“Would you be able to give a description? If you were grabbed from behind and . . . and violently sexually assaulted in the dark? Do you really think you would be making notes of your attacker’s appearance? I have children, DC Masterson. Including a nine-year-old daughter. Can you imagine how that makes me feel about living here with a monster like that on the loose? Can you?”

“Sir, these occurrences are very rare. Besides, it’s not that—”

“Tell that to Gus Bartlett. The poor bloke’s at his wits’ end. Not to mention his wife, Sally. And Lisa’s brother, poor Jason. He’s having to try and concentrate on sitting his A-levels with all this going on. My own son’s having a hard time of it, too. Jason and Chris are best friends.”

“I’m very sorry for your—”

Myers leaned back and seemed to relax. Now that he had said his piece, his voice took on a softer, more singsong tone, as if placating a wayward child. “I’m not blaming you, DC Masterson. I’m sure you’re doing your best under the circumstances. No. It’s the system. I realize that. A government that would rather spend money on campaigns to keep itself in power than on personal security, education and healthcare. I’m not blaming you personally, but I do think the police could try just a little bit harder.”

“I assure you the Lisa Bartlett case is still being investigated, sir. It’s still active.”

“But the death of this drug addict takes precedence. Is that it?”

“Not at all. This is a separate issue.”

“And no doubt you’re putting the rest of your resources into investigating the death of that young Arab up on the East Side Estate, eh?”

“His name is Samir Boulad, and he came here from Syria all by himself. And he was murdered. There’s no doubt about that. Brutally stabbed to death, and we—”

Myers’s voice hardened again. “Are you saying that’s worse than what happened to Lisa?”

There was no real answer to that if you were talking to the kind of person who thought an assault on a young white girl was worse than the murder of a Middle Eastern boy, but Lisa Bartlett would heal in time, would go on to live a normal and possibly very productive life; Samir Boulad would not. “We don’t make such comparisons, sir,” Gerry said. “We have limited resources and we allocate them as best we can. I wish I could send you ten officers to patrol your neighborhood every night of the week, but I can’t.”