Liar Liar: Another gripping serial killer thriller from the bestselling author (DC Charlotte Stafford Series)

by Sarah Flint

  Pulling a comb out, he ran it across his scalp. A tuft of dark hair had broken free at the front of his hairline and was sticking out at an angle. It was making a habit of doing its own thing these days, but he liked its rebelliousness, the way it challenged the path that was set… it reminded him of himself: defiant, disobedient, a risk-taker.

  No, he was after fun, with a capital F. All the F’s in fact: fun, freedom and fucking with no ties, no commitment and no waiting. It didn’t usually take too long for the girl to see his point of view, but if it did, well, he’d either persuade her into letting him have his way… or send her on hers. A well-timed photo in police uniform was usually enough to provide all the ammunition he required; every girl liked a man in uniform, didn’t they, and recently he’d become so adept at recognising vulnerability that he rarely even had to fall back on his charm. They were willing participants… or too weak to say they weren’t.

  He pulled out his phone and scrolled down to check the arrangements. This particular woman had pretty much offered him everything on a plate; a Tinder conquest who had suggested a quiet, unobtrusive country lane in which to put their words into practice. The photos of her looked hot and they had been sexting for a couple of weeks. He couldn’t wait; in fact, he could feel himself getting aroused just at the thought. He glanced down at the two wineglasses, set next to a bottle of Chardonnay in the centre consul. If he was really in the mood for acting out a few fantasies, then a little crushed Rohypnol slipped into one of these would make the night even more memorable… for him at least. His fingers moved to the small packet of white powder burning a hole in his pocket. She wouldn’t complain, she was clearly gagging for it anyway.

  He shifted in his seat gazing out from the lane in which he was parked. The area was one that he had never previously visited, having only recently moved into this part of West London. It was a few miles from Heathrow Airport, sandwiched between the suburban sprawl of Slough and Hayes, where the rivers Fray and Colne joined up with the Grand Union Canal. A sprinkling of lakes and brooks signalled the abundance of waterways, the area being described as an oasis of greens and blues in an otherwise dull grey landscape. By night, however, it was bathed in darkness, the lingering shimmer from the capital’s street lights, the only thing serving to lessen the blackness of the sky to a warm grey.

  The few houses that stood in the lane were situated in tight knots of humanity; the remainder of the road, where he now was, given over to nature. A rabbit lolloped to the edge of the road, turning its head in the direction of the car, its whiskers twitching in time with the wings of a moth fluttering haphazardly across the car windscreen. Even within the centre of the country’s population hub, birdlife, insect life and animal life still prospered. It was an area of natural beauty, hidden within a city of concrete, one of London’s forgotten treasures.

  Jason Lloyd, however, was not interested in the landscape. He was interested in only one thing, from one person… and that one person was due to arrive at any time. No doubt a set of headlights would soon be travelling towards where he waited at the designated spot, at the end of the deserted cul-de-sac.

  He straightened, peering out into the darkness, and opened the window, allowing the sounds of the woodland to enter. Even though it was almost midnight, the air outside was warmer than the air-conditioned interior and the smell of the landscape earthy and fragranced. An owl hooted in the distance, its distinctive call fading into the background drone of traffic from the M25, London’s Orbital road, that thundered overhead. A breath of wind stirred the leaves of the bushes in the nearest hedgerow. He couldn’t wait. A twig snapped in the undergrowth. Sweat seeped into the indentation at the base of his back. Only a few more minutes.

  He swung his head towards the mirror again, flicking the switch to turn the light on, plunging the interior into a momentarily blinding radiance. He blinked, feeling a shudder of anticipation running up his spine as he grinned towards his reflection. He was so busy checking on his appearance that he didn’t notice the figure step out from the cover of the trees and the glint of the knife as it was thrust towards his neck.

  *

  Two hours later the man picked up the phone and pressed the only number saved on it. The fingers of his gloves glistened bright red in the subdued lighting under the motorway bridge, the policeman’s blood still wet on his clothing. He pulled the balaclava from his head and sucked in the night air, wiping the blade of the knife unsteadily on a clean towel, before placing them both in his bag. His hands shook violently as he waited for the phone to be answered.

  The call clicked in, and recognising Ice’s greeting, he started to speak immediately, his voice loud and excited, pumped up. Each word was garbled, each sentence rushed, the nervous tension of the last few hours expended in a jumble of victorious ramblings. He had done it, and he had done it well, unlike the last miserable sucker who had committed suicide, rather than face up to his failure. It had been all over the news, much to Ice’s annoyance. Samson Powell had failed to follow instructions, but he had done everything right. Ice would be proud. His brother would have been proud. After a few minutes, the man stopped talking, panicking slightly.

  ‘I did everything as you instructed, Ice. I hope I’ve done OK?’ he asked, suddenly nervous.

  The voice that answered him was also excited at hearing the news but the tone remained calm, sing-song even.

  ‘You’ve done well. You’ve done very well. In a few minutes I’ll tell you exactly what you must do to get rid of the evidence. I have already planned out our next piece of work. Now, calm down,’ Ice sighed, breathing slowly. ‘And tell me again exactly what you did to that bastard. I want to hear every single thing, in detail.’

  Chapter 30

  Friday 7th July 2017

  ‘Poets Day today,’ Nick winked at Charlie as he sauntered past. ‘Fancy a drink later?’

  ‘I thought Poets Day meant pissing off early, not turning up late.’ She shook her head in amused disbelief. ‘Do you realise it’s also twelve years to the day since the 7/7 London bombings in 2005. I joined the police on the 6th July 2007, but my mum still quoted what happened that day as a reason for not joining. Obviously I ignored her. Maybe, we should all go for a drink to celebrate my ten years and a day in the job? It’s been a long, frustrating week for everyone and I could use a pint of ice-cold lager.’

  ‘That’s a date then, at least for you and me. I’m not sure about the others.’ Nick flashed her a mischievous smile before strolling out of the office. ‘You know I’m an expert at dealing with frustrated women.’

  Paul lifted his head up from behind his workstation and pushed his chair back. ‘Charlie, you lucky cow. I wish he’d deal with frustrated men too.’ He stood up and stretched, before tucking his shirt back into his trousers. ‘I am one extremely frustrated man at the moment!’

  Bet pulled a face, as the phone rang. ‘TMI,’ she said, as Charlie laughed. She picked up the receiver and Charlie watched as her expression became serious.

  ‘Shit!’ Charlie shook her head. ‘By the look on Bet’s face I think Poets Day has just been cancelled.’

  Bet put the receiver down. ‘You’re dead right, I’m afraid. You’ll all have to stay frustrated for the time being. That was Hunter. He’s had a call from DCI O’Connor. A body has turned up over at Hillingdon, not far from Heathrow. I know it’s not our borough, but they want us to assist. It’s another police officer. Named as Jason Lloyd. Cut and mutilated, like ours were. Hunter thinks we might have a copycat killer. He’s on his way back with Naz and Sab. They’ve also just had some information that their acid burns suspect is going to try to flee the country tomorrow so their weekend is messed up too. He’ll be here in a few minutes and he wants you ready to go with him to the scene, Charlie. The rest of us have to start looking into Lloyd’s background.’

  Charlie felt her pulse quicken as her conversation with Anna Christophe came into sharp focus. It was what she had been dreading.

  *

  T
he journey to Hillingdon went quickly and silently, neither Hunter nor Charlie wanting to put their thoughts into words. Charlie guessed that Hunter would know what she was thinking, but if he had guessed, he certainly wasn’t saying; so much easier to think of a copycat killer than a continuation to the first series.

  The crime scene cordons were already in place, as they had expected, forming a boundary around the area where Jason Lloyd’s car had been found abandoned, to where his body lay. After kitting up, they were escorted along the forensic pathway to the body.

  The forensic route took them parallel to the usual well-trodden footpath, towards a large lake, before skirting away through a more densely forested area towards several secluded spots on the banks. In these places the trees hung low over small fishing pitches, the grass having been trampled down and the branches giving shelter to any individuals whose purchase of a permit allowed them a day of tranquillity away from the stresses of the city. Pushing through a number of branches at the side of one of these sites, they reached the place where another of their colleagues had met his death.

  Charlie stared at the figure, lying on its back, partially stripped, legs and arms splayed out at angles, facing skywards, on a patch of mud at the edge of the lake. His body was half naked, his trousers and underwear having been pulled down and his T-shirt torn open across his chest. His lower limbs and groin were covered in blood that had drained out from what appeared to be two deep slits across his torso running from the bottom right-hand side of his chest to his left shoulder. A large, sharpened fish hook was firmly implanted in both lips, from which a nylon line looped around a tree branch, holding his head up off the ground, his face grotesque and stretched as the skin of his lips and cheeks held the weight of his upper body.

  A single red rose, devoid of thorns, lay on the grass next to the body.

  Charlie turned away at the sight, her mind not able to fully comprehend what her eyes were seeing.

  ‘What the fuck!’ she muttered, picking up her mobile and dialling Paul’s number. She turned the speaker on and held it out so Hunter could hear the conversation. ‘Paul it’s me. Please tell me Jason Lloyd doesn’t have a complaint outstanding?’

  ‘Hi, Charlie. That was the first thing we checked… and he has.’

  She turned her head back towards where Hunter stood, staring mutely at the body. He looked as perplexed as she.

  ‘What was the complaint for?’

  ‘It was for sexual assault and malfeasance in office. I’ve read the details. Basically it alleges that he was using the fact that he was a police officer for his own personal gain; to get sexual favours, sometimes from victims of crime and sometimes to exert pressure on girls he met on dating websites. There are four known victims that have come forward to make complaints so far; two who used one website, one who used another and one burglary victim, but it is believed there could be more.’

  ‘Shit.’ Her mind was in overdrive as her eyes focussed on the injuries, the way he had been strung up deliberately from the hook, caught and skewered. ‘Was one of the dating websites “Plenty of Fish”?’ she said eventually.

  ‘Yes, it was. How on earth did you know that?’

  ‘I’ll explain later, Paul. And the other?’

  ‘Tinder. Two of the complainants met him on there.’

  She looked towards Jason Lloyd with the two deep gauges into his flesh from left to right, trying to recall the conversations she’d had with Naz who regularly used the site. ‘Boss, look. On the dating app Tinder, you swipe right, if you match with someone. Two of the complainants had obviously met him so they must have swiped right. And he has two slits upwards from left to right as you look at him.’

  ‘And he’s strung up like a fish; hence “Plenty of Fish”,’ Hunter joined in. ‘And partially stripped because of the sexual nature of the complaint.’

  ‘Shit,’ Paul echoed Charlie’s sentiment. ‘I heard that and it sounds disgusting. Oh, also while you’re there, it’s suggested that he may have drugged his victims in some way. A couple of them can’t remember exactly what happened or how they got to where they eventually woke up.’

  ‘That might explain how our killer got him here then’ Charlie pursed her lips.

  Hunter nodded. ‘They’ve taken a sample of blood already for just that reason, but it doesn’t explain how this one links in to the three we’ve already solved. Samson Powell did ours and he’s dead… and anyway, it’s too far from our patch to be connected. I know there’s a rose here but it must be a copycat killer who’s read the publicity and has decided to do the same thing in West London.’

  ‘Boss,’ Paul interrupted, ‘Jason Lloyd might’ve lived and worked over on Hillingdon’s ground but he hasn’t always. The one complainant who was a burglary victim lives just off our patch in Balham and, for about six months, Jason Lloyd worked in Wandsworth borough. He’s suspended from work at the moment, but it was the reason he got moved to Hillingdon. If what is being suggested is right and there are other victims, it’s very possible that either the burglary victim or one of them might have passed on Lloyd’s details to someone on our ground.’

  *

  The journey back to the office was equally quiet. Charlie was bursting to do something, anything, while Hunter sat in stony silence. As they pulled into Lambeth HQ she could hold her frustration no longer.

  ‘Guv, we’ve got to do something. It’s Friday night and we’ve got the whole weekend ahead of us. We can’t just sit back and wait for the next killing.’

  ‘Who said there’ll be another one?’ Hunter almost exploded. ‘I know you think it’s all part of a sinister plot and Samson Powell was just a poor man who was exploited by some evil genius… but he was not. He’s been shown to be a violent psychopath who did exactly what he wanted, when he wanted and to whoever he wanted.’

  Charlie opened her mouth to speak but closed it abruptly.

  Hunter’s expression was dark. ‘This latest murder may just be the work of another psycho needing a bit of a thrill, who has somehow got hold of the information about Jason Lloyd’s complaint and has decided to copy Powell’s “punishment to fit the crime” methods. We need to wait for any forensics and his phone data to come back before rushing into anything and making ourselves look even more foolish than we have already. This time, Charlie, we need some actual evidence.’

  ‘Boss,’ she spoke quietly. ‘I’m not aware that the fact the previous roses all had the barbs removed was ever released publicly, yet this one has been prepared in the same way. Nor do I think Powell was a poor man. You’re quite right. He was a violent psychopath and I think he knew exactly what he was doing and chose that course of action himself.’ She took a deep breath. ‘What I do think, though, is that someone told him, or suggested, who to kill. He didn’t know all his victims, so why would he target them in the way he did. But he did know Dennis Walters and Lisa Forrester and Shirley Sangster, and from what DS Boyle says, Shirley knows everyone who is anyone. If Jason Lloyd worked nearby and was doing what’s been alleged, it’s quite possible that word would have got around and I’m convinced Sangster and the others might be involved.’

  ‘But where’s your evidence, Charlie?’

  ‘I haven’t much at the moment but let me at least try to get some, guv.’ She railed. ‘We’ve still got the drugs warrant on Dennis Walters’ address, haven’t we? And it’s still in date. It’s the weekend; he’s bound to have a stash of gear in his place to sell on. Why not go in tonight and see what we can find. If there’re drugs, we can at least keep him in custody out the way for as long as possible. Who knows what else we might find if he is involved. He might even be the next foot soldier. He’s similar in profile to Samson and hates police. At the end of the day, we can’t do nothing… and we can’t be seen to do nothing!’

  Hunter sighed heavily and frowned. ‘OK, you win, again. We left with our tails between our legs last time and Walters does need putting straight. But it’s the last time I’m going to pander to your ideas. Get
things started and I’ll join you when I’ve updated the DCI.’

  She squeezed the car into a space and jumped out. ‘Thanks, guv, you won’t be sorry.’

  ‘I’m not so sure about that,’ Hunter replied. ‘I may well live to regret it.’

  Chapter 31

  A light rain was falling as they lined up at the side of the apartment block. The clouds were low over the towers around the Elephant and Castle, making Dennis Walters’ building seem even greyer and more dull than usual. Lethargy had set in around the estate and only a few locals could be bothered to frequent the bars and cafes of the shopping centre; even its amusement arcades were silent and lifeless. Charlie had cobbled together a team of twelve uniformed officers as well as her, Hunter, Paul, Nick, Naz and Sabira. Nick had begrudgingly agreed to stay on for the warrant, but his reticence had been noted by them all. Bet was manning the radio, ready to do any intelligence checks or liaise with the control room if required.

  Charlie had briefed them all on what was known and they were ready to go. They were looking primarily for drugs, but they were also to look for anything that might be relevant to the murders and let her or Hunter know immediately. Sweat glistened on their faces, the humidity of the evening and extra layers of protective uniform making them clammy and uncomfortable. Above them the scaffolding and tarpaulins still creaked in the breeze. Charlie peered up towards the fourth floor, noting that many of the balcony doors and windows were flung open. Walters’ flat remained firmly closed; good for the element of surprise but bad for the extra heat they would be encountering on entry. Whatever the climate outside, crossing the threshold of a crackhead’s property always seemed to be like entering the inner caverns of a volcano: hot, smoky and foul-smelling. The first job was always to throw open as many windows as possible to allow in some fresh air.