by Carl Goodman
Cowan looked as though he did not quite know what to say next on that subject, so he tried another tack. ‘To my earlier question. Why are you working for Hadley?’
Eva felt her face colour. She was starting to like Cowan. He had a brusque, no-nonsense style about him that inspired confidence, but then again she had only just met him. She could not bring herself to give up her secrets to people she had known for years, let alone to a complete stranger. When she spoke she chose her words carefully. ‘I was a detective sergeant working in the Southampton area as part of my general training before moving back to cybercrime. I became involved in an investigation some two years ago now, which resulted in the incident that caused me to be off work for a while. Following that, Superintendent Hadley decided it would be appropriate to fast-track my progression to DI.’
‘And as a consequence of which,’ Cowan continued, ‘he thinks he owns you.’ He paused and gazed at her, curiosity finally getting the better of him. ‘I’m aware of course that you’ve just told me precisely nothing. What in God’s name happened to you?’
Eva did not say any more for a moment Then she told him: ‘I’m sorry, Jeffrey. Truth be told it’s all still raw.’ Perhaps the details were not in her file. Sutton had seemed to know, but perhaps she had found out about Eva’s history in some other way.
After another handful of moments Cowan nodded slightly and changed the subject. ‘Well, what else can I tell you? I’m inclined to doubt that DCI Sutton is your woman. The timings don’t seem to work for her, as I’m sure you’ve already gathered.’ He watched her as she gave him a slight nod. ‘Although I accept that Razin’s organisation is sophisticated enough that they could be rotating people; but my suspicion was that it was a uniformed officer, probably someone senior.’
Eva stared. ‘Do you have any specific evidence?’
Another slight shrug. ‘No, but there were just a few too many coincidences.’ His eyes narrowed as he stared at her. ‘One thing I will warn you of, Eva. Do not let your investigation become known. Not simply because it will draw the animosity of your colleagues, but because Razin’s people will take great exception. There were accidents’ – his face clouded – ‘amongst my people. One was fatal. I don’t know,’ he continued quickly, ‘I can’t be certain there was a connection. I’m simply saying. Be very careful.’
It was not as if he were telling her anything new. She had known there would be risk attached to the operation as soon as Hadley inflicted it on her. ‘I doubt Superintendent Hadley would be especially bothered by any risk.’
‘I bet,’ Cowan said, ‘and it’s not Superintendent,’ he insisted. ‘He’s not an officer in the National Crime Agency, not really. Hadley was with the Security Service when I knew him. A nasty, remorseless spook.’
‘He’s only half of my problems,’ Eva said. She told Cowan about the recent murder and Wren’s findings. She watched his face fall as she did so.
‘Dear God,’ Cowan said when she was finished. ‘So that evil bastard is back as well. I think you may have a lot more trouble there than you think.’
Eva felt a chill draught stroke the back of her neck. She did not know if it was real or imagined. ‘Why?’
Cowan leaned back on the sofa. ‘Because of a profiler’s analysis. I was trying to understand why he had stopped, what his motivation might have been. The profiler suggested there was a psychological block. Some event or person had interrupted his flow. That wasn’t the worry.’
Here it comes, Eva thought. ‘What was?’
He laced his fingers together and leaned forward again. ‘That the block would one day be removed. And that as a consequence, if he started again this individual was unlikely to stop.’
Chapter Six
Strange weather.
She remembered thinking that even as she left the office. A low September sun dragging long, sharp shadows, combined with a burning, almost Mediterranean heat and stifling humidity. She felt a trickle of sweat run down her neck and in-between her breasts almost as soon as she stepped outside. ‘See you later?’ Karen had called out. For a drink, she had meant. Another tedious evening sitting in a bar with wide-open doors watching cars roll by while sipping on tall glasses of ice-cold Pinot Grigio and getting ever so slightly plastered.
Why the hell not?
It was not as if Jodie Swain had anything better to do. On an evening like this she would rather have headed home and waited until Michael got off the commuter train, to drag him into the shower and have him there, up against the wall of the wet-room, soft water and scented soap dripping off their bodies. A long night of wine, sex and probably a microwave meal. Well, you can’t have it all, she had thought.
You can’t have any of it, not tonight.
Michael was gone, for the time being anyway. Eight months in Dubai for fuck’s sake. She had raged at him until he told her how much the contract would make. Tax free, he had added. Then she had understood.
It was not as if she was strapped for cash herself. The property rental market had gone mad, fuelled by insane house prices, and letting agents were raking it in. She had started eyeing up a sports car. Maybe one of those electric models that did zero to sixty almost before you put your foot on the pedal, but there was no rush. Michael would be back in the New Year and then they could start making plans again. Unless.
Jealousy. She could not help it. Maybe he would find one of those willowy, olive-skinned women with long dark hair who seemed to populate the bank’s middle-office function. Maybe he would take her out into the desert and lay her down, naked bodies twisting and coupling in amongst sand dunes. Christ, she thought as she tapped in the security code that unlocked her front gate, that’s not even a stupid fantasy. That’s a bloody pop video. The gate locked itself behind her.
So bloody hot.
The office had been like a sauna and the other women as tetchy and irascible as she had been. She did need a shower, if only to cool down. She unlocked the windows in the apartment and let the balcony doors swing wide open. She was on the second floor. Here, beyond the heavy metal gates that surrounded the apartment block, security was not a problem. And in any event, she thought as she dropped her clothes onto the king-size bed, the greatest danger in Weybridge was being run over by incompetent drivers struggling to park enormous 4x4s in the ridiculously small spaces in the high street.
The milky glass in the window of the wet-room was soon soaked with condensation even though the temperature of the water was turned right down. Long shafts of sunlight still inveigled their way through the privacy glass and shone on broiling clouds of steam, forming patterns that coiled and braided in the moist air.
Still too hot.
She stepped out of the jets and opened the window, letting the air and noise from the gardens beyond drift in. The constant, dull roar of traffic and the sound of cars crawling along the Queen’s Road; you couldn’t escape it, not in Weybridge. Except—
What the hell was that?
A noise from the living room; a crash, something had been knocked over. Sod it, she thought as she grabbed a towel and wiped some of the water from her body, I bet it’s a bloody cat.
She had left the balcony doors open. The local cats were as bold as brass. She had a couple of glass ornaments on the table. If you’ve broken one I’ll chuck you off the balcony. She stormed into the living room towel in hand, ready to flick it, hard, at any marauding Tom.
It wasn’t a cat.
She started to scream. Tall, face wrapped in black fabric, red eyes or whatever it was that covered them almost glowing red. Insect-like and scintillating, she could see herself in their reflection. Moving towards her, quickly. He must have climbed up from the floor below. Something in his hand. She tried to scream but only a strangulated noise came out. She turned, tried to get away, headed back the way she had come. He was behind her. She got as far as the wet-room. Maybe she could climb out the window.
No balcony!
She ran towards it anyway, but as she darted through
the door she felt something in-between her shoulder blades. A flash of light. Blinding, but behind her eyes, not in front of them. Excruciating pain. Then she was flying.
She hit the tiled floor. Spasmed. Could not move. The next second he was on top of her. She felt herself being rolled over onto her back. She could not stop shaking. He knelt on her chest. She wanted to push him off, but she couldn’t move. He grabbed her face, held something above her. He jammed his fingers above and below her eyes. Black gloves wet with water from the shower, which still ran. He forced her eyelids apart. Then he squirted something into her eye.
It stung like crazy. She did scream then. A strangulated noise that escaped her constricted throat, the sound of it echoed against the tiles of the wet-room. He did the same with the other eye. For a moment, one moment of terror above all the other moments of terror, she thought it was acid. After a few seconds though it stopped stinging.
He grabbed her head again. Twisted her face towards the window. Jammed something into her neck. A needle; he had injected her. Whatever it was, it felt cool in her veins. She could almost sense it seeping through her. Her mind slowed down. Everything seemed to crawl.
The world became bright, bright and blurred. For a while she didn’t understand, but then it struck her. I know this, she thought, even as he pulled the rucksack from his back and started taking things from it in slow motion, things she could not see. She could feel water lapping against her back. He had not bothered to turn the shower off. She was spread-eagled on the floor of the wet-room, unable to move while he did – what?
I know this. The thought would not go away. The stuff in my eyes. I’ve had it before. He’s dilating my pupils.
Arms straight out to her side, legs spread apart, she expected to feel him pushing his way inside her, but there was nothing like that. He didn’t seem interested in that. He leaned over her once again and eased something else into her neck. Another needle; this time attached to a tube.
The world grew dark. She didn’t know why. Perhaps it was evening. Perhaps she had been lying there for hours. She couldn’t tell. The world became a tunnel, edges closing in on her. One thought struck her before darkness finally descended. Something familiar about him, some movement, or the way he turned his head to watch her.
I know you, she thought.
Then, nothing.
* * *
Will Moresby met her at the gate of the apartment complex. He still had a dressing taped to his throat, but apart from that he looked well enough, Eva thought. He managed a smile when he saw her.
‘It feels like we’ve been here before,’ he said as he pushed the gate open.
‘Same MO?’ Eva asked.
‘Damn near identical,’ Moresby said as he held the gate open with one hand. A gorilla, Eva thought as she saw the muscles in his arm flex; but one you really wanted on your side.
Moresby took a breath. ‘I just wanted to say,’ he told her as he held the gate, ‘thank you.’ He looked her straight in the eye when he spoke.
Eva found his directness disarming. Will Moresby, she thought as they walked. What you see really is what you get. She patted Moresby on the arm as she stepped through. Not exactly a professional response, Eva thought, but she didn’t really give a damn about that. ‘Let’s try it the other way round next time,’ she told him. ‘Next time we kick seven shades of shit out of that bastard, right?’
‘Absolutely,’ Moresby agreed. He followed her inside. ‘We’re on the second floor,’ he told her as they climbed the stairs. ‘Victim was found by a neighbour who noticed the front door had been left open. We think he got in through the window. He must have climbed up onto the balcony from the floor below.’
Eva glanced at him. ‘Would it have been a difficult climb?’
Moresby shrugged. ‘Not really, not for anyone in moderately good physical condition, and we know this bastard is fit. The balconies have privacy glass on them. It’s only a guess, but he could have climbed up and then waited until she got home and opened the doors. It’s quite a large balcony, there are a couple of places to hide.’
‘So targeted again?’
‘It seems so,’ Moresby agreed.
Eva braced herself. Judy Wren had placed a folding canvas stool beside the body. She was seated on it and staring downwards. ‘The similarities are obvious,’ she said the moment Eva stepped into the room. ‘Mind your feet. It’s still wet.’
There were puddles all over the floor. The room was large, about four metres square, Eva noticed. Several showerheads spouted from behind the pale-blue tiles that lined the wall. There was a large window made from milky, semi-translucent glass; it was part way open. A toilet, bidet and sink stood against one wall; the decor looked expensive, Eva thought, as though an architect had specified it.
‘The flat belonged to Jodie Swain,’ Wren told her. ‘The body matches her description. The neighbour didn’t enter the flat; he just called in, didn’t get an answer and so called the police.’
Eva forced herself to crouch down beside the body. The same pallor, the same careful mutilations, she noted. ‘Any idea of time of death?’
‘Yesterday evening,’ Wren said. ‘I can’t give you an exact time yet because the shower was left running and the water has affected body temperature, but my guess would be she got in from work, came in here and he jumped her. The neighbour found the door open at around 7.45 this morning; we got here fifteen minutes later, Will says.’
Flynn and Raj appeared at the door of the wet-room. ‘Fucking hell,’ Flynn gasped.
‘I couldn’t have put it better myself, Detective Sergeant,’ Wren told her. ‘What on earth would you want with two pairs of perfectly extracted eyes?’
‘It has to be a trophy hunter,’ Raj said. ‘I mean, what else could it be?’
What else indeed? Eva stood up and turned her attention to Wren. ‘Did he take her blood?’
‘Well, she hasn’t got any left in her, if that’s what you mean. Same method, catheter into the carotid artery and let diastolic pressure do the rest.’
Eva frowned. ‘What, none at all? You said that about Irina Stepanov because she was seated, vertical. Hydrostatic pressure from the height of the catheter did a bunch of the work too, you said. This one’s lying down.’ She hesitated, but then continued. ‘Wouldn’t there come a point where the heart goes into cardiac arrest due to hypovolemic shock? With minimal hydrostatic pressure, wouldn’t that limit the flow?’
She did not mean to make it sound like an accusation, or that she was questioning Wren, but she doubted the forensic examiner would be concerned by the challenge. Wren stared at her for several seconds, though. ‘That’s a lot more detail than the type of stuff they teach you in cop school,’ she said eventually. ‘Where did that come from?’ Eva did not answer. She realised in that moment that Wren had learned a lot more about her than she had discovered about Jodie Swain. ‘You’re actually correct, and I was about to check for pooling on the back,’ Wren continued. ‘Want to give me a hand turning her over?’
Gloves on, Eva thought. You brought this on yourself. She slipped her hand underneath Jodie Swain’s white, doughy flesh. ‘Ready,’ Wren said; ‘one, two, three.’
The body turned. On the back Eva saw a few small, dark patches of lividity. Wren swiftly inserted a syringe into one of them and drew a thimbleful of almost black liquid from it. When she had removed the needle she peered a little more closely at the back. ‘Look,’ she said, pointing between the shoulder blades. ‘Burn marks. He used the stun gun on her too.’
‘So where’s the rest of the blood?’
Wren nodded towards the place where the shower drained out. ‘He left the water running. I’ll take a look in a bit but I doubt I’ll get any samples this time.’ She waved the syringe. ‘This will be enough to confirm the presence of Propofol, though.’
Flynn leaned over the body, stared at the dark patches that showed where what little remaining blood had pooled, and curled her lip in disgust. ‘Why is he so worried
about concealing the use of sedatives?’
Eva thought for a while. ‘Judy, would this type of drug have a batch number attached to it?’
Wren nodded. ‘For certain. It wouldn’t be permissible to market without that kind of quality control.’
‘So you could trace it by the batch number?’
‘Ah,’ Wren said, ‘I see where you’re going. Well, you could trace it to a number of possible destinations. The distributor would scan the barcode before the product was sent out. That way if there was a problem with a batch they could contact just the outlets that had received it.’ She frowned. ‘But you couldn’t get any further than that. You can’t back-trace the chemicals to the batch from a blood sample, not unless there was a specific problem with the drug. And I don’t remember ever having seen a recall notice for this type of stuff.’
Eva crouched beside the body once more to look at the burn marks in-between the shoulder blades. She wanted to try every permutation. ‘Suppose it was out of date?’
Wren winced. ‘This guy is just shooting it in. I can’t imagine he’s being careful with dosage, if anything he’s probably overdosing them. That’s not going to show up in chemical analysis, though.’
One last try. ‘Would he know that?’
She could see Wren running through the processes inside her head. ‘Possibly not. You think removing the blood is a precaution?’
‘I’m just exploring all the angles. So we know he’s good with a scalpel. That doesn’t mean he knows all the variations of forensic chemistry.’ Eva sighed and stood up. ‘We need to double down on the previous list of suspects. Check to see if any of them had any sort of medical training in the past,’ she told Flynn. She stared down at the body. ‘And go back over any connections between the victims. This guy is good. Whatever his reason for doing this is, he’s not about to stop.’
* * *
