there were four.

He had to admit he was thriving on the notoriety. Yes, there had been a moment when his courage had deserted him, but it soon passed, as most things did when they got going. First-night nerves. Nothing more. In the end, he got over it. The anger was enough to propel him forward. Stephanie had a lot to answer for. All he’d done was what she’d drummed into him, time and time again: Concentrate on what’s important.

He had . . . He was.

Steph – she wouldn’t let him call her that – was like a broken record. She’d always been opinionated, a woman who liked the sound of her own voice, the type to impart what she considered to be advice that only she was qualified to give; the type to spout forth at every opportunity, classifying people, rating and pigeonholing them as she saw fit. It wore him down, and he was done with her arsey attitude. She’d live to regret her actions . . .

But not for long.

Scanning news channels, he was enjoying the drama his actions had caused. His career hadn’t been all it was cracked up to be. He’d been forced to make so many sacrifices, both in his professional and personal life, and this infuriated him. For a while, he’d been treading water, but then he’d realised he had other options. It was a moment of clarity, like he’d thrown a magic switch, illuminating the darkness. He knew then that with a little creativity he might help the bitch to see more clearly. Bizarrely, she was also the conduit through which he would regain his self-respect.

He wouldn’t dwell on the one that got away.

Number four was fresh in his memory. As he boarded the train, his victim had been reading a document spread out in front of her, a thin strip of red ribbon trailing from her bag. He’d seen enough of those to know what it was: the binding for a legal brief, an advisory document.

Perfect.

She didn’t look up as he sat down. Too busy on the phone, that edge to her voice that he couldn’t abide. He didn’t need to see her face to know that she was the one. Placing his ticket on the seat beside him, he’d dropped his head into his chest, crossed his arms and shut his eyes, feigning sleep, his baseball cap pulled low to avoid a face-to-face with the conductor as he passed through the carriage.

Fifteen minutes and three stops later, the train slowed, approaching Stocksfield station. Perfect. No sign of the conductor. The woman opposite hung up the phone, folded her briefing document, tying the red ribbon around it in readiness to leave. As she slipped it into her bag, he let his mobile drop to the floor, accidentally on purpose. It skidded across the aisle. A bloke would have glanced down and stepped over it but, true to form, his plan worked. Most women were accommodating, even with strangers. Number four was one of those, a gracious lady, taught to do the right thing, never to turn a blind eye to a person in need; the kind to say I’m sorry even when it wasn’t her fault, but she also had that look of irritation, like he’d bothered her unnecessarily. That look alone would determine her demise.

He’d faked a yawn, searching his pockets, then the aisle, his back to the only other passenger in the carriage. As the woman bent to pick up the device, her coat fell open: a show of cleavage, soft skin, firm breasts, a hint of lacy underwear beneath a black dress. Their fingers kissed as she passed him the mobile, a frisson of excitement coursing through him as the train stopped at the platform. He’d never get over the thrill of that first touch, a combination of anticipation and fear.

At first, her hazel eyes avoided his.

‘Sorry,’ he said.

That polite apology was all it took to put her face straight. He wasn’t attracted to her sexually. The point of the exercise was far more complicated than that. He was royally pissed off. Someone had to pay – and she’d do nicely. It was a question of respect. Women like her made it easy for him. The daft cow even spoke to him as the carriage door opened, exchanging a word with the nice man on such a horrible night.

For her, it was about to get so much worse.

Indiscriminate killing wasn’t his thing. What he wanted was validation. And to get that, he’d been told he had to prove himself. Initially, he’d thought the police weren’t playing ball. They hadn’t a clue. Even if they had, what did he care? He’d been careful to build in insurance in case things went tits up. As the ligature tightened around the woman’s neck, he thought of the one who’d made his life a misery, an image so clear-cut, he could’ve sworn he caught the overpowering whiff of her perfume. Classy. It sent his pulse racing. If four wasn’t enough, he’d go on with his quest, perfecting his craft until she started listening . . . really listening. He was saving Steph till last.

 

3

They raced towards the correct location with new intelligence, Frankie stripping off in the back seat as David drove. The witness had sent them up a blind and perilous alley near the Tyne Valley village of Wylam. By process of elimination, uniformed officers had taken the initiative and found the crime scene, but communications were down when they attempted to update the control room. They were standing by, west of Stocksfield, fifteen minutes away.

Grateful for his new four-by-four, David’s eyes were firmly on the slick road, his advanced driving skills fully deployed. Even with the wipers on full pelt, he was struggling to see through the windscreen as he reissued orders to stop the trains. His earlier instruction hadn’t been acted upon.

The controller was astounded. ‘Your request went out as soon as we received it, guv. I logged the call myself at eleven ten. That route should have been off-line forty minutes ago.’

‘Well, it’s still active. The damn thing nearly mowed me down.’

‘Sorry, boss. It’s no excuse but, according to my screen, Network Rail are dealing with a landslide yon side of Gilsland. They’re clearing the line—’

‘Without stopping the trains?’ An icy shiver ran down David’s spine. Having come close to death a few minutes ago, he gripped the steering wheel a little tighter, his stomach taking a dive. The train had been travelling at speed when it passed Eels Wood. It wouldn’t stop until it reached Carlisle. By his calculation, it would plough into the railway crew in minutes. ‘That’s less than thirty miles away,’ he said. ‘Get on to their control centre. They need to contact the driver now!’

‘I’m on it.’

The radio fell silent.

In 2004, Cumbria had experienced a horrific accident near Tebay that had claimed the lives of four maintenance workers on the West Coast Main Line. The county didn’t need another disaster. David drove on autopilot, feeling a sense of disconnect, appalled by the images in his head, vaguely aware that he was not alone. He tried not to dwell on the unimaginable. He’d done all he could to avoid catastrophe. Was it enough?

Silence in the car.

He glanced at Frankie. She was as shaken as he was by the potential loss of lives. Rarely was she lost for words. Control would act immediately. The question was: would they do so in time? David imagined the controller blasting his counterpart at Network Rail, relaying his message forcefully, an urgent attempt to avoid fatalities. If successful, that was one problem solved . . . but there were other things on the SIO’s mind.

Trying to get his head around a major investigation already underway had proven difficult – and then some. Earlier in the day, he’d met with the head of CID, Detective Chief Superintendent Philip Bright, a man respected and feared by every Northumbria detective. It was a baptism of fire for any newly promoted SIO. David was under intense pressure to find the man striking fear into the community. Women across the county had been warned to stay alert.

To add insult to injury, the team he’d been put in charge of knew more about his triple – probable quadruple – murder investigation than he did. Detectives were wary of a new boss taking over in the middle of a protracted enquiry, especially one newly arrived from the Metropolitan Police. Understandable. Continuity was key. His methods wouldn’t necessarily be the same as the outgoing SIO’s. With his own way of working, David could turn the case on its head and the team would have to suck it up. It was not a good place to be – for anyone.

His predecessor, DCI Gordon Sharpe, was popular. His surname matched his skills, his eyes, his tongue. A cool operator with an impressive detection rate, he commanded the loyalty of the rank and file, though Bright was far from impressed that he’d put his ticket in without time for a proper handover, at the height of a major investigation, leaving others to take on the responsibility.

David had a mind to solicit the same level of respect from his new squad, but first he had to prove himself. No SIO could work in a vacuum. Without Frankie, a DS with a raft of local knowledge, he’d be finished before he started. And then there was the other problem; the one that had been eating him up for weeks.

Coward.

Revealing his innermost secret to his second in command would hurt, though it had to be done. His was a cut so deep and so raw he’d struggled to come to terms with it, unable to confide in the police psychologist or lay it on former Met colleagues. Only his brother knew the whole truth, part of the reason he’d quit the Met, taken a demotion and transferred to Northumbria. Now Luke was gone it was time to come clean to Frankie.

Another glance in her direction.

Moving from general CID to the Murder Investigation Team had been a big deal for both of them. It had come on the back of a successful investigation, an outcome for which he’d received a commendation, even though she’d done most of the work and deserved it more. He’d leaned on her heavily during the case, his past catching up with him. It was time to put it to bed. He had to tell her.

Do it!

Get it over with.

With every moment’s delay, the situation weighed more heavily on his mind. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust her. He did. It was more a question of self-preservation. Keeping his secret hidden was a vital part of his armour, an invisible security blanket that gave him the strength to cope with his job and the mundane business of everyday life, albeit on a reduced basis. From the moment shots were fired, he’d existed in a void. Part of him died that day. He wouldn’t downplay it. That wouldn’t be right. Frankie had to know the truth.

All of it.

It was vital to share it with her before embarking on a protracted enquiry that would make or break them both. The offender was clever. Forensically aware. The deaths of three women had eluded his predecessor. Now there were four. When Sharpe passed the baton without solving the case – an astonishing failure – it prompted a heated argument with the head of CID. Bright’s words arrived in David’s head: What copper with an ounce of self-respect would give up on their last case and walk. You have one chance, Stone. Don’t blow it!

David glanced in his rear-view mirror. Frankie was in the back seat pulling a thick jumper over her head. Her hair was dripping, face covered in mud. Despite fresh clothes, she was shivering uncontrollably. She hadn’t said a word since they left the riverside. He changed down, took a bend in the road, accelerating out of it, houses flashing by on either side, dim candlelight emanating from within.

A power cut was the least of his worries.

‘I have something to tell you,’ he said.

‘Me too. I need a bath.’ Frankie laughed, one foot on the back seat, her right leg cocked at the knee, tying shoelaces, her waterlogged boots discarded in the front footwell. ‘I hope you weren’t peeking, guv. Not that I give a shit. In fact, I’d like a quid for every copper who’s seen me in my undies. Mind you, don’t repeat that. It might be misconstrued.’ She looked up, a wry smile developing. ‘You’re wet through. Can’t we stop and get you dry?’

‘I’m fine . . .’

David was anything but, though he intended to finish what he’d started. He wouldn’t allow her to derail him now. And still he choked on his words, teetering on the brink of a disclosure she’d earned the right to hear. Putting a hand on his left shoulder, she climbed into the front, cursing as her sweater snagged on the centre console. Freeing it, she settled into her seat, pulling her safety belt across her body, clipping it in place.

‘We’re already late, guv. We really should stop. Five minutes won’t make a difference. It could be hours before we get back to base.’

‘I can’t—’

A sideways glance. ‘No spare clothes in the boot? Shame on you. My flat is smaller than this car.’

‘That’s not what I meant, Frank. No one can move without my say so.’

‘Let ’em wait.’ She ran a hand through her wet hair. ‘You’re no good to them if you catch pneumonia. The victim isn’t going anywhere, is she?’

‘Frankie, button it. What I have to say is important.’

‘Can it wait till we get back to HQ?’

‘No.’ David flinched as another crack of thunder shook the car. The flash of lightning that followed was fortuitous, exposing a thick branch in the centre of the road. He changed direction to avoid it, throwing her around in her seat.

‘Watch out!’ she yelled.

David braked hard as an animal darted across the road in front of them, missing them by a whisker, literally and metaphorically. In his wing mirror, he watched the terrified creature cower at the side of the road. The village of Stocksfield was otherwise abandoned. A ghost town. Not a soul about. The odd candle in a window, indistinct figures peering out at freakish weather for the time of year, devastating gardens and fencing, scattering litter bins. One of them was missing a dog.

‘That’s us.’ Frankie was pointing to a light in the distance: the dragon.

David turned the wheel. His moment was gone.

 

4

An outer cordon prevented access to Stocksfield railway station. An officer in a high-vis jacket held up a hand as they approached. David let his engine idle as Frankie wound down her window, a strobe of blue illuminating their faces. As she spoke to him, the SIO’s eyes scanned the scene, settling on a black-and-yellow height barrier directly in front of him, beyond which an inner cordon flapped in the wind. He panned left. A CSI transit van was blocking entry to a short strip of tarmac. Beyond it, a metal gate led to the discovery site, concrete bollards separating the area from the car park. It turned out that Frankie knew the officer. Unsurprising. She was a third-generation cop and knew a lot of people on the force: uniform, detective and civilians.

‘What’s the story, Ray?’

‘If you could drive under the barrier and park up behind our vehicles. Designated access to the body is tricky. We’re asking everyone to walk north of the restricted area, turn right at the concrete bollards and keep to the south side of the footpath. The gate is chained and padlocked. You’ll have to climb it, Sarge. We think the victim may have been dragged through the gap to the north of the gate so we’re keeping everyone away from there.’

‘Good job.’ Frankie thanked him.

The officer nodded, allowing them through.

David drove on, swung the wheel hard left, then reversed into a spot as instructed. Frankie was out of the car before it had properly come to a stop. The SIO got out too, his penetrating eyes scanning the car park, clocking three vehicles. Over the gate was an area of uneven waste ground, around seventy or eighty metres in length. He focused on a huddle of bodies about halfway along the empty plot of land, backlit by the dragon. It was chucking it down, the rain bouncing off saturated ground. Once over the gate, they used flashlights, scanning the area on the way in: rusting rail tracks poking through tall weeds; a rotting wooden spool that had once held heavy-duty wire, a section of which was still attached; concrete sleepers and assorted debris contained in an oil barrel. A second gate, also padlocked, barred entry on to the track beyond; the vanishing point where the line disappeared to the left under a graffiti-covered bridge.

In silhouette, a second officer in uniform was walking their way, a big bugger, thickset like a bouncer, a heavy utility belt protruding beneath a fluorescent jacket two sizes small for him. Water cascaded over the brim of his service cap as he tipped his head to one side. Relatively new to Northumbria, David didn’t expect or receive recognition from him.

Anticipating a challenge to their presence, Frankie took a step forward. ‘I’m DS Oliver. This is DCI David Stone, the SIO.’

‘Sarge . . . guv.’ The giant was a man of few words.

 

The victim lay face up across four abandoned railway sleepers, lips parted slightly, arms by her side, hands palms down. There was a wedding band on the third finger of her left hand. Nails, manicured to match her lipstick, shone bright red as rain washed over them. A river of mascara ran from bloodshot eyes, blackening ash-blonde hair on either side of her face. Her clothing and jewellery were intact, her handbag placed neatly by her side.

Frankie raised her voice to make herself heard above the gale-force wind rushing through the trees. ‘It wasn’t theft then,’ she said. ‘Nor sexual assault, by the looks of it. I suppose that’s a blessing for her family, but not much of one.’

David agreed. There were no injuries visible beyond a ligature mark on the victim’s neck. Motive was anyone’s guess. He’d find it eventually, but he’d lay odds on it making little sense, to him or anyone else in their right mind. A desire to kill could never be justified. He studied the expression on Frankie’s face, a mixture of sadness and rage, an emotion so strong he felt the urge to comfort her. The only female present, it occurred to him that she might view the scene in a different light to the rest of them. The victim was around her size. An easy target. Vulnerable. From an early age, it would have been drilled into them both: be careful; watch your back; stay safe.

David was about to speak when Frankie turned away. She’d seen enough. Convinced that Operation Trident had found its next victim, she made a beeline for Foley, the Crime Scene Manager, greeting him like they were old mates, no hint of stress visible as it had been a moment ago. She deserved a BAFTA for effort alone.

More introductions.

Nods were exchanged between the two men.

Frankie eyeballed Foley. ‘Any ID on the victim?’

‘Joanna Cosgrove. Thirty-seven – today as it happens, according to her driving licence.’

David waited for Frankie to speak but she seemed preoccupied. For a split second, it occurred to him that she might know the victim and didn’t want to say as it would rule her out of the investigation.

He turned to Foley. ‘Is she local?’

‘Two miles that way.’ Foley was pointing east. ‘There are photos in her wallet, guv. One of Joanna with an IC1 male and a couple of teenage kids, one of each. The lad is the spitting double of her.’

David rubbed at his forehead, sickened by the portrait the CSI had drawn. Murder was like a pebble dropped in still water, each ripple representing a family member affected by tragedy. There were multiple victims to every suspicious death. He’d break more than one heart tonight.

‘My lads did a vehicle check in the car park,’ Foley said. ‘The one on the western edge is hers.’

‘Northumberland plate,’ Frankie said, finally finding her voice. ‘Grey BMW, 16 Reg?’

‘That’s the one.’ The CSI was taken aback.

David wasn’t.

Frankie was a diligent investigator with a sharp eye. If they were in a pub, she could memorise, in impressive detail, the customers she’d passed on the way in, even if she was standing with her back to them. They had often played the game to see who was the most accurate. She’d always come out on top. She’d been playing that game since she was five years old with her father and grandfather. There had been a Frank Oliver in the Northumbria force since 1966. In their day, observation was a must. If your sergeant asked you what you’d seen, and you didn’t know, you’d get marked down.

Frankie had a question for Foley. ‘Did you find her car keys?’

‘In her coat pocket. Which would suggest she wasn’t close enough to use her fob when she was jumped.’

?