by BIBA PEARCE
“Oh, that’s a shame. We were hoping to . . .” Jo petered off, her shoulders dropping.
“Is there anything you can tell us about him?” Rob asked, unwilling to give up just yet. “A description, something your daughter might have said?” He was grasping, but what choice did they have?
“Dear, I’m afraid I can’t recall her mentioning anything about him other than he was pestering her. Her father would have remembered more, but he’s no longer with us. He died a few years after Bridget.”
Her eyes clouded over and she gazed unseeing out of the window, lost in her thoughts.
Adele came into the room. “Everything okay?” she asked.
Jo got up. “Yes, thank you. I think we’re done here. We’ve bothered Mrs Kane enough.”
Rob put his half-drunk mug on the table. “Thank you, Mrs Kane. We appreciate you talking to us.”
“I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help,” she said.
Adele showed them out. “I don’t know if it’s of interest,” she said. “But Mrs Kane’s got all her daughter’s things up in the attic. Two great big boxes of them.”
Jo glanced at Rob.
“Would she mind if we took a quick look?” Rob asked. “There might be something in them that could help us.”
“I’m sure she wouldn’t mind,” Adele said. “I’ll just ask her, hang on.”
Chapter 24
The attic was dusty and hadn’t been cleaned in years.
“Look at all this stuff.” Jo stared at the old furniture, broken bookcases, paintings and boxes lying around them. In the corner was a rolled-up Persian carpet. A toy rocking horse stood partially covered by a sheet. An ottoman gathered dust.
“You could have quite a jumble sale with this,” said Rob.
Adele popped her head up through the hatch. “Bridget’s boxes are over there by the skylight,” she said. “Take as long as you need.”
They cleared a space and opened the boxes. “It’s weird to think this is all that’s left of somebody’s life,” said Jo as she took out a floral scarf. “And she doesn’t even come up here.”
Rob tackled the second box. Handbags, some photographs in rusted silver frames, a jewellery box. “This is Bridget and Ben, back in the day.” He held up one of the photographs.
“So sad, isn’t it?” Jo stared at the smiling couple. The sea glittered in the background and they had wide smiles on their faces. “They look so happy.”
Rob ground his teeth. “That’s why we have to catch this bastard. He’s destroyed enough lives.”
Jo pulled out a nearly empty bottle of perfume. She squirted it and Bridget’s scent mingled with the stale air in the attic, almost like she was with them. “We will,” she muttered. “We will.”
They searched on. A photo album showed happy snaps of a much younger Bridget with the Kanes, some having been taken in that very house. Nostalgia was everywhere.
Finally, Jo reached down and pulled out a handful of calendars, the kind you kept on your kitchen wall to remember appointments. “Bridget was very organised,” she said. “She’s got one for every year going back at least five years.”
Rob glanced up. “She may have written something about the stalker in one of them. Which month was she murdered?”
“May.” Jo pulled out the one for 2011. She thumbed through until they came to May.
Rob leaned over and scanned it with her in the pool of light that was streaming in through the dirty skylight.
“Work meetings, dentist, dry cleaners, the usual stuff,” whispered Jo.
“We’ll have to go back further?” said Rob. “He was calling her for weeks, even after she’d moved in with Ben.”
Jo thumbed through the previous months. The calendar was filled with work meetings, girls’ nights out and a couple of birthday parties. She went back as far as November the previous year.
Then he saw it. “What’s that?”
Jo looked to where he pointed. In pencil, faded with time, was a small entry.
Dad spoke to R.
“‘R’?” Jo looked up. “Who’s ‘R’? Could that be our stalker?”
“Her father did warn him off.” Rob’s pulse rate was increasing. “Look for more mentions of ‘R’.”
Jo flipped back to October and they scanned the days, their eyes scrutinising every entry in Bridget’s rounded, neat handwriting.
“Nothing,” murmured Jo.
They tried September. Same result.
It was in August that they hit pay dirt.
“Dinner with Russell,” read Jo. She lifted her head to stare at Rob. “Could Russell be ‘R’?”
“The timing fits,” said Rob. “Remember, Ben said they had a whirlwind romance and things moved pretty quickly. They’d only been together six months before they got engaged, even shorter before they moved in together.”
“So August could have been when she had that fling with Russell.” Her voice was heavy with anticipation. She wanted to believe, but neither could afford to get their hopes up. “Rob, he could be the stalker.”
* * *
Things moved pretty quickly after that. Mrs Kane confirmed that Russell sounded familiar. “Yes, I think that was his name,” she said, her forehead furrowed. “I seem to recall my husband ranting about him. He had to have a word, you know.”
“Yes, we know.” Jo glanced at Adele, who patted Mrs Kane’s hand.
“Do you remember which college your daughter went to, Mrs Kane?” Rob was itching to get back to the police station and follow up on their new lead. “I believe it was in Canterbury.”
“Why, Canterbury College, of course,” she said with a faint smile. “She was a bright girl. My husband and I were so proud of her. Studied PR or something along those lines.”
They thanked Mrs Kane and left, Adele showing them out.
“You don’t mind if we take this calendar with us?” said Jo. “We’ll be sure to send it back when we’re done.”
Adele smiled sadly. “She won’t even realise it’s gone. I don’t think she’s ever been up there. Too painful, you know. I wouldn’t be surprised if the stress of losing her daughter and then her husband was what set all this off.”
Rob drove as fast as he dared back to Putney. He even put the siren on and flashed his lights repeatedly to warn motorists to get out the way. Like the Red Sea, the passing lane opened up before him and they raced along the M20 and the M25 without any issues. Jo spent the better part of the two-hour journey on the phone.
“Canterbury College,” she said to Graham. “We need the full student list for 2010 and 2011. Yes, everyone. As soon as possible.”
She finally hung up. “He must be on that list,” she said to Rob. “He’s got to be.”
* * *
“What have we got?” demanded Rob, as they marched into the squad room. It was late-afternoon and the room felt hot and stuffy after the race up the motorway in the air-conditioned police car.
“We’re going through the list now.” Mallory held up a sheet of paper. “It’s just come through.”
Rob and Jo hovered while the team picked through the names. Forty minutes later, they had twenty-three Russells who’d studied at Canterbury College in 2010 and 2011.
“Christ, why so many?” said Rob.
“First names, middle names and surnames,” said Mallory.
Rob wrote the names on the whiteboard, dividing them up into three columns.
“Let’s focus on those whose first names are Russell,” said Rob. There were six of them.
Lawrence came out of his office to stare at the board.
“Where are we on finding out who these men are?” he asked.
“We’ve requested the student files from the college and contacted the DVLA to see if we can get the photographs from their driving licences.” Mallory told him.
“The rest of the team are searching for references online and on social media,” said Jo.
He nodded tersely. “Let me know when you have something.”
Rob paced up and down, while Jo went to get coffee. An air of expectancy hung over the room. Officers tapped on their computer keyboards and waited for either the college or the DVLA to get back to them.
“Did you have any luck tracing the caller’s mobile phone number?” Jo asked Graham.
“It was a prepaid SIM,” he said, without looking up.
She sighed in frustration. “Just as you suspected,” she told Rob.
“Students and criminals,” he said with a tense grin.
The clock in the squad room reminded them that it was 4.15 p.m.
“I’ve got something on Russell Baxter.” Celeste poked her head up. “I’m printing out his Facebook profile picture now.”
The printer whirred and spat out a sheet of paper. Rob snatched it up. “Not him.” He handed it to Jo. She pinned it on the board next to the guy’s name. He was too short, with brown hair and a pug-nosed face.
“Are we sure it’s the right Russell Baxter?” asked Rob.
“Yes, it says on his profile he studied at Canterbury College,” Celeste confirmed.
He would have preferred the DVLA records, but they were taking their sweet time.
“I have a photograph for Russell Malik,” said Luke. The printer churned again.
“Not him either,” said Rob. Fuck.
Jo took the printout from him and pinned it on the whiteboard. This guy was taller, but of Arabic descent.
The next student on the list of six, Russell Lewis, was a well-developed black guy with shoulders a wrestler would be proud of.
Rob shook his head.
Three left to go.
Russell Makings was next, a blond-haired man with pale, pock-marked skin. He showed it to Jo. “What do you think?”
“Hmm . . . maybe? I don’t know. He has the bad skin, but is it bad enough for him to have developed a complex about it? He looks okay to me.”
“Yeah, I’m not sold either.”
Mallory jumped up. “The DVLA have just sent through the information.”
Everyone paused as the printer went to work again.
They’d got the first four right. Mallory helped Jo pin up the additional photographs, while Graham put up the ones in the second and third columns.
Student number five was an Indian guy in a turban. Definitely not him.
Last one.
Rob stood by Jo’s side, the rest of the room looking on as she held up the driving licence photograph. The name was Russell Hargreaves. Rob gazed at it, blinked, then looked at it again.
“I know this guy,” he said.
Chapter 25
“What? How?” Jo turned to face him.
The colour drained from his face. “He was with Yvette at the cocktail bar the other night. I thought he was gay.”
“Are you sure? It could be a different guy?”
Rob studied the picture again. Tall, slim, bald head, angular features, everything except the beard. A chill went through him.
“It’s definitely him. He works at Harrods and his name is Simon, I think. Not Russell.”
“He could easily have changed his name.” Her blue eyes were creased with concern. “Harrods, you say?”
Rob nodded weakly. What did this mean? Was the stalker friends with Yvette? Had he somehow realised who Yvette was engaged to and was now homing in on her?
“Jesus.” He looked around in horror. “He’s going after her.”
“Who? Yvette?” Jo grabbed him by the arm. “How do you know? Rob, what’s going on?”
“Don’t you see?” He ran a shaky hand through his hair. “He knows who I am. He’s seen me on the news, and he knows I’m hunting him. He also knows that Yvette and I are engaged. As my fiancée, she’s the perfect target.”
“Engaged?” Jo stared at him. “You’re engaged?”
He shook his head. “We were, before she walked out. I don’t know what we are now. But the point is, he doesn’t know that.”
Lawrence, who’d been listening at the back, surged forward and swung into action. “Okay, we need to get hold of her now. Rob, where is she? Where is she right this minute?”
“Er . . .” Rob found he was shaking. “She’ll be at work, most likely. Harrods, the cosmetics department.”
“Okay, let’s send uniform down there to pick her up, as well as this Simon character.” He glanced at Jo. “Now.”
She nodded and called the control centre. A moment later, she was issuing the command into her phone.
Rob scrolled for Yvette’s number, but his hands were shaking so much he pushed the wrong button.
“She’ll be okay, Rob, it’s just gone five o’clock. He won’t risk taking her in broad daylight in a busy store like Harrods.” Lawrence put a big hand on his shoulder.
“She’s not answering. I’d better get down there.”
Lawrence nodded.
“Jo, stay in contact with the officers picking her up. I want to know when she’s safe. That’s a priority.”
“Will do.”
Rob fled from the room with only one thought in his head: to get to Yvette before the stalker did. He could have secured the job at Harrods in order to get close to her, to learn her routine. Christ, why hadn’t he put two and two together earlier? Yvette would still be wearing her engagement ring. Hell, she’d probably told him all about their relationship, his job, the case he was working on.
Fuck. Could it get any worse?
As he drove like a madman towards Harrods, Rob called Yvette’s sister. “Naomi, did Yvette leave for work as usual this morning?”
“Yes, why? Is something wrong?” The concern was evident in her tone.
“I’m not sure yet. I’ll let you know.” He hung up and put his foot down, screeching around corners, the siren screaming.
Half an hour later he pulled up in front of Harrods in a loading bay. He left the car door open and charged inside, flashing his warrant card to the surprised security guards, who immediately followed him through the plush halls and into the cosmetics department. There, he found two uniformed police officers talking to Yvette’s supervisor, Rose. He ran up to her and gripped her by the shoulders. “Rose, where’s Yvette?”
She had a confused expression on her face. “I was just telling these officers that she went on her tea break forty-five minutes ago and hasn’t come back. I was just about to ring her. It’s not like her to be late.”
Rob’s heart sank. Please let it not be too late.
He turned to the coppers. “Have you got hold of Simon yet?”
“No, we don’t know his last name. One of our men is with Human Resources now.”
Rob groaned in irritation. He turned back to Rose. “Who’s her friend? The gay guy — Simon someone? He works here too.”
“You mean Simon Burridge?” The question came from a young woman standing nearby. She was wearing a long black pencil skirt and a white blouse, the standard attire for the sales assistants at Harrods. “He works on the fourth floor in the Bridal Boutique.”
“Bridal Boutique?”
That was how he was finding the girls, not the expo at Olympia. Harrods would have a mailing list and he was willing to bet both Julie Andrews and Sara Bakshi were on it.
“Which way?” he snapped.
The woman pointed to an elaborate archway through which Rob caught a glimpse of an elevator. “Come with me,” he said to the officers and dashed off. They stayed on his heels, as did the security guards, as he sprinted up three flights of escalators, taking two at a time, to the fourth floor.
“Where’s the wedding department?” he rasped, chest heaving. The two police officers were panting too, but the fit security guards didn’t appear to be out of breath.
“That way,” one of them said in a deep Slavic accent, and headed off through the store, zigzagging around customers, from one luxuriously decorated room to the next.
Eventually they came to a white room filled with designer wedding gowns and accessories. The Bridal Boutique.
Rob ran
up to the sales assistant and asked for Simon Burridge. The woman seemed startled. “I . . . I don’t know. I’ve been calling him for the last hour. He went on his tea break and hasn’t come back.”
God, no. He was too late.
Rob gripped the front desk for support and tried to get his breath back. What now? He couldn’t think, his mind was clouded with panic. He pulled out his phone and called Jo. He needed her calm, logical, one-step-ahead brain.
“He’s already got her. Oh, God, Jo. We’re too late.”
He began to pace up and down, the panic climbing in his chest. The police officers and the security guards gave him a wide berth. They didn’t know the details, but they could sense this was big.
“Rob, calm down and think.” Jo’s voice was steady, though he could hear the urgency in her tone. “What’s Yvette’s mobile number? Is her phone on?”
He thought for a moment. “Yes, it was on, but she didn’t pick up.”
“Give it to me.”
He did and heard her writing it down. “What about this Simon? Does he have a mobile number that we can trace? Ask them.”
Thank God for Jo. His brain wasn’t functioning properly due to the shock. He turned back to the sales assistant. “You said you’d been trying to call him. What’s his number?”
She read it out to him and he repeated it to Jo at the other end of the line.
“Okay, I’ve got it,” she said. “We’re running a trace on both of their phones now. I’ll let you know when we get something. Stay on the line.”
“Will do.” Rob was sick to the stomach at the thought of Yvette at the hands of that monster. God only knew how he’d got her out of the building.
“Christ, we have to find him Jo. I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to—”
“That’s not going to happen,” she interjected. “We’re going to find her. Hang in there. Don’t fall apart on me now.”
She was right. He had to get a grip. He needed to be functioning optimally if he was going to find this bastard. Adrenaline surged through his veins, replacing the shock.
“Give me something to go on,” he hissed. “Anything.”
