The Mimic (A DI Erica Swift Thriller Book 6)

by M K Farrar

  “Skehan himself hasn’t been much help either. According to him, he doesn’t have any enemies, no one he’s fallen out with or who would want to hurt him.”

  “He seems like a nice enough bloke,” Erica said. “He’s on his own here. Family are in Ireland. No crazy ex-girlfriends who would pay to have someone disfigure him?”

  “Nope. His story all checks out.”

  Erica twisted the wedding ring she still wore around on her finger. “What about the Conrad case. I hope we’ve had better luck there?”

  “Digital Forensics are tracking down some trolls they’ve found via her social media accounts, ones who’ve sent her messages threatening to kill her or telling her to kill herself, that kind of thing.”

  Erica shook her head in dismay. “Jesus, what the hell is wrong with these people?”

  “Makes them feel like they’re important, I guess, to hide behind a computer screen and make some young woman feel bad about themselves.”

  It hadn’t been words written on a screen that had harmed Naomi Conrad in the end. It had been a very real-life man with his hands around her throat.

  “What about CCTV from her street?” Erica asked.

  “Good news on that one, boss. We have a neighbour who has a Ring doorbell. We’ve requested the footage, and I’ll send it over to you as soon as it comes in.”

  “Excellent. It would be good to find something that will back up Robert Day’s story of another man arriving at her building as he was leaving. Right now, all we’ve got is his word for it, and considering the amount of his DNA at the crime scene, his word doesn’t count for much.”

  “We’ve interviewed all the other residents in the block of flats, and no one else saw anyone coming and going at the time. Trouble is,” Rudd shrugged, “it was the early hours of the morning, and people were in bed.”

  “Not everyone was in bed,” Erica pointed out. “One man was leaving someone’s bed. We just don’t know if the woman whose bed he left was still alive when he did so.”

  “Even if we get proof that someone else entered the building after Robert Day left, we don’t know for sure that he even went up to Naomi’s flat. He could have been there for someone else.”

  “None of the other residents had visitors after midnight on the night she was killed, according to their statements, and they were all either home that night, or they weren’t there at all.” Erica twisted her lips. “If someone did arrive at the building, they didn’t go to any of the other flats.”

  “Let’s hope we can get the other person on camera then. If we can make an ID we could finally have a solid lead to go on.”

  “Let me know as soon as the footage comes in.”

  Her phone rang, and she nodded to Rudd to tell her they were done, and then answered it. “DI Swift.”

  A familiar voice came down the line. “Hi, it’s Keith Allen.”

  She sat back. “Hi, Keith, how are you?”

  “Not bad, not bad. I’ve just uploaded the results from the Conrad murder, but I thought I’d give you a call, as well, see if there’s anything you’d like to talk through.”

  “Thanks for doing that. What did you find?”

  She didn’t have a problem getting results back via the computer, but she would always prefer to have a conversation with someone rather than everything being done by email. Maybe she was already old school at the grand old age of thirty-six, but she thought the current generation growing up was in danger of losing the art of having an actual conversation. Everything was done by text or messenger, or via social media.

  “We’ve put the victim’s time of death as being between midnight and three a.m. on the Wednesday morning. We found DNA beneath the victim’s nails, which has been matched to Robert Day. The semen in the condom is also Robert Day’s.”

  Erica rubbed the crook of her forefinger across her lips as she thought. “He admits to being there, but I really don’t think it was him. Leaving a condom full of his DNA wouldn’t have been the smartest move if he is the killer, but it might also be a double bluff. Unless he’s an exceptional actor, he seemed too upset about her death, and the news came as a shock to him.”

  “Plenty of psychopaths and sociopaths seem like perfectly normal people on the surface,” Keith said, “they’re even charming. A lot of people who would consider themselves good judges of character have been taken in by them.”

  “I know, but Robbie Day doesn’t seem like a psychopath or a sociopath.”

  He gave a small laugh. “There’s the catch.”

  “What else did you find?”

  “Fibres on the body. Some were from the bedsheets. The others are unknown. There was also saliva on the body that matched Robert Day.”

  “As I already said, Mr Day has admitted to being there the night Naomi died and says they had sex. Unless you were able to get fingerprints from the skin around her throat where the bruises are where she was strangled, I’m afraid it doesn’t prove much.”

  “I wish I could tell you we could. The body looked like an attempt had been made to clean her after she was killed, but obviously, with the DNA beneath the nails, the killer didn’t do a great job. It wasn’t as though he put her in the bathtub or anything. I’d say it’s more likely he wiped her down with a wet towel or something similar.”

  “Had a flannel or towel been found at the crime scene? There had been towels in the bathroom, of course, but could one of them have been used to clean the body? If so, have they been processed for DNA?”

  “Yes, I believe so, but nothing other than the victim’s DNA was found.”

  “He might have taken it with him as a souvenir then.”

  “Or he wore gloves,” Keith suggested.

  “But the towel or cloth would have picked up Robert Day’s DNA if they had sex shortly before she was murdered. His DNA would have been all over her body and so it would make sense that it would end up all over whatever her killer cleaned her up with as well. So, if we found the cloth, it wouldn’t just have had the victim’s DNA.” The certainty that he’d have taken it with him as a memento solidified inside her. Had Tristan Maher done the same with his victims?

  She’d need to go back over the old case file to be sure, but she didn’t think so. His souvenirs had been in the way of the photographs he’d used to paint his victims’ portraits.

  Why did her thoughts keep going back to that previous case? Other than the victim being strangled and left on the bed, naked, and the hair covering the bruising around the neck, there wasn’t anything else linking them. And the person who’d murdered those previous women was currently behind bars and would be for the rest of his life. There was no possibility of Maher being responsible.

  Could it be a copycat killer? If so, they’d got plenty of the details wrong, but then the police had never revealed everything to the public, even after Maher was put behind bars. She hoped more bodies weren’t going to show up.

  Shawn was working at his desk, so she got up and went over to him. He glanced up as she approached.

  “Did you ever manage to look up the name of the man who came forward in the Maher case?”

  He nodded. “Yes, I’ve got it right here. His name was Aaran Dunsted.”

  “Aaran Dunsted,” she repeated. “That’s right. I remember now. Creepy son of a bitch.”

  Shawn gave a wry smile. “That’s the one.”

  “Have we got a recent address for him?”

  “Yes. He’s moved since we last spoke to him, but he’s still local.”

  “Good. Let’s go and have a chat. Find out where he was in the early hours of Wednesday morning.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Aaron Dunsted—the man who’d wrongly confessed to murdering two women, Emma Wilcox and Kerry Norris, a couple of years ago had downgraded from the already-crappy high-rise flat they’d searched during their investigations and was now living in a grotty single-room bedsit in Newham, East London. This part of London had one of the worst crime rates, double that of the nationa
l average. Unfortunately, crime came hand in hand with poverty. The high street was lined with pawnbrokers, Poundlands, and cheap fried chicken shops.

  Dunsted’s new place was a couple of roads back from the main road. Erica pressed the buzzer that had his name next to it. A moment later, he opened the door.

  He hadn’t changed much from two years earlier—the same wire-framed glasses and crucifix around his neck. Was that to lull people into a false sense of security around him? That, combined with the boyish good looks and posh accent, could easily lure a woman into believing he wasn’t the type of person who got a kick from pretending he’d murdered two women. His light-brown curly hair was a little longer, but that was the only thing that hinted at the two years that had passed since she’d last seen him.

  “Hello, Aaron,” she said. “Remember me?”

  It took a moment for a flicker of recognition to light on his face, but as it did, it was joined by a smile. “DI Swift, of course. How could I ever forget?”

  His line of sight drifted past her shoulder to where Shawn stood. “And your partner is here, too. To what do I honour this reunion?”

  “We’d like to come in for a chat, if that’s all right?”

  He glanced over his shoulder. “It’s not really suitable for visitors right now.”

  “We won’t judge.” She paused and then added, “Unless you’d rather go down to the station?”

  He huffed out a breath. “You’d better come in then.”

  Several doors led off the entrance hall, each one the entrance to a separate bedsit. A hole had been punched or kicked in the plasterboard wall and the carpet—if it could pass for a carpet—was stained and threadbare.

  Aaron stopped at the first door and pushed it open. Erica and Shawn followed him inside.

  A stale whiff of damp and body odour permeated the air, and Erica did her best not to wrinkle her nose. The room wasn’t much to write home about. Other than a bed, there was hardly any other furniture. The single bed hadn’t been made, the duvet twisted and hanging off the end. Dirty clothing lay in piles on the floor, together with used cups and plates stacked on top of one another. A small kitchen setup was in the corner, consisting of an electric hob, a microwave, a kettle, and a toaster. Another door opened onto the tiniest bathroom Erica had ever seen—a shower, a toilet, and sink crammed into what could have been a cupboard. She was relieved the walls weren’t covered with newspaper clippings, as they had been in his previous flat. She remembered the walls plastered with articles about the women’s murders and her previous cases, including Chris’s death.

  There was nowhere for them to sit, so they both hovered awkwardly near the door, while Aaron perched on the edge of the bed.

  Erica looked around the room. “You used to work in graphic design, didn’t you, Aaron? On the South Bank? I assume a job like that could afford you something better than this?”

  His gaze shifted away. “I lost that job. Too much time in a psych ward didn’t exactly enamour me to my employers.”

  “You can only blame yourself for that. We didn’t come to you that time. You handed yourself over.”

  It wasn’t unusual for them to deal with time wasters. They often had people saying they had information on a crime when they knew nothing. It was the same as when patients went into doctors’ surgeries with made-up ailments just so they could talk to someone for a while. They craved the attention or sometimes were simply lonely.

  He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. It was only a job, a job that bought things. Life’s about more than just things, wouldn’t you agree, Detective? It’s experiences that are important. That’s what we think about on our deathbeds, not our flat-screen televisions or our iPads or our fancy cars.”

  “True,” she agreed, “but a good job is also an experience, as is the home we live in, or the food on our tables.”

  She wasn’t here to discuss philosophy with him. “Where were you on Tuesday night, Aaron?” she asked, getting straight to the point. Her previous encounter with the man meant she had little time for him.

  He frowned. “Tuesday? Right here, probably. I don’t go out much these days.”

  “Can anyone else confirm that?”

  “Why?” A slow smile curled his lips. “You think I killed that girl? The social media one?”

  “We’re just making some enquiries.”

  He gave a chuckle and rubbed his hand across his mouth. “Let me get this straight. You didn’t believe me when I told you about the two other women, but now there’s been another one, you’re looking in my direction.”

  “We’re simply covering all bases.”

  He huffed air through his nostrils. “It’s kind of ironic, isn’t it, that you come to me suspecting me of a crime when you didn’t believe me when it was the other way around.”

  Erica folded her arms across her chest and resisted the urge to tap her foot. “It’s not ironic, Aaron. We didn’t believe you because you weren’t the one to commit those crimes. The man responsible is behind bars.”

  He gestured with both hands. “Yet now there’s been another woman murdered and you show up here.”

  “You showed a high level of interest in those previous cases, and this one is similar. We wouldn’t be doing our jobs right if we didn’t follow every lead, no matter how tenuous.”

  “I didn’t kill that other woman, Detective. I’m over all of that.”

  His gaze was constantly fixed on Erica. It was as though he didn’t even notice Shawn was in the room. He gave her the creeps, and she considered herself hard to shake.

  “Over what?”

  He gave a slow smile. “My obsession with true crime. I’m pursuing healthier interests now. Meditation and mindfulness.”

  Erica didn’t believe that he’d simply stopped being interested. No one went from that level of obsession to nothing. With an internal shudder, she remembered how he’d become aroused when he’d lain in the spot where one of the women’s bodies had been arranged.

  “You still haven’t answered my question. Can anyone confirm where you were on Tuesday night and the early hours of Wednesday morning?”

  He pressed his finger to his lips. “Hmm. Let me consider my very full social calendar.” He thought for a moment. “Wait a minute, on Tuesday I wasn’t here. I mean, I was in this building, but I was down at one of the other residents’ rooms, playing cards and having a few beers.”

  “You were with someone?” she checked. “Until what time?”

  “Early hours. One-ish, I think. I didn’t check the exact time.”

  The post-mortem report said that Naomi Conrad was killed somewhere between the hours of midnight and three a.m. Even if someone could confirm his whereabouts until one, that didn’t rule him out. He still would have had time to murder Naomi.

  “What’s this person’s name?” Erica asked.

  “Troy. He’s in number four. I don’t know his surname.”

  “You don’t know his surname?”

  “No, it’s not something I’ve ever asked. I doubt he knows mine either, unless he’s been nosing at my post.”

  “I see.” Erica glanced to Shawn, who returned her look with a slight nod. They weren’t going to get anything else out of Aaron. “Okay, thanks for your time, Aaron. Hopefully, we won’t have to be in touch.”

  Aaron got to his feet to show them out. “Thanks for the visit, Detective. Always good to know you’re still thinking about me.”

  They left the building, the door shutting behind them. Erica paused on the doorstep, looking back at the property.

  “If someone can confirm his whereabouts, he couldn’t have been the one to murder Naomi,” Shawn said.

  “He said he was only with his neighbour until the early hours. Could he have had enough time to get to Naomi’s flat and kill her after he’d left the neighbour’s place?”

  “Two hours to get to Naomi’s flat and kill her?” Shawn raised his eyebrows. “Yeah, he had time.”

  Erica chewed her lower lip. “Wha
t about the time Robert Day says he saw someone going into the building? Could that have been Aaron? We could show Robert a photograph of Aaron and see if he can ID him?”

  Shawn pursed his lips. “That’s got all kinds of problems attached to it. Since we don’t even know if Robert Day is innocent for sure, he could easily ID Aaron and shift the blame from himself.”

  “Not if we show him a lineup of photographs. If he picks Aaron out of numerous photos, we might be onto something.”

  “It’s worth a shot, but we have no proof that Aaron had anything to do with Naomi Conrad’s murder. All we’re going on is that he had an obsession with two other murders a couple of years ago.

  “Not just murders,” Erica said. “Strangulations of young women in their beds. Aaron wanted for it to have been him to have done those crimes. Who’s to say he hasn’t gone a step further and done it for real this time.”

  “He has an alibi,” Shawn reiterated. “We still need to check that out.”

  “Let’s do it now.”

  The buzzer had the other man’s name on it. Troy Sarty.

  Erica pressed it. These weren’t the posh kind with an intercom or a way to unlock the main door without physically getting up and doing it. The door swung open, and a young black man answered.

  His gaze flicked up and down them. “You look like police.”

  “We are. Don’t worry, you’re not in any trouble. We just need to ask you a couple of questions about your neighbour, Aaran Dunsted.”

  His eyes narrowed. “What about him?”

  She ignored the question and went with one of her own. “What’s your name and date of birth?”

  He rattled it off and Shawn jotted it down.

  “Is this your permanent address?” Erica asked.

  “Yeah, it is. Been here two years now.”

  “Do you live with anyone else?”

  His eyes narrowed. “Nah, it’s just me.”

  “When was the last time you saw Aaran Dunsted?”

  Troy glanced over his shoulder, as though he thought he might find Aaron standing there, listening to what he had to say. “Umm, Tuesday, I think. Yeah, Tuesday.”