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

by Alison Belsham

  ‘Maybe they’ll be able to save her,’ said Angie.

  ‘Wishful bloody thinking. Let’s hope Rose can get something from the scene this time – this bloke’s too clever by half.’

  The SOCOs had already cordoned off the pavilion with crime-scene tape, beyond which they were busy taking photos and sweeping the ground for clues. Rose emerged from the open door and came over to them.

  ‘Treat it as a murder scene,’ said Rory, his expression grim. ‘She’s got one of those Latin tattoos.’

  ‘I guessed that was the case,’ said Rose. ‘I saw her hands and feet when they were loading her onto the stretcher. The wounds looked very similar to Tash’s and Sally Ann’s.’

  ‘Did you get any pictures of her or the wounds?’

  ‘No. They needed to stem the bleeding quickly and I didn’t want to get in their way. We’ll get them later. I’ll send one of the boys down to the hospital to photograph her.’

  ‘Find anything of interest in there?’ said Rory.

  ‘Blood,’ she said. ‘Everywhere, and I’m pretty certain it’s all the victim’s blood.’

  ‘Any sign of weapons? Finger marks?’

  ‘Nothing so far,’ said Rose, ‘but the boys’ll go over it with a fine-tooth comb. If there’s anything there, we’ll find it.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Angie. She sounded subdued.

  Rose turned to go back in, but paused.

  ‘There was one thing,’ she added, with a wry smile. ‘A team photo featuring Francis Sullivan – believe it or not, he was captain of the first eleven here in 2004.’

  ‘Nob,’ muttered Rory, under his breath.

  Rose disappeared into the pavilion.

  ‘Right, let’s go and talk to the kids who found her,’ said Rory.

  They set off across the now less-than-pristine pitch towards the school buildings.

  ‘If it’s the same as the other tattoos, it proves one thing,’ said Angie.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘That neither Alex Mullins or Ben King are the killer. We’ll have to let them go.’

  Rory stopped in his tracks, scowling. Angie had been off the previous day. She didn’t know what Sullivan had done.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘The boss released them both yesterday afternoon. It could actually be either of them.’

  And if this latest victim did die, Rory would have no scruples about laying the blame squarely at Francis Sullivan’s feet.

  45

  Monday, 28 August 2017

  Francis

  ‘We need a word.’ Rory rose from his chair to intercept Francis as he walked into the incident room late on Monday morning. It might have been a bank holiday Monday, but the whole team were in and at their desks – and Bradshaw had called for a briefing at midday.

  ‘Now?’ Francis had wanted some time to put his thoughts in order before discussing a new course of action with the team. Rather, he desperately needed to come up with some new course of action.

  He’d spent all of the previous night and half the morning waiting outside Lou Riley’s hospital room for the chance to speak to her, if only for a couple of minutes. He hadn’t got that chance. Her condition was deteriorating fast and the registrar in charge of her case, Tanika Perry, had decided it was in her best interests not to be forced to relive her ordeal under police questioning.

  ‘Don’t you get it? Some small detail could save another girl’s life.’

  ‘I get it, but the chances of you getting anything useful are so remote . . .’

  ‘I’ll be the judge of how useful anything might be.’

  ‘She’s in shock, she’s dying. Now, I need to get back to my patient.’

  Parry was adamant, and Francis had finally given up and returned to John Street.

  ‘Yes, now,’ said Rory, following him uninvited into the tiny office off the incident room.

  ‘Give me a moment. I need to change my shirt.’

  In the small room, Francis was acutely aware of the smell of his own body odour and how long it had been since he’d last showered. He should have gone home, but even the thought of it had seemed wrong given that Lou Riley’s life was ebbing away in front of their very eyes.

  Rory leaned on the doorframe, hands deep in his pockets, as Francis untucked and unbuttoned his sweat-soaked shirt. He went to the filing cabinet and took a fresh one out of the bottom drawer. He gazed at Rory as he unfolded and unbuttoned it, trying to assess his deputy’s mood. The look he got in return was hostile to say the least.

  He turned his back on the sergeant and peeled off his dirty shirt. The smell of his sweat became more immediate.

  ‘Jesus, that explains everything.’ Rory’s voice was tight with supressed anger.

  Francis dropped the dirty shirt on the floor and whirled round.

  ‘What?’

  Rory was pointing, shaking his forefinger in the direction of Francis’s shoulder, his cheeks flushed red.

  ‘That. On your back.’

  Shit! He meant the tattoo.

  Why had he ever let Marni persuade him to let her do it? She’d spent several hours working on the black outline of a sinewy, twisting, suckered beast – a writhing octopus, anatomically correct and infinitely detailed down to the last sucker and siphon. Rendered side on, it had one dark eye that seemed to stare out malevolently, and one of its tentacles stretched over the top of his shoulder to touch his clavicle at the front. But the way things had worked out, he’d never gone back for the colour.

  Naturally, it wasn’t something he’d shared with the rest of his team.

  ‘You and Marni Mullins. There was something going on, wasn’t there? No wonder you released Alex Mullins without pressing charges.’

  Francis pulled on the fresh shirt. He was kicking himself for letting this happen – and he wasn’t going to engage with Rory’s insinuations.

  ‘It’s got nothing to do with it.’

  ‘Sure thing. You let Alex Mullins go.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘And now it all makes perfect sense.’

  Francis did up his shirt buttons slowly. It looked bad. And now Rory had seen the tattoo, he could deny a relationship with Marni till he was blue in the face, but Rory would never believe him.

  ‘If that girl dies, it will be your fault.’

  ‘Jesus, sarge!’ Angie Burton was standing in the doorway.

  ‘Leave it, Angie,’ said Francis quickly.

  ‘No,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘No way. He shouldn’t have said that.’ His unlikely defender.

  ‘What?’ said Tony, appearing over his shoulder.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ said Francis.

  ‘It’s not bloody nothing,’ said Rory, ‘and you know it.’

  Francis didn’t answer.

  Rory took his silence as arrogance and exploded. ‘We had two bloody suspects in custody. You released them and within hours there was another attack. We’re supposed to protect the population of Brighton, not unleash killers on them. We’re not doing our job.’

  ‘It’s true,’ said Tony, pushing past Angie into the office.

  The tiny space seemed crowded. Francis felt at a disadvantage, so he stood up.

  ‘Sure, you’re right – we’re not doing our job. But it has nothing to do with that bloody tattoo on my shoulder. You want to know what the problem is?’

  Rory glared at him. ‘Go on then,’ he challenged.

  ‘It’s you, Rory. You’re the problem. From the very outset, you decided Alex Mullins was guilty and you’ve gone out of your way to try and put him in the frame. We don’t have anything on him. We ran out of time.’

  ‘We could have charged Mullins with assault.’

  ‘Barely.’

  But what if they had? If he’d still been in custody, and Lou Riley had been attacked, it would have cleared him.

 
; ‘Come on, boss. We’ve ballsed this one up, haven’t we?’ Tony could be relied on to echo any sentiment of Rory’s.

  ‘By which you mean, I’ve ballsed it up, I suppose?’

  Tony shrugged.

  Behind him, Francis saw Bradshaw looming in the doorway.

  ‘Get out here now,’ he said with a scowl.

  The team shuffled out for the meeting, but Bradshaw stayed in the doorway.

  ‘Lost control of your team, Sullivan? I’d never let my men talk to me like that.’

  I bet you wouldn’t, thought Francis to himself as the chief turned his back. But the sharp truth in Bradshaw’s words cut like a knife. He’d certainly lost control of the case – and he didn’t know how he was going to convince Bradshaw otherwise.

  In fact, he’d just handed the chief the perfect opportunity to indulge in his favourite pastime – undermining him in front of his own team. Bradshaw positioned himself near the back of the room. Just another team member. Simply checking in to keep abreast of what was happening in his own department. Was he fuck!

  Francis stood next to Rory and looked around at the assembled group. He cleared his throat.

  ‘Right, let’s run through where everyone is on current cases.’

  So far, so good. Bradshaw was nodding approvingly.

  ‘Last week, I was over in Lewes for the Kirby trial. That’s now ended with a verdict of manslaughter due to diminished responsibility. As you know, that wasn’t the verdict we were hoping for.’

  ‘I heard she was running her trial like a three-ring circus,’ said Bradshaw. All heads turned towards him. ‘According to the Argus – which is not where I should be getting my information on things like this – Kirby managed to discredit the evidence of the main prosecution witness. Can you explain, DI Sullivan?’

  The bastard!

  Francis’s cheeks flamed and he stumbled over a couple of words before speaking.

  ‘It was nothing, and the jury was told to ignore it.’

  ‘What exactly?’ said Bradshaw.

  ‘Sir, with all due respect, I’d like to move the meeting forward so the team can get on. Sam Kirby’s behaviour in court had no effect on the trial outcome.’

  ‘Not what the Argus implied.’ Bradshaw was like a dog with a bone.

  Kyle Hollins supressed a snigger, badly. It was clear that the whole team knew what Bradshaw was referring to.

  Francis breathed in deeply and took control.

  ‘More importantly, I’ll be meeting with the CPS to discuss whether it’s worth appealing the verdict – and whether an appeal could be used to keep her in the prison system rather than releasing her to a secure hospital.’

  ‘Either way, you didn’t get the verdict we needed. I’m severely disappointed in that result, Sullivan.’

  Would Bradshaw never not be disappointed in his performance?

  The team were getting restive – people were fidgeting and surreptitiously checking their phones. He needed to move things on.

  ‘What’s next?’ said Bradshaw.

  ‘Brady/Granger. As you know, sir, the killer struck again in the small hours of yesterday. A girl called Lou Riley. She’s in the County, under sedation.’

  ‘Got any useful information out of her?’

  ‘Not yet, sir. She realised she’d been tattooed and, because of the leaks to Tom Fitz, she knew that the tattoo was poisoned and that she was likely to die. She was hysterical when the paramedics arrived. She’s been sedated ever since.’

  ‘What leak? What are you talking about?’

  ‘We’ve reason to believe someone who has access to the case information has been passing on details to Tom Fitz of the Argus. I don’t know who it is yet, but I intend to find out.’

  Francis scanned the room. Rory followed his gaze. Kyle Hollins was staring out of the window.

  ‘You’ve got enough to make the assumption it’s an attack by the same individual?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Francis. ‘The tattoo is definitely by the same hand. There’s some Latin verse, tattooed in conventional black ink, and we think there’s also some UV tattooing underneath it.’

  ‘You think?’ said Bradshaw.

  ‘We don’t have access to Lou Riley to make sure. We can’t tell until we get a better image of her back. She’s also got identical wounds on her hands and feet, made by a drill using the same size of drill bit as the one we found in the aquarium.’

  ‘What about that one? Get anything useful off it?’

  ‘It had traces of Sally Ann’s blood on it. That was all.’

  ‘No finger marks?’

  ‘No, sir. The drill bit looked brand new, according to Rose Lewis. No marks from previous use, no finger marks, nothing apart from Sally Ann’s dried blood.’

  ‘And what about the verse on Riley’s back?’

  ‘The verse comes from the same Buxtehude cantata.’

  He pointed at the whiteboard, where Rory had carefully transcribed the new verse from the photo on his mobile.

  Grates ago plagis tantis,

  clavis duris guttis sanctis

  dans lacrymas cum osculis.

  ‘What does it mean?’ said Bradshaw. He looked uncomfortable, as he always did when he needed to defer to a member of his team.

  ‘“I give thanks for the terrible wounds, the hard nails, the holy drops, shedding tears with kisses.” It’s from the third movement,’ said Francis.

  ‘How many movements are there, sir?’ asked Angie.

  Francis thought for a moment. ‘Seven in total.’

  ‘So we can expect four more attacks?’ she said.

  Bradshaw was evidently feeling left out of the conversation. ‘Not if you get those bloody suspects back in custody. If you hadn’t released them both, this third attack wouldn’t have happened.’

  ‘Actually, sir,’ said Rory, ‘Ben King has an alibi for Saturday night through to Sunday morning. We had him under surveillance and he didn’t leave his house.’

  He hadn’t mentioned that when he was busy throwing out blame for the attack.

  ‘What about Mullins? Were you watching him?’

  There was an awkward silence for a few seconds.

  Bradshaw’s face darkened. ‘Good God, don’t tell me he gave you the slip? He’s just a kid. You’re bloody useless, the lot of you.’

  Another thing Rory had failed to mention. Francis gritted his teeth while Bradshaw wound things up, willing himself not to speak out of turn.

  As the team dispersed back to their desks, Bradshaw came up to where Francis and Rory were standing.

  ‘A word in my office,’ he said. It wasn’t a request.

  They followed him up the stairs. Francis hung back a bit and Rory turned to look at him.

  Francis spoke in a low voice so the chief wouldn’t hear. ‘For fuck’s sake, Rory. If your team had kept Mullins in sight, we might know now whether he was the killer.’

  ‘You were the one that put him out on the streets again – the buck stops with you.’

  Francis carried on up the stairs, staring straight ahead. He was too angry even to glance in Rory’s direction, and they reached the chief’s office without exchanging another word. Bradshaw looked from one to the other of them as they stood stiffly in front of his desk.

  ‘I’ve had a complaint about you and your team, Sullivan. And after what I’ve just seen downstairs, it frankly comes as no surprise.’

  ‘Really?’ said Francis. He was unable to retain the veneer of good manners any longer, while inside he was seething.

  ‘Yes, really,’ said Bradshaw. ‘Tom Fitz, of the Argus, is accusing you of assault and threatening behaviour.’

  ‘That’s bullshit,’ said Rory. ‘I was there – there was no assault.’

  ‘That bruise on your knuckle, Sullivan?’ said Bradshaw, ignoring
Rory’s intercession.

  ‘I punched a wall,’ said Francis. He felt like doing just that, right now. ‘And as for threatening behaviour, yes, I threatened him – with prosecution if he continued to obstruct my operation.’

  Bradshaw bristled with anger. ‘You’re a fool to have made an enemy of the press, Sullivan. Tom Fitz has always been a good friend to this department. I’ve worked closely with him for years.’

  Not that many years, presumably, because Fitz was considerably younger than Bradshaw. But had they been close? Is that where Fitz was getting his information? Perhaps it was time to manage their updates to the chief a little more strategically.

  ‘Now he’s planning to write a piece on how the police are incapable of doing what they’re paid for.’

  ‘He’s making our job tougher, sir, by printing off-the-record information,’ said Francis. ‘He’s put the killer’s MO in the public domain – can you imagine what Lou Riley’s going through because of that?’

  But Bradshaw was bored. He rarely showed any empathy for the victims of the crimes his team was investigating.

  ‘I expected better of you, Sullivan. And of you, Mackay. You were bickering like bloody kids in front of your team. I need you two working together to pull this case back from the brink. If you think it’s likely that the killer’s planning four more attacks, it’s your job to stop it. Now get out and do something before he strikes again.’

  As much as Francis hated him, Bradshaw was right. The personal enmity between him and Rory was poisoning the case when they desperately needed to work together. They had to prevent another death – or another four – and on his own Francis had no idea how he could achieve that.

  As they went down the stairs, Francis’s mobile rang.

  ‘Hello?’

  He stopped in his tracks.

  ‘Shit. Shit, shit, shit.’

  He shoved the phone back in his pocket.

  ‘Lou Riley is dead.’

  And it’s all my fault.

  v

  19 July 1993

  Sweet sixteen. My dear, sweet Aimée. Every girl’s dream is your nightmare, isn’t it? The worst birthday ever and, by God, you’ve had some poisonous birthdays before this one.