‘I’ll be fine. Although I may need your help accessing my remote working. It’s been playing up recently, and you know I’m hopeless with all that geeky stuff.’
‘No problem, just give us a shout.’
Maddy smiled gratefully. She didn’t know what she’d do without Paul. Being able to use Word and navigate the internet was about as technical as she got. But Paul was an IT wizard, frequently saving her sanity when her laptop seemed to acquire a mind of its own.
No matter how much Coleridge tried to convince everyone to carry on as normal, she knew Paul was right: until the murderer was caught, anyone who’d known Sarah, or, in fact, had any connection with Channing & Barton, was going to be living in fear.
Until then, no day was going to be just a “regular day” at the office.
Every day was going to be filled with questions and marred by suspicion.
Chapter Four
Friday, 20 November 2009
James Stirling gazed up at the ravishing beauty straddling his torso, her gyrating hips grinding his penis so deliciously, so expertly, it was a struggle to stop himself from coming there and then. But he willed himself to hold on, despite being stupidly turned on by her smooth, flat stomach and large breasts, her hands teasingly fondling them as if to enhance her own, as well as his, arousal. He wanted to prove that he could stand the test of time, that he had the stamina to fulfil her needs as well as his own.
‘Louder,’ he commanded, slyly glancing at the camcorder he’d secretly positioned in the corner of the room, filming every second of their fornication. Just like he did with all of them. Home-made porno movies in which he had one of the starring roles, saved on a memory stick he kept under lock and key in his office drawer at work. Dangerous, some might say, but far less risky than keeping it at home, where Elizabeth might find it. ‘I want to hear you, I want to hear you scream my name,’ he commanded again.
He delighted in the sound of her panting, gradually becoming more rapid, her Bambi eyes wide with pleasure, her bee-stung lips slightly parted, her chocolate-brown hair hanging loose and untamed across her shoulders. And then his own panting became increasingly frantic as their mutual state of arousal rose to unbearable heights, before she gasped out loud – ‘Oh James, you’re so fucking good, I’m coming so bad’ – confirmation of her imminent orgasm driving his to even headier levels as he climaxed with an unbridled groan of ecstasy.
Each of them sighed with contentment as Sarah lightly kissed her lover’s chest, before tumbling over onto her back beside him.
Stirling reached for the pack of Marlboro Reds lying on the bedside table to his left. He took one out, offered it to Sarah. ‘Cigarette?’
‘Definitely.’ She popped it straight between her lips, waited for Stirling to light it for her. ‘I fancy some music,’ she announced, before taking her first drag. ‘Put on some Beethoven, will you? I know you have it on your MP3 player.’
‘My favourite. But of course.’
As they both lay there, top to toe relaxed by sex, cigarettes and the soporific intonations of the Moonlight Sonata, the morning sun gradually filtering light into the hotel room they’d surreptitiously acquired for the night, Stirling wondered whether Elizabeth had bought his tale about going to visit his sick mother (suddenly struck down with the flu) in Hampton.
He doubted it. Aside from the fact that she was a tough old bird who, despite not being much of a mother to him when he was a boy, had no other family and was therefore bound to leave everything to him, she’d fallen sick with some ailment or other countless times before, and not once had her darling son packed an overnight bag and come running. No, it was just one more thread in a web of lies he’d spun over the years at the expense of his long-suffering wife.
Deep down, he knew it was wrong. But he’d managed to push any guilt he felt so far back in his mind that he felt able to live with himself. And the fact remained, he was addicted. Addicted to his young, pretty students; addicted to luring them in and fucking them senseless; addicted to the thrill of hearing them call out his name when he made them come.
Nothing gave him greater pleasure than seeking and acquiring sexual dominance over them. Of showing them who was boss. The only downside was the crushing sense of loss, of disappointment, of emasculation he felt when they moved on with their lives, both professional and personal.
That was hard to take. He liked his affairs to end on his terms, not theirs.
‘Penny for your thoughts?’ Sarah turned to him, her mocha eyes invading his.
On the verge of revealing his Achilles heel, Stirling quickly stopped himself. Never reveal your limitations, he reminded himself. You are the dominator, not them.
He couldn’t allow word to get out. There would be many more fish to draw into his net – for one, the honey blonde named Paige had been giving him the eye since week two of the course, so he doubted it would take much effort on his part to score there. Any sign of weakness could prove detrimental to his design.
Although, he had to admit, he’d become especially fond of Sarah. She was different to the others. Not so clingy, not so desperate. She was so self-confident, and he found that particularly sexy. He wasn’t sure how he was going to be able to move on from her.
‘Nothing, it’s nothing,’ he replied. Quickly followed by a suggestive grin. ‘Now put that out, will you? I think it’s my turn to go on top.’
***
Thursday, 30 October 2014
There was something different about the place.
Nearly fifty hours had passed since she’d seen Sarah’s face on TV, and as Maddy stepped through Channing & Barton’s revolving doors, there was a marked chill in the air. Gone was the palpable buzz, the supercilious sense of invincibility. In its place was a haunting gloom that felt alien to her.
For one, two policemen – who almost made her feel like a suspect herself when they demanded to see her pass before letting her through – hovered outside the entrance to the building, still cordoned off with a barrier marked “Police line – do not cross”; and two, half of reception was barricaded with a similar sign. Although, if it wasn’t for the sign, it would have been hard to imagine that poor Frank’s lifeless body had once lain there, the pristine marble floor shone so bright.
But she’d been prepared for the scene that awaited her. On her way into work, sitting amongst the hordes of grim-faced commuters, she’d reread the email Coleridge had sent the previous night, confirming that forensics had worked tirelessly over the last two days to complete their trawl of the building, and now all staff were expected to return to work in the morning. On-site client meetings would not resume until the following week as police would be using the firm’s conference rooms to interview employees over the next forty-eight hours. He’d stressed that security had been stepped up with a permanent police presence, and therefore staff had nothing to fear, and every reason to feel safe.
Easier said than done.
At 6 pm on Tuesday, Maddy and Paul had sat mutely in front of the TV, watching a live press conference led by Carver. Coleridge, Sarah’s parents, and Frank’s widow were also present. Although there’d been no love lost between her and Sarah and she’d barely known Frank, one look at their loved ones’ grief-stricken faces, and she’d been unable to stop the tears from flowing. She’d even noticed Paul’s eyes water and took his offer to make her a second coffee in less than half an hour as an excuse to leave the room. But she’d sat transfixed as Carver had explained how there was no evidence of sexual assault or a struggle between Sarah and her killer, and so far, no helpful DNA to go on. The killer had been smart and scrupulous.
As she rode the lift to the Litigation department ten floors up, Maddy checked her emails. There was one from Cara, her best friend from King’s, now a journalist. It was copied to Paige. Both had called as soon as they’d heard the news, wanting to know how Maddy was holding up. She’d appreciated their concern, but with all three leading such busy lives, they’d only been able to chat briefly.
But now, with the week drawing to a close, Cara had suggested meeting for a drink tomorrow, Friday, to talk properly. The question put to her, Maddy realised she could do with some female company, and they agreed to meet at a bar in Paternoster Square, next to St Paul’s Cathedral. Paige was assisting with a trial nearby at the Old Bailey, so the location made sense for her.
The same sombre mood permeated the air on the tenth floor. The secretarial booths and sprawling corridors, usually a hubbub of noise, were eerily quiet, shock and distress paralysing the most industrious, draining the most sanguine.
‘You okay, Margaret?’ Maddy asked her PA.
Margaret looked up from her station, her eyes fractious. ‘It’s not really sunk in.’ She was a sparrow-like, 58-year-old widow, who worked hard and never complained. Unlike some of her younger, lazier, more demanding colleagues.
Having grown quite fond of her PA, Maddy didn’t like seeing her look so upset. ‘It’s just so horrendous. I mean, why Frank, why Sarah? What on God’s good Earth could they have done to deserve such treatment?’
Margaret was a devout Christian, attending church every Sunday without fail, always wearing the same silver cross around her neck. Her unflinching belief astounded Maddy. It was a world she could never believe in, robbed of her parents one month short of her tenth birthday. In her head she felt like grasping Margaret by her shoulders and shaking some sense into her, telling her: ‘This Earth is far from good, there is no God, and even if there is, he’s one hell of an arsehole for allowing all the pain, suffering and heartache that good, innocent people are made to endure,’ but instead, her hand resting on Margaret’s shoulder, she replied, ‘Nothing. We just can’t make sense of these things. The world is full of crazy, wicked people, and kindness or reason just don’t come into play as far as they’re concerned.’
Margaret looked around cagily, her smoker’s mouth quivering with nerves. ‘Do you think the killer will strike again? Here, I mean? Are we safe continuing to work here?’
‘The police are going to be watching this building 24/7, Margaret. The killer must know that. He might be a raving psycho, but I’m sure he’s not stupid.’
‘Is it true the police are going to question all of us?’
‘Yes. It’s their job to make sure every angle’s covered, and if it helps bring the monster responsible to justice, I’m all for it.’
So long as they don’t find out about my argument with Sarah. That won’t look good even if I’d never have wished her dead.
Maddy gave Margaret a reassuring smile, then quickly scanned her watch – 10.15. Coleridge was speaking to the litigation team at midday, and she had a chunky witness statement to review before then. She made for her office and as she opened the door, Jeff Sanders, the senior associate she shared a room with, looked up from his computer. ‘Hey Maddy.’ Jeff
was a larger-than-life Kiwi, who’d married an English girl and made London his home. A dead-set for partnership, he was one of the nicest guys she knew. She only hoped partnership didn’t change him, as was often the case.
‘Morning, Jeff.’ Maddy sat down at her desk, her face serious. ‘You okay?’
‘Still in shock. How about you?’ Gone was the usual morning banter, wide grin.
‘The same. I mean, you hear all sorts of terrible things on the news, but when it happens to someone you know, it’s hard to believe it’s true.’
‘Tell me about it.’ Jeff shook his head. ‘I’ll admit I’ve been having trouble focussing on anything since it happened. But we need to try and get on with life, with work, as best we can. Hopefully, the cops will find the bastard soon.’
‘Hopefully,’ Maddy said softly.
***
‘So, enough of my talking. I would now like to introduce Detective Chief Inspector Jake Carver, a senior investigating officer with the Homicide and Serious Crime Command unit of the Metropolitan Police. DCI Carver is leading the investigation, and it’s imperative that each of you fully cooperates with him and his team so that we can all help bring the perpetrator to justice.’
12.15. Maddy and her team had just listened to Coleridge deliver a speech on how tragic the recent deaths were, that Sarah and Frank would be sorely missed, but that they must all carry on as best as possible, and not let the killer win by getting under their skin. They had a job to do, and life must go on. Counselling was, however, being offered to anyone who felt in need of it. Later in the day, around 5.00, there would be a minute’s silence as a mark of respect for their dead colleagues.
But now they’d come to the interesting bit. It was as if an electric current had shot through the room. Maddy noticed her colleagues lean forward as Carver stood up to say his piece. Eyes focussed, ears pricked, hearts thumping with anticipation. He was an engaging speaker and, having seen him twice on screen, she found herself equally keen to hear what he had to say.
‘Good afternoon, everyone,’ he began in that same gravelly tone she’d heard on the television. He was dressed in a charcoal-grey suit and navy tie, his hair parted to one side. She suspected he didn’t always look so smart and had made a special effort for the occasion. Perhaps in his early to mid-forties, he was taller than she’d expected, maybe around six-four, but the formidable presence he’d generated on screen was even more prevalent in the flesh. Not only in the way he spoke, but in the way he surveyed the room, making eye contact with each of them, making it known that he was in charge and that if any one of them messed with him, there’d be trouble.
‘I understand how hard this must be for all of you. Murder is never a pleasant affair, not least when it occurs in your place of work, when it happens to someone you know. Some of you will have known Sarah well, some of you may never even have spoken to her. All of you, I am sure, will have spoken to Frank at some point, if only briefly. Whatever your relationship with either victim, you will all be questioned over the next few days about their murders. We have a very dangerous killer out there, and I’m certain you will want him caught as soon as possible so that we can all stop looking over our shoulders.’
Carver probed the sea of rapt faces, wanting to make sure he’d got his point across. He had. Every single head, Maddy’s included, bobbed up and down, hypnotised by him and the still-surreal turn of events.
‘Good. Once we’ve spoken to each department as a whole, we’ll begin questioning individuals team by team, starting with Banking. That includes all secretarial staff. We’ll then move on to other support staff.’
A hand shot up. It belonged to Jeremy Ashcroft, a poncey public schoolboy who loved the sound of his own voice. Maddy despised him. He was a litigator, five years qualified, but acted like he was running the show. He belonged in Corporate, not Litigation, and would no doubt make senior partner one day.
‘It’s been a couple of days now. Don’t you have any leads yet? Any idea at all why the killer targeted Sarah?’
Carver flexed his jaw, clearly irritated by Ashcroft’s smart-arse tone. Maddy rolled her eyes at Jeff and received a raised eyebrow in return.
‘No. It’s far too early to say, particularly due to the lack of DNA evidence or CCTV images. That’s why we need to start questioning all staff as soon as possible.’
Ashcroft nodded smugly, clearly pleased with himself for asking the question. Thank goodness I never went to law school with him, thought Maddy.
‘Before I let you go,’ Carver continued, ‘I’d remind you all to think carefully about whether there is anything you know, or may have seen or heard, that could be relevant to Sarah’s or Frank’s murders, in advance of your interviews. Please do not hold back, even if it means implicating a friend or colleague. The smallest detail could prove crucial to finding the murderer.’
Another intense stare, grinding his warning into them, making it known that he couldn’t care less that they were hotshot lawyers with brains the size of a planet and a bank balance to match. ‘The truth will come to light,’ he warned, ‘and it will not reflect well on anyone who withholds info
rmation that hampers or damages our investigation.’
More robotic nodding of heads.
‘Excellent. Well, I have nothing further to say.’ Carver turned to Coleridge, who instructed his staff to return to their desks and wait to be questioned.
‘He seems like a no-nonsense kind of guy,’ Jeff whispered into Maddy’s ear as they left the room. ‘The type who’d see through any shit like cellophane.’
‘As eloquent as ever, Jeff,’ Maddy smiled.
But he was right. In fact, Carver was way more intimidating in person than on screen. If she didn’t own up about her row with Sarah – as inconsequential as it was – Maddy was pretty sure he’d find out.
So she’d come clean and clear her name before anyone had the chance to point the finger.
Chapter Five
Saturday, 3 April 2010
‘I think we’ve run our course.’
Flabbergasted, a butt-naked Stirling bolted out of bed. ‘What’s that supposed to mean? I thought we were still having fun?’
They’d just had one of their marathon sex sessions. One of their best. Or so he’d thought.
What is she playing at?
Don’t act so desperate, he rebuked himself. This is so unlike you. Usually, you have your fun, then move on. But this one had got to him. He’d even restrained himself with two other potential conquests.
‘We were, we did. But now we’re through.’
It was her cool, detached tone that infuriated him more than anything. Stirling clenched his fist tight; so tight the veins on the back of his hand protruded through his skin. ‘You’ve found yourself some fresh-faced college boy to fuck?’
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, don’t tell me you’re jealous? Grow up, will you? No, it’s nothing like that. I’ve got exams coming up, and I just think we should cool it.’
Although Sarah was worried about the examining board getting wind of their affair, the truth was she had set her sights on a particularly gorgeous LPC student who’d been giving her the eye the week before at a house party. She’d had her fill of Stirling. It had been fun, but she was much like a man when it came to relationships: she relished the chase but was easily bored. It was time to move on to the next bit of eye candy.
The Scribe Page 4
