THE WEST LONDON MURDERS an absolutely gripping crime mystery with a massive twist (Detective Rob Miller Mysteries Book 2)

by BIBA PEARCE

  Chapter 29

  Ken Billows was having fun. He gazed down at the smooth, slender back gyrating in front of him and ran his hand down the spine, ending with a whack to the buttocks. The woman beneath him whimpered. He hit her again, harder this time. The room filled with a resounding smack!

  “Hey!” she complained, breaking his rhythm. “Easy.”

  “Shut up,” he growled. She was bent over the bed in front of him while he pounded into her from behind. This was one of his favourite positions. It was so satisfying watching her pale butt jiggle as he thrust into her. He gripped her hips to give himself more leverage. Soon the mist began to descend, obscuring his vision.

  “Oh, yeah!” he moaned, not realizing or caring that the woman underneath him was gritting her teeth, willing it to be over. He increased his tempo until the sensations overwhelmed him and, with a guttural yell, rammed into her one last time before securing his release. The woman collapsed on to the bed. He pulled out and strode towards the bathroom, leaving her to sort herself out.

  When he got back, she was fully dressed and waiting for him, an annoyed expression on her face. “Time to pay up.”

  He sneered and considered not paying, but he’d be banned from using the agency again if he didn’t. He enjoyed the girls at Daring Divas, they were a classy bunch, and clean, which was more than he could say for most of the hookers he picked up. The problem with agency girls was that you couldn’t rough them up too much. More’s the pity. He loved making them cry out in pain, seeing the fear in their eyes, but that dark secret he kept to himself. If he wanted to hire them, he had to play by the rules.

  Every now and then he did indulge in his darker passion. When the urge was too strong and couldn’t be denied. When the escorts at the agency weren’t enough. But that wasn’t too often, and he was always careful. With what he liked to do to women, there were always consequences.

  He scoffed and fished in his jeans pocket for his wad of cash. He threw three fifties on the bed. “There you go.”

  The woman, Brooklynn her name was, picked it up and pocketed it without a word, then breezed past him and out the door. He had a sudden urge to slap her silly face, make her pay for her cocky attitude, but he held back. Now wasn’t the time.

  He strolled back into the living room and turned on the TV. Some American cop show was on that he quite enjoyed. He grabbed a beer out of the fridge and sat down in his underwear to watch. He was halfway through the programme when the doorbell rang. Who could that be? He wasn’t expecting anyone. He debated not answering it, but then it rang again.

  “Coming!” He strode into the bedroom and pulled on a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt. When he got to the door, he peered through the peephole and saw a pretty brunette standing there. Not bad.

  He opened it, a smile on his lips. Perhaps he could entice her in. He was ready for round two and this time he wouldn’t be so gentle. “Hey, sweetheart, what can I do for you?”

  A piercing pain wiped the smile off his lips.

  He glanced down and saw blood seeping through his shirt. “What the fuck, bitch?” Grabbing her arm, he pulled her inside. Whoever she was, she’d just made a monstrous fucking mistake. Didn’t she know who she was dealing with? If she wanted pain, he would show her pain. He was an expert at it. Enraged, he took a swipe at her, but a second burning slice to his abdomen caused him to catch his breath.

  “Shit.” The fight went out of him. Instead, he clutched his stomach, trying to stem the flow of blood, but it kept on coming. He needed something thicker, a towel — and a doctor. Except the fucking bitch was coming after him with the knife. He stumbled away from her into the lounge, clasping his wounds, feeling the blood gush from beneath his fingers. He didn’t know stab wounds could hurt so much.

  “Ugh.” He collapsed on to the living room floor. He stared at the woman who’d stabbed him. “Who are you? Why are you doing this to me?”

  “Think of me as an avenging angel,” she sneered and raised her hand again.

  “No!” He twisted away from her on to his stomach, but the knife hit him in the lower back. “Stop,” he cried. His back was on fire. “Please, don’t do this.”

  The knife fell again, piercing a kidney. The pain knocked the breath from his lungs. Tears filled his eyes, blurring his vision. Again and again the knife fell, puncturing his organs, tearing into his muscles and slicing through soft tissue. Mercifully, after the fifth or sixth blow, Ken felt the pain subside and the darkness settle in. Usually he didn’t like the dark, it reminded him of the cupboard under the stairs where he’d been locked as a boy, but right now he welcomed it. Bring on the peaceful dark. Anything to stop the pain radiating through his body.

  Soon, all he could feel was the soft carpet beneath his cheek and a strange floating sensation as the life drained out of him.

  Chapter 30

  It was Trigger who woke him up. The Labrador bounded on to the bed and shoved his wet snout in Rob’s face.

  “Ugh, go away.” But he opened his eyes and that’s when he heard it. His phone was vibrating on the bedside table next to him. He’d forgotten to switch the sound back on before he went to bed. During the day, a discreet buzz in his pocket was enough, but at night, if it wasn’t on full volume, he was liable to sleep right through it. Tonight being a case in point.

  Groggily, he reached for it. It was quarter to twelve. He’d only been asleep an hour. It was a withheld number. The only people who called from withheld numbers in the middle of the night were law enforcement.

  “Miller.”

  Trigger lay down on the floor next to the bed and stared up at him with wide eyes.

  “Sir, we’ve had a call from Kensington Police Station. They’ve got a stab victim. You asked to be notified,” came a female voice.

  “Yes, uh, thanks. Is it multiple stab wounds?” He held his breath waiting for her answer.

  “I believe so, sir.”

  “Thank you. Please send me the address. I’m leaving now.”

  “Of course.”

  The line went dead. A few seconds later a text message came through containing the crime scene address. Rob recognized it as just off Cromwell Road in South Kensington. Before he’d met Yvette, he’d dated a girl who lived behind the Natural History Museum. It seemed like a lifetime ago now, but he liked South Ken. It was a vibey area with many excellent bars and restaurants.

  He forwarded the message to Mallory and pulled on his trousers, nearly tripping over the dog in the process. Trigger, who thought they were going for an impromptu midnight stroll, leaped to his paws. “No, not tonight, Trigs. Sorry, mate. I’ve got a crime scene to get to.” He was well aware he’d started talking out loud to his dog.

  He patted Trigger’s head and pulled on a T-shirt and a tracksuit top. He pocketed his phone, put on his trainers and ran down the stairs. He felt bad leaving Trigger, who gazed at him with sad eyes as he shut the door. That dog certainly knew how to make him feel guilty, but then, he’d learned from the best.

  The drive to South Kensington took a little under twenty minutes. Traffic was surprisingly light for a Friday night, but then the arctic wind was still howling, and it had rained earlier, which meant your usual partygoers had opted for a pizza in front of Netflix instead of going out.

  The victim’s apartment block was situated in a quiet side street called Glenville Place. It was a shiny new build, at least ten storeys high, constructed with lots of chrome and glass. There was no designated parking, as was often the case in London, so he parked on the street behind two police vehicles, their lights flashing silently, casting eerie blue reflections off the building. He didn’t spot a SOCO van or an ambulance. Perhaps they had yet to arrive. Mallory’s Toyota Prius wasn’t here either.

  He opened the glove compartment and took out a pair of latex gloves and shoe protectors, stuffing them into his jacket pocket.

  “Hiya, mate.” He greeted the uniformed police officer on duty at the front entrance, a rectangular glass box with sliding doo
rs that were fixed open. “DI Miller from Putney MIT.”

  The man nodded. “Seventh floor. Easy how you go.”

  “Thanks.” Rob entered the freezing cold lobby and pressed the button for the elevator. Seven floors were too far to run up when you didn’t have to. The lift only took a moment to open, and soon he was travelling up to the crime scene. He wondered what he’d find. Would this be like all the others. Or worse?

  The lift opened and he stepped out on to an eerily quiet landing. No curious neighbours? That must be a first. “Where is everybody?” he asked the police officer at the door.

  “The rest of the floor is unoccupied,” he told Rob. “They’re still selling off the units.”

  Convenient for the killer, thought Rob. Less so for the police as there are no witnesses.

  He gave his name as he pulled on his shoe protectors and gloves. The officer wrote it down and stood aside so he could enter the apartment.

  Rob found he was holding his breath. The other three crime scenes had been fairly shocking, but the killer was escalating as she progressed. What would he find here?

  The first thing that he noticed was the blood spatter on the cream-coloured carpet just inside the door — the point of impact. The killer had struck straight away. No small talk, no Come in. Would you like a drink? He followed it like a trail of breadcrumbs to the living room, a larger-than-expected space containing cheap, functional furniture most likely from IKEA. Lying in the centre was the body of a man. He was prostrate on the carpet, which was now a deep red thanks to his dramatic blood loss. His back was covered in puncture wounds, a myriad of dark seeping holes where he’d been stabbed to death.

  Rob’s breath caught in his throat. It was her.

  A middle-aged man in a crumpled suit stood staring down at the body. He too was wearing shoe protectors and gloves. He glanced up as Rob entered. “DI Miller?”

  Miller nodded. “Yeah, and you are?”

  “DI Rooney. Kensington CID.” The two men shook hands. The Kensington detective nodded to the victim. “You seen this before?”

  Thanks to the media attention, everybody knew that Putney MIT was investigating the revenge killings, as they’d become known. He nodded. “It looks like our killer. Same MO. Who’s the victim?”

  “Flat’s registered to a Mr Ken Billows. He’s just moved in by the looks of things. Most of his belongings are still in boxes in the spare room.”

  The name meant nothing to Rob. He wondered if Billows was also a client of Daring Divas. Where the hell was Mallory?

  “SOCO are on their way,” Rooney said. “I’m waiting for them to arrive before I inspect the body.”

  “Good call.” Rob didn’t go too close either. “It looks like the initial attack took place at the front door. There’s blood in the passage.”

  “Yeah. I’d say the victim was stabbed there, then stumbled into the living room and collapsed on the carpet. I reckon the first stab wound was to his stomach. He’s got blood all over his hands and he wouldn’t have been able to reach the ones on his back.”

  Rob studied Rooney more closely. His face was almost as wrinkled as his jacket, with deep creases around his eyes, but Rob knew appearances could be deceiving.

  “Who discovered the body?” he asked. There didn’t seem to be anybody else around other than the handful of uniformed officers and DI Rooney. Even the floor was deserted.

  “The security guard,” Rooney said. “He’s downstairs in one of the police vehicles being treated for shock.” He gave a half-smile.

  “I’ll go and have a word.” Rob scanned the room. It didn’t appear disturbed. He was willing to bet the victim had stumbled in here and died where he’d fallen, after which the perpetrator had left without touching anything. It was unlikely they’d find any DNA at the scene.

  The living room merged into a small kitchen with granite countertops and pale-grey units. It was stylish and functional. The only appliances visible were a kettle and toaster, both chrome and probably new. It looked like the victim had been making a fresh start by moving in here. Rob studied the sink, but while it was wet, like it had been used recently, he couldn’t see any blood. Forensics would need their UV light again. He checked the bathroom, but that was clear too.

  “Find anything?” Rooney had been watching him.

  “Nope. We’ll have to wait for the crime scene guys to get here. I don’t think there’s much we can do until then and I don’t want to contaminate the scene more than necessary.”

  Rooney nodded. “I’ll wait outside.”

  Rob left him talking to the officer at the front door and took the stairs down to the ground floor. The narrow stairwell smelled strongly of fresh paint and Rob was glad to get out into the open, even if the icy wind did make his eyes water. There was definitely snow on the way.

  “Where’s the security guard who found the body?”

  The officer guarding the entrance pointed him in the right direction. More police vehicles had arrived and officers were in the process of cordoning off the street. A SOCO van pulled up, out of which emerged two blue-clad scene-of-crime officers and a white-clad pathologist. They entered the building fully suited-up, sombre expressions on their wary faces. They knew what was coming.

  Rob rapped on the window of a police van and a face turned towards him.

  “Are you the guard who found the body?” Rob enquired after he’d opened the car door.

  The man nodded and held out a beefy hand. “Yeah, who are you?”

  “DI Rob Miller, Putney Major Investigation Team. Can we have a quick chat?”

  “Sure.”

  Rob marched round the vehicle and got in. The heating had been on and the car was warm. “What’s your name?”

  “Albert.”

  “Albert who?”

  “Adebayo.”

  “Nigerian?”

  The man nodded. “I’ve been here four years.”

  Rob gave him the once-over. The guy was stocky and built like a boxer, toned and powerful. His nose looked like it had been broken a time or two as well. Rob bet he packed one hell of a punch. He wore a branded security uniform and a black fleece with a logo on the pocket. Prism Security Services. As far as he could see, the man had no weapon on him.

  “Talk me through how you discovered the body?”

  Albert took a deep breath. “I was doing my rounds. I usually check all the floors a little after 11 p.m. A lot of the apartments are still vacant, so I’ve been told to look out for vagrants or squatters.”

  Made sense. “Go on.”

  “I was on the seventh floor when I saw Mr Billows’s front door was open. When I got closer, I saw the blood on the floor and I knew something terrible had happened.”

  “What did you do next?”

  “I went to see if he was okay.” Rob glanced at the security guard’s feet. They’d have to take his DNA and boot prints to eliminate him from the crime scene.

  “He was lying in the lounge, face down, covered in blood.” He looked down at his hands and Rob noticed they were clenched tightly together in his lap. Albert might be a tough guy, but the sight of the blood-soaked body had given him a shock.

  “So, you called the emergency services?”

  “Yeah, man. I dialled 999 straight away.”

  Rob patted him on the shoulder. “Okay, thanks, mate. One more thing. Don’t go anywhere until the forensic guys have taken a DNA swab and your shoes.”

  * * *

  Rob pulled on a full forensic paper suit, shoe protectors and gloves before entering the apartment a second time. He was pleased to see Rooney had done the same. The forensic officers were hard at work processing the crime scene and bagging anything of relevance. They knew what to look for — personal items with which to identify the body, shoes, watch, wallet, DNA samples, anything that would help them separate his forensic footprint from that of his killer’s.

  Rob introduced himself. He didn’t know this pathologist, or any of the SOCO team, but then Kensington wasn’t
his neck of the woods.

  “Any idea of time of death?” he asked the young man bending over the body.

  The pathologist glanced up. “He’s still warm and rigor has yet to set in. I’d say death occurred no more than three or four hours ago.”

  Late evening, around 9 p.m. He mentally went through his suspects’ whereabouts. Ruth would be on duty at the agency, which ruled her out. They still hadn’t been able to locate Amber, which was suspicious in itself. According to Francine, she’d taken the night off, despite it being a Friday and one of the busiest days of the week. It was beginning to look like she’d done a runner. Had she been here tonight? Was this her work?

  Mallory, also kitted up, entered the room. “Hi, guv, sorry I’m late. Didn’t see your message until just now.”

  Rob waved it off and got straight to business. There were a couple of things playing on his mind. “We need to check if Ruth is on duty at the agency,” he said, thinking out loud. “And whether this guy, Ken Billows, hired an escort tonight.”

  Mallory glanced at the dead body, then nodded. “I’ll call her now.” He walked back out again, phone to his ear.

  * * *

  “I count twenty-five stab wounds on his back,” the pathologist was saying to Rooney, “and possibly more on his stomach.”

  He turned the victim over and inspected his abdomen. “Yep, two on his front.”

  “Those must be the initial ones.” Rob looked around the living room. “Find a mobile phone anywhere?” he asked one of the scene-of-crime officers.

  “No, sir,” came the reply. “And the landline hasn’t been installed yet.”

  As before, the attacker must have taken it with her.

  “We have something in the bedroom,” called a voice from down the hall.

  Rob and Rooney went into the bedroom. A scene-of-crime officer was shining a black light on to the bed. The duvet was on the floor and the sheets were rumpled. It looked like someone had slept in it fairly recently.

  “Semen all over the bed.” The officer moved the light around and Rob saw the luminous telltale signs. Plenty of it.

  “Fuck me,” muttered Rooney, appropriately.