by BIBA PEARCE
“It’s strange not seeing you around the squad room,” Rob said.
She smiled but didn’t meet his gaze. “I know. I wanted to say goodbye, but things kicked off so fast on Friday afternoon that I didn’t get a chance. That’s why I wanted to catch you now.”
“How did the dawn raid go?”
“Well, out of the fifty or so people we arrested, some were distributors and others small-time dealers, but I think we managed to smash at least ten of the county lines that Yousef and Ahmed were running.”
“Congratulations. That’s a career bust.”
She grinned. “Well, I can’t take all the credit. We’ve had teams working on it for months.”
“Still, it’ll look good on your CV.”
She nodded. There was a brief pause. “It was good working with you again, Rob. Even temporarily.”
“It was.” He hesitated, searching for the right words. “Listen, I wanted to explain about Yvette.”
“You don’t owe me an explanation,” she said quickly. “It’s none of my business.”
“I feel like I do,” he said. “I wanted to explain why I married her so quickly after you and I . . .”
“Rob, honestly, it’s okay. I’m fine with it.”
He could see she was uncomfortable, but he pushed on. “Still, it would make me feel better to get this off my chest.”
She sighed. “Okay, if you must, but it’s really not necessary.”
It was to him. “Things between me and Yvette hadn’t been great, as you know, but I felt responsible for her attack.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” Jo insisted.
If only he could believe that. “If it wasn’t for me, it would never have happened.”
Not even Jo could argue with that one. She watched him closely, her eyes filled with compassion. “You can’t blame yourself, Rob.”
He sighed. “Anyway, she took it badly. The trauma was too much for her. She had to go to her parents’ house in France to recover. She still won’t go out.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. I didn’t know,” said Jo.
“I took some time off to be with her,” Rob continued. “We got married while we were in France. She needed me and it seemed like the right thing to do under the circumstances.” He hesitated. “Had she not fallen apart like that, I don’t think we would have rushed into it the way we did.”
Jo was silent for a moment. The waiter brought them their sandwiches, but Rob didn’t feel hungry anymore.
“Do you love her?” Jo asked softly, once the waiter had gone.
Rob hesitated. He’d asked himself the same question many times during the course of their often-turbulent relationship. “Yes,” he said quietly. “Yes, I think I do.”
“Well, that’s okay then.”
He looked up in surprise.
“For a moment there, I thought you were going to say you married her because you felt guilty about what happened, and that’s no reason to get married.” She bit into her sandwich and chewed vigorously.
Rob shook his head. Jo never ceased to amaze him. “I didn’t take you for a romantic.”
She grinned, “Well, maybe you don’t know me as well as you think you do.”
“Hmm . . .” He bit into his baguette. It was good, and suddenly his appetite returned. As always, Jo made everything okay.
“Now, have you got any other leads in Dennis Patterson’s murder yet?”
Rob told her about the DNA they’d discovered underneath his fingernail. Her eyes widened. “Wow, that’s a big breakthrough. Have you run it yet?”
He shook his head. “The results will be sent through this afternoon. Hopefully our perp has some priors and we can wind this up relatively quickly, although I have to admit, it’s unlikely she’s in the database.” Like anything was that simple.
“She?” Jo mumbled, her mouth full.
He realized she hadn’t been there when Tony had dropped his bombshell. “Yeah, Tony Sanderson profiled our murderer and told us we could be looking at a female killer.” He left out the word “serial” for now. A serial killer is only termed as such after three or more victims are found with the same MO. Tony’s words rang in his ears.
It wasn’t often Jo was at a loss for words. “I didn’t see that one coming,” she admitted, putting down her panini.
“I know. Neither did I, but it makes sense if you think about it. The meticulous planning, the ease at which she gains entry, the cleaning up before she leaves . . .” He shrugged. “I can see where he’s coming from.”
“But it’s just a theory at this point.” Jo’s expression was doubtful. “You don’t have any actual proof.”
“Even if the fingernail DNA isn’t on the database, it should be able to tell us whether the killer’s a man or a woman,” Rob said.
Jo nodded slowly. “If it’s a woman, you can rule out Asir Ahmed.”
He smirked. “Yep, which means you’ll finally be shot of me.”
She smiled at him over her cappuccino. “That’s a shame. I was beginning to enjoy having you around.”
He raised his eyebrow.
“As a friend,” she added hastily.
He grinned back. “Friends, I can do.”
* * *
Unfortunately, but not surprisingly, the DNA found under Patterson’s fingernail wasn’t in the database. Rob wasn’t deterred, however, because it meant if they ever did bring a suspect in for questioning, they could match them to the sample. The good news, though, was that it was very definitely female.
“He was right!” Rob poked his nose into the Superintendent’s office. “Tony was bloody right. I swear, I don’t know how he does it.”
Lawrence stopped what he was doing and leaned back in his chair. He didn’t have to ask Rob what he was talking about. “Well, I’ll be . . . I never did put much stake in that profiling business, but Tony’s fast becoming the exception.”
“That’s why he’s so expensive,” Rob reminded him with a grin. “Anyway, I just thought I’d let you know. Now we can forget about Ahmed and focus our search on a female killer.”
“Let’s keep this close to our chest for now,” ordered Lawrence. “We don’t want the media to find out about it.”
“Agreed.”
“What are the next steps?”
Rob came into his office and stood against the glass wall. “We’ll keep digging through both Yousef’s and Patterson’s lives until we find a connection. There must be something linking them to this mystery woman.”
“Well, let me know if I can help.”
Rob nodded. His boss liked to get his hands dirty every now and then. For a moment he wondered how he would fare in Lawrence’s position. In charge of the department, forced to answer to the powers that be, having to put his trust in his team and not being able to do any of the grunt work himself. He shook off a shiver. No, that would never be him. Besides, he was hopeless at schmoozing. He didn’t have the charm or the patience for it. DI was probably as high up the food chain as he was going to get — and he was okay with that.
“Will do.”
* * *
Rob had just returned to his desk when his phone buzzed. He glanced down. Yvette. He thought about sending it to voicemail, but then changed his mind. “Hey, babe, you okay?”
She was sobbing softly. “Rob, can you come home?”
His heart leaped into his throat. “What’s happened? Are you okay?”
She was breathing heavily and he recognized the signs of a panic attack.
“Yvette, calm down and talk to me. What happened?”
“Bec—Becca came over and we had a session, but it brought it all back. I can’t stop shaking and I feel like I’m about to pass out.”
Rob glanced at the time on his phone. It had just gone four o’clock. “It’s a bit early for me to knock off,” he said. He was going through Patterson’s phone records, looking for anyone he may have arranged a meeting with on the day he died.
“Please, I need you.”
He heard a low whine in the background and knew Trigger was worried about his mistress too.
He sighed and glanced up as a shadow passed over his desk. Mallory was standing in front of his computer. “I can hold the fort here, guv, if you’ve got to go.”
Torn between wanting to stay and having to get home to his wife, he nodded. “Okay. I’m leaving now. I’ll be home in ten minutes.”
“Thanks,” he said curtly to Mallory after he’d hung up, and before anyone had a chance to question him, he left the station.
Yvette was shivering on the sofa when he got back. Her jaw was clenched and her eyes were wild. It was all she could do to keep her teeth from chattering. A concerned Trigger had curled himself around her feet.
“Come here.” He drew her into his arms and she fell against him. Her bony shoulders dug into his chest and her hair stank of stale smoke. He held her while she sobbed.
“What brought this on?” he asked, when she’d calmed down a bit.
“Becca made me talk about how I felt when it happened. How scared I was. And it all came rushing back.” She spoke in short, staccato sentences, gasping for breath between each one. He rubbed her back. Becca had told him there might be a resurgence of emotion once she started to deal with what had happened. Yvette had locked it away and refused to talk about it for eight months, and now it was causing her to have anxiety attacks. She needed to get it out, talk about it, demystify it and put it into perspective.
“That’s a good thing,” he told her gently, hoping he was right. He knew nothing about psychotherapy or trauma counselling.
“How can it be a good thing if it makes me feel this way?”
“You’re letting it out,” he explained, repeating what Becca had told him. “It’s part of the healing process.”
She gave a shuddering sigh. “I don’t feel like it’s helping. I think it might be making it worse.”
He took her head in his hands. “Give it a chance. Becca’s very good at what she does.” He smiled. “And I’m here for you too.”
Trigger thumped his tail on the ground. “So is Trigger.”
She fondled the dog’s ears but couldn’t muster a smile.
They made supper together in the kitchen and opened a bottle of wine. Yvette, who was on antidepressants, only had a small glass. Afterwards, Rob suggested they take Trigger for a walk around the block, but she refused. “I’m not ready, Robert.”
He left her alone and walked Trigger by himself. The air was bitterly cold — in fact, he thought it might snow — but it cleared his head from the pressure he felt whenever Yvette had one of her attacks. He walked for much longer than he’d planned, and when he got back, Yvette had gone to bed. He left her to sleep — there was no point in going up, the sleeping tablets she took knocked her out — and made himself comfortable in the lounge with his laptop and the rest of the bottle of wine. He picked up where he’d left off this afternoon, browsing Patterson’s phone logs.
The dental sales rep had made several work-related calls to customers he’d met in London prior to his death, including a dental practice in Hammersmith who were interested in buying an entire range in a certain brand. That must have been why he’d chosen the Pear Tree Hotel. Will, who’d analysed the calls earlier in the day, had written a side note saying that he’d spoken to the manager of the dental practice and they had been due to meet with Patterson on Monday morning to finalize the order. A meeting Patterson would never get to.
There was also an incoming call from a private number on the Wednesday evening, the day before his death. Will had highlighted it in yellow and written NB next to it. Rob realized he’d left the station before Will had had a chance to speak to him about the comment. He dialled his colleague and hoped he was still awake.
“Guv?” answered Will with more curiosity than tiredness. “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, thanks, Will. I just wanted to ask you about the call you highlighted on Patterson’s phone records.”
“Oh, that. Yes, the call was made by a man called Kevin Mundy. He owns an online dental equipment store. He had an interview scheduled with Patterson the day he died.”
Rob sat up, instantly more awake. “What time?”
“Thursday, 10.30 a.m.”
That was close as dammit to their time of death. “Did you talk to him? What did he say?”
“He said he rocked up at the hotel and banged on Patterson’s door, but there was no answer. He was going to ask the receptionist to call through, but she was nowhere to be seen, so he left. He figured Patterson had forgotten.”
“Forgotten my arse. He was probably dead by then. Can we bring this guy in for questioning?”
“Sure, but he’s got an alibi for the time of death. He went across the road to Starbucks and got a coffee. He said he flirted with one of the baristas there, and they’re sure to remember him.”
“Bring him in anyway,” said Rob. “He may have seen something.” Or someone.
Chapter 15
Doug couldn’t concentrate. The forklift shuddered to a halt. His whole body ached with need. It had been several weeks since his last hit and the lure was strong.
“What’s up?” the site manager called, noticing he’d stalled.
“Nothing.”
“Well, get a move on. We don’t have all day.”
He started it up again and carried on loading the building material into the truck. Fucking idiot. If he didn’t need this job so much, he’d smash the guy’s head in. It wouldn’t take much. The site manager was a bully, all talk and very little action. He’d known guys like him before. They acted tough but as soon as you challenged them, they backed right down. A small smile spread over his face as he imagined, just for a moment, what that would feel like.
Doug Bartlett had been a forklift operator since the middle of last year and he knew he had been lucky to get this job. Having spent eighteen months inside for armed robbery and aggravated assault, job offers were few and far between. Fortunately, the owner of the company had a son in the system and took pity on ex-cons trying to get back on their feet, and it sure as hell beat sleeping rough. His council flat wasn’t much to look at, but it was warm and safe — well, as safe as a council flat in Southwark could be — and he didn’t have to ask permission every time he needed a piss. More importantly, he was free to engage in his passion.
The thought made him break out in a sweat. He dumped the load and then glanced at his phone. Four thirty. Nearly time to knock off. He’d go home, shower, grab a bite to eat, then wait for his visitor. He’d made the call during his lunch hour and since then, he’d been counting down the hours.
He wiped the dust out of his eyes. It was freezing today, made worse by the wind chill, and every time he lifted a load of dirt, some of it blew back into his face. He could even taste it in his mouth. He made a note to buy one of those dust masks from the local chemist. He didn’t want to get ill now that things were picking up.
Eventually, five o’clock arrived. Thank fuck for that.
He parked the forklift back at the site car park and clocked out. He didn’t hang about and talk to the other guys — he didn’t much like any of them. He knew they’d all go to the pub for a few beers and talk about stupid stuff, but he wasn’t interested. He had something better to do.
Away from the site, he took off his dusty jacket and shoved it into his backpack. No one would sit next to him on the tube if he kept it on, not that he gave a fuck. He wanted to forget about work and focus on more fun stuff.
The icy wind blew right through him, but he didn’t care. It felt good to be alive. It was warmer on the underground, which he took to Southwark Station. The area was bustling as the after-work crowd rushed to pick up groceries from Borough Market or went to meet their friends at the area’s many trendy bars and pubs. His flat was several roads away from the market, in the less desirable area. Weren’t all council blocks? He showered, then lay on his bed contemplating his evening.
Dinner was a
doner kebab from the Turkish takeaway down the road. The food was great around here. Hell, compared to prison grub it was fucking gourmet. Doug ate at the long counter by the window, watching the people walk up and down the street. He saw some pretty girls and stared at them hard, imagining what he’d like to do to them.
He checked his phone. Not long now. He’d better get back.
He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and chucked the remnants of his kebab, including the packaging, in the bin, then walked out of the shop.
Soon. Soon he’d feel like himself again.
Chapter 16
Rob’s mobile phone buzzed on the bedside table. He groaned, disentangled himself from Yvette’s warm body and reached for the device. The time on the screen said 3.47. “Hello?”
A female voice said, “Sir, this is DC Ryan from Southwark Police Station. We have an incident that we thought you might be interested in.”
“What incident?” And what was Southwark nick doing calling him in the middle of the night?
“A homicide, sir. A Caucasian male in his forties with multiple stab wounds.”
Rob sat up straight in bed. Yvette shifted position beside him and gave a gentle moan.
“How many?”
“Excuse me?”
“How many stab wounds?”
“Oh—” She sounded flustered. “I’m not sure, sir. I wasn’t there. I’m calling on behalf of my DS, Paul Cooper. He said to get you down there.”
Rob sighed. This better not be a waste of time. “Can I have his number?”
“Yes, of course.” She read it out.
“One minute.”
He didn’t have a bloody notepad or a pen nearby. He climbed out of bed and stumbled across the room to the doorway. He flicked on the hall light and made his way downstairs, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. In the kitchen, he found a pencil and a scrap of paper. “Fire away.”
She read it out again, slower this time as if she were talking to a child. To be fair, it was four in the morning. He said he’d give Cooper a call and hung up. Trigger loped into the kitchen to find out what all the fuss was about.
The Southwark sergeant answered on the second ring. “Cooper.” He had a real Londoner’s accent, not unlike Mike’s.
