Her Last Breath: The new crime thriller from the international bestseller (Sullivan and Mullins)

by Alison Belsham

  32

  Wednesday, 23 August 2017

  Angie

  Angie didn’t really enjoy her role as the team’s family liaison officer. She found it stressful, having to be the main support for families who’d just lost a child, sibling or parent unexpectedly. It took a toll. But it was important – not only for the families she helped, but also for the investigations. Grieving relatives were often the best source of information on the deceased, and they needed to be handled with care. Angie spent time with the victim’s close family and friends, gleaning what she could with a subtle approach.

  Over a cup of instant coffee, sitting in a living room decorated with antimacassars and populated by a multitude of small animals made of coloured glass, Angie probed Danielle Ellis for information about her daughter. She asked about Sally Ann’s job and how she spent her free time, and about why she’d dropped out of college, before finally getting around to the one thing she had come to ask.

  ‘Did Sally Ann have a boyfriend?’

  Danielle Ellis looked tired and wounded. Her drab clothes hung off her bony frame, suggesting recent weight loss, and the nail polish on her fingernails was badly chipped. As far as Angie had been able to ascertain, she didn’t have anyone close to offer her support.

  Danielle bit at a hangnail before answering.

  ‘No, she wasn’t with anyone. Not for the last few months.’

  This didn’t tally with what Alex Mullins had told them.

  ‘Are you sure? Maybe she had recently started seeing someone?’

  Danielle shook her head. Her hair fell into her eyes, and she hurriedly tucked it back behind her ears. ‘She told me everything. We were like sisters. She hasn’t been steady with anyone since she broke up with Alex Mullins, nearly a year ago.’

  What the fuck? That was something the little prick had failed to mention when they interviewed him.

  ‘She went out with Alex Mullins?’ Angie had to be sure.

  ‘He was a nice boy. I was sorry when they split.’

  And now he was languishing in a cell in John Street suspected of murdering her.

  Back at the station, Tony had received an email from Sally Ann’s phone provider. It contained a list of all the texts she’d deleted during the past six months. There were no recent messages from Alex Mullins, but there were plenty from somebody else.

  ‘Angie, come and take a look,’ he said, almost immediately. ‘She was definitely seeing someone, even if she hadn’t told her mother about it.’

  As they stared at the screen together, Angie surreptitiously breathed in her lover’s scent as she bent over his desk.

  ‘Look,’ said Tony. ‘Nearly all the texts she receives are from someone called Ben.’

  He expanded a thread and they were confronted with a dick pic. Sally Ann’s reply was a blushing, smiling emoji and another one blowing a kiss. Further up the thread, she’d sent him a selection of topless pictures. Looking at them made Angie feel a little prurient. This was a private message for the girl’s lover. She would never have imagined them being blown up on a desktop screen in a police incident room.

  ‘Right,’ said Tony, closing the thread. ‘I think we can safely assume these two were in some kind of relationship. Check his contact details on her phone and see if she’s got an address for him. Otherwise, we’ll work back from the mobile number he’s using.’

  Angie picked up Sally Ann’s phone and clicked on the contacts icon. She scrolled through them, noticing Tash Brady’s number among them, and Alex Mullins’s. There was one Ben, no surname, but along with his number, there was a street address.

  It took Angie and Tony just fifteen minutes to reach number seventy-six Hill Drive, in the Hove Park area of the city. Fifteen minutes of Tony telling her how unhappy he was with Barbara. She silently wondered why he stayed with her – and whether he’d ever leave her.

  ‘Is she just as unhappy as you?’

  Tony sighed. ‘To be honest, I don’t know. We don’t talk about things like that any more.’

  It sounded like her parents’ marriage. People just growing bored and growing apart. Surely it would be better for them to go their separate ways and for Tony to find happiness elsewhere? Say with her, for example. They could make a fresh start somewhere else. In another city.

  ‘Do you think you can get away for a bit this evening?’ she said.

  ‘I’ll let you know.’

  They pulled up outside a newly built, red-brick detached house with a sloping drive and a double garage to one side of it. The front garden was somewhat scruffy and overgrown, compared to the rest of the neighbourhood, and Angie couldn’t guess when the windows had last been cleaned.

  ‘Bit posh round here for someone going out with a college dropout, isn’t it?’ said Tony as they got out of the car.

  Angie shrugged. ‘The house doesn’t look that posh though. Might explain why Sally Ann hadn’t told her mum about him. Maybe he’s married.’ It would explain why all the texts were deleted.

  They went up to the house and rang the doorbell.

  ‘Probably no one in at this time,’ said Angie, but she was wrong.

  A moment later the door opened and a middle-aged man stood blinking at them through round, horn-rimmed spectacles. He was wearing a polo shirt and longish khaki shorts, but in Angie’s opinion they were still showing off too much of his gnarled and knobbly kneecaps.

  ‘Good afternoon. I’m DC Burton and this is DC Hitchins. Would you mind telling us your name?’

  The man paused, confusion written across his face. Angie raised her eyebrows.

  ‘Benedict King.’ he said. ‘What . . . how can I help you?’

  ‘Could we have a word inside?’ said Tony.

  It wasn’t really a question and King stood back from the front door to let them enter.

  ‘Is this your telephone number?’ said Tony, reciting the number they’d taken from Sally Ann’s phone.

  ‘Yes. What exactly do you want?’ he said, as he led them through to a large open-plan kitchen and living area. He dropped down onto a sofa but didn’t invite them to sit. They both stayed standing. Angie looked around – the room was a mess, which came as no surprise after the state of the outside of the property. But what did come as a surprise was the artwork on the walls. There was a series of pictures, ink drawings of naked women, brought to life with flesh-toned colour washes, shaping the contours of their bodies with light and shade. She’d seen some of these before in a local gallery in the Lanes. They were good.

  Tony led with the questions.

  ‘Mr King, what do you do for a living?’

  ‘I’m an artist.’

  Artist. Art college. Could be the connection they were after.

  ‘Do you have links to the Brighton School of Art?’ she said.

  ‘I’m a lecturer there.’ He looked from one to the other of them. ‘Why?’

  ‘Do you know a girl called Sally Ann Granger?’ said Tony.

  Angie saw a shadow veil his eyes as he thought, or pretended to think, for a moment. ‘Yes, I think I do. I think she might have been in my tutorial group for a while. She’s dead, isn’t she? I saw it in the Argus. What happened to her?’

  ‘Are you married, Mr King?’ said Angie.

  The change of subject caught him by surprise and he tripped over his words.

  ‘Yes. But what . . . why . . . my wife’s not here. She’s at work.’

  Angie thought about the picture he’d sent to Sally Ann’s phone. She’d heard all she needed to. Things were starting to fall into place.

  Tony had obviously come to the same conclusion.

  ‘Mr King, I wonder if you’d mind accompanying us to the police station to help with our enquiries.’

  33

  Wednesday, 23 August 2017

  Francis

  ‘Yes, bring
him in for questioning,’ said Francis.

  He’d got back to the office from the aquarium at just after two to find that Angie and Tony had gone to question a man who’d been sending Sally Ann dick pics. It turned out that it was Benedict King, a local artist of some repute. Angie had called Francis from the car, while Tony waited inside with King.

  ‘He was her tutor at the art college, while she was there. He’s admitted knowing her, but we haven’t pressed him further. He also knew Tash Brady, though he wasn’t her tutor. We thought any further questioning should be down at the station.’

  It was a no brainer. He knew both the girls. Now they needed to see if he had alibis for the critical time periods. Francis felt a frisson of excitement down the back of his neck as he disconnected from the call. Finally, a breakthrough – though that didn’t mean he was letting Alex Mullins off the hook, especially since Angie had discovered that he’d dated Sally Ann before hooking up with Tash. They could still hold him for another seventy-two hours, and Francis knew better than to release a suspect prematurely.

  While he waited for Angie and Tony to bring King in, he went out of his office into the incident room.

  ‘Kyle, you’ve still got Tash Brady’s phone, right?’

  ‘Yes, boss.’

  ‘Can you check if she had any contact with a man called Benedict King? Tony and Angie have got a number for him, if he doesn’t come up by name.’

  ‘Sure, I’ll get onto it.’

  Rory looked up from his computer screen.

  ‘Who’s that, then?’

  ‘Tony and Angie are bringing in a man that Sally Ann was apparently seeing on the quiet.’

  ‘Really?’ Rory sounded unconvinced.

  ‘We need to widen the search, Rory, given that there’s nothing tying Mullins to the crimes.’

  ‘Apart from the fact that he dated both the victims, has access to tattooing equipment, had a row with one of the victims . . .’

  Francis ignored him and went back into his office to make a call.

  ‘Rose, anything on that drill bit yet? Whose blood it was?’

  It was nearly four o’clock by the time Tony and Angie walked Benedict King into the station. Apparently, he’d not been at all keen on accompanying them. They’d explained to him that they needed to ask him some questions and that he could either come voluntarily or they’d go back to the station and get a warrant.

  Now he was sequestered in an interview room downstairs, while Tony and Angie filled Francis in on the details.

  ‘When he asked about Sally Ann being dead, he looked genuinely sad,’ said Angie. ‘Not shocked, mind you – he’d seen it in the paper.’

  ‘Not that hard to fake being sad, though,’ said Tony.

  Francis kept Benedict King waiting on purpose. His adrenalin levels would rise and fall, and his cortisol levels would rise – the longer he had to wait, the more stressed he’d become and the harder he’d find it to perform. That would make it easier for Francis to judge whether he was lying or telling the truth.

  Finally, at close to six o’clock, Francis and Rory went down to the interview room and introduced themselves.

  The room smelled of his sweat.

  ‘I’ve been kept sweltering in this airless little box for nearly two hours,’ he blustered. ‘Is that really the way you treat people who’re helping you with your enquiries?’

  ‘I apologise, Mr King. Things cropped up over the course of the afternoon that needed to be attended to. Policing doesn’t always run to schedule.’

  He sat down opposite Benedict King, and Rory took the chair next to him. Francis noticed that one of the artist’s eyelids was twitching rapidly. The man was unnerved – and that would be to their advantage.

  ‘Mr King, can you tell me, in what capacity did you know Sally Ann Granger?’

  King moved restlessly in his chair, as if he was already fed up with being questioned.

  ‘She was my student for a term . . . perhaps two, at the College of Art.’

  ‘I understand you were her tutor, so you would have seen more of her than most of the other students. Is that right?’

  ‘I usually have about eight students in my tutorial group – she was one of those. She would attend an hour’s tutorial each week with the rest of the group.’

  ‘Is that the only time you saw her?’

  ‘To be honest, I don’t remember seeing much of her then. She failed to attend several tutorials before she left the course.’

  ‘Do you mind telling us why she left the course?’ said Rory.

  Benedict King gave him an incredulous look.

  ‘I have no idea why she left the course. Personal reasons, I suppose. Her coursework was fine.’

  ‘But you were her tutor. Didn’t she discuss it with you?’

  King shook his head.

  Francis put his elbows on the table between them and leaned forward with his hands clasped.

  ‘Isn’t it true, Mr King, that you were actually having an affair with her?’

  Anger flashed in Benedict King’s eyes before he was able to bring himself under control.

  ‘No, it isn’t.’

  ‘Did you send her photographs of your penis by mobile phone and receive in exchange photographs of her naked breasts?’

  Benedict King was silent. It would be useless to deny what the police had seen on Sally Ann’s phone.

  ‘Mr King, please answer the question,’ said Rory.

  ‘That doesn’t mean I had anything to do with her death.’

  ‘Were you having a relationship with Sally Ann Granger?’

  Benedict King’s body language broadcast his reluctance to answer the question – he crossed his arms and his legs, pushing back into his chair. Francis stared at King’s left forearm. It sported a scattering of tattoos – a bluebird, a heart with a dagger through it, stars, numbers, a key. American Old School style. They distracted him for a moment but then he carried on with the questions.

  ‘Did your relationship with Sally Ann have anything to do with her leaving the course?’

  The questions came thick and fast now – Francis wasn’t waiting for King to answer. He knew they’d go over these questions again and again in the next few hours, but by showing King what he was up against, he could demoralise and scare him. Make him as vulnerable as possible before he had the sense to ask for a lawyer, which by law Francis didn’t have to offer him as they were, at this point, only questioning him as a possible witness.

  ‘Did you know Tash Brady?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘She was a student on the course you taught.’

  ‘I don’t know all the students by name.’

  ‘Do you know Alex Mullins?’

  ‘Have you ever tattooed anybody?’

  ‘Do you own tattooing equipment?’

  ‘Can you account for your whereabouts on Friday, eleventh of August, from ten p.m. until Saturday, twelfth of August, at eight a.m.?’

  After this question, Francis let the silence stretch. Benedict King wouldn’t or couldn’t meet his gaze. Instead, the artist tugged at an imaginary thread on the stitching of his shorts pocket.

  After more than a minute had passed, he said, ‘Would you like me to repeat the question, Mr King?’

  This time Benedict King raised his head and looked Francis straight in the eye.

  ‘I’d like to call my lawyer.’

  34

  Thursday, 24 August 2017

  Francis

  Francis was staring at the details of the two murders on the whiteboard when Rory came into the incident room.

  ‘I’ve secured another forty-eight hours on Mullins,’ he said.

  They’d already had him in the cells for almost forty-eight hours. Ninety-six was the maximum time they could hold him without charge – and at that point t
hey’d have to decide whether to charge him with assault, with murder or simply let him go. This would mean a tough discussion the next day.

  ‘He’s asked for his lawyer to come in again.’

  Francis shrugged. ‘Fair enough. Get anything else from him?’

  He returned his gaze to the images of the girls, their stigmata and the poisoned tattoos that had caused their deaths. There was a shot of Alex Mullins between them – the common link in both cases. Only now he added a picture of Benedict King in the same place. He knew both women and had been seeing one of them.

  ‘Boss, does that mean you don’t think Alex Mullins did it?’ said Kyle Hollins.

  ‘What do you think? I won’t be sure he did it until he confesses or until we find something rock-solid that ties him to one of the scenes. But the fact that he tried to put some other man in the frame definitely confirms him as a person of interest. The long and short of it? We just don’t know, so all other avenues of enquiry are still open.’ He glared round at the team. ‘So far we’ve got nowhere with this case. We need to go right back to basics again. Means. Motive. Opportunity. If we’re going to prevent this happening to a third girl, we need to start answering questions. Who did both girls know in common and which of those have alibis? Why those particular locations? How does this killer choose his victims? Why the stigmata? Why the tattoos – what do they signify, if anything?’

  ‘Aren’t they just the means of administering the poison?’ said Angie.

  ‘Then why not simply do it with a syringe?’ Francis countered. ‘Both scripts are taken from a piece of choral music that references Christ’s wounds on the cross – and the killer reproduced those wounds. That has to have some more meaning than just a simple signature. It seems unlikely to me that Alex Mullins would be using Latin references like that if these were simply killings caused by romance gone wrong.’

  ‘What about Benedict King?’ said Angie. ‘He’s an artist.’

  ‘You need to look into his background. Is he, or has he ever been, religious? Does he have an interest in choral music? Has he studied Latin? If we can answer these questions, we’ll find the killer.’ He paused as they digested his words.