by Sibel Hodge
‘Not so far, no. I’m still waiting for Technical Services to get back to me re the facial recognition. But I did ask Anthea to check through the uni’s database for any sign of Hoodie Guy. Every student and member of staff has their photo taken for their ID. She went through every file manually, and there’s no trace of him on their system. I’ve also got someone searching CCTV footage for the area around Ajay’s house for sightings of the vehicle he used, but the nearest camera is three miles away, so we may not find anything. ANPR cameras have no trace of that number plate showing up on their systems.’
‘If he was clever, he would’ve dumped the vehicle somewhere and burnt it out or hidden it.’
‘We’ll keep looking.’
‘Maybe we could arrange for some covert surveillance on Klein’s digital communications to see if he’s been in touch with Hoodie Guy, and we really should get hold of his historical phone and financial records.’
‘There’s not enough to go on to justify that yet.’
‘Well, I’m sure Natalie recognised Klein and Hoodie Guy.’ I relayed my conversation with her. ‘And she was scared. If Klein is doing some kind of brainwashing on those students, then it would fit what’s been going on.’
‘It seems completely ludicrous. And I’m certain someone would’ve noticed those students being involved in any kind of bizarre tests like that, or if any of his research was causing students to harm themselves or others on this level, don’t you? They’d be doing something about it. The university has an exemplary reputation; they wouldn’t be doing anything to jeopardise that. And I’m not prepared to, either, on just a bizarre theory.’
‘What if the university isn’t aware of what Klein’s doing? Vicky was seen going into the building late at night, not during the usual clinic hours. It could’ve been something off the books. Something secret.’
‘There would be a paper trail of their records through the Watling Centre, and someone would’ve noticed.’ He was silent for a moment. ‘No, I’m struggling to believe that scenario. If Natalie is schizophrenic, that would explain the wandering episodes prior to the accident. And the moth telling her to hit the man, too. Maybe that’s all there is to it.’
‘Or maybe she’s confused, and the moth is a euphemism for some kind of brainwashing programme carried out on her.’
Yet more silence as he considered this. ‘Right now there’s no evidence to support what you’re saying.’
I rolled my eyes at the ceiling, grinding my teeth for a moment. ‘Well, let’s go back to my patient record suggestion then. Get our covert technical team to hack into Klein’s files.’
‘First of all, the records will be a no-go. I made enquiries with Anthea, who told me the university’s patient records aren’t held on a web-accessed system. They’re all in a completely off-line database. And secondly, we don’t have enough for a warrant to examine patient records yet. I’m certainly not prepared to go in guns blazing on a bizarre hunch.’
‘Does Anthea have access to the patient records?’
‘No. They’re confidential. Only clinical staff has access.’
‘Then I’ll have to get into the Watling Centre and have a look for them.’
‘Break in?’
‘This is a covert operation, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. But all you have is a theory, which sounds incredibly far-fetched.’
‘Sir, I know I’m right. I’ve got an appointment with Professor Klein at 3.00 p.m. tomorrow. I’m going to volunteer to be involved in his research and see exactly what he’s up to. But if I don’t find anything then, can you give me authorisation to break into the Watling Centre and dig around?’
There was a pause on the other end of the phone, Sutherby’s breath crackling down the line.
‘What about Farzad Nuri?’ I pushed on. ‘We’ve now got four tragedies involving students in the last few months. There’s some malfeasance going on here, sir. I’m positive. And it might not stop with Nuri.’
After another pause, he said, ‘No. I don’t think there’s anywhere near enough for authorisation to break into the centre.’
I wanted to push him further, convinced Hoodie Guy was the key to all this, but I knew I had to choose my battles carefully, so I bit back my objections.
‘We’ve arranged for Farzad’s girlfriend and best friend to come to the station for interview at 4.00 p.m.,’ he carried on.
‘Can I watch the live interview feed?’ Which would mean going into St Albans police station, but if anyone from the uni spotted me there, I’d just say I knew Farzad and was giving an interview, too.
‘I don’t see why not. I’ll meet you there.’
I heard someone calling Sutherby’s name. He asked me to hold on and had a muffled conversation with someone before coming back on the line. ‘We finally have some good news, Becky. I’ve just been informed that someone uploaded a video of the stabbing onto YouTube that they recorded on a mobile phone, and we’ve got a copy of it. As you can imagine, we’re involved in a full-scale manhunt here, so no one’s had the chance to look at it yet, but I’ll email it over now in case you can spot anything relevant.’
We said our goodbyes, and I logged onto my email account on my phone, bouncing my knee up and down and looking back towards Bramble Lodge as I waited for Sutherby’s message to arrive.
I pounced on the email as soon as it appeared, clicked the link, and started watching the footage captured from an American tourist. I watched carefully, looking for any sighting of Hoodie Guy hanging around like he was at Ajay’s house.
I stared at the screen, watching in horror at the moment Farzad Nuri stabbed the victim and the captured aftermath, my jaw clenched so tight, my teeth started aching. Then I sat up straighter, excitement bubbling at my core.
There was a point in the video where the person with the camera phone had panned around, taking in the opposite side of the road for a brief moment, and I was sure I caught sight of Hoodie Guy.
I stopped the footage and rewound it. And there he was, leaning against the wall in between two shops, facing the scene of the stabbing. He wore a baseball cap and sunglasses. He’d tried to disguise himself, but his nose, the shape of his jaw, and his cheekbones gave it away. He had a mobile phone pressed to his ear, as if making a call.
I restarted the video, and the camera swung back on the victim being attended to by a female member of the public. I watched the chaos kicking off. The terrified reactions of the people around. Members of the public stopping and staring or hurrying away, scared. The ambulance and police arriving. Then the clip ended with no further sighting of Hoodie Guy.
I quickly called Sutherby and told him what I’d found. ‘Hoodie Guy must’ve known it would happen, because he looked as if he was waiting for it. Just like when he was waiting outside Ajay’s.’
‘Well, that’s very interesting, because Technical Services have just come back to me, and they haven’t found any matches on Hoodie Guy from facial recognition searches. We’ve gone through police databases and all national databases—driving licences, passports, etcetera—and he doesn’t seem to exist.’
‘So either he’s not British, or he hasn’t actually got a valid licence or passport. Or…’ I trailed off, thinking. ‘The vehicle he drove was registered to a fake address, and he used a fake name so common and generic, it would be basically anonymous, and organising something to cover his tracks like that would suggest knowledge of our systems and the local area. So I think he is British. And he was driving a car, so it’s likely he must’ve got a licence at some point. And if that’s the case, then he’s been wiped from the databases somehow. Just like the CCTV from St Peters Street was wiped out because of the power cut. Which would take a lot of friends in high places—either bribery by someone powerful or the government or secret services.’
He inhaled loudly. ‘Steady on, Becky. You’re sounding like some kind of conspiracy theorist now.’
‘Sir, I’m not a conspiracy theorist. I’m a realist. I’m convinced
that whatever was going on with those students started at the Watling Centre, and Klein and Hoodie Guy are right in the middle of it.’
‘Look, I definitely agree something suspicious is going on, but I think he’s not British and just isn’t on our systems. And I’m still not convinced at all about what you’re saying. It seems far more logical to me this could be a small cult in operation with a select few members and Hoodie Guy is the leader. Maybe he wants to create terror and mayhem for some personal, sick agenda. Or, more likely, after the Farzad Nuri incident, I’m starting to believe it could be the makings of some kind of terrorist cell, where Hoodie Guy is creating suicide martyrs or people who’ll attack at random for some ideological reason that we don’t know about yet. Either way, I—’
‘Sir, I’m certain it’s not a cult. Or a terrorist cell. It’s Klein orchestrating this somehow! I thought you wanted me on this case because you trusted my judgement. I’ve got experience of dealing with unusual, complicated cases, and this is—’
‘That’s enough for now. We’re going to see what Nuri’s girlfriend and friend have got to say about Farzad before we discuss this further.’ His voice was curt, brusque. ‘You’ve got an hour to get here if you want to listen to the interview. I’ll be in the observation suite.’
He was obviously stressed, under pressure to find Farzad, and losing patience, and pushing him even further didn’t seem like a good idea. In order to convince him of my theory that Klein was involved, I needed to increase my ammunition to prove it first.
So I took a deep breath to avoid blurting out anything that would just sound even more ludicrous to him. I counted to three, blew it out, and said, ‘Okay, sir. I’ll see you soon.’
Chapter 32
Detective Becky Harris
I drove to St Albans police station on autopilot, my mind turning everything over and over, trying hard to calm down. I was right about Klein’s involvement. I knew it. But knowing it and proving it were polar opposites.
I found the observation suite, knocked, and entered. Sutherby sat in front of a large screen with a camera feed from an interview room on it, his phone pressed to his ear, talking. He beckoned me in, and I sat next to him and watched a young woman on screen while he wrapped up the call. Her face looked deathly pale against her long purple hair. Staring at the wall with puffy red eyes, she sat hunched up, tattooed arms wrapped around her waist. She clutched a tissue in one hand, and every few minutes, she wiped at tears on her cheeks. An untouched bottle of water sat on the table in front of her.
Sutherby hung up, and I said, ‘Is that Farzad’s girlfriend?’
He nodded. ‘Amy Price. I’ll let them know they can start now.’ He made a quick call to Detective Chief Inspector Walker, who would be interviewing Amy, then said to me, ‘Nuri’s friend Charlie is also waiting outside to be interviewed. I’ve already briefed the team on the questions I want put to them.’
I leaned forward in my seat, staring at the screen, waiting with nervous anticipation. DCI Walker entered the room with a female DS called Bloomfield, and they set up the recording equipment before starting the questions.
Amy glanced up, looking lost.
‘Sorry to keep you waiting,’ Walker said. ‘I know this must be really upsetting for you.’
Amy sniffed and nodded. ‘I can’t believe it’s happening.’
‘We appreciate this is very hard for you, but we need to ask you some questions about Farzad,’ Bloomfield said. ‘You’re Farzad’s girlfriend?’
‘Yes.’ Amy wiped her eyes.
Walker leaned back in his chair. ‘How long have you been in a relationship with Farzad for?’
‘Eighteen months. We’re on the same course—fine art—that’s how we met. We live together now in a flat off campus.’
Walker scribbled something down in his notebook. ‘Do you have any idea where Farzad might be?’
‘No. I just… I’m just as shocked as everyone else. I’m sure you must have the wrong person.’
I turned to Sutherby. ‘I take it we’ve got units watching his parents’ house in Luton in case he shows up there? And Amy and Farzad’s flat?’
‘Yes,’ he replied.
‘Could Farzad have gone to a friend’s house?’ Walker asked Amy.
She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I mean, I don’t really know his friends from before uni who live in Luton. We only went there together a couple of times. In St Albans, there’s only really me and Charlie, but Charlie didn’t say Farzad had tried to go to his uni accommodation block.’ She shook her head helplessly.
‘How often did Farzad see Charlie?’ Bloomfield asked.
‘Well, since Farzad and me got serious, he didn’t see him that much on his own anymore. Charlie used to spend a lot of time at our flat, because there was more space, but lately Farzad and Charlie haven’t seen that much of each other.’
‘Do you know if Farzad spent any time with anyone else, apart from you or Charlie?’ Bloomfield asked. ‘Has he been associating with anyone else recently?’
‘No.’ Amy blinked rapidly. ‘Not that I know of, anyway.’
‘I think she’s lying about that,’ I said to Sutherby. ‘She’s unnerved by that question.’
But Walker had already picked up on that. ‘Are you sure?’
Amy chewed on her lip and nodded.
Walker waited for a moment to see if Amy would add anything. When she didn’t, he asked, ‘And are there any particular places Farzad likes going to?’
‘Um… not really. We’re usually either at the flat or uni. Maybe shopping or the pub or an art gallery sometimes, you know.’
Walker pulled a photograph from a manila folder on the desk and put it in front of Amy. ‘Do you recognise this man?’
Amy peered down at the photo. Her shaky fingers touched her lips. ‘Is this… the man who was stabbed?’
‘Yes.’
Amy closed her eyes and shook her head. ‘I’ve never seen him before. Who is he?’
‘His name was Donald Parkinson. He died a short while ago.’
Amy cupped her hands to her face, eyes huge pools of horror. ‘Oh, no.’ She collapsed into a crying fit, her shoulders heaving up and down.
Walker waited a few moments then said, ‘We know this is very difficult, but we need to get as much information as quickly as we can to prevent something like this happening again. Does the name Donald Parkinson ring any bells? Did Farzad ever talk about him? Or have a reason to hold a grudge against him?’
Amy sniffed hard, wiped her eyes again, and wailed. The detectives let her compose herself for another minute before trying again.
‘Amy, did Farzad know Donald Parkinson?’ Bloomfield asked.
She made a strangled sound in her throat and then shook her head. ‘No. I’ve never heard of him.’
‘He’s an administrator for an insurance company in St Albans called…’ Walker glanced at his notebook and then back up, ‘Quick Quote. Could Farzad have encountered him at Mr Parkinson’s place of work?’
‘I… er… I don’t think so. I’ve never heard of the company. Our landlord has his own building insurance for the flat, and we never got contents insurance from anywhere. And we haven’t got a car, either, so I don’t think he would’ve seen him for insurance.’ She carried on wiping away the tears with her tissue.
Walker tapped the photo. ‘So you have no idea why Farzad targeted this man?’
Amy sniffed and put her head in her hands. Her voice was muffled when she spoke, so Bloomfield asked her to talk more clearly for the benefit of the recording. Amy dropped her hands and looked up, more tears streaming down her cheeks. ‘I have no idea at all.’
‘Has Farzad ever been violent in the past?’ Walker asked.
‘No! Farzad’s just this really sweet guy. Really chilled out. Sometimes too chilled out, if you know what I mean. This is really out of character.’
‘Okay. Has Farzad been depressed or stressed about anything lately?’ Walker asked
‘No. I don
’t get any of this.’ Amy flapped a hand in the air, still shaking her head.
‘He wasn’t having any particular problems? Maybe personally, or with his family, or maybe with his course?’ Walker pressed her.
‘He loved his course. I just don’t…’ Amy trailed off and put her head in her hands again.
‘Don’t what?’ Bloomfield said gently.
Amy sniffed and took a shuddering breath before she sat up again. ‘No, there were no problems I knew of.’
‘What about financial problems? A lot of students have worries about their loans,’ Walker said.
‘He wasn’t worried about his loan. He doesn’t have to pay it back until he’s earning over a certain amount. I’m more the worrier in our relationship, but he always said he’ll worry about things when they happen, not before.’ Amy rubbed a hand over her face.
‘Has he been suffering from mood swings? Or acting strangely?’ Bloomfield asked.
Amy clenched the balled-up tissue in her fist. She hesitated, her mouth half open.
‘There’s something you’re not telling us, isn’t there, Amy?’ Walker said.
‘That’s because I’m not really sure what was going on.’ Amy sighed. ‘He wasn’t really having mood swings. But he has been going through a bit of a thing. I don’t know…’ She waved her fist around in the air, as if searching for the right words. ‘For the last few months, he’s been acting really strange. But I thought it was something else.’ Her tear-stricken gaze locked onto Walker’s. ‘I swear I never thought anything like this would happen.’
‘Strange, how?’ Walker leaned forward. ‘And what did you think it was about?’
‘It started with him disappearing sometimes. Once, I followed him when he left our flat. He was doing odd things, and he said he had no memory of it.’
‘What kind of things?’ Bloomfield asked.
Amy blew out a breath and looked up at the ceiling. ‘Farzad told me he used to do drugs a few years back. Just weed. Nothing major. I haven’t seen him do anything since we’ve been together, but I think he’d started smoking it secretly again lately. Either that, or he was seeing someone else. It’s the only thing that makes sense. He kept having nightmares. And sleepwalking around the house. I’d wake up, and he wasn’t there, and he’d be downstairs, sitting on the sofa with his eyes open, but he was asleep. But I thought it was because of the drugs, or maybe that he had a guilty conscience because he was messing around behind my back.’
