Maddy had been lucky enough to sit in on a live trial at the Supreme Court. And now, desperate to be right that the killer planned on striking at this formidable bastion of British society, she felt strangely exhilarated.
She just prayed she wasn’t too late.
***
7.30 pm
The UK Supreme Court is housed in a Grade II-listed building resting on a site closely linked with justice and law for nearly a thousand years. Westminster Abbey stands to one side of it. The Houses of Parliament and Big Ben are directly opposite. Open daily to the public, in winter the court closes at 4.30. So, by the time Carver and Drake stood facing its magnificent doors a little over three hours later, both staff and visitors had long gone. It had been a grey, dull day, and the night had fallen more quickly than usual. As the two men circled its path, they didn’t notice anyone suspicious. In fact, there was hardly anyone about, such was the inhospitable weather.
‘I’ll call for a team of officers to keep guard overnight,’ Carver said to Drake, delving his frozen hand into his pocket for his mobile. ‘We’ll keep an eye out till then.’
***
Two hours earlier
Emma Marsden stepped out of the Supreme Court into the chilly early evening air a little after 5.30, glad of her knitted scarf, thick coat and knee-high boots. Without them, the cold would be murderous to her slim build.
She stood there for a moment, surveying the scene – a scene she never tired of. Parliament Square was still thrumming with activity: a few tourists milling about, taking selfies; workers marching towards Westminster Tube station, their faces making it clear they were on a mission and anyone who got in their way did so at their own peril; activists standing opposite Parliament making the usual worthy but unrewarded protests. And surrounding it, a conveyor belt of incessant traffic.
Emma wasn’t heading home just yet. She was meeting a friend for a drink at Fortnum & Mason on Piccadilly at six, and instead of bothering with the Tube, she decided to walk and cut through St James’s Park. It was cold, but at least it was dry, and she fancied stretching her legs after sitting virtually all day.
Her mother often berated her for walking alone in the dark. ‘It’s too dangerous,’ she would chide. ‘You never know what lunatic’s lurking in the shadows.’ But Emma paid no attention. London’s glorious royal parks were one of the things she loved most about the capital – a feature that set it apart from other cities. She counted herself lucky to be working so close to the one she considered the prettiest, and she’d damn well make the most of it.
Five thirty was a decent time to leave, Emma smiled to herself as she turned left, walked the short distance along Little George Street until she hit Great George Street and again turned left in the direction of the park. Not like some of her friends who, after finishing at the academy, had started their training contracts at high-powered law firms and never saw the light of day; working every other weekend, iPhones glued to their hands like a part of their anatomy, sometimes never leaving the office before midnight months on the trot, on the verge of collapse, no time for a life.
Emma had enjoyed studying law. But by the end of her second year, she was certain she didn’t want to be a lawyer. Two internships had seen to that. It was too stressful, too punishing for her liking. She’d never been that ambitious or money-oriented, and she enjoyed her social life too much to be a slave to the hard-nosed ethos of the City.
Working in the library of the highest court in the land suited Emma fine. She’d already spent a good portion of her life with her nose buried in books, and wasn’t afraid to admit that the academic side of law had fascinated her far more than practising it.
It was something her former law professor had picked up on. Something that had drawn him to her. Aside from her fiery red locks and hourglass figure, of course. It had been nearly two years to the day since they’d shared their first kiss. In his office of all places. So exciting, so dangerous. Right from the start of the course, she’d caught him glancing her way every now and again as he’d delivered his lectures. And when he’d summoned her to his office to go over a paper, she’d found herself fantasising about him sweeping her up in his arms, throwing her across his desk, making love to her on the spot. She’d known he had a roving eye. But she didn’t care. Not about that, or the fact that he was married. There was just something about him that was too attractive to fend off or ignore. She’d always been a sucker for the older man, especially when they were as smart and as handsome as Professor Stirling.
He’d sat down beside her as he went through her case study, their shoulders brushing, the air thick with sexual tension. And when she’d turned to him to answer a question, she’d stared into his eyes, seeing the hunger and desire in them. And that’s when she’d kissed him. At first softly, unsure of his reaction. But then he’d reciprocated, only more forcefully, pulling her towards him, making her heady.
Their affair had lasted four months; quickies in his office, or at her flat. She didn’t have a flatmate, so Stirling had no reservations about meeting her there. And then, predictably, he’d grown tired of her, moved on to the next best thing.
She’d been hurt, confused, made to feel like a fool. And when she’d confronted him one evening as he was about to leave work, threatening to go to his wife if he didn’t take her back, he’d pushed her up against the wall, his fingers locked around her throat.
‘Don’t you dare threaten me, Emma.’ His eyes had been rabid. ‘I have the power to make or break your career, and I won’t hesitate to break it if you so much as breathe a word to anyone.’
At the time she’d not even finished her first year, and like everyone else, was desperate for a training contract. She’d seen the look in his eyes, realised he was serious, and promised to keep quiet.
But that was all water under the bridge. She was over him. She had a good life and a steady boyfriend. The past was the past.
Emma saw the odd person as she made her way along Horse Guard’s Road around the edge of the park, clutching her scarf tighter around her neck. But no one looked dodgy or caused her to pick up speed. It was cold and dark, and she hadn’t expected to see many people about. A short way along, she hit the entrance to the park on her left and went in boldly. Straight ahead she saw the lake, vaguely made out the stunning Tiffany Fountain in the middle but saw no sign of the park’s famous pelicans.
Emma turned right, the lake now on her left. She carried on walking in the direction of the Mall, past Duck Island Cottage, until she reached a fork in the path. There was a sign pointing left towards the park café, playground and Buckingham Palace. Emma carried on straight, this being the most direct route to Piccadilly, Horse Guard’s Parade visible to her right, several sorry-looking flower beds to her left. But no human life.
She was just passing some public toilets when she heard a faint whimpering sound, almost like someone was in pain. It was hard to tell whether the person was male or female, the voice was so muffled, but as it was coming from the Ladies’ toilets – a small brick building concealed within tightly packed shrubbery – she assumed it was a woman. Emma was a good person. A little reckless maybe, but not someone to ignore a cry for help. Thinking whoever it was might be sick or badly injured, she turned off the path and walked through a small green gate towards the Ladies.
‘Hello,’ she called out, ‘is someone there? Are you hurt?’ She stepped into the chilly toilets, cold and stark and reeking of damp and urine. It was spookily quiet; only the monotonous drip of a tap that hadn’t quite been turned off breaking the silence. ‘Hello?’ she said again, this time more nervously. And then, out of nowhere, she heard classical music coming from one of the cubicles; the third cubicle to her left, she thought. She should have run then. But she’d come this far, and it was almost as if her feet were rooted to the spot. She edged forward, the sound of her heels on the tiled floor echoing in the air as she did so. She stopped, pushed the cubicle door open, and saw a red MP3 player resting on the cistern. S
he recognised the music: Beethoven’s Silencio.
Something wasn’t right. The whimpering had stopped. She should run. She should get out.
Before she had time to turn around, she felt a rubbery hand around her neck, wrenching her scarf off. Then a sharp, cold blade across her throat.
Then. . .
Emma never saw her killer. But even if she had, it would have made no difference. Emma had been a goner from the moment she’d first kissed Professor Stirling.
Chapter Seventeen
Maddy stared at the flow chart she’d pinned to her bedroom wall. She should have been working, but the murders hounded her, and it was all she could focus on.
Solving the case was now an addiction for her – an addiction that could only be cracked with the killer’s capture. It wouldn’t bring Paige back, but it would get her justice.
On the flow chart, she’d listed the victims’ common traits, but above all, it was Stirling who stood out like a sore thumb.
He’d always struck Maddy as a bit seedy. But was he capable of something so ghastly? And, if so, why? Maddy wished Paul was around so that she could pick his brain. Not just because she was a typical lawyer, big on brainstorming, but because Paul had known all the victims. And Stirling.
But he was working an extra shift and wouldn’t be home till gone midnight. It had never bothered her before, but Maddy was suddenly nervous about going to bed before he got back. Before she could put the chain on the door.
She’d sleep with a knife under her pillow tonight. If, that is, she slept at all.
***
After a team of officers arrived in Parliament Square to relieve Carver and Drake, Drake had returned to the station to revisit the list of women he’d gone over with Maddy, hoping for inspiration as to who the next victim might be. But he got none.
It was now gone midnight, and he had yet to finish his report for the day. Realising he needed caffeine badly, he headed for the vending machine. As he stood there, waiting for it to churn out something resembling coffee, Carver came rushing up. He looked livid. Drake nearly had a heart attack, having thought his boss had long gone home.
‘You won’t frigging believe this. A body’s been found in one of the Ladies’ loos in St James’s Park.’ Drake’s face fell. ‘One of the attendants was about to lock up for the night, when he stumbled on a woman sprawled in one of the cubicles. Throat slashed. “Public” sliced into her chest.’
‘Who was she?’
‘Don’t know yet. The bastard misled us. Made us think we had a fighting chance of saving her before he struck. We need to get Maddy Kramer over there.’
‘What, now, sir? She’s a civilian. Can we bother her at this time of night?’
Carver didn’t budge. ‘I don’t care, Drake. She’s the closest thing we’ve got to cracking this thing. I want her to see the body if she’s got the stomach for it. She might know the girl, spot something at the scene we’re missing. Because so far, we’re coming up with jack shit, and the Chief is this close to having my head on a stick. Grayson and his team are on their way, so let’s go. We’ll call Kramer en route and, assuming she’s up for it, send a car to pick her up.’
***
Still riding high on the thrill of the kill, the killer smiled and pretended to listen to the woman, a friend, sitting opposite in the jam-packed bar; all the time thinking about the events of roughly six hours ago and fighting a burning urge to boast about it to the friend, knowing that this would be fatal to the plan.
A couple of stiff drinks was just what was needed to unwind. As with Paige, it hadn’t been as exhilarating as it had been with Sarah and Lisa. They’d never shared eye contact, and so Emma hadn’t seen the hatred in the killer’s eyes. Likewise, the killer had been denied the pleasure of seeing the sheer terror in Emma’s when she’d realised she was toast.
Even so, having received the signal that Marsden had left the Supreme Court and was heading for the park, it had been exciting waiting for her in the grim park toilets. Murmuring like an injured cat, luring her into the trap like a frail little mouse; showing her who was boss, and that brains always outshone beauty.
Even more thrilling was the thought that once again, the police had been too late, despite being forewarned. Okay, so they’d been slightly misled – a little cheeky – but giving Carver too big a head start was far too risky. And the satisfaction of outwitting him, of making him realise that he was so near and yet so far, had been far more arousing than any sexual conquest.
The killer flashed a smile at the woman sitting opposite, secretly looking forward to outsmarting Jake Carver once again with victim number five.
***
Maddy thought she must be dreaming when her mobile started ringing.
After staring at the flow chart another thirty minutes, she’d spent a couple of hours working before calling it a night at 11.30. She’d been shattered, and despite feeling nervous about going to bed alone in the flat, had fallen into a deep sleep almost as soon as her head hit the pillow – albeit with a knife tucked under it.
She turned on her bedside lamp and fumbled around for her phone. ‘Hello?’ she croaked, her eyes still adjusting to the light.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you, Ms Kramer, but it’s DC Drake. There’s been another murder. At St James’s Park.’
Maddy sat up, suddenly wide awake. ‘You’re kidding me? That’s just behind the Supreme Court. Was no one guarding the area?’
She’d uttered the words without really thinking, but almost as soon as she’d said them, realised how patronising she must have sounded.
‘After your call, we had men surround the Supreme Court all night,’ Drake put her straight.
Maddy’s cheeks burned. He was perfectly entitled to be short with her. There had been no reason to think that the killer would strike in St James’s Park when the riddle had indicated nothing to that effect. She certainly hadn’t thought of it. What’s more, she was the one who told them to monitor the court.
She quickly apologised.
‘It’s fine, Ms Kramer,’ Drake said. ‘I’m calling because DCI Carver would appreciate your assistance. If we sent a car, would you be willing to attend the crime scene? I appreciate it’s a lot to ask, given the hour and the circumstances. But he thinks you might be able to offer some useful input.’
She hadn’t seen that coming; was both amazed and flattered by Carver’s faith in her. And although she was scared, the photos of Sarah flying through her mind, she realised she couldn’t say no. She was already in too deep, and she had to be strong, in memory of those who had died and for the sake of future victims. Including, potentially, herself.
‘Yes, I’ll come. I can be ready in five minutes.’
After hanging up, Maddy got out of bed, slung on some clothes, then raced to the bathroom and splashed her face with ice-cold water.
She didn’t know why – for Christ’s sake, she was about to attend a grisly murder scene – but she felt compelled to put on some make-up. Checking her appearance in the mirror, she felt the butterflies in her stomach. Was it Carver? Something about him that stirred an urge to impress him? It was bloody ridiculous. Get your priorities right, she told herself. Stop acting like some shallow adolescent.
As she stood at the living room window, curtain pulled back, looking out for the police car, she heard a key turn in the front door.
It was Paul. He looked dead beat.
‘Hi,’ he said, looking surprised. ‘What are you doing up?’ He gave her the once-over. Grinned. ‘Going out for a jog?’
His light-hearted remark was understandable. But Maddy had no urge to smile.
‘There’s been another murder, Paul.’
‘You’ve got to be joking.’ Paul tossed his rucksack on the floor, then joined Maddy at the window. ‘When? Where? How do you know?’
‘I don’t know when, but a body was found in St James’s Park. DC Drake just called with the news.’
‘Jesus. Who was she?’
‘Do
n’t know. But the police want my input at the crime scene.’
‘What the fuck!’ Paul was fuming. ‘What the hell for? They shouldn’t be putting you in danger like this, Mads. It’s unacceptable. You’re a lawyer, not bloody Miss Marple. Leave them to fight their own battles.’ He pointed to his watch. ‘Have you seen the time, for pity’s sake?’
Paul rarely got angry. It dawned on Maddy just how much he cared for her; how lucky she was to have him.
‘Calm down,’ she begged. She massaged his shoulder, willing him to come round. ‘I want to do this, Paul, I have to; for Paige’s sake, if nothing else. I spoke to her mum earlier, just to see how she was coping. She could barely speak, poor woman. I need to feel like I’m helping.’
‘But why do the police think you can help them? I don’t understand.’ Paul’s face was creased with exasperation.
‘Wait there a sec.’ Maddy raced out of the living room and was back in less than thirty seconds. She handed Paul the killer’s riddle. ‘I solved it, Paul. Well, sort of. I was close.’
As she watched Paul read, she recalled the excitement she’d felt trying to unscramble the riddle. She’d always had a talent for problem-solving. It was something that set her apart, made her an exceptional lawyer, rather than a mediocre one. ‘I told the police the murder would take place at the Supreme Court, and that the next legal subject the killer planned on inscribing would be—’
‘“Public”,’ Paul cut in.
‘Yes.’
‘He’s one hell of a sick bastard.’
The door buzzed. Maddy glanced out the window and saw a car. Its registration matched the one Drake had texted her. ‘The police are here. I’d better go.’
She made to leave, but Paul stopped her, hugged her fiercely. His heart was thumping as wildly as hers. ‘Please be careful, Mads. I love you. Christ, I’d marry you if I didn’t bat for the other side.’
The Scribe Page 14
