More silence from around the room.
‘Maybe he lowered himself off those planks slowly, climbed down on the rope with the end of it around his neck, then let go at the bottom,’ said DI Harper. ‘A suicide to look like a murder. It’s rare, but it’s been known.’
Honor nodded, not reacting adversely to the assault on her theory. Critical analysis of a crime scene was part and parcel of their work, and often revealed insights into a crime that a detective working alone would not have noticed.
‘The victim was terrified of heights,’ Honor said. ‘We have it on record that the guy got dizzy standing on a thick rug, never mind climbing two hundred feet up a church steeple. To then walk out on an eight–inch wide plank and lower himself to his death? It’s a bigger reach than to suggest he was murdered.’
The conference room hummed with silence, but the faces around Honor were interested now.
‘Autopsy?’ Leeson asked.
‘Results should be with us first thing tomorrow,’ Honor replied. ‘Toxicology too, if we’re lucky.’
DCS Leeson looked at DI Harper. ‘Set up an incident room here at B–Gate, not at Wood Street, if the results confirm suspicious circumstances. I’ll field the media, but we’re going to need something to say if this starts gathering pace. If we go with suspected suicide, but Honor is right, it could goad a killer into striking again if they think we’re not getting the message they want to send.’
Honor’s nerves jangled with a heady fusion of delight and anxiety as she saw her assessment officially vindicated. She intercepted a dark glance from Hansen as the rest of the briefing played out. By five o’clock they were out of the conference room. A firm hand squeezed her shoulder as she walked.
‘Nice work, boss,’ Danny Green said. ‘Not a bad first day back.’
Honor returned the compliment with a smile but said nothing as she returned to her office and sat down. The sky was rapidly darkening outside, the pale blue vault of the heavens laden with thunderheads, their heights bathed in orange light from the setting sun that reflected off windows on the tower blocks.
‘Honor?’ She turned and saw Samir at her office door. ‘We’re heading over to The Bull. You in?’
The Bull was a traditional pub, tucked away in a tiny side street called Devonshire Row, where many of the local officers and detectives descended for drinks when their shifts were up, or meals when they were late in the office and needed to get out from behind their desks for an hour or so. Honor shook her head.
‘Not tonight.’
‘They’re serving roast,’ Samir teased with a smile, ‘and I could pick your brains about all sorts.’
Honor forced a smile onto her features. ‘No thanks, I’ve got a full plate here and I’m pretty tired. Busy first day and all that.’
Samir hesitated for a moment, then he nodded in understanding and left. Honor watched the empty space where he had been standing. She knew that she should just get up and go. Her shift was over, although on an active case there was rarely anything known as a “standard” shift. Everybody worked overtime, and leave was often cancelled when things got really intense, not that anybody wanted time off at those moments anyway. But the Dukas case was not yet a truly active homicide investigation, and the media would not take much notice of the team having a meal in the pub. Give it another couple of days, or, heaven forbid, another similar killing, and nobody in MIT 2 would be able to pass wind without journalists knowing about it. Eating in a pub would be used as “evidence” for low–blow journalism pieces accusing police of not working hard enough, or that they somehow didn’t care about finding the perpetrator.
Honor leaned back in her seat as she accessed the latest church CCTV footage, sent to her by Gary Wheeler’s construction company. Jenson Cooper had come through and e–mailed it to her while she had been in the meeting. Within minutes of beginning to review the footage, she had forgotten about Samir and the pub meal.
4
‘Bollocks! I don’t believe it!’
The Crosse Keys pub was overflowing with people around its central oval bar, where milling crowds fought for space and the attention of the staff
Amber Carson shook her head, giggling over her wine as she sat with friends at one of the many tables that surrounded the bar.
‘I’m telling you; it was Sean Bean! He signed my bra!’
There were four of them, Amber sitting with her friend Rachel to one side of the table, Julie and Michelle opposite. All were on their fourth drink, or maybe it was the fifth, and nobody was in the mood to stop despite everybody having to go to work the next day.
‘I want to see that bra!’ Rachel yelped.
‘I’m going to get it framed,’ Amber replied. ‘Signed by Ned Stark, aka Sean Bean.’
‘Did he look like he does on the telly?’ Julie enquired.
‘He’s a bit older now,’ Amber admitted, ‘but like all men, he’s better in the flesh.’ ‘In your flesh, or just generally?’ Michelle purred.
‘Will you leave it out?’
They had been in the pub since finishing work, and Amber glanced out of the tall windows nearby to see the night sky dark, car headlights flickering past. She glanced at her watch: 8.59pm. Her vision was blurring slightly and she realised that the drinks were going to her head quicker than they normally would. That’s what you get for skipping dinner.
‘I’d better go,’ she said.
‘Are you kidding?’ Rachel said. ‘We only just got started!’
‘We got started about eight years ago,’ Michelle replied, ‘and haven’t dried out since. Amber’s right, I need to go now too or we’ll still be here at midnight.’
‘That’s the idea!’ Rachel chortled, but Amber could see the disappointment in her friend’s eyes. They weren’t twenty–years–olds now, and it was starting to show.
The four friends stood up and put on their coats and jackets before hugging each other goodbye. Amber had only a fairly short walk up to Hackney, while her three friends all lived south of the water.
‘You want us to call you a taxi?’ Julie asked.
Amber smiled. She would have liked a ride home, but money was tight since she’d split up with her boyfriend, so throwing a tenner on a cab wasn’t an option, especially when she could walk the route in less than twenty minutes.
‘Thanks, but it’s fine, it’s still busy out there.’ ‘Okay, call me when you get home, okay?’ ‘Will do!’
The foursome made their way out of the cosy warmth of the pub. Amber could still see a hint of dark blue sky above, but black clouds were scudding across the heavens and she could feel tiny spots of rain spiralling down toward them. She reached up to her collar and pulled her hood over her head as she waved goodbye to her friends and set off north.
She walked past the chambers and the amusingly named Dirty Dicks pub, heading toward Old Spitalfields. The darkened streets were now the domain of city suits hurrying home from their offices and the trading floors, the skyline around her a glittering array of towering office blocks filled with soft lighting. The suits rushed by without a glance, broadsheets tucked under their arms, umbrellas in their hands as they raced the forthcoming storm for home. The wind whipped between the huge office blocks, tugging at her raincoat as Amber forged her way north.
Her home was a tiny, one–bedroom apartment above a little cafe on Scrutton Street, right opposite the Old King’s Head pub. Compact, to say the least, and with a monthly rent that could have bought her a small country in other parts of the world, Amber had remained there after her last boyfriend had ditched her for a younger version, or so she’d later been told. The sting of that hadn’t been as bad as she’d assumed – better now than later, when kids and mortgages and messy divorces were involved. At least she’d kept his half of the apartment deposit, which she assumed the bloody idiot had forgotten about in his haste to dip his wick into whatever floozy he’d presumably picked up somewhere along the line.
Amber buried her head into her hood and walke
d faster. She was leaving the edge of the financial district now, the glossy tower blocks behind her, a few more under construction partially concealed behind security sites. She could see towering cranes reaching up into the darkness of the night, red lights slowly flashing on top to warn low–flying helicopters of their presence above the city.
The suits were gone now, replaced by ordinary folk going about their business. People talked on mobile phones as they walked, others smoked e–cigarettes or real ones. Corrugated iron fences concealed building projects, their rusting metal surfaces inked with a kaleidoscopic array of graffiti and gang tags.
She cut left onto Worship Street, swallowed by the darkness between two massive office blocks. There bustle of the main road disappeared behind her, until she could hear her heels clicking once more on the pavement. This was the part she hated the most, and despite the somewhat comforting presence of CCTV cameras on the buildings she could not help but feel vulnerable. She felt dizzy and nauseous, far more so than she really should have done on three glasses of Pinot. All she could think about was getting home and throwing herself into bed to sleep it off. It had been a long day at work beforehand, and she felt incredibly fatigued. Maybe Robbie’s decision to leave her had affected her more than she thought. She hadn’t gone out as much while they’d lived together, enjoying their little life of watching television and having take–aways when they could afford it. Now she was alone and craved the company of her friends, even if it meant drinking a little more than she was used to.
She turned right into the narrow confines of Holywell Row, and was truly alone. Hemmed in by the backs of anonymous offices and commercial properties, the alley was a through–fare and little else. She could only just about hear the sounds of occasional traffic from distant streets.
She walked as fast as she could without looking desperate, breathing deeply to clear her mind. Her footsteps were uneasy, as though she was losing her coordination, and she wondered if she was coming down with something. A couple of the guys in her office had recently been off sick with the flu. What she really didn’t need right now was two weeks in bed, her sick pay nothing like what she needed to pay the rent.
A figure appeared ahead, walking down the alley in the opposite direction. Amber’s grip on her cell phone tightened in one hand, her grip on her apartment keys tightening in the other. Simple tricks; a phone to call for help, the key a weapon to strike an attacker’s face should she be unlucky enough to be confronted.
The figure was male, tall, his hood up against the light drizzle now gusting down from the turbulent skies above. He walked in the centre of the road, dominating the street, his head down and his hands tucked in his pockets. As the man closed in on her, Amber began to wish she had taken the offer of a taxi. She stayed on the pavement, but her heart began to pound in her chest as the man veered toward her, closer now, enough to see a bull–neck and thick shoulders. A big man, far too powerful for her to fight off. She opened her mouth, ready to scream bloody murder if the man made a move for her, her hand gripping her apartment key tightly enough that pain throbbed through her fingers.
The man was almost upon her. He looked up, his features shadowy within his hood, and a look of surprise flashed across his features as she heard the whisper of his iPod playing music through his Bluetooth earphone. The man veered away from her, lost in his music, and Amber passed by. She walked ten paces and glanced over her shoulder to see the man still walking away from her, his head down as he disappeared around the corner of Holywell.
Christ, you need some rest, girl.
The lights of the Old King’s Head and the sound of laughter and people talking outside calmed her nerves as she reached Scrutton Street and crossed to her apartment. The front door was in a narrow alley alongside the building, itself protected by a metal– grate security door. Amber unlocked the security door, then the front door, and stepped in before locking both doors behind her.
She slumped against the wall and suddenly a wave of nausea hit her. She felt awful, as though a hangover was already dragging her down. She slowly climbed the narrow stairway to her tiny apartment, her legs weak and untrustworthy. Her world swayed off– balance as she reached the top of the stairs, her stomach in turmoil as she turned right in the darkness and staggered into the bedroom.
Amber kicked off her shoes and slumped face–down onto the bed. God, she was so tired. This wasn’t like anything she had ever felt before, and she knew that she had to sort herself out before she fell asleep, else she’d still be wearing her work clothes in the morning.
Slowly, with great effort, she pushed herself up into a sitting position and reached out for the bedside lamp. The light switched on, and she turned to stand in time to see the man rush upon her from the living room. He moved so fast that she could only make out a bulky, heavy–set frame dressed all in black, his face concealed behind a balaclava, gloves on his hands and two fearsome eyes glaring at her as he filled her vision.
Amber opened her mouth to suck in air with which to scream, but the man ploughed into her and she toppled backwards onto her bed as though she’d been hit by a train. A gloved hand covered her mouth, the man’s eyes staring into hers from inches away as she fought with what little strength she had left. To her horror, she felt him gently stroking her hair as he pinned her beneath his weight. She tried to squirm away, but her body was now so utterly bereft of energy that it was all she could do to keep her eyes open.
Moments later, she could not even do that, and her consciousness slipped away into a deep blackness, the man’s eyes the last thing on her terrified mind.
Beautiful.
That was what he thought of her. So many of them were these days, too many to choose from it seemed. But this one, like the others, was special. Some girls just had that magic, a vibrance that made them stand out. It wasn’t that they were supermodels, it was something more subtle and unique: the way they giggled, the way that their lips curled as they smiled, the shape and set of their eyes. Sometimes, it was just the way their hair curled over tiny, pixie–like ears, just as Amber’s was doing now.
Power.
The power was intoxicating, like nothing else he had ever experienced in his life. The power not just of life over death, but the power of time, power over the moment itself. This moment, and those that would soon follow. The crucible of life was a painful, laborious affair laden with strife and disappointments. Thus, few people ever got to experience moments of power such as this, although he knew that many dreamed of it, fantasised about it, some for their entire lives. They attempted to quench their thirst for power through violent video games, or by hiring women, or joining fetish clubs and other bizarre pursuits, but all of it was just to avoid the truth that all men carried in their black hearts, that absolute power over a woman was a drug in itself, a virus sought by all yet avoided by most, who lacked the courage to surrender to their true convictions.
He looked down at her now. Amber Carson. Even her name, Amber, was perfect, matched her features, her personality, her smile. He stroked her hair some more, marvelling at how soft it felt. Her face was serene, her sculptured lips soft and inviting. He could smell her perfume, but more than that he could smell the scent of her, a primal elixir that sent spasms of heat pulsing through his groin.
Not this one. This one is special.
He closed his eyes and forced himself to step back from the brink. He’d violated the last one, and had as a result been forced to wait over two months before the right opportunity had again presented itself. Time was of the essence. The first victim had been the bait, and it had been a tortuous task to suspend the body from such great height, but now it was done. A question arose unbidden into his mind; do I leave them floundering, wondering what happened to Sebastian Dukas? Or do I start now, and bring forth the hell that is waiting?
Power, again, adrenaline lacing his veins, thundering like a freight train through his nervous system. Anticipation surged with every heartbeat. He could wait, use Amber for his pl
easure before disposing of her, but he knew in his heart of hearts that he did not want to wait any longer. Now was the right time, and the conditions of yesterday had been perfect. It was time, his time.
He needed to leave his mark on her though. Slowly, he reared up, kneeling over Amber as he reached down and unbuttoned her blouse. He took his time, slowly easing the fabric aside before gently lifting up her bra to reveal large, soft breasts. He leaned down and slowly ran his tongue across them, tasted them one at a time. The temptation to use her was almost overwhelming but he refrained, driven by a greater purpose. He sat up again and gently placed her bra back in place as he savoured the taste of her skin, soft and clean, so alive. Then, he removed her blouse, leaving her underwear and jeans in place as he carefully folded the clothes and slipped them into a leather shoulder bag. He stood up, watched her for a moment longer, and then he reached down and slipped her earrings from her. He put them in his pocket and checked his watch. Too early. He would have to wait. He sat on the edge of the bed, and in the darkness silently watched Amber sleeping.
There was no need for him to restrain her, for she would not awake for at least four hours. That would be enough time to do what he needed to do. She was smaller than Sebastian had been, so the dose had been lighter. Then again, Sebastian had fought with surprising gusto before being overwhelmed, to the extent that he had been forced to squeeze the life out of him before the time was right.
Phobia Page 5
