The Scribe
A. A. Chaudhuri
© A A Chaudhuri 2019
A A Chaudhuri has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published in 2019 by Endeavour Media Ltd.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter One
Tuesday, 28 October 2014, 2 am
Her sixth sense told her she was not alone.
There, muffled noises from behind … a faint footstep, a quiet intake of breath, the soft sound of a door sweeping the plush carpet beneath it … and then a voice breaking the pin-drop silence – soft, husky, self-assured. An all-too-memorable voice, one she hadn’t heard in a long time – one that froze her in her tracks.
‘Hello, Sarah. Did I startle you? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to.’
It was a patent lie, spoken with a sinister calmness that only served to underline its fiction. The speaker knew it, and so did Sarah who, startled by the sudden intrusion, unwittingly dropped the wodge of papers she’d just spent the last ten minutes assembling in date order.
Not least because she hadn’t been expecting company, let alone this unwelcome blast from the past, at just gone 2 am. She’d realised half an hour ago, when she’d sleepwalked to the kitchen to make her tenth black coffee of the day, that she was the only one left on the soulless conference room floor. And only moments ago, Frank – the security guard on reception – had called to confirm they were the only two left in the building.
This hadn’t surprised her; she shouldn’t have been there herself. But tomorrow, the deal she and the rest of her team had been busting a gut on was closing, and she needed to ensure that everything was shipshape for signature. Despite the partner in charge telling her to make tracks several hours ago and come in early tomorrow instead. But as usual, she’d wanted to stand out, make an impression, prove her worth and commitment to the firm, and, above all, bag that coveted associate’s spot in one of the City’s most celebrated legal banking departments.
And yet here they were alone together. The other not a part of the firm, nor, to her knowledge, a client, and yet, not a stranger to her; their last exchange laced with anger, bitterness and spite.
‘No, I mean yes, kind of,’ she replied twitchily, hastily gathering up the unruly pile of papers, yet trying her best to conceal her alarm. ‘I’m just surprised to see you. It’s been a long time, and it’s late. I’m amazed Frank let you up, to be honest. You’re not a client as far as I know, and we’re certainly not friends.’ She paused, incredulity swathing her face. ‘Is that what you told him? How you got past security?’ It wasn’t a straightforward question. Her tone was mocking, sarcastic.
Maddening.
She hadn’t changed. Still the same snotty-nosed conceited bitch. She was by far the worst of them. The one who most deserved what was coming to her.
‘Your confusion is perfectly understandable.’ Underneath the outward civility, the affable banter, the genial smile, there was a definite edge to the intruder’s voice. An underlying frostiness. A hidden agenda.
This wasn’t right. None of it felt right. She sensed danger. Where the hell is Frank?
‘I have this problem, Sarah. I’ve had it for some time, in fact, and it’s really starting to niggle me. So much so, I can’t sleep, I can’t eat. It needs sorting out before I go quite insane.’
Sarah fiddled nervously with the papers between her fingertips, her eyes flitting every now and again to the door which was blocked but tantalisingly ajar, her mind desperately trying to devise an escape plan. Get out, get out, she screamed inside.
The intruder closed the door, then began to walk towards her. Her only means of escape was gone. Her only lifeline severed in the briefest of moments.
Her natural eye for detail took in the long leather trench coat, the black leather gloves, the perfectly groomed hair scraped back and set firm. Is it hairspray? Gel? Not one strand hung loose. And then she saw the shoes – shiny black Nike trainers. Not what she’d expected. They looked brand new.
‘I’m sorry to hear that. Were you hoping I might be of assistance?’ She tried to remain calm, but she heard the crack in her voice, felt weak-legged, her bowels suddenly loose. Why didn’t I go home like Jefferson told me to?
She saw the steely determination in the intruder’s eyes, realised what this was all about, and sensed her time was up.
‘Yes, I was.’
It was all too quick for her to grasp what was happening, to put up any kind of a fight. The gun seemed to appear from nowhere, and there was no means of avoiding its fire.
The killer watched the silent bullet invade the girl’s stomach, like a meteorite assaulting the earth’s atmosphere, before allowing a self-satisfied smile to take hold when it became obvious that she wasn’t dead.
That had always been the plan. Death by gunshot wound alone was too good for the filthy whore. Too kind. There was a lot more work to be done. Creative, artistic work. The most enjoyable part of the plan.
Sarah’s knees buckled, her eyes wide with horror as she tumbled to the floor, hitting the ground hard. She lay there, paralysed by fear, not yet unconscious, although pain and shock rendered her speechless. She instinctively pressed her trembling hands over her gaping wound in a bid to stem the bleeding. But it was futile; her fingers – which, along with the rest of her body, were gradually becoming colder – soon enveloped in a claret-coloured sticky mass.
And then she heard music. Soft, classical music. Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata. One of her favourites. Reminiscent of happier, carefree times. Ordinarily, she would have welcomed its soothing lilt and beautiful inflection. But the gentle sound – symbolic of the killer’s disturbing poise – chilled her to the bone. She managed to raise her head a few millimetres to her left and noticed the red MP3 player positioned on the edge of the conference table.
Her killer smiled, then knelt over her, like a hunter admiring his kill. Her heart jabbed with terror as she watched the leather gloves being removed, revealing long, lean fingers, smooth and well groomed, just as she’d remembered them to be; a feature that had always surprised her. The sturdy gloves were replaced with a pair of latex ones, and she couldn’t help wincing at the screeching sound they made while being pulled on with meticulous precision. Like an experienced su
rgeon prepping for the operating table.
She felt a rubbery finger trace the skin between her breasts, then watched in panic as the gleaming blade bore down upon her, her killer’s eyes mad with elation, revenge and triumph.
***
Monday, 7 September 2009
The professor surveyed the room. Full of zealous, fresh-faced postgrads. The new batch. Young, driven, but sorely naive. An incessant whirr of vibrant chatter and carefree laughter buzzed in his eardrums like animated cicadas on a balmy summer’s evening. He allowed himself a moment to assimilate the buoyant mood, breathe in the hormones, the anticipation of youth. Using the room’s energy to bolster his imminent introduction to Contract Law.
Despite years of practice, it was always a little daunting resuming the routine after the summer break. But as the saying went: old habits die hard. And, like riding a bike, once he got going, he never looked back. By the middle of his first lecture, he knew it would seem like he’d never been away.
Casting his eyes once more over the mixed crowd, three especially pretty students captured his gaze. He could always guarantee one or two stunners. It was what he looked forward to at the start of the new academic year, the prospect of which had excited him to the point of orgasm that morning, when he’d got out of bed and headed straight to the bathroom to masturbate, Classic FM turned up to the max so that Elizabeth, his wife of fifteen years, wouldn’t hear the frantic jerking of his slippery penis.
Although he guessed she’d suspected. Just as he was almost sure she knew about his affairs. She wasn’t stupid, despite never raising the subject openly. He could see the suspicion in her eyes, hear the mistrust in her voice. But she wasn’t the type to make a scene. Which was partly what aggravated him, drove him away into the arms of hot-blooded young women, wet between the loins and not afraid to express themselves, in and out of bed.
That, along with the painful secret he and Elizabeth shared, of course.
The professor instinctively straightened his tie, felt the adrenaline rush up in him as he cleared his throat. ‘Good morning. My name is Professor James Stirling. Welcome to the Bloomsbury Academy of Law. Being supremely smart individuals, I am certain none of you harbour any illusions that learning a three-year law degree in ten months is going to be a piece of cake. Because it isn’t, and at times it’ll feel like hell on Earth. But I can assure you that, so long as you fully commit yourselves to the next ten months, it will be worth it, and the satisfaction you feel when you hold up that diploma will be worth all the blood, sweat and tears.’ He paused, resisting the urge to chuckle at the newly petrified montage of faces. Mute, glum-faced, the unnatural silence more deafening than the previous chatter. ‘So, before I begin, can anyone tell me the elements required to form a contract?’
A hand shot up from the row he’d glued his eyes on only minutes before. It belonged to a sultry brunette. Her large brown eyes sparkled with excitement, desperate for that first brownie point. She was drop-dead hot. He was grateful for the podium.
‘Yes?’ He gave her a wolfish smile.
‘Offer, consideration and acceptance.’ There wasn’t a trace of doubt in her voice, and it made her hotter. He noticed the striking blonde to her left scowl. He liked the look of her too. And the mixed-race beauty to her right. Clearly, rivalries were already forming. That was good. Inter-female competition was such a turn-on. A few seats along from the brunette sat a dark-haired young man. Handsome, yet with a quiet look about him. He seemed to sense the professor’s gaze, and immediately looked away.
‘Very good, and your name is?’
‘Sarah,’ the girl replied. ‘Sarah Morrell.’
‘Excellent, Sarah. So, as Sarah said …’
As the professor continued his lecture, he smiled smugly inside. Mindful of his magnetism, of the hold he had over his impressionable young students. Many of them quick to develop crushes on the academy’s most fuckable tutor. Only just forty. Handsome, strong, broad-shouldered, with a toned, manly physique, yet not too muscular. He had thick, jet-black hair highlighted with a few streaks of grey, dreamy ebony eyes, and a ravishingly rich, guttural voice that drew in his audience like moths to a flame. He was also supremely intelligent and well respected in his field. More mature than the average college boy, but not so old that his flirting could be termed creepy.
At least, he didn’t think so.
Yes, he could tell that this was going to be a good year. So much optimism, so much potential, so much beauty.
He was really going to enjoy himself.
So long as they played ball.
Chapter Two
Tuesday, 28 October 2014, 6.30 am
‘Victim’s name?’
‘Sarah Morrell, sir. Twenty-five. Fourth-seat trainee.’
‘Fourth seat?’ DCI Jake Carver frowned. ‘That means nothing to me, Detective. Speak to me in English for Christ’s sake.’
Having been woken abruptly less than an hour ago by Sergeant Matthews at Bishopsgate police station, Carver’s routinely low tolerance level was running even nearer to the ground.
He’d had an argument with Rachel, his ex-wife, last night. Daniel, his six-year-old son, had started calling Rachel’s dull but irritatingly dependable boyfriend Carl “Dad”, at “Dad’s” insistence, and it was really pissing him off. She’d refused to ask Carl to tone it down, or even see her ex’s point of view. As a result, he’d spent the rest of the evening pummelling the punchball he kept in his bedroom before downing several whiskies.
Which was unlike him. When he and Rachel split, Carver had refused to become a cliché. That well-worn formula for glossy American novels and Hollywood blockbusters. The embittered divorced police officer, who drowns his sorrows in booze and loose women as a means of coping with his shitty personal life. In fact, he’d been celibate for nearly two years now – although sometimes it killed him – and had substituted boxing down the local gym for booze at his “local”. Channelling his anger and miserable personal life into carefully controlled punches which never did anyone any real harm but kept him sane and sober.
But last night, he’d slipped. And despite knocking back some Nurofen with a large Americano en route to the crime scene, his head pounded and his body ached not from the punches, but from too much booze and too little sleep. He hated himself for it and vowed not to let it happen again. It wasn’t good for him, and it certainly wasn’t good for his son.
Detective Constable Ben Drake looked down at his notes. ‘Trainee lawyers typically work in four to six departments, known as “seats”, over their two-year training period, sir, before choosing where to specialise on qualification. At Channing & Barton they do four six-month seats.’
‘Hmm, I see,’ Carver nodded disinterestedly. ‘And what seat had this poor girl been sitting in?’
‘Banking, sir. She started her training in March 2013 and was due to qualify in five months’ time.’
‘Have the parents been notified?’
‘The firm’s senior partner, William Coleridge, has that unfortunate task, sir. I spoke to him around twenty minutes ago. Shocked, of course. Said he’d be right over once he’d spoken to the victims’ families and informed his staff.’
‘He’ll tell them to stay put, I hope? The staff I mean.’
‘Yes. Although he did ask when they’d be able to return to work.’
Carver grimaced. Working class born and bred, he was suddenly acutely aware of his surroundings. A far cry from his upbringing, spent watching his conscientious parents struggle daily. Looking around, he saw plush furnishings, a well-stocked fridge, state-of-the-art air con, a whopping great plasma screen built into the wall. It reeked of money, it lacked soul, and Carver felt sorely out of place.
‘Typical,’ he sneered. ‘Business can’t afford to flag even if there’s been a double murder on site. Just keep the cheques rolling in.’ His tone was bitter, sarcastic, but the comment didn’t appear to warrant an answer, so Drake kept tight-lipped. ‘We can’t give him an answer until forensi
cs give their initial assessment.’
‘No, of course not, sir.’
‘I want every shred of evidence captured, and if that means closing off the whole shebang for however long, Coleridge’ll have to lump it and make alternative arrangements for his staff.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Carver, decked out in protective clothing from head to toe, rustled as he knelt over the body and examined the message engraved across the girl’s chest. Her face, neck and shoulders were ghostly pale, evidence of rigor mortis having set in and a stark contrast to the once-spotless cream carpet surrounding her, now stained ruby red. “C-o-n-t-r-a-c-t.” He’d seen some nasty sights since joining the Homicide and Serious Crime Command three years ago, but this was something else.
‘Any ideas, Drake?’ Carver looked back over his shoulder, his cast iron glare making it clear a response wasn’t optional.
Recently posted to Bishopsgate police station, Drake had been processing yet another tedious missing persons’ report when the call had come through at 5.15 am. He could scarcely believe his luck when Sergeant Matthews had appeared at his desk telling him to get over quick sharp to a suspected murder scene on Camomile Street, a short walk from Liverpool Street station. The body of Frank Jones, the overnight security guard, had been found by Mike Evans, his replacement, at 5 am. By the time Drake reached Camomile Street, Mike had also found Sarah’s.
Fear and excitement had pulsed through him all the way. He was young, bright, eager to learn, eager to shine, yet desperate not to screw up. A shaken Mike, barely able to speak, had had the sense not to touch either corpse. Frank was still lying on his back in reception, his forehead a mess from where the bullet had struck, the shiny marble floor surrounding him sprayed with blood, like a quirky piece of modern art. Together, they’d erected a makeshift cordon around the body, awaiting the arrival of Dominic Avery – the Crime Scene Manager – and his team.
Mike had taken the initiative and already reviewed the CCTV. Unfortunately, it didn’t help. Between 1.30–3.30 am the tape was blank. Somehow, someone – the killer presumably – had disabled the device before entering the building. No sign of an intruder, and no video evidence of the murder taking place.
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