The Mimic (A DI Erica Swift Thriller Book 6)

by M K Farrar

  Nicholas made up his mind, but first there was something he needed to do. He gathered all the letters together and called for one of the prison officers.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Erica managed to spend Sunday with Poppy. They went for a walk to the park and fed the ducks. Erica even cooked a roast dinner, though sometimes it felt like a big effort just for the two of them. Poppy enjoyed the routine, though, sitting at the big table with placemats and a fizzy drink and a warm syrup sponge and ice cream for pudding. Then it was bath and hair-washing time, and before Erica could figure out what had happened to the day, it was time for bed again.

  Monday morning arrived, and she braced herself for a stacked desk. Weekends were always busy, which invariably got shifted to Mondays.

  Her phone rang, and she answered.

  “Will you take a reverse charge call from Belmarsh Prison?”

  It caught her completely off guard. Prison? Who would be calling her from there?

  “Umm, yes, okay.”

  “Connecting you.”

  Her fingers tightened around the phone, her body bolt upright, every muscle tensed.

  The male voice on the other end of the line sent shards of ice through her veins. “DI Swift?”

  “Who is this?”

  “Don’t say you’ve forgotten me already, DI Swift.”

  All of a sudden, the bustling energy of the office and all her colleagues around her seemed to pull away, so they were distant and faded. The only thing that existed for her now was the phone and the person on the other end of the line.

  “Nicholas Bailey? Is that you? Why are you calling me?”

  “I have information that will help you.”

  “Information about what?”

  “There have been cases, haven’t there? Ones like before.”

  Her heart seemed to stop. “What?”

  “Someone has been writing to me about them.”

  “Why do you think that, Mr Bailey?” Even speaking his name felt like poison on her tongue.

  “Because they’ve been sending me letters describing certain...hobbies...and they match the cases you’ve investigated. There’s going to be another one, and it’ll be soon.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Not like this. I won’t talk to you about it on the phone. You need to come and see me.”

  Her other hand balled into a fist. “You want me to visit you?”

  “Yes, I do. And if you want to hear what I have to say, you’ll do as I ask. Come alone, DI Swift. I’ll refuse to see you, if you don’t.”

  The line went dead, and Erica was left staring at the phone, her mind reeling. Had that really just happened?

  From across the office, Shawn must have caught sight of her face. “Everything okay?”

  “Nicholas Bailey just called me from prison.”

  His eyes widened. “What the hell did he want?”

  “He says he has information on the cases.”

  “Which cases?”

  “He knows someone is copying my previous cases. He says the person who’s doing it has been writing to him in prison and he wants to talk to me about it.”

  Shawn’s lips thinned. “I don’t like it. He’s playing with you.”

  “I don’t like it either, but what choice have I got?” She fixed her gaze on him. “He knew, Shawn. That thing I’ve been wondering about all this time, that I was the thing that connected those three cases, I just had the man who murdered my husband confirm it to me. And he says there’s going to be another one, and that he has information that might stop him.”

  “You still need to refuse to go.”

  She shook her head. “We’ve got nowhere on these cases, not even a lead. Whoever did this is laughing at us.”

  “So, you think the cases are all linked now?”

  “Don’t you?”

  “There’s no physical proof linking them.”

  “Maybe these letters will be what we need for that proof.”

  “And if they’re not?”

  “Then I haven’t lost anything.”

  Shawn pursed his lips and stared at her.

  “Stop looking at me like that,” she said. “I can handle it.”

  “You can handle sitting across a table from the man who murdered your husband?”

  Did he think she’d use this as an excuse to get in front of Bailey? What would she even be able to do to him? It wasn’t as though she’d be able to sneak a weapon inside the prison, she’d be well searched before she got inside. She wouldn’t be able to get much more than a pen in there—not that she had any intention of stabbing Bailey with a pen. For one, prison officers would be nearby, plus it would take a well-aimed pen to kill a man. She wouldn’t kill Bailey and she’d end up behind bars herself. She had no intention of making Poppy grow up without her mother as well as her father, or sacrificing her job and the relationships she had with her colleagues. Her love for those things was far greater than her hatred of Bailey.

  “Yes, I can.” She wasn’t so sure how she’d react, but she wasn’t going to let Shawn know that.

  “What if he plans on hurting you?”

  “How can he hurt me? He’s in prison. He doesn’t have any access to weapons, and I’ll have one of the prison officers standing right outside the door.

  “He’s got his hands, his teeth. He can still cause you harm.”

  “The prison officers wouldn’t allow it.”

  His nostrils flared. “Prison officers get hurt by inmates, too, Erica. There’s no guarantee.”

  “Shawn, our job is dangerous. It comes with the territory. There will always be some risk, but I believe the payoff is worth it. What if Bailey can actually tell us something important and we catch whoever’s been doing this? Or let me turn it around...what if I don’t go, and he kills again? Which of my cases is he going to pick next? Will he rape and murder a teenage student perhaps? Or set off a bomb in the city?”

  “We don’t know for sure that’s what’s happening.”

  Erica’s frustration burst from her, and she slammed her fist on the desk. “Nicholas Bailey knows! Why would he even think that unless it was true? I’ve just had my suspicions confirmed by the man I hate most in the world. How could that possibly happen unless it was the truth?”

  “You’re going to need to okay it with Gibbs.”

  “No, I’m not. He doesn’t need to know about this. It doesn’t directly link to any of the cases.”

  Shawn folded his arms across his chest. “In one breath you’re saying that the cases must be connected because Nicholas fucking Bailey says they are, and the next you’re saying whatever Bailey knows might have nothing to do with the cases. Which is it?”

  “I won’t know that until after I’ve spoken to him. If it comes to anything, then I’ll go to Gibbs.”

  Shawn shook his head. “You’re kidding yourself, Erica. You’re only telling yourself that because you know he won’t like the idea either.”

  “He’s overly cautious since the stroke. And there’s no point in upsetting him about something that might amount to nothing. If Bailey is bullshitting me, Gibbs doesn’t need to know.”

  “And if he’s not?”

  “Then we’ll need to look into things in more detail and then of course I’ll bring Gibbs up to speed.”

  Shawn exhaled a frustrated breath and ran his hand over the top of his head. “At least let me drive you there.”

  “Okay,” she agreed. “But you need to wait in the car.”

  “Deal.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “Detective Inspector Erica Swift to see Nicholas Bailey.”

  Erica had managed to make an emergency appointment via legal visits. She passed through the scanner and did the same for her belongings, then showed her ID and Bailey’s prisoner number to the prison reception. She waited while it was checked.

  Nerves churned her stomach, and she didn’t like it. She often thought about what she would say to Nicholas if she
ever got to speak to him again, but she knew she would never say any of the things she’d imagined. They were all born from raw emotion, and she refused to give him access to that part of her. Any attempts to tap into his humanity, to make him see what he’d done to her and her daughter, would only be wasted breath. If anything, he’d probably revel in her pain. After all, that was the whole reason he’d murdered Chris in front of her. He’d wanted her to experience the same pain he had when his brother had died.

  The grief she still felt from Chris’s loss was a strange thing. There were times when she could go through her day, almost feeling like things were normal, but then something tiny would happen—something that reminded her of before—and it would hit her like a punch, flooring her. She’d often found herself lying in bed, unable to sleep and gasping with the sheer helpless pain of it. At night, with the long hours ahead of her until morning, and no way to distract her thoughts was always the hardest time. It was the time when she would go over every moment, every word spoken, each action, and question what she could have done differently. It was also then when she’d have those imaginary conversations with Nicolas Bailey, where she tore him to shreds with the vitriol of her words, and hurt him in such a way that he’d never have another peaceful moment in his life.

  But expecting to impact him in such a way meant pretending that Nicholas thought and felt the same way as regular people. Someone who did what he’d done didn’t give a thought to how his actions affected others. The only person Nicholas Bailey had ever cared about, other than his brother, was Nicholas Bailey.

  The security officer handed her back her ID. “Wait here and one of the officers will walk you down.”

  “Thank you.”

  This wasn’t the first time she’d had to interview a prisoner, but this was the first time she’d ever felt particularly anxious about it. She was normally so self-assured in her line of work. She knew she was on the right side of the law and she took confidence in that. Why did Bailey have contact with whoever was doing these killings, and why had he felt the need to contact her about it? Could it be that he’d grown a conscience over the past two years and regretted what he’d done to her family? Could this be his way of making it up to her? But why had the killer chosen to get in touch with Nicholas Bailey in the first place?

  Legal visits didn’t take place in the same visiting hall as the others, and instead had a dedicated room. A male prison officer arrived to take her there. He looked her up and down, his lip curling in what was supposed to have been a smile, but more resembled a sneer. Her gaze flicked to his name badge, Officer Bache.

  “This way,” he grunted, leading her down the corridor to the legal visits interview room.

  The clangs of metal doors shutting, and the distant shouts of prisoners, filled her ears. It was hot in here, too, and sweat trickled from her nape and down her spine.

  She swallowed hard and wiped her clammy palms on the sides of her trousers. She didn’t want Bailey to notice how nervous she was. It was important she remained unaffected by his presence, no matter what he told her. She gave the officer a nod to say she was ready, and he reached past her and opened the door.

  Erica stepped through.

  “Hello, Nicholas.”

  Nicholas Bailey sat on the other side of the table. He looked exactly the same as she remembered. The two years in prison hadn’t aged him at all. How old was he now? Mid-twenties? She felt sure she’d aged after everything that had happened. Losing her husband, dealing with her daughter’s grief as well as her own, remaining at work the entire time, had certainly given her a few new grey hairs and some extra lines. Maybe she’d have had them anyway, even if she hadn’t lost Chris. She was closer to forty now than she was thirty.

  “Hello, Detective.”

  His tone was low and quiet, so she strained to hear. He didn’t meet her eye.

  She went to the chair and pulled it back but didn’t sit yet. “I must admit, you’re the last person I thought I would be visiting.”

  Erica slipped into the chair and placed a digital micro recorder on the table. “Do I have your consent to record our interview?”

  “I suppose so.”

  She clicked the record button. “Interview conducted by DI Swift with Nicholas Bailey.” She gave their location and time and date, and then laced her fingers together on top of the table.

  His gaze flickered up to hers and then slid back down again. “I wasn’t sure you’d even come.”

  “Why wouldn’t I? It’s my job to catch people like you, and if you have information on who’s killing those people, I need to know about it. Tell me about the letters. When did you first start receiving them?”

  He rolled his lips together, thinking. “A year ago. More. Maybe eighteen months.”

  Eighteen months ago? That wasn’t long after Nicholas had first been put away. Could someone have been planning the murders all this time? That was one hell of a long game they were playing. The idea of that made her uncomfortable. Had someone been watching her all that time, studying her cases, and handpicking the ones they thought they could replicate? Had it started with Nicholas’s case? It made sense that it had. It had been a high-profile case, and because of Chris’s murder, it had been all over the newspapers and social media.

  “And how many letters have you received since?”

  “Not many. One every few months.”

  “Do you know who’s writing them?”

  “No. He signs his name as M Cimi, but I don’t think that’ll be his real name.”

  Erica jotted it down anyway. Even if it wasn’t a real name, it would mean something, or be connected in some way. Every bit of information was an important lead to follow, no matter how small it seemed.

  “Are you sure you don’t know the person who wrote you these letters, Nicholas? Has he been in to visit you at all?”

  “No, I don’t know who he is. I’ve never met him before in my life.”

  “Do you still have those letters?”

  “No, I don’t.” He glanced down at his hands.

  She leaned forward slightly. “Are you sure about that, Nicholas?”

  “I destroyed the letters. I knew someone would find them and use them against me.”

  “All of them?” She didn’t believe him. Nicholas had been alone for so long, both inside the prison and when he’d been on the outside, too. He’d killed because he’d wanted people to take him seriously. Someone had considered him important enough to put pen to paper, so would Nicholas really have destroyed that?

  She needed to get her hands on them, even if it was only one. There were things they could find from the letters, information in people’s handwriting that could be analysed. Maybe even fingerprints from the paper, DNA from the saliva on the envelopes, hair, and clothing fibres.

  She tried again. “Nicholas, if you’d destroyed all the letters, why would you bother to contact me? Surely you must realise that I’m not going to take you seriously unless you can offer me proof.”

  “It might have been a way of getting you in here.”

  She tried not to rise to it. “Is that the truth, because I don’t believe you, Nicholas. You’re saying someone has taken the time to write to you, and you destroyed their letters? If I get one of the prison officers to search your cell, are you really saying they won’t find anything?”

  His lips tightened. “They won’t find anything.”

  “Then what am I doing here?”

  “I’ll give you one of the letters he’s sent me, and I’ll tell you everything else I know, but on one condition.”

  “Which is?”

  “I want that reduced sentence. I want to get out of here before I hit old age. I want to still have a life.”

  She grew cold inside. “You don’t deserve to have a life when you took life from so many others.”

  “Including your husband, isn’t that right, Detective?”

  Erica balled her hands into fists beneath the table. “Why did this person choose you to
contact? Did you do something to encourage him?”

  “No, I didn’t. At least, nothing since I’ve been in here.”

  “You’re saying he contacted you because of...of what you did before?”

  He lifted his gaze and held eye contact properly for the first time. “Because of what I did to your husband.”

  A cold fist tightened around her heart. She wasn’t a violent person, but in that moment, it took every ounce of self-control not to climb across the table and tear at his face with her nails. She felt all the blood drain from her cheeks.

  “Don’t you think it’s more likely to be because of all the people you hurt before?” She was thinking of Brandon Skehan and the way this person might have tried to cut his eye out.

  “Perhaps, but I don’t believe so. He’s been copying the cases you’ve worked on. My case is just one small part of the plan.”

  She remembered the way Naomi’s murder had reminded her of the Maher case and the burned body of the second victim made her think of the black-market organ case. She was the one who’d led both investigations. Could Nicholas be right? Was she what was connecting the murders? It wasn’t as though she hadn’t considered the possibility herself.

  “Did this person mention my name?” she dared to ask.

  “Not in so many words.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “What does that mean?”

  “He talked about birds.”

  Erica frowned. “Birds?”

  He raised his chin. “Because of your surname.”

  Birds? That was an obscure connection to make. Was Bailey just reading something into this that wasn’t there? Without seeing the letters for herself, it was impossible to tell.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Present Day

  Detective Inspector Erica Swift was younger than he remembered, prettier, too. He had to keep reminding himself that she was the one who’d been there when his brother had died. She was the one who could have helped Danny and didn’t. It was strange, but he felt distanced from those events now, as though it had happened to a different person. He hadn’t expected to feel that way at all.