The Stranger Within

by Tara Lyons

  Thomas’s fingers silently drummed the table again. ‘There’s no point in buying a home that I’m hardly ever going to live in and I don’t like to be tied down. I take myself off abroad every now and then. I still help Valerie out with the bills and the rest is saved.’ He smirked at Dixon, and Hamilton realised it was the first time the man’s face had lit up. ‘I’m a simple man, detective.’

  ‘Any of your wages given to your daughter?’ Dixon raised her hand. ‘And I mean recently, not while she was growing up.’

  ‘No, Grace refused point blank to take any money from me.’

  ‘Why is that, Mr Billows?’

  The man’s smile slipped from his face and his nostrils flared. ‘Said she didn’t need me … didn’t need my help.’

  Dixon sat back and tapped the table lightly as she did so. Hamilton knew it was a signal that she had no further questions.

  ‘Okay, well, thank you for coming in, Mr Billows,’ he said and stood up from the table. ‘An officer will escort you out, but we may need to speak to you again.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Do you have the address of where you’ll be staying?’

  ‘With Valerie, of course.’

  Hamilton shook the man’s clammy hand and then left the room. He waited until they had gained some distance from the interview room before asking Dixon what she thought of the man.

  ‘He sees himself as a let-down. I guess that’s obvious,’ she said. ‘But then, some people just aren’t built to be parents.’

  Hamilton grumbled as he climbed the stairs to the incident room, unconvinced that was Thomas’s problem. He wanted to see if Rocky had found out anything more about the man. There was something more to Mr Billows, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

  In the office, Rocky waved Hamilton and Dixon over to his computer station before drumming his fingers over a few buttons on the keyboard.

  ‘Boss, I don’t know if this is anything, but have a look at these pictures,’ Rocky said.

  Hamilton stood behind the sergeant and his eyes gazed over the myriad of photographs on the screen. Despite hating the social media site, and staying away from a personal account, he knew the blue background colour meant he was staring at a Facebook account.

  ‘That’s Thomas Billows,’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ Rocky confirmed, ‘not his own photos, but I’ve found he’s tagged in quite a few on a number of nights out around the country.

  ‘And?’ Hamilton asked as Dixon and Clarke joined them.

  ‘Well, as I said, I don’t know if it’s anything significant, but he tends to like the younger woman,’ Rocky continued, and scrolled through more images. ‘They’re obviously in pubs and clubs, but most of the women he’s with can’t be older than eighteen or nineteen. Twenty, at a push.’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with having a type,’ Clarke added. ‘Even if they are young enough to be your daughter.’

  Dixon perched on the table. ‘He also just admitted that one of the reasons he left Valerie Murphy was because he didn’t find her attractive. Obviously, the younger model is his type.’

  Clarke guffawed. ‘Not exactly a criminal offence, Dixon.’

  Hamilton’s mind wandered while his team batted their opinions between each other. He agreed with Clarke; it wasn’t a crime to enjoy the pleasure of women’s company thirty years your junior, but it added to his feelings of uncertainty about Thomas Billows.

  ‘Let’s just keep an eye on him,’ Hamilton finally said. ‘I’m going to organise for a family liaison officer to head over to the Murphy household.’

  Rocky spun around and frowned. ‘Aren’t FLOs reserved for victims and their families?’

  He nodded. ‘But this is an exceptional case, and we don’t really know the family. At least if we have a FLO present in the morning when the press conference is aired, they’ll be able to capture their reactions, see if they make any phone calls and who gets in touch with them. It can only enhance the investigation.’

  ‘I’ll get that actioned now, guv,’ Dixon said, and darted out of the room.

  Hamilton retreated to the whiteboard, his mouth drier than sandpaper and the ticking hands of the wall clock drumming in his ears. His feeling of utter helplessness was slightly outweighed by the hope that Fraser was safe.

  21

  Fraser blinked rapidly, her eyes trying to focus through the darkness, hoping to make sense of the shapes in front of her. She squinted and pulled her head down into her shoulders, the fracturing headache like a heavy weight. The pain caused her eyelids to flicker much slower now, craving her to shut them tight and curl her body into a foetal position. But it was then she realised she was no longer bound and gagged and pushed through agony to come up onto her knees. Her hands fell to the floor, keeping her steady on all fours as she glanced around the dark, cold room, her eyes finally adjusting to the shadows. Old beams and brickwork were exposed, pews lined up in rows like soldiers and dusty, metal plaques adorned the walls. Her eyes stopped on curled up figure in the corner opposite her.

  Fraser tried to speak, but the air caught in her dry throat. She cleared it and tried again. ‘Grace?’

  When no answer came, her weak body crawled forward towards the figure; long hair falling down over the woman’s face. Fraser stopped, peering over her shoulder she could just make out the outline of a door in the distance.

  ‘That’s not my name,’ a female voice whispered, and Fraser wondered if Murphy had kidnapped someone else.

  Knowing she couldn’t leave a vulnerable person behind, Fraser suppressed her pain and crawled closer again. She reached out a hand but the stranger flinched further into the corner as though her fingers blazed like hot-pokers.

  ‘I’m not going to hurt you.’ Fraser coughed, sucking in more dust as she did so. ‘I’m here to help you. What’s your name?’

  Sobs echoed from underneath the mass of hair, and Fraser impatiently bobbed her left foot on the cold stone floor. She wondered if she had enough time to build a relationship with this woman; form a bond of trust so they could both get out before Murphy returned. Fraser looked back at the door, a heart-wrenching urge to run towards it was extinguished the moment she heard the word help whispered. Her head flicked back to the shaking figure.

  ‘I’m a police officer, I’m here to help,’ Fraser said in a voice that sounded much stronger than she felt. ‘What’s your name?’

  The woman finally turned her head and Fraser gasped, falling flat on her arse as her hand flew to her mouth. Fraser stared at the familiar face that now looked so pale, weak and scared.

  ‘I’m Livia. Are you really here to help?’ said the woman, but the tone of the voice made her sound like a child.

  ‘Who-who-w—’ Fraser choked on her own words, her dry windpipe strangling her as she struggled to speak.

  ‘Here, I have this,’ Livia said, and handed her a bottle of water, while her eyes scanned behind them furiously. ‘I stole it from Carly, so don’t let her catch you with it.’

  Fraser nodded and accepted the bottle, with robotic motions she felt she had no control over, as though she were caught in a daze. She unscrewed the lid and gulped the cold liquid. Her hand trembled as droplets of water escaped the bottle and ran down her chin and neck. When she finally pulled it away from her lips, she sighed loudly.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, and handed it back to Livia. ‘I’m sorry. I was trying to ask who you are.’

  The woman huffed, like a child at the early stages of a tantrum, and her eyes scanned the darkness behind them once again. ‘I told you. I’m Livia.’

  That stroppy voice again, Fraser thought. ‘How old are you, Livia?’

  ‘I’m thirteen,’ she whispered. ‘I ran away from home, but now … now I don’t know how to get back.’ Her eyes widened and she placed her index finger over her lips. ‘Shh … she’s coming.’

  Livia pulled her body back into a ball, her head resting on her knees and the long strands of hair falling back over her, l
ike some kind of safe cocoon. Fraser heard no noise of anyone else. They were alone.

  Fraser froze, the cold chill in the room attacking her fingers and snaking itself up her arm and neck. Her eyes wandered over Livia’s body, and she noticed the black trainers, black trousers and black bomber jacket Murphy had been wearing in the theatre. She was sure she had just been introduced to another of Murphy’s alter-personalities, one she and her team had known nothing about. The tears caught in her throat, but she refused to let them fall, adamant that if this young girl was a ruse to lead her to her death, she wouldn’t show her fear. But, even as she held on to that last shred of strength, Fraser wondered if she actually believed it herself. Because, right there in that moment, was the first time she believed she wouldn’t get out of this situation alive.

  While she tried to determine if now would be the best time to make a run for the door behind her, while Murphy’s defences seemed to be down, Fraser’s mind clouded. The headache dulled to a point where she felt like her brain was swimming around her skull, making her rock from side to side. She soon realised she was on her back and the room itself was spinning around her. The grand mural painted on the ceiling above her made her smile.

  ‘Angels,’ she slurred, as her eyes flickered opened and closed.

  ‘You might meet them soon,’ said the voice from the corner, but it no longer whined liked a teenager.

  She watched helplessly as the balled-up figure uncurled itself, dropping the water bottle to the floor, and slithered towards her. Silent tears slid down Fraser’s cheeks while a fist came plummeting to her face — as if she were watching a slow-motion video — and she just had enough time to call out for her mum before the darkness swallowed her completely.

  22

  As Hamilton entered his office, the lamp on the desk offering the only light in the room, he reached for the switch on the wall. The worries and frustrations of the past twenty-four hours washed over him, and his brain played a ping-pong match between Fraser and Elizabeth; their faces flashing in front of his mind’s eye, his guilt intensifying with each serve.

  He perched on the desk and pulled his mobile from his trouser pocket. Regardless of the time, he needed to check in on his wife, or at least let her know he was thinking of her and the unease she must be feeling right now. Had he really wanted another child? Could he bring another life into this world when he classed himself as such a failure the first time round? The questions took over the rally, accompanied by memories of Maggie, and his breath hitched in his throat.

  ‘Guv.’ Clarke bulldozed into the office and rescued him from his thoughts.

  He slipped the mobile back in his pocket, without having sent the text message, and frowned at his partner’s aghast expression. ‘What is it?’

  ‘They’ve found a body,’ Clarke blurted.

  ‘I think the DI on call should take this one, we—’

  ‘No, guv, it could be Fraser.’

  Hamilton was on his feet and racing from the room. Clarke continued to reel off the information about the crime scene and location while he motioned for Dixon and Rocky to follow. In unison, the four of them darted through the office to the car park. Silence in the car remained while Clarke continued to pass on the attending officer’s report, which had been shared by the desk sergeant.

  ‘Wait,’ Dixon interrupted, ‘I’ve been reading over Murphy’s original case files … Wasn’t her first victim last year found at Hyde Park?’

  Clarke nodded. ‘That’s what first rang alarm bells with me. But Fras …’ he hesitated and shook his head. ‘This victim wasn’t murdered in the manner Murphy used before.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Rocky called from the back seat.

  ‘Previously, she stripped her victims of their clothes, as a way of humiliating them and leaving them vulnerable, and then killed them with a knife to the heart.’

  ‘That wasn’t the MO for Gabriel Hardy at Manor Hall Hospital.’

  Clarke shrugged. ‘No, but that could have more to do with what weapons were available to her and the fact she was trying to escape.’

  Dixon peered between the two front seats. ‘Okay, so how does this victim … I mean, why do they think it could be Fraser?’

  The momentarily silence buzzed in Hamilton’s ears, and he took his eyes off the road for a second to look over at his partner. Clarke had turned in his seat, staring absently through the passenger window, and his cheeks puffed as he exhaled.

  ‘The victim has been beaten beyond recognition,’ Clarke finally answered.

  Despite Hamilton’s vehicle sudden screeching halt in a bus stop on Park Lane, there was a slowness in the way the four of them exited the car. Although a new day was in the preparation stages of setting on London, there would evidently be no dawn sunshine and the dark, brooding clouds mirrored Hamilton’s mood. The harsh fresh air slapped his cheeks and he sped off again, on foot this time, and hurdled himself over the railings into Hyde Park, running past the Joy of Life Fountain and towards the Serpentine. The irony of the location wasn’t lost on him, and though his legs were leaden with bitterness, he trudged on.

  He diverted course when he saw a white tent and forensic activity taking shape at the Bandstand and, as his breathing became laboured, Rocky jogged past him effortlessly. Hamilton stopped, not too far from the crime scene but far enough to not be able to hear or see anything that would answer the burning question in his heart, and just for a moment he didn’t want to take another step.

  He watched SOCO halt his team in their tracks. Rocky’s arms flying in anger, his speech sounding all dramatic. Hamilton knew he should be able to work out what was being said, but his ears had cut off all sound around him. He had become a mere observer to a silent film. Audrey ran from the tent and attempted to placate the situation, her hands surrendering and her face … what was that look in her eyes? Hamilton wondered.

  A droplet of rain smacked down on Hamilton’s forehead. He drew in a breath, as deep and lung-filling as if he’d just emerged from an angry rip current, and sound finally returned; a pathologist shouting about protective clothing, Rocky demanding to see the victim, Audrey telling them she’s sorry and that they had to calm down.

  Once again, Hamilton’s feet were on the move and he joined his team within seconds. He pushed Rocky back, demanding the sergeant compose himself and step aside, he would be the one to identify Fraser.

  ‘I’m afraid you can’t, Inspector,’ Audrey said, her palm still hovering over his chest.

  He briefly glanced down at her hand, which she moved simultaneously, and then narrowed his gaze back on her. ‘Give me the damn shoe covers, then.’ He put a hand out to the tall pathologist stood next to her. ‘And let me pass.’

  Audrey scraped her long fingers through her ruby red hair and slumped her shoulders. It was sadness, Hamilton thought, that was the look in her eyes.

  ‘I mean you won’t be able to identify—’

  ‘That is a member of my team in there, Audrey, you’ll let me in there this second.’ He didn’t intend on using his height over her petite frame as a weapon, but as he glowered down at her, she edged backwards.

  ‘By all means, Inspector,’ Audrey replied in a hard tone. ‘But I can tell you now that you won’t find who you’re looking for in there.’

  Hamilton spun round and held his breath, hoping the head pathologist would continue. She did, and he exhaled slowly as she uttered the words, ‘The victim isn’t Kerry Fraser.’

  He refused to let the haziness fill his mind, he’d been given a warning here — a wake-up call — and time was fast slipping away.

  ‘We were told the victim was badly beaten. How can you tell it’s not her?’ Clarke called out over Hamilton’s shoulder.

  Audrey took a few steps away from the crime scene and waited until all four members of the team had surrounded her before she continued, ‘Yes, there are similarities in that the victim is blonde and probably the same height. The lacerations and injuries to her face are so intense that we�
��re unable to make out any features. However, I checked the victim’s left wrist and she doesn’t have a tattoo.’

  ‘And Fraser does?’ Dixon asked.

  ‘Yes, a semicolon.’ Audrey frowned. ‘You didn’t know that, I take from the bewildered expression on your face.’

  Hamilton swallowed the ball of saliva that had built up in his mouth while listening to Audrey. ‘No, I didn’t know, but I’m bloody glad you did.’

  ‘I’ve heard about the semicolon tattoo,’ Dixon said. ‘It’s a project aimed at empowering people who have suffered from depression, addiction, mental illness and suicidal thoughts. The semicolon is a symbol of hope.’

  Rocky twisted his lips. ‘I don’t get it.’

  ‘In literature, the semicolon is used when an author decides they don’t want to end a sentence,’ Dixon continued. ‘Therefore, the punctuation mark symbolises to the wearer that they are the author, and the sentence is their life. A few famous people have come forward with this tattoo, and the project is a really important one.’

  Clarke whistled. ‘Wow, that’s deep. I never knew she had one, either.’

  ‘So … so, you’re saying,’ Rocky stuttered, ‘Fraser has struggled with depression or mental illness or …’

  ‘The tattoo is for her mother,’ Audrey interjected, ‘who suffers from bipolar. She attempted to commit suicide when Kerry was a teenager, and so Kerry chose to get the tattoo to celebrate how far her mother has come since that day.’

  ‘Christ! One of us should have at least known that,’ Rocky barked as he turned and walked back in the direction of the car.

  ‘She’s a private person … never really spoke about her past,’ Hamilton said to Rocky’s fading figure.

  He nodded for Clarke to follow the constable before turning back to Audrey and asking, ‘I don’t suppose you know if this was actually a murder committed by Murphy?’