by Jay Gill
Chapter Three
Tonight, it was time to play his favourite game again: Supermarket Singles. The store was busy, and he felt sure tonight would be his lucky night. Cutler was shopping for something that couldn’t be found on any supermarket shelf. What he was looking for would be walking the isles. He was a discerning shopper and more often than not came away disappointed. Tonight, though, he felt sure he’d found her. He had to be careful: while supermarkets were the perfect place to find what he was looking for, they were also full of security cameras.
He’d seen her earlier, looking at birthday cards. The books were on the opposite side of the aisle; he’d grabbed one – James Patterson’s latest – and flicked through it absently, covertly eyeing her over the top of the pages.
After a few minutes, she left the cards and headed downstairs on the escalator. Cutler followed, taking care to stand a few shoppers behind her. He took a spin along the fruit and veg aisle, turning carrots and cabbages over in his hands as she put bananas and a bunch of grapes into her basket, then walked past her to the next lane to pick up a shower gel and shampoo. She appeared at the top of the aisle a few moments later and began examining the hair conditioner. He walked back up the aisle, and as he walked behind her, he glanced into her shopping basket. A quick examination and his heart skipped a beat. Meals for one. Small packs of vegetables. This surely made her the one. There in the middle of the supermarket, he almost burst into joyous laughter. He wanted to dance like an idiot.
He crossed the aisle to look at disposable razors and waited for her to pass him again. As soon as he felt sure she was finished and ready to go to the checkout, he went ahead of her and made his purchases. He didn’t really need more shampoo or body wash, but it would get used. Could a person ever have enough of the world’s number one anti-dandruff shampoo or body wash with jojoba extract? Whatever the hell jojoba is.
As he stood and waited in the car park, he held his phone to his ear and pretended to be deep in conversation. He’d probably look more natural if he was reading the screen or texting, but he had learned holding the phone up meant he was able to obscure his face. Nevertheless, he felt slightly exposed as he stood waiting for her. What was taking her so long? He pulled his receipt out of his bag and pretended to study it, and at last she came out with her single bag of shopping. He followed her at a safe distance as she headed to her car, this time holding up his phone as though he was reading a text message. He took some photos to study later.
She looked the right age, and her dark, straight hair was perfect. If he was being picky, she was a little tall and skinny. Her Roman nose was bigger than he would have liked, but that wouldn’t matter. All things considered, he knew he was never going to find an exact match.
She stopped next to a silver Volkswagen Polo. See that, Cutler? A single woman’s car. He got a little closer and read the number plate. He turned away and punched the car registration into his phone. If he lost her in the traffic, he’d have that as a backup. With a registration number he’d soon have her home address, and with her home address he could find out for sure whether she was living alone. He had a good feeling about this one. Sometimes you just know.
He crossed the car park as quickly as he could and found his blue Ford Mondeo. He threw the shopping onto the passenger seat and pulled out into the stream of traffic exiting the supermarket. Shit. Some dipstick was pushing his shopping trolley up the centre of the road, blocking Cutler’s way. He couldn’t toot at the idiot; he didn’t want to draw any attention to himself.
He gripped the wheel and clenched his teeth to keep from howling in frustration. He was losing sight of the Volkswagen. Cutler edged up close behind trolley man and the idiot got the message. Cutler swung around him, muttering obscenities under his breath.
It was getting dark, which made going unnoticed easier. He was pretty good at tailing people, and knew from experience that the low light of the evening helped him remain unnoticed.
He also knew that most drivers don’t pay much attention to who’s behind them. The average person wasn’t on the lookout for someone following them, of course; real life wasn’t like some Hollywood movie – ‘Swerve, change lanes and take a sharp left up ahead. I think we’re being followed.’ That was all bullshit, Cutler knew. Instead, the woman in the Volkswagen Polo was probably just driving along listening to Sam Smith on Radio 1 and wondering whether to have the risotto tonight or save it for tomorrow and have the chicken carbonara instead.
He followed her until she reached a block of maisonettes just outside Ruislip Manor. He watched as she parked up, got out of the car and collected her bags, crossed the road and opened the front door of a red brick house. The house looked dark, which was a good sign. No one at home waiting for her. He checked the time and decided to stay for at least another thirty minutes. Then he’d better head home. He had a busy couple of days ahead with lots of motorway miles.
There was time enough to find out all he needed to know about Little Miss Silver Polo.
Chapter Four
I’d been called in to take a look at a crime scene in Hillingdon. The hope was that I might be able to shed some light on what had taken place. I stood in the doorway of the victim’s bedroom watching forensic pathologist Heidi Hamilton examining the young woman’s body. Hamilton looked up and gave me a sad smile.
‘Come take a look, James. This poor angel needs you now.’
The officer who was first on the scene had informed me her name was Stephanie Walker. I put on my gloves in what felt like slow motion as my mind adjusted, trying to process what I was seeing. I stepped closer and began to work through the scene. I’d seen a lot of crime scenes over the years, but it never gets easier.I tried to imagine what had taken place.
I tried to imagine what had taken place. If I hadn’t known better, I would have thought she was sleeping. She looked peaceful, and the scene appeared neat and tidy. She was in her fluffy dressing gown, which was tied at the waist and pulled up over her chest and across her legs. Her dark, shoulder-length hair looked brushed. She looked as though she was resting, with no apparent sign of any struggle. Her hands were clasped gently across her chest in an almost prayer-like fashion.
As I stepped around the bed, however, I felt sick to my stomach. Arterial spray covered the bedside table and surrounding area. Beside the bed, a pool of blood had gathered and soaked into the carpet. From this side, I could better see the horror of what had happened to Stephanie.
‘Her carotid artery was cut,’ said Hamilton. ‘The lacerations caused her to bleed out.’
I could see her neck had several deep lacerations. I tried to figure out how this had been done to her without her struggling. Had she been drugged? Had she been restrained or otherwise held down? Hamilton was watching me. I wondered whether Stephanie had been aware of what was happening and whether she’d been able to fight back. I leaned in closer and my heart sank; I could see tear stains on her cheeks from where she’d been crying.
I’m sorry this happened to you, sweetheart. So sorry.
Methodically, I examined Stephanie from head to toe, then turned my attention to the bed itself and the surrounding area.
‘Her wrists and ankles,’ I said, turning to Hamilton. ‘They’re red and bruised. He restrained her – tied her down, tied her to the bed.’
Hamilton nodded grimly and pointed to the bed’s headboard, which was scratched.
‘He cuffed her wrists and tied her legs,’ I said flatly. ‘He came prepared. That would suggest premeditation. Meaning he’s mature. Nothing here suggests an impulsive young male.’
‘No sign of anything sexual,’ said Hamilton. ‘Thank God for small mercies.’
I crouched down beside the bed. What have you left for me? You can’t help yourself, can you? The carpet here had four square impressions, left by the legs of a piece of furniture, probably a chair. There were no chairs in the bedroom, so I left the room and came back with a dining chair. I held it over the four impressions while Hamilt
on looked on.
‘He sat and watched her die,’ I said. ‘He tied her up. He cut her throat on that side,’ I pointed to the far side of the bed, ‘so he didn’t have to see her bleed, and then sat right here and watched her slowly die. She would have cried and struggled and begged and pleaded for his help. He ignored her pleading. He just let her die, and when she was close to death or dead, he made her look presentable. Even going so far as brushing her hair.’
‘Why would he do that? What’s going on in his head?’ Hamilton said, almost to herself. She wasn’t looking for an answer, and I knew better than to give one – even if I could have. We’ve both worked enough cases to know better than to try to fathom the mind of a person who could unleash this kind of evil. More often than not, the perpetrators themselves don’t have a full understanding of what drives them.
‘A lot of care has been taken to make her look beautiful, peaceful, angel-like,’ I said. ‘This isn’t someone full of rage. He’s in control. This was also planned, not a spontaneous act. He brought what he needed with him. The blade, the handcuffs, the rope. Did you find the hair brush?’
Heidi pointed outside the room. ‘It’s been bagged with some other items of evidence.’
‘Good. This is a very personal kind of murder. This person, whoever it is, is perhaps reliving something or has pictured this scene. In all likelihood, he’s done something similar before. And what I know for sure is, he’ll have to do it again. Maybe not tomorrow, maybe not next week, but eventually his urges will come to dominate his mind and he’ll have no choice but to act on them, to do it again.’
‘So, are we talking six months, a year, ten years?’
‘That’s the million-dollar question. Right now, I just don’t know.’
But I think I did know. I just wasn’t willing to admit it. Not yet.
Chapter Five
It was nearly four-thirty in the morning, and, unable to sleep, I was walking through St. James’s Park in the direction of Buckingham Palace. The coldness of Stephanie’s Walker’s murder had left me reeling, and I was finding it difficult to escape the images that had been seared into my mind. Walking helps me think, and St. James’s Park is one my favourite walks in London. Time and again, when I’ve been working on a tough case or just need time and space, I’ve found myself here, walking and thinking and revisiting places that hold fond memories for me.
Live in any city long enough and there will be moments when you feel completely attuned to the city itself. It’s as though everything and everyone around you fades into the background and you feel an overwhelming sense of calm. But any city-dweller will also tell you that that peace is usually short-lived, and when my mobile phone buzzed in my pocket, I knew my brief escape was already over.
With a sigh, I pressed Accept. ‘Hardy,’ I said.
‘Time the UK got a wake-up call,’ said a muffled voice. ‘You have two hours to evacuate the Hilton on Park Lane. Then the killing starts. Today is the first target on the list. We’ll speak again soon.’
‘Who is this?’ I said, keeping my voice level. ‘Is there a bomb?’ But the caller had already hung up.
I stared at the phone, my stomach clenching. The first target on the list.
I turned and began running towards Green Park and the Hilton. Seeing a black cab, I stepped out into the road and waved my arms to flag it down. The cab pulled up in front of me.
‘What the hell’s your problem, mate?’ said the cabby when I opened the door.
‘Police,’ I said. I waved my warrant card. ‘It’s an emergency. I need to get the Hilton on Park Lane. Quick as you can.’
‘You betcha. Jump in. I’ll ’ave you there in no time.’
In the back of the cab I called Chief Webster at home. ‘There’s been threat to life,’ I told him when he picked up. ‘I need the Hilton on Park Lane evacuated, immediately. We have less than two hours. It’s a possible terror attack. It could be a bomb, a hostage situation or it could be a hoax. Right now, I don’t know. I’m on my way there now. It’ll take me ten minutes max. We’ve got to get those people out of there.’
‘Get yourself over there and leave the rest to me,’ said the chief. ‘Bomb squad and the counter-terror unit know the drill. I’ll speak to the hotel and tell them we’re on our way. We can’t have panic.’
The speed of response was impressive. The evacuation had already begun as I arrived. Bewildered guests and staff were being led to designated safe areas by a police rapid response team, and onlookers had started to gather on the green opposite the hotel.
Thirty minutes later, bomb squad officers were on scene and specialists with sniffer dogs were sweeping the hotel floor by floor. Counter-terror officers patrolled the surrounding streets. Met officers questioned guests and hotel staff. The command vehicle had been stationed just outside what was considered the safe zone. I headed over, stepped inside and introduced myself.
‘Are you the one that called it in?’ asked Boyd Wilson, who was in charge of the scene. ‘We’ve found nothing yet. Still a few floors to go. If there’s bomb, we’ll find it.’ Wilson was fully focused on coordinating with his team and barely looked at me. I had no intention of interrupting him and simply nodded and stepped back to give him space.
I checked my watch. I wondered how much longer until Wilson would pull out his team.
He must have read my thoughts. ‘They’re almost done. As you probably know, the dogs don’t need to enter each room; they can just sweep each hallway. If there’s anything of interest they’ll let their handler know and that’ll warrant investigating the room.’ Wilson was calm and completely in control. You’d have thought he did bomb searches in the heart of London’s Mayfair every day.
I looked up at the 28-storey building and wondered how long it would take officers without dogs to search and clear a hotel this size. I guessed at least a couple of days.
A few moments later, Wilson became animated and looked relieved. ‘They’re done. They’re coming out. There’s no bomb. They found nothing. Probably just a hoax.’
I congratulated him, shook hands with everyone and joined in the small celebration, but inside I felt an odd mixture of relief and frustration. I stepped outside the command vehicle into the sea of flashing lights, uniforms and haphazardly parked emergency vehicles, fighting back the urge to ask Wilson whether he was sure. I had an uneasy feeling that they should search again.
Hands in pockets, I scanned the expectant faces in the crowd of onlookers. Odds were, our prankster was mixed in among them, watching and laughing at all the chaos he’d caused.
I heard Webster call my name and turned back to the business at hand.
Chapter Six
It had been decided to keep the Hilton hotel closed for at least another twenty-four hours while investigations continued. It was now nearly six in the morning and the sun was rising.
I groaned inwardly as Chief Superintendent Webster hurried over to me. The hotel doors were only a few feet away and I wished I could disappear inside.
‘Good news,’ said Webster. ‘No bomb and no loss of life. In my book that’s a win-win.’ The chief looked around at the scale of the response, ‘As for all this, let’s consider it a training exercise.’
Webster wasn’t alone; he was accompanied by Mark McPherson. the MI5 director. With the UK’s threat level at Severe, MI5 would take a keen interest in what happened here today.
‘It’s good to see you again, Hardy,’ said McPherson. ‘Looks like someone was keen to make us all look stupid. From what I can make out, though, the response has been first-class. We should all be proud.’
As ever, he was being generous, which was only part of why he had been a popular choice for the top job at MI5. Well-liked by his people, he had the rare gift of being able to balance authority and strong leadership with humility. MI5 were facing some of the toughest challenges of their existence, and though McPherson was under impossible pressure over the country’s security, he exuded nothing but warmth and understandin
g now in the face of my cock-up.
‘You made the right call, Hardy,’ he continued. ‘Don’t doubt that for one second. We’ve all been there. Everyone here understands that, and I hope everyone here would have dealt with it the way you did.’
I tried to smile but could feel I was failing. It now seemed clear to me that despite what I might otherwise believe, the call was nothing more than a hoax. ‘Doesn’t stop me feeling like a fool. Right now, none of this makes any sense. The call sounded genuine; there was so much anger in the voice. I’ve got it going over and over in my head. If it’s okay, I’ll stick around for a while. There are a few things I want to check out.’
‘Spend a few hours going over the detail,’ said Webster. ‘Write your report, then head home. I can handle things from here. Spend time with your family. Get some rest. You look like you need it.’
I must have looked impatient, because McPherson raised his eyebrows and then laughed and clapped me on the shoulder.
‘If you don’t like taking time off,’ said McPherson jokingly, ‘perhaps you might consider a job in MI5. Right now, we need all the good people we can get.’
I knew McPherson was pulling my leg but I could also tell he was more than a little serious.
Suddenly there was a sharp cracking sound like an enormous piece of wood snapping. Gunfire. Instinctively, I crouched and looked around for shelter. Like sitting ducks, we were all out in the open, ready to be picked off one by one. McPherson crumpled to his knees, then collapsed to the ground beside me. It happened so fast, it was as if he’d fallen through a trap door in the pavement. I stared in disbelief as blood pumped from a huge hole in his head.
‘Everybody! Take cover!’ I yelled. ‘There’s a sniper.’ I grabbed Chief Webster and pulled him behind a squad car. Staying low to the ground, I peered around the front of the vehicle, looking for signs of the shooter.
