by Max Manning
‘I’ve finished,’ Blake said. ‘It’s done.’
‘It’s got to stop.’
‘It’s stopped. You won’t hear a thing for the rest of the evening.’
‘You’re setting off the wife’s migraine.’
‘How many times do I have to say it? I’ve finished.’
‘We can’t hear the bloody telly.’
‘Funny you should say that, because I can hear your television all the time.’
The neighbour unclenched his fists, wriggled his fingers and clenched them again. ‘We’re not putting up with this you know. Why don’t you run in the park or something, like a normal person?’
Blake shrugged and started to close the door. His neighbour edged forward a couple of inches, a defiant look on his face despite the fact that at six foot two, Blake was taller, fitter and twenty years younger.
‘I’m warning you for the last time, mate. This has got to stop.’
‘Or what? What are you going to do?’
‘I’ll tell you what I’m going do,’ his neighbour said, puffing up his chest like a strutting cockerel. ‘I’ll take it up with the fucking landlord. That’s what. We pay rent, you know. We got rights.’
Blake shivered, his skin clammy with cold sweat. ‘The landlord’s a prick and you can tell him that from me,’ he said, slamming the door in his neighbour’s face.
He spent longer than was necessary in the shower, but running hot water was one of the little luxuries Blake appreciated since his return to civilisation. After dressing, he sat at the kitchen table with a glass of beer and powered up his laptop. Before he could check his emails, there was another double knock at his door.
The first thing Blake had done after moving into the flat was to disconnect the doorbell. You can tell a lot about an unexpected visitor from the way they knock. He stayed seated, waiting to see if the caller gave up or tried again. The second knock was a triple rap, loud and impatient. Blake walked slowly to the door, pulled it open a couple of inches and peered through the gap. A young man with reddish hair cropped close to his skull, wearing a brown suit that hung loose on his wiry frame, stood next to an older, stern-looking brunette in a police uniform.
The man flashed a Metropolitan Police warrant card. ‘Detective Constable Ince and this is PC Price,’ he said. ‘We’re looking for Adam Blake.’
‘You’ve found him. Well done. Good detective work.’
Ince hesitated and glanced at his colleague for support. She kept her eyes on Blake.
‘May we come in, sir?’ she said. ‘We need to speak and we don’t want to do it out here on the doorstep. I’m sure you can appreciate that.’
Blake got the impression that she had done this sort of thing hundreds of times before. ‘If this is about the noise then it’s a bit over the top.’
The detective lifted a hand and rubbed his chin. ‘It’s got nothing to do with noise.’
Blake let go of the door, gestured with a nod for the police officers to follow, and led them down the hall. The policewoman and Blake sat on the sofa. Ince stood facing them, next to the treadmill. ‘You run a lot then?’ he said, nodding towards the machine. Blake responded with a shrug.
‘I understand you recently had a relationship with a woman named Lauren Bishop?’
Blake couldn’t keep the surprise off his face. ‘What’s this about?’
‘A few questions first, Mr Blake. How long were you and Lauren in a relationship?’
Blake twisted in his seat to face the policewoman, in the hope of getting some sense out of her. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said. ‘We were together for almost a year. She moved out six weeks ago.’
‘When was the last time you saw her?’
‘We haven’t spoken since she left. She’s supposed to pick up a few bits and pieces. They’re in those boxes in the hall.’
The police officers exchanged a look that made Blake feel uncomfortable. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Lauren Bishop is dead,’ Ince said. ‘Murdered. Her body was found early yesterday morning in Victoria Park.’
Blake shook his head slowly. An image of Lauren splayed, bloodied and lifeless, flashed through his mind. He opened his mouth to protest that they must be mistaken, but instead he sucked in a mouthful of air and swallowed it along with his words. He looked at the policewoman. She studied him, trying to assess his reaction. He gave her nothing except for another shake of his head. ‘It’s probably best that you to come with us to the station to answer a few more questions.’
‘It can’t be her,’ he insisted. ‘Not Lauren.’
‘I’m afraid it is,’ Ince said. ‘Her sister has identified the body.’
Blake shot to his feet, swayed like a drunk and toppled back on to the sofa. He wanted to shout that they’d got it wrong, to accuse them of lying, but deep down he knew they were telling the truth. When he did speak, his voice wavered. ‘I begged her to stay,’ he said. ‘She should have stayed.’
Ince nodded to his colleague and she stood up. ‘We’d like you to come down to the station to finish our interview,’ he said.
Blake followed the officers to the door. Lauren was dead. Never coming back. He’d loved her, but it hadn’t been enough. He had nothing to fill the emptiness inside. If only they knew, he told himself, they’d understand.
6
Fenton rested his elbows on his desk and opened the pathologist’s report. The autopsy hadn’t turned up anything unusual. Cause of death was there for everyone to see. Lauren Bishop’s throat had been cut, her right external jugular vein and left carotid artery slashed, her windpipe severed. Death would have been rapid, a combination of massive blood loss and suffocation.
He flicked through the pages, skimming the text. He’d already read the report twice, but he wanted to make sure he hadn’t missed anything. The arterial spray blood pattern on the soil made it likely that the woman had been murdered where she was found. Apart from bruising on her right forearm, there were no other wounds.
Fenton balled his right hand into a fist and twisted the knuckles against his left palm. The victim either walked willingly across Victoria Park with her killer, in which case she might have known him, or he’d lain in wait and pounced when she passed by.
There had been no reports of screams and the lack of defence wounds showed Lauren Bishop didn’t try to fight for her life. Fenton wasn’t surprised. In recent years, many stress experts had renamed the fight or flight response fight, flight or freeze. Fenton knew, all too well, that many victims of violent crime, male or female, found themselves paralysed by fear. Like a deer in the headlights. He tried to visualise the killer brandishing the knife and forcing Lauren into the cover of the undergrowth. Time of death had been narrowed down to between 7 p.m. and 10 p.m. The twenty-seven-year-old was a nurse at the Homerton University Hospital, a twenty-five-minute walk from Victoria Park. She’d been due to work a night shift on the day she was killed. Her stomach contained the remains of a light meal and blood tests showed she hadn’t been drinking.
Fenton closed the report and thumped the desk hard. New Scotland Yard’s cyber team had failed to trace the source of the email, and the photographs of Lauren Bishop and the I, Killer message were still being viewed and shared online. He had officers watching hours of footage from CCTV cameras around the park but, so far, they’d had no luck.
He leant back in his chair and surveyed his office, one of the benefits of his rank. You wouldn’t get a double bed in it, but he had everything he needed: desk, telephone, computer and a run of filing cabinets. The pale blue walls were bare and a glass partition gave him a view of the squad room. Fenton was pleased to see only three of his team hunched over their computers. In his experience, cases were rarely solved by desk jockeys.
Detective Constable Ince sauntered into view, crossed the room and walked straight into Fenton’s office. ‘Evening, boss,’ he said, perching himself on the edge of the chair on the other side of the desk. ‘We’ve traced the ex-boyfriend. He’s in the
interview room.’
Fenton fixed Ince with a hard stare, speaking only when he noticed the detective’s face colour. ‘Has anyone ever told you that it’s normal to knock before entering an office, especially your boss’s office? And for the record, you should wait to be invited to take a seat.’
Ince jumped to his feet and stepped round behind the chair. ‘Sorry. Wasn’t thinking. Mind on the job and all that.’
Fenton flapped a hand dismissively. ‘Just remember next time. Now tell me about this ex-boyfriend.’
‘His name is Adam Blake. He says he used to be a journalist. I’ve got someone checking that out. He claims he last saw Lauren six weeks ago when she walked out of his East End flat. He says he spent the night of the murder, all night, in the South Pole.’
He paused and grinned at his boss’s raised eyebrows. ‘The South Pole pub, on the Mile End Road, a few hundred yards from his flat. We’re also—’ Fenton held up a hand, stopping Ince in mid-sentence, turned to his computer and tapped away at the keyboard.
‘You mean this Adam Blake?’ he asked, jabbing a finger at the computer screen. Ince walked round the desk and squinted at a photograph of a tall man being escorted off a military aircraft by two soldiers carrying automatic rifles.
‘That’s definitely him,’ he said, a puzzled look crossing his face. ‘He’s down the corridor.’
‘Blake is a suspect?’
‘Well, we’re checking his alibi. But he is an ex-boyfriend of the victim. She dumped him a few weeks ago. That’s a motive right there.’
Fenton’s eyes were still on the screen, scanning the news story that accompanied the photograph. Ince leant closer and read the first few paragraphs. ‘I didn’t know any of that, boss. I usually only read the sports pages. Does this make him less or more likely to have murdered his ex-girlfriend?’
Fenton groaned. ‘Don’t assume it’s got any bearing on the case at all. Follow the evidence. Look for a motive. If his alibi is confirmed then he’s in the clear. But I want his involvement cleared up before the press get a sniff. They’ll have a field day.’
Ince stood and started backing towards the door. ‘I’m on it, boss.’ Fenton clicked his fingers. It had the desired effect, stopping Ince in his tracks.
‘Has he seen the post, the photographs? Does he know about them?’
Ince shrugged. ‘I doubt it. Unless he was the one who took them.’
‘Change of plan,’ Fenton said. ‘I’ll do the interview. You can watch and learn. Give me ten minutes to make a telephone call.’ Ince nodded and left the room without another word. Fenton reached for his telephone and dialled his home number. The new nanny needed to stay late on her first day.
7
Sitting and waiting to be questioned brought back a lot of bad memories for Blake. The walls of the New Scotland Yard interview room were painted a sterile white. The single light bulb hanging from the ceiling lacked a shade. He shifted uncomfortably in the chair, his knees higher than his hips. Blake reached for the plastic cup on the table, blew hard on the brown liquid and took a sip.
An image of Lauren’s mutilated body surfaced again. He pushed it away, back to where it couldn’t hurt him. The door opened and the red-haired detective constable entered followed by a taller man with flecks of grey in his dark hair. The older detective sat on the chair opposite Blake and introduced himself. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Dan Fenton. I’m leading the investigation into the murder of Lauren Bishop. You’ll understand that as her ex-boyfriend we have to talk to you.’
Blake studied Fenton’s face. He was clean-shaven, but thick bristles were starting to break through the skin. His eyes were sharp, despite the shadows under them.
‘I understand,’ Blake said. ‘I want to help.’
‘You last saw Lauren about six weeks ago?’
Blake nodded and looked across at Ince. ‘That’s right. I haven’t seen or heard from her since.’
‘Why did you break up?’
‘I guess she couldn’t put up with me any longer. I don’t think I’m an easy person to be with. I’d warned her, but she didn’t listen.’
Fenton paused to consider the best way to frame his next question. ‘Your relationship was troubled?’
Blake slumped in his seat. ‘It was good. You know, strong. Most of the time. She was sure we could sort out any problems, but in the end, she found it too hard to handle.’
‘What couldn’t she handle?’
‘Me. I suppose.’
Fenton stood up and slowly walked round behind his chair. ‘Were you ever violent towards her?’
Blake understood the detective’s point, but that didn’t make it easier to hear. ‘I can lose it sometimes, like anyone can,’ he said. ‘But I never laid a finger on Lauren. Never.’
Fenton took a long look at the man sitting in front of him. He’d seen that empty stare many times before.
‘I gather you’re not working as a journalist now,’ Fenton said.
Blake shook his head.
‘I can understand that.’
‘You’re obviously a very understanding man.’
‘What do you do for money if you’re not working?’
Blake wondered why his personal finances were relevant, and for a moment thought about refusing to answer. Instead he decided the quickest way to get out of the room was to cooperate.
‘I had a bit of money put away and I was paid well for my story. Enough to buy a house. Converted it into two flats. I live in the top and rent out the one below.’
Fenton nodded. ‘Do you own a laptop, computer, smartphone?’
‘Laptop and phone.’ Fenton caught Ince’s eye. ‘We’ve got both, boss. The techies are looking at them as we speak.’
Fenton’s instinct told him that Blake wasn’t the killer. At the same time, he knew better than to rule anyone out on gut feeling alone. He made a mental note to get Daly to apply for a warrant and search Blake’s home for hidden devices.
‘I’ll leave Detective Constable Ince to finish the interview,’ he said. ‘We’ve got a few more inquiries to make, then once we’ve confirmed what you’ve told us about where you were at the time of the murder you’ll be allowed to go.’
Fenton walked to the door, hesitated and turned back to face Blake. ‘One last thing,’ he said. ‘The killer photographed Lauren before the murder, and took another after. He posted both online. We’ve had the account shut down, but you know the internet. Once it’s out there, it’s out there. Take my advice. Don’t look.’
Blake dropped his head and stared at the dregs of his coffee. ‘Lauren,’ he whispered.
8
Fenton pulled up outside the school gates, regretting his decision to use the five-minute drive from home to break the news to his daughter that the new nanny would be moving in.
He switched off the engine and turned to the passenger seat. Tess looked up at him, her lips stubbornly clamped together, her eyes watery and red-rimmed. He reached across, took her hand and squeezed gently. ‘I know this is difficult, I understand, but I need someone to help look after you. I wish I didn’t.’
Tess dipped her head, stared at her shiny black shoes and sniffed loudly. ‘Why can’t you pick me up from school every day?’
Fenton sighed and rubbed his eyes. He hadn’t had more than a couple of hours’ sleep. ‘I wish I could, Tess, but you know that’s not possible. Why not give Marta a chance? She’s nice, isn’t she?’
Tess chose not to answer. ‘Why does she have to live with us?’
‘It makes things easier, that’s all. Easier for her and us.’ Fenton didn’t want to explain that giving the nanny a rent-free room meant he had to pay her less. When he and Josie bought their first home in the north London borough of Islington they’d had two salaries coming in. Life together had been good. Tess came along six months later and life got even better. But cancer doesn’t give a shit.
Tess pulled her hand away, keeping her eyes fixed on her feet. ‘Where is she going to sleep?’
Fenton kissed his daughter’s damp cheek, reached across and opened the passenger door. He watched her join the stream of children walking through the gates. Before disappearing from sight, she stopped and looked back. He waved and she rewarded him with half a smile.
His day went downhill from there. A steady drizzle slowed the traffic to a crawl. He arrived at the station thirty minutes later than he’d intended and his mood worsened with the news that he had a meeting with a press officer.
It was important to manage media coverage in murder cases, but he resented spending time on it. Fenton found the press officer waiting for him in his office. Ray Partington had joined the Yard’s media team four months ago and Fenton had heard good things about him from people whose judgement he trusted.
Slipping into his chair, Fenton noticed the other man looking pointedly at his watch. He decided not to apologise for arriving late. ‘I’ve got a lot to do so let’s make this quick and painless,’ he said. ‘It’s the usual story. We need to keep the coverage going in the hope that a witness will come forward. That shouldn’t be a problem, should it?’
Partington slapped a hand on the pile of national newspapers he’d placed on the desk. ‘There won’t be a problem keeping the press interested. The killer’s Instagram post has gone viral. The papers are all over it, but I guarantee they’ll soon be desperate for a new angle.’
Fenton sat back, crossed his arms and gazed across at the press officer. Partington wore a dark suit that matched his hair and a blue tie several shades paler than his eyes.
‘There’s nothing new I want to give out yet,’ Fenton said. ‘Keep doing what you’re doing and make sure that the press keep putting out appeals for anybody who might have seen something.’
