Dark Water: A gripping serial killer thriller

by Robert Bryndza

‘What if top brass were to come in and do a spot check?’

  ‘But we’re all coming off shift, Sir… We thought if we stayed in uniform we could collect more money,’ said another officer.

  ‘Would you have time to explain that?’

  Erika reached them, and saw that the Guy slumped to one side in the trolley, with it’s big eyes and mass of messy rad hair had an uncanny resemblance to Yale.

  ‘Wasn’t Guy Fawkes a terrorist?’ asked a tall thin officer with a boyish face who had both hands tucked under his stab vest.

  ‘Do you want a warning?’ snapped Yale. ‘Now get this out of here!’

  They turned the trolley and sloped off, the tall officer muttering, ‘Guy Fawkes tried to blow up the Houses of Parliament, didn’t he?’

  ‘Good morning, Sir,’ said Erika trying to keep a straight face.

  ‘Is it?’ he snapped.

  ‘Isn’t it?’

  ‘No. It bloody isn’t. Jason Tyler’s legal team are tying us and the CPS in knots. He’s now going back on a deal to reveal the location of computer records unless we press for a recommended suspended sentence.’

  ’Bloody hell.’

  ‘I know. Fucking drug dealers…’

  Erika wanted to remind him that this is what you get when you start to negotiate with drug dealers, but she didn’t. He shook his head and went off down the corridor muttering.

  She took the stairs up to the incident room on the top floor. She was impressed to see that much of her team were already in. It was a Friday, and she was conscious that it was now two weeks since they had discovered Jessica’s body, and that they had been working flat out for seven days. Phones rang and nearly every desk was full. DC Knight was updating a corner of the whiteboard containing all the information, and a profile of Amanda Baker.

  ‘Morning, Boss, can I have a word?’ asked Peterson, jumping up from his desk and intercepting her on the way to her glass office. He followed her in shoving a piece of a doughnut in his mouth and washing it down with a gulp of coffee. She put her bag on the desk noticing another pile of case files had been prepared for her. ‘I’ve had Laura Collins on the phone for the fifth time in two days. She wants to know when they can start making arrangements for a funeral?’

  ‘I haven’t heard anything from Isaac. I thought he’d have been in touch about this. Chase him up, don’t rush him, but find out.’

  ‘She also asked when her dad can go back to Spain… is there any reason he shouldn’t?’

  Erika sat at her desk.

  ‘Well, no, but I thought he’d be staying here? I’d told them that they could start arranging a funeral.’

  ‘You think there’s something fishy going on?’

  ‘I don’t know. But thinking something fishy is going on isn’t good enough. Find out if he can give us a date when he’s coming back, but say it’s because we want to arrange an appeal with the family. See what he says.’

  Peterson nodded. Erika went on to tell him about wanting to speak to Trevor Marksman and he agreed it was a good idea. John appeared at the door.

  ‘Just the person,’ said Erika. ‘Can you put out some feelers, I want to meet with Trevor Marksman, and talk to him as a witness. It needs discretion though, I don’t want the press finding out we’re talking to him, it might scare him off.’

  ‘Okay, Boss. I was just coming to see you because we’ve had a call from the secretary of an Oscar Browne QC. He wants to meet with you in his chambers.’

  ‘Hang on, is this Laura Collins’s ex-boyfriend?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Why is he calling me?’

  ‘He wants to talk.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘He’s asked to talk to you face to face, it’s about the case. I pressed him but he wouldn’t say anymore. Can you do today?’ Erika looked at Peterson who raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Two o’clock this afternoon. Get the address and get me the file on him. He must have made a statement at the time. He had an alibi though?’

  ‘He did.’

  ‘Ok, oh and let me know the second you hear something from Trevor Marksman.’

  John went off to fetch the file as she logged onto her computer and saw she had seventy emails about the case.

  ‘Oscar Browne was away camping in Wales with Laura?’ said Erika.

  ‘Yeah. Marianne waved them off on the day before Jessica went missing. There’s a statement from a bloke who worked at the site who said they arrived and were staying there. I seem to remember him saying that he was the only black guy…’

  ‘I suppose people would have remembered him in Wales back in 1990…’ Erika clicked on one of her emails, ‘I’ve got details here on Bob Jennings, the man who had lived in the cottage next to Hayes Quarry. Says he’d lived in the area all his life, and had spent time in and out of various mental institutions in Kent. He had a criminal record, mostly for petty theft, but no history of violence. The council had tried to house him on three occasions but every time he had refused… So that’s why he ended up squatting.’

  ‘So that’s our main suspect, a dead guy?’ said Peterson.

  John came back to the door.

  ‘You’re booked in to meet Oscar Browne at 2pm.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Look on the bright side, he might confess to it all,’ said Peterson toasting her with his coffee cup on his way out.

  Erika sat back and rubbed her eyes. This case seemed to be blossoming out of control in all directions.

  25

  The Omnia Legal Chambers were close to Victoria Station, so Erika took the fast train from Bromley, arriving half an hour later. It was a red brick building a few minutes walk from the train station, a few doors down from the Apollo Theatre.

  It felt serious. The stern woman on the front desk, the imposing opulence of the reception area of carved stone and moulded high ceilings. She was shown to his office on the top floor, which had a sweeping view of the London skyline. Oscar Browne was eighteen at the time of Jessica’s disappearance. He was now 44 years old, a tall distinguished black man with the beginnings of salt and pepper in his hair. He wore an expensive tailored suit and shoes. It was the office of an expensive lawyer, thick rugs, dark polished wood and the all-seeing secretary. Erika imagined she had been carefully chosen, she was not too easy on the eye to distract the male partners, but attractive enough to show the company was young and dynamic.

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector,’ he said rising from his desk to welcome her. They shook hands. “Can I get you anything? Tea? Coffee, some water?’

  ‘No thank you,’ said Erika. She sat on the comfortable armchair in front of his desk and he waited until the secretary had left to speak.

  ‘I was very sad to hear that Jessica’s body had been recovered. On the one hand twenty-six years has gone so fast, on the other it seems like only yesterday.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s gone quickly for the Collins family,’ said Erika.

  ‘No, of course not. Do you have any leads?’

  Erika tilted her head and looked him square in the eye, ‘I’m not here to tell you if we have any leads Mr Browne. In fact, why am I here?’

  ‘I’m still in contact with the Collins family, and I witnessed at first hand how the previous investigation unfolded. It was distressing and damaging for the family.’

  ‘I’m aware of what happened.’

  ‘I’ve been asked by the family to act as their spokesperson.’

  ‘But you are a barrister, not a PR?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘I’m not sure in what capacity they’ve hired you. Have they hired you?’

  ‘I don’t like the word hired. I know the law, I also know a lot of people. I think the family feel that over the years, and in particular during the first investigation things span out of control. I’m just here for them, part friend, part advisor.’

  ‘I thought you were asking to see me to tell you about your involvement in the case.’

  ‘My involvement?’ he
sat back and gave her a disarming smile. ‘I gave the officer at the time a full statement, along with Laura. We were both away camping.’

  ‘Te Gower Peninsula in Wales?’

  ‘Yes, it’s a beautiful part of the country.’

  ‘What made you choose Wales?’

  ‘We were both at University in Swansea. It’s quite close. We’d been there with friends the previous Easter, and we fancied a proper trip, just the two of us.’

  ‘Are you still close to Laura?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say we’re close. Our relationship didn’t last. We split up in early 1991.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘In the September of 1990 we were due to go back for our second year. I was studying law, she was studying Mathematics. Obviously she didn’t return. Did you go to University?’

  ‘No I didn’t,’ said Erika. It came out with more hostility than she intended.

  ‘Well, let me tell you, life at University is very insular and intense. I met someone else, she was upset and so was I, but we parted amicably and I was still there for her.’

  ‘So you dumped her?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that. Laura will admit that it was a terrible time, she didn’t know how to deal with it, she…’

  ‘She, what?’

  ‘She became impossible to be around. I don’t blame her one little bit.’ He emphasised the last three words with the flat of his palm on the polished surface of the desk.

  ‘You were away camping in the middle of nowhere. How did you find out so fast that Jessica was missing?’

  ‘You’re questioning me?’

  ‘No I’m talking to you…’

  He smiled broadly,

  ‘There was a coffee shop and bar at the campsite. The next day we saw it on the evening news when we were having a drink. We came straight back… As I said, I gave all of this in a statement. The emphasis on this meeting is to inform you that I’m here, fighting the family’s corner, and monitoring things. You have to appreciate that in this modern world life has become much more complicated.’

  ‘You could have saved me a journey with us doing this over the phone.’

  ‘I like to meet people face to face, I feel that it helps at the beginning of a working relationship.’

  Erika sat back, a little surprised.

  ‘So, how are we going to be working together?’

  ‘I’d like you to relay all information about the case through my office. I will pass things on to the family. I have a letter here, signed by the family requesting and authorising me to do this. Another reason I asked to meet in person.’ He handed Erika a letter on headed notepaper. She took it and saw it was signed by Martin, Marianne, Laura and Toby. ‘I don’t expect you to give me regular updates, but when you have information pertaining to the case, or any new information, and when you release Jessica’s remains they ask that you contact me. My number is on the letter.’

  He pulled out a sleek black fountain pen, leaned over and underlined the phone number for his office. Twice. Erika could barely disguise her irritation at this. ‘When can we expect that Jessica’s remains will be released?’

  ‘Forensics are still conducting tests.’

  ‘Are you able to tell us how she died?’

  ‘I’ll contact you when we’re able to release her remains.’

  He held her gaze for a moment and then offered his hand.

  ‘I look forward to working with you.’ He flashed her the winning smile, but she didn’t return it and left his office.

  * * *

  Erika called in to the incident room on her way back to Victoria Station. Peterson picked up the phone and she angrily told him what had happened.

  ‘You do realise that the family are completely within their rights to do this?’ he said.

  ‘Of course they are. But why does this Barrister stroke PR get to summon me to his office?’

  ‘You did say yes, you could have refused.’

  Erika paused outside the station concourse for a moment. ‘I know. It just gets harder. It feels like everyone has gone mad. We live in a mad world, and this is coming from someone who’s worked in the police for twenty years.’

  Peterson laughed.

  ‘I do have good news. Trevor Marksman has agreed to talk to us. And there won’t be a lawyer in sight. We do have to go to his place though.’

  ‘When can I talk to him?’

  ‘Today, this afternoon if possible,’ said Peterson. ‘He’s asked that you do it at his flat.’

  ‘What’s the address?’

  ‘You’re not going to believe this. He lives in a penthouse apartment on Borough High Street.’

  26

  Erika took the tube across to London Bridge Station, where she met Peterson. Borough High Street was bustling with tourists, traffic and office workers. The buildings either side rose high and seemed to press down on them. They walked a few hundreds yards, passing under the railway bridge, along side the market where stalls were being closed down for the day, and they came to a large set of cast iron gates.

  ‘How the hell has Trevor Marksman ended up living here?’ asked Erika peering through to see a glimpse of a cobbled courtyard. Peterson found his flat number and pressed call.

  ‘He won two hundred K in the civil suit against the MET. Invested it in property, and by the look of it, just before the housing boom,’ said Peterson. There was a crackle and a voice asked them to hold up their ID to the camera. After a moment the huge gates soundlessly swung inwards.

  They walked into a large courtyard surrounded by a small landscaped garden. The gates slid closed, and at once they were transported away from the noise of the busy high street.

  ‘Is he waiting for us?’ asked Erika as they approached a tall red brick tower with a large glass entrance. A tall balding man in a smart suit waited, and was looking at them in anticipation.

  ‘He has an assistant,’ said Peterson.

  When they came level the man nodded curtly. He had pale skin, and a bald shiny head. A pink scar wove its way across his forehead and vanished behind his left ear.

  ‘Good afternoon officers, may I see your ID’s again,’ he said. He had a clipped South African accent and Erika could see that underneath his suit he carried considerable bulk. They handed over their ID’s and he looked at them carefully, glancing up between them. Satisfied he handed them back,

  ‘Please come in.’

  They came out of a lift onto the top floor. A large black laquered table sat between two doors, and on it was a beautiful white vase with a delicate pattern of roses. Erika thought of the entrance to her own flat, a tiny table covered in copies of the local free newspaper and take away leaflets.

  ‘What’s your name?’ asked Erika.

  ‘I’m Joel,’ said the man. His eyes were grey and distant. ’Please remove your shoes,’ he added as he opened the door. The apartment consisted of a large open-plan area with a beautiful pale blue carpet edged in cream and white roses. He stood over them as they removed their shoes, and Erika noticed how uncomfortable Peterson was.

  ‘Please come through,’ he said. They moved through the living area which was dotted with pale sofas around a large low coffee table. It was covered in glossy photo books featuring images of young children, one in particular was of a young girl looking up at the camera, and wearing a red swimming costume, she was making a sandcastle on the beach. She had large pale blue eyes and a serious pout. There was nothing illegal about the picture, but it fit into the jigsaw of Trevor Marksman’s life, which painted a more disturbing picture.

  The room curved to the left and they came to a man sitting in an armchair by a large picture window. The view was of the Thames, the sky low and grey. A small tug boat was the only traffic on the choppy water, pulling a long flat barge.

  ‘Trevor Marksman?’ asked Peterson. The man turned and for a moment Erika couldn’t speak. His head was covered in skin, but it didn’t look like it had always belonged to him. It looked as if a large flat piece had been ro
lled out, and then carelessly placed over his head. The skin was painfully tight around his eyes, barely affording him eyelids, his lips were non existent.

  ‘Please sit,’ he said. He found it difficult to make the plosive ‘p’ sound. He wore loose fitting trousers and a shirt which was open at the neck, where his burns continued. His hands were red raw and claw like and there were only the remnants of fingernails on his left thumb and right index finger.

  ‘Thank you for speaking to us,’ said Erika. She looked across at Peterson who was staring down at Marksman with real rage. She too felt revulsion, but shot him a look to keep a lid on it and focus.

  ‘Would you like some tea or coffee?’ he asked. His eyes were cold and very blue, and Erika remembered them from the first mug shot photo taken of Marksman. It was like he was staring out from behind a Halloween mask.

  ‘Joel, would you pull up a couple of chairs for our guests,’ said Marksman. His voice had a pained hoarse sound. Joel brought two folding chairs, and they sat close together in front of Marksman’s armchair.

  ‘He was working for the NHS, used to come in every day to help me. I have heart problems, I can barely take two steps these days without having to sit. I poached him, he’s very good. Lives in.’

  ‘So no more prowling kids playgrounds for you, or does he do that for you?’ said Peterson.

  ‘We’re aware of your history, but we’re not here to talk about that,’ said Erika giving.

  ‘I have only ever been accused of one crime…’

  ’Abducting and sexually assaulting a young girl, the police broke into your flat as you were about to penetrate her.’

  ‘I served five years for that and not a day does by when I don’t regret it,’ he replied hoarsely. He started to cough and brought one of the raw claw hands up to his lipless mouth. He motioned for a beaker on a table just out of reach by the window. Erika rose and picked it up, placing the plastic straw in his mouth. The sound of him sucking down on the straw filled the room, until there was a gurgle as he emptied the glass.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said sitting back. ‘My voice and throat seem never to have recovered from the smoke damage. The doctor said it was like I’d inhaled on ten thousand cigarettes at once.’