by BIBA PEARCE
“Any sign of who he was with?” Rob glanced at the side pedestal that had a lamp, a beer bottle and a packet of cigarettes on it.
“There might be some female DNA on the sheets,” SOCO said.
“Make sure you bag the bottle and the smokes.” Rob nodded at the bedside table. The officer nodded and got to work. He opened his case and began swabbing the sheets for preliminary samples before wrapping the whole thing in a plastic bag. More tests would be run at the lab.
“I don’t get it,” he said to Rooney as they watched the SOCOs process the scene. “Why was he stabbed at the front door?”
“She slept with him then killed him,” said Rooney. “Nice lady.”
No, it didn’t add up. The blood spatter indicated he was stabbed at the front door first, then he’d moved into the lounge.
“Maybe it wasn’t her?”
“Huh?” Rooney glanced at him. “You saying this wasn’t your killer?”
“No, it’s her all right. What I’m saying is maybe it wasn’t the woman he slept with who killed him.”
“You mean he had two female visitors?”
Rob rubbed his temple. His head was beginning to hurt. “Maybe.”
Was it possible that this victim hadn’t been killed by his lover? If someone else had stabbed him while the woman had been here, it meant they might have a witness. “We have to find out who he slept with — she may have seen something. That is our top priority.”
Mallory charged back into the flat. “Guv, Billows did hire an escort tonight. Ruth has just confirmed it. Her name was Brooklynn and her booking was from seven till eight. I’ve got the address.”
Rob thumped him on the back. “Great work, mate. Let’s go.”
Chapter 31
Brooklynn lived in a tiny row of mews houses in Fulham. It was a dark, moonless night and the only sound came from the restless wind as it tousled trees and sent rubbish bins flying across the street. A lone fox prowled along the pavement in search of food, its onyx eyes flashing through the blackness.
“Bit spooky with this wind,” muttered Mallory as they crossed the road and approached number five.
“I wonder how she affords this.” Rob studied the well-maintained bungalow with its white exterior and green-shuttered windows. The recycling bins were stacked outside the front door, and the roses and lavender bushes were pruned for the winter. Someone obviously took care of the place.
There was a small Ford Escort parked outside on the street in front of the house, but the road sign said free parking after midday, so it could have belonged to anyone. Rob rang the doorbell. It was nearly two in the morning.
They waited a few minutes. Rob rang a second time. Eventually, they heard footsteps coming down the hall. A sleepy voice called out, “Who is it?”
“The police. Open up, ma’am.”
A pause, then a shuffle and the sound of the chain being lifted off the latch. The handle turned and the door opened a crack. “Can I see some ID, officers?”
If Rob was surprised, he didn’t show it. He held up his warrant card, as did Mallory. “I’m DI Rob Miller and this is DS Mallory from the Putney Major Investigation Team.”
She peered through the crack, then nodded and opened the door. Rob found himself facing a middle-aged woman with greying hair standing in her nightgown. “What’s this about?”
“Do you know Bernadette King?” asked Mallory, who had got Brooklynn’s real name from Ruth.
The woman nodded. “That’s my daughter. What do you want with her?”
“Is she here?” asked Rob.
“Yes, she’s asleep upstairs.”
“Can you wake her, please? We need to speak with her.” He kept his voice firm, official.
The woman nodded and turned to go upstairs, but before she reached the first step, a pale face peered down from the banisters. “What’s happening, Nana?”
“Nothing, sweetie, go back to bed.”
“Who are they?” The face belonged to a boy of about six dressed in Spiderman pyjamas.
“Just some gentlemen who want to speak to Mummy.” She gave them an imploring look, then climbed the stairs. A few moments later, a tall, dark-haired woman with a bemused expression came down. She had pulled a loose jumper over her pyjamas and her feet were bare. She looked very young. “Can I help you?”
“Bernadette?” asked Rob.
She nodded.
He moved in. “Bernadette King, I’m arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Ken Billows.”
* * *
In the police interview room, Bernadette, or Brooklynn as she was known on the Daring Divas website, looked fragile. She was an attractive woman, beautiful even, with strong cheekbones and slanting olive eyes, which at the moment were clouded with fear.
Across from her sat Rob and Mallory, both wearing serious expressions. They’d gone for the hard-line approach to try and scare her into confessing what she knew. It often worked best with timid suspects. She was tired and still disconcerted after being woken from her bed and dragged down to the station without time to change. They’d issued her with a police tracksuit, which she looked surprisingly good in.
“Were you at Ken Billows’s flat tonight in Kensington?” began Rob. He decided not to ask her if she knew him, because it was quite obvious by the booking that she did. He didn’t want to give her time to formulate a lie.
She nodded, her eyes huge as she gazed at him.
“What time was that?”
“B—Between seven and eight,” she stammered, gripping her hands tightly together on the table. Rob glanced at them and tried to imagine them wielding the knife that had stabbed Billows to death. He couldn’t. Still, that didn’t mean she didn’t do it.
“Why were you there?”
She hesitated, afraid to speak, afraid of what it might mean.
“Did Brooklynn have an appointment?” enquired Mallory, in a slightly less aggressive tone. They’d questioned enough suspects together to know how to play off each other.
She nodded again, tears filling her eyes.
Rob took a deep breath. “Mr Billows was found dead this evening at his apartment.” He showed her a photograph of the body taken at the crime scene. Billows was lying face down in a puddle of his own blood.
Bernadette’s hand flew to her mouth.
“Did you do this?” Rob glared at her.
“No! Of course not. I just had sex with him. He was fine when I left — I swear.” She was shaking now, clutching at the table like it was a lifeline.
“Is that all?” Rob persisted. “You didn’t stab him because he was too rough with you?”
“What? No.” She was crying now.
“Did he hurt you? Is that why you killed him?”
She shook her head, tears pouring down her face. Rob glanced at Mallory, who gave a little shake of his head. Rob was inclined to agree.
“Okay, Bernadette,” he said more gently. “Why don’t you talk me through the evening?”
She sobbed. “I have a child at home. He’s everything to me. If you put me away, I don’t know what he’d do.”
“Bernadette, look at me.”
She glanced up through her tears.
How could someone so young be a sex worker? What a waste of a life. He leaned forward. “If you didn’t kill Mr Billows, then you don’t have anything to worry about, but you were at his house on the night he died, so can you see how this looks?”
She nodded, her lip trembling.
“You were probably the last person to see him alive.”
She bit her lip to keep it still.
“So, tell us what you know, and we’ll take it from there.”
“Okay.” She wiped her eyes on her sleeve and took a shaky breath. “I got to his place at seven. It was a bit scary like, being in a big block that was only half-full.”
“He told you that, did he?”
She nodded. “Anyway, I went in and we . . . well, you know. For a moment, I thought he wasn’t going to pay
me, but he did. Then, I left.”
“He paid you in full?”
“Yes.”
“How much was that?”
“£150.”
Rob didn’t want to know what that was for. He turned his attention back to the events of the evening. “Did he walk you to the door?”
“Yes, he saw me out and I left.”
“There was no one else around? No one in the corridor or outside the block?”
“I saw a security guard,” she said, “but I don’t think he saw me.”
She made sure he didn’t see her, more like. “And you’re sure you didn’t see anyone else?”
“No.” Another sob escaped her. “I’m sorry, I didn’t.”
“How did you get home?”
“I took the bus. There’s one from South Kensington to Fulham.”
“What time did you get back?”
“Around half past eight. Just in time to tuck my son up.”
Rob glanced at Mallory, who nodded. He’d follow up with the mother and son. The police were searching her house, looking for evidence of blood spatter on her clothing and shoes, and of course, any sign of the murder weapon.
“Does your mother know what you do for a living?” Mallory asked.
Bernadette recoiled. “God, no. She thinks I work in a pub. I’m saving to put myself through college. I want to be a lawyer.”
Rob was at a loss for words. Was this what it had come to? Girls selling themselves to pay tuition fees? Christ.
“You mean this is only a temporary gig for you?” Mallory again.
“Yes, of course. I’m saving so much more than I would waitressing. Another few months and I’ll have enough for my undergraduate degree. It would have taken me years in a pub.”
“There are student loans for that sort of thing,” pointed out Rob.
She gave him a look that said, Seriously? “I’ll be paying that back for years afterwards. No thanks.”
“It’s a safer option than what you’re doing.”
She blinked at him and he decided to shut up. This was her decision. If she wanted to put her life on the line to pay for university, then that was up to her.
“Okay, Bernadette. Thanks for speaking with us. We aren’t charging you right this minute, but we’re going to hold you until we’ve finished searching your house. Then you’ll be free to go home.” Provided they found nothing.
She dropped her head in her hands and sobbed in relief. Rob felt bad for giving her such a hard time.
* * *
They headed back up to the deserted squad room.
“Any news on Ingrid?” Rob asked Mallory. He flicked the switch at the door and the floor was bathed in a harsh, fluorescent light.
“Nothing as of yet. We have all units looking out for her. She can’t get far.”
“Do you think she did this?” Rob sank into his chair. God, he was tired. The adrenalin of the last few hours was wearing off and he suddenly felt like if he put his head on his desk, he’d sleep for a week.
“She’s our most likely suspect,” Mallory said. He perched on the end of the desk. “Ruth was at the agency all evening, and it looks like this girl’s in the clear. I can’t see her slaughtering a client when she’s got a young one at home.”
“She wants to be a lawyer.” Rob shook his head.
“I hope they never find out about her past life.”
Mallory had a point. She’d be disbarred faster than you could say, “Objection, Your Honour,” if it was revealed she used to be a sex worker. Perhaps that’s something he ought to mention to her when he released her.
True enough, the house search didn’t turn up anything. The clothes she’d worn that night were strewn on her bedroom floor and contained no traces of blood. Neither did her stilettos, which were found beside the bed.
Rob released her, but only after she’d given them a DNA swab to match that found on the bed. He made sure to point out how detrimental her current job would be to her future career. That gave her pause, and he could tell she hadn’t thought it through. He hoped it made a difference, but somehow, he doubted it would.
Chapter 32
It was gone eleven before Rob made it into the station. He’d slept like the dead from the moment he’d fallen into bed at six that morning until a frantic Trigger had woken him up at ten. Feeling bad, he took the dog for a quick walk, then showered, dressed and grabbed a couple of croissants and a coffee on the way to work. The high street was already springing to life with Saturday shoppers and walkers heading for the river. The wind had dropped and a fine layer of frost crunched underfoot. Still no snow.
He’d given the team the rest of the weekend off so there was no one there other than himself, Mallory and Will, who was monitoring the fake online profile they’d set up on the SAAFE forum. Mike had left a note on his desk saying they’d talked to everyone at the Pear Tree Hotel and no one had noticed anything untoward. The way things were going, Rob wasn’t surprised. The hotel didn’t have a CCTV camera and the one on the street outside had been down due to an electrical fault. Bloody typical.
Will’s alias was a sex worker called Elementa. Her warning read: Violent Boundary Pusher. Mid 30s. English. West Kensington. Calls himself Peter or Pete. Relatively good-looking. Don’t be fooled. Removed condom while we were doing doggy. When I asked him to put it back on, he said no. I told him to leave and he got physical. Hit me a couple of times before leaving without paying. Watch out for this guy. Number is 0759538****.
The description was vague enough that it could be anyone, and West Kensington was right in the middle of their target zone. It was close to South Kensington with good transport links to the rest of the city but slightly dodgier.
“Any hits so far?” Rob asked, wiping crumbs from his mouth. The squad room was so peaceful on the weekends. No ringing phones, no whirring of the printer or beeping of computers. Just the soft tick of the wall clock and the distant hum of the traffic outside on the high street.
“No, only a couple of comments like, ‘I think I know this guy,’ or ‘This could be the same guy I saw last week.’ Obviously, he isn’t, since the dude is a figment of my imagination.” Will chuckled. “But I used a legit pay-as-you-go phone number.”
“Keep going,” replied Rob. “You never know. Someone might get in touch and ask for his contact information. In the meantime, trawl the forum for our latest victim, Ken Billows. Look for any references to him. We know he’s a client of the Daring Divas agency, but that in itself isn’t reason enough to kill him.”
“Sure. I’ll get right on it.”
Rob switched on his computer and settled back into his chair, waiting for it to boot up. He’d just achieved a semi-state of calm when Mallory leaped up, phone still attached to his ear. “We’ve located Ingrid!”
“Where?” Rob jumped, knocking over his coffee, but he grabbed the cup just in time. Thank God it still had the plastic lid on.
“She’s just got home, apparently she was at her boyfriend’s house.”
“Boyfriend? Shit.”
“They’re bringing her in.”
* * *
“Why didn’t you tell us you knew Dennis Patterson?” Rob asked Ingrid. They were back in the interview room and he was tired of being Mr Nice Guy.
“I don’t know him,” Ingrid insisted, her eyes flickering over the photograph lying in front of her on the steel table. She was dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, her strawberry-blonde hair was pulled back in a ponytail and she had a faint smudge of eyeliner beneath her eyes.
“You had a booking at the Pear Tree Hotel the day he died.”
She thought back. “Oh yeah. But that was a dud. I rocked up and knocked on this geezer’s door. He told me he hadn’t called a whore — he was quite rude, actually — and told me to piss off.” Her eyes widened. “Is that him?” She touched the picture.
Rob nodded. Mallory said nothing.
Her voice rose a few notches in pitch. “I didn’t know! I swear, the guy I me
t didn’t look anything like this dead guy.”
Death had a way of bloating and distorting facial features. He paused, puckering his lips contemplatively. She could be telling the truth. A healthy, upright man would look decidedly different from one who’d been dead over twenty-four hours and suffered traumatic blood loss. He decided to give her the benefit of the doubt. For now.
He rubbed his forehead. “Okay, let’s start from the beginning. You had an appointment with a client at the hotel. Any idea what his name was?”
“Lewis, I think. Mary made the booking, ask her.”
“And when you knocked on the door, this guy answered?” He prodded the photo with his finger.
“Yes.” Her gaze was clear and a little defiant. “Like I already said, I didn’t know it was him at the time.”
“You sure you got the right room?”
“Yeah, I even called the agency to double-check. I thought there might have been a mix-up.”
“What did you do then?”
“I left. There wasn’t anything else to do. I couldn’t go around knocking on doors asking if anyone had ordered a blow job, could I?”
Mallory smothered a snort.
“What time did you leave?” Rob tried to stay focused, although something was playing at the edge of his mind.
She tilted her head to the side. “It must have been around noon. He was an early appointment. I usually like those ’cos it means I can take the night off, but this guy just wasted my time.”
They let her go shortly after that. Rob was beginning to think she really hadn’t recognized Patterson from the photograph, and there was nothing solid they could hold her on.
Rob pushed open the doors to the squad room. “Something she said got me thinking,” he mused. “What if Mary got the room wrong?”
Mallory broke his stride. “You mean she sent the escort to the incorrect suite?”
Rob nodded. “It’s possible, isn’t it? I know she thought it was a prank, but what if she misheard the caller or entered the wrong number into the system?”
Mallory’s face lit up. “It wasn’t a prank. Someone else called the agency to book the appointment.”
Rob felt a surge of adrenalin shoot through him. “Get the names of all the guests who stayed at the hotel that night and see if there’s a Lewis registered. One of them hired an escort and later called to complain that she hadn’t rocked up.” He knew it was a long shot — but maybe, just maybe, the punter had checked in under the same name he’d used to call the agency.
