by Gwyn GB
‘I understand that a Rosa McKenna has recently been asked to leave the agency, but is there anyone else who has behaved oddly or who was told they couldn’t join or couldn’t stay?’ asks Bob, trying to steer the interview back to Neil.
‘Not off the top of my head, no. I’m sure we’ve refused quite a few people over the years, we are quite particular you know, but nobody stands out.’ The table vibrates from the jiggling of his right leg.
‘How long have you been with the agency Mr Foster?’ Bob continues.
‘Four years,’ Gary replies.
‘And are you able to tell me where you were on the evening of the 13th October?’
‘Umm, yes, I was at home all evening.’
‘OK Mr Foster, thank you for your time and for coming in on a Sunday,’ Bob wraps up.
Gary Foster looks like he’s just been let off test piloting a one-way ride to Mars. He can’t get out the room fast enough. When he’s gone Claire turns to Bob and raises an eyebrow.
‘Didn’t you notice how nervous he got when I asked about other deaths?’ she prompts.
Bob sighs, ‘We are investigating the death of Neil Parsons. There are absolutely no indications at all to suggest that there have been any other murders, this is pure conjecture.’
He’s got a set look on his face. Behind it, Claire can see the numerous internal emails and pressures that are pushing him for a result.
‘I agree he got shifty after you asked about the agency, particularly its finances. My guess is that SoulMates has been in financial trouble for a while. But that’s not pointing us towards Neil’s killer. Stick to what we know are facts. We have a body in the morgue. Find his killer DI Falle.’
25
Unknown, 16th October 2016
It had been a close call last night. Luckily the police sirens had given enough warning to make an escape. There is still too much to do to be caught. Rachel must suffer first.
It’s time to up the pressure.
She will feel too scared to sleep, too frightened to close her eyes or be alone in her house.
Her life will be misery.
She will pay.
26
Claire, 16th October 2016
Claire is not going to ignore her gut instinct. Last time she did that Jackie Stiller was killed. She’s convinced the agency is at the centre of all this, both Neil’s murder and the other deaths, they’re intertwined. She needs to speak to two women urgently: Sandra the receptionist and Rosa McKenna, the woman who they’ve kicked out the agency.
She starts with Sandra. Sandra Jennings turns out to be another enigma. No social media, no photographs of her online - not even a profile at the agency. She has no visible online presence. Rosa McKenna was a little easier to find. She clearly has a penchant for letting the world know her views on various things from the best coffee to the US Presidential election. It’s also clear Ms McKenna has some strong views on the SoulMates dating agency.
Rosa McKenna opens the immaculate navy door of her town house. She is small and dark, Claire estimates around forty-five-ish, still fit. She obviously spends time and money on herself.
‘Miss McKenna, DI Claire Falle,’ she introduces herself, holding out her police badge for ID.
‘Ms please,’ Rosa answers, somewhat brusquely as she scans her badge. There’s no welcome in her voice. ‘Come in.’ Rosa looks up and down the street as though she’s worried the neighbours might see a police officer at her door and gossip.
Claire steps into a hall of thick cream carpet, populated only by a small gilt table containing an orchid plant, and with a large gilt mirror above it on the wall.
‘Shall I take my shoes off?’ Claire asks instinctively.
Rosa inspects her feet.
‘No you’re fine, we’re in the conservatory, come through.’
She leads her past an open door that shows a sitting room with wall to wall cream carpet. Claire catches a glimpse of a photo canvas on the wall, what looks like a studio shot of Rosa herself looking seductively at the camera. They carry on through the hall to a spotless modern kitchen of stainless steel and beechwood and into a small conservatory. It looks like a photograph from one of the home style magazines. No clutter and certainly no evidence of dust or cobwebs, just a few strategically placed plants and artistically pulled blinds. Claire’s not sure if she’s envious or not. It looks nice, but it also looks more like a show home than a lived in one.
‘Can I get you a coffee or tea?’ Rosa asks her.
‘A coffee would be great thank you.’
Claire takes a seat while Rosa goes into her immaculate kitchen with its silent shutting cupboard doors and puts together a cafètiere of coffee.
‘It’s shocking about Neil,’ Rosa starts the conversation. ‘I couldn’t believe it when I heard.’
‘Yes. I understand you went on a date with Neil through the SoulMates agency?’
‘Yes. We went to Zedel in Soho. It was a pleasant enough night, but we weren’t suited.’
‘When was this?’
‘I knew you’d ask that so I checked my diary. It was at the end of August, the 27th, bank holiday weekend.’
‘Did Neil mention anyone causing him any trouble, or was there anything about his behaviour that seemed strange to you?’
‘Absolutely not. No. We talked for hours about this and that, as you do. It was an enjoyable evening, but nothing came of it. You realise I’m taking legal action against the agency don’t you?’
‘I hadn’t realised that, no,’ Claire lets Rosa talk.
‘I’ve been with them two years and they’re useless. They don’t do anything about matching people, they just take whoever and stick them together and hope for the best. I’m asking for my fees back, it’s only fair.’
Claire wonders what it would be like to be a man trying to please Rosa McKenna. Her prickly exterior might hide a soft inner, but then again…
‘You must be angry about that,’ Claire tentatively says.
‘Yes damned right I am. It’s false advertising.’
‘Do you know anyone else who is dissatisfied with the agency?’
‘There are a few of them who moan, but I’m not sure anyone has the balls to do anything about it,’ Rosa replies.
‘Are you aware of any other client deaths?’ Claire ventures into the trickier territory while she seems to have Rosa’s full attention.
‘Yes, there’s been a few, but not murders. There was that chap from Kensington just a week or so ago, American sounding name…’
‘Todd?’
‘Yes. Don’t think they quite worked out why he died, been drinking apparently. Last year I remember there were a few too, Mark Baxter, the Welsh guy - Jones, Robert Jones and one of the women I met at the summer picnic, Louise Safferey, she died too. Can’t remember why. There was another man as well, I met him and then a month or so later heard he’d gone. I can’t remember his name off the top of my head, but I can let you know. Why? Oh my God do you think Neil’s isn’t the first murder?’
‘Please, these are just standard questions we ask everyone during a murder investigation. I am not suggesting that any of them were murdered,’ but Claire can’t wait to get back to the station and pull up their Coroner’s reports. ‘What about the staff at the agency, do you get on with them?’
‘Gary’s a lovey, real sweetheart. Eddie is charming, but it’s not going to stop me suing him. Felicity is a bit of an airhead. That receptionist, Sandra, can be a cow at times, she was rude to me once, and Rachel is just so nice it’s sickly.’
‘Who worked with you for your matches?’ Claire queries, beginning to get the impression that Rosa isn’t one of the girls when it comes to supporting her gender.
‘Initially Felicity, but apparently I upset her so they put me with Rachel. She was nice enough, don’t get me wrong, but she ended up telling me that I actually didn’t really need a partner, that I’m happy on my own, as though she is some kind of bloody counsellor. The cheek of it! What did
she think I was paying her for? Anyway, I got Gary after that and he was just lovely but at the end of the day, if all he’s got is chaff on the books then I’m hardly likely to meet my Mr Right am I? They guarantee success, but they’ve certainly failed with me.’
Claire thinks that perhaps Rachel is a good judge of character. Rosa spends another twenty minutes talking about herself before Claire decides she isn’t going to get anything else useful out of her and makes her excuses and leaves. She goes with an impression of what Rosa’s dates might have consisted of: her sitting across the table talking ‘at’ some poor bloke who was probably sick and tired of hearing about her before they’d even started the main course.
Back at the station, she runs the names Rosa has given her through the system. It confirms none of them had been treated as suspicious. Now she needs their autopsy reports, see if there is any kind of common thread between them.
She finds an address for Sandra Jennings, but no phone number. It’s a Sunday, she could be at home, Claire is prepared to take the risk and pay her a house visit. She needs to find out exactly what was worrying Sandra and what she knows.
The address for Sandra Jennings turns out to be a bedsit in a house run by a bubbly Caribbean lady called Clarissa. Clarissa is in her Sunday bests when she answers the door to Claire and although it’s somewhat inconvenient, because she appears to have her entire family over for lunch, she is the exact opposite to Rosa McKenna and warmly welcomes her in - even asking if she wants to stay for lunch. Claire politely declines and explains she’s here to see Sandra.
‘Sandra? Oh she’s a lovely girl,’ Clarissa says, clasping her hands together, ‘Such a shame.’
‘A shame?’ Claire asks, her breath catching in her chest.
‘Yes, a shame that she’s gone. I enjoyed her company, we used to watch the TV together some evenings.’
‘When you say gone?’
‘I mean she left. Just upped and gone. Left me a note, didn’t even say goodbye. She’s paid up to the end of the month though. Such a shame she was a nice girl. Is she in trouble then?’
27
Claire, 16th October 2016
By the end of the day, Claire’s adrenalin is pumping like there’s no tomorrow. Rosa McKenna had come through with the other name and she now has five autopsy reports in front of her. All five died within the last year and all the deaths are unexplained. There is no way that level of deaths is normal. She hasn’t got any proof to suggest they’re murder, admittedly, but statistics would show that death by natural causes for all five would be incredibly unlikely - and these are just the ones she knows about.
She’s had background checks done on Sandra Jennings and it turns out she is supposed to be dead herself. Whoever Sandra is at the agency, she’s not Sandra Jennings. The woman with the national insurance number and name she’s been using died from a brain tumour six years ago. Claire is already writing out a search warrant application while she waits to brief Bob.
The rest of the team have had another day of trawling through Neil’s phone records, speaking to his contacts, neighbours, colleagues and sifting through his computer and paperwork. Claire is busting to spill her findings, but she knows she’s got to run this all by Bob first and she’s not sure he’s going to be delighted about the fact she could potentially have just increased their workload - especially as he wasn’t keen on her looking into it in the first place.
Lew has been strange all day, it’s almost like he’s avoiding her, keeping his head down and the office joke free. Claire wonders if it’s a hangover or maybe she’s said something that’s annoyed him. Either way, she’s too busy with work to worry about it.
At first, the annoyance shows on Bob’s face, but as Claire carries on talking he softens, butting in every now and then with pertinent questions.
‘So, none of the five were treated as crime scenes,’ Claire explains, ‘There were the standard autopsies done, but they didn’t show up anything out of the ordinary. All five had been drinking but the levels in their blood streams weren’t ordinarily sufficient to have killed them.’
‘You say one of the deaths was last week?’ Bob asks.
‘Yup, that hasn’t gone before the Coroner yet, luckily, so they’ve still got his body at the morgue. Obviously, I don’t need to point out that this rate of unexplained deaths is hundreds, if not thousands of times above the national average. Something has to be going on.’
Claire waits, holding her breath, for her mentor to think through what she’s saying.
‘The fact that Sandra Jennings, or whatever her name is, has done a runner is either evidence of her guilt or evidence that she’s scared for her own life,’ she carries on talking, keen to ensure Bob is fully taking into account all the facts.
‘Ok,’ he finally says, ‘I agree, we can’t ignore this. I’m still not convinced it’s connected to Neil Parsons though because he was stabbed.’
‘But the agency is the link between him, these deaths and Rachel’s stalker. Perhaps there’s a reason why Neil’s murder was different, maybe it was to send a message or make a point?’
Bob nods thoughtfully.
‘You could be right, but my gut feeling is that even if they do turn out to be murders, they’re separate. However, as we’ve no other clear leads at present, get a pathologist to look over the most recent death again. But if it comes back all OK and absolutely not suspicious, then you must drop this. Is that clear?’
‘Yes sir.’
Claire beams back at Bob. This is the buzz she loves about the job and if she’s proved right, if there really is a serial killer murdering clients of SoulMates agency, then she might finally get her dad to take her career seriously.
28
Rachel, 16th October 2016
The first thing Rachel does when she wakes Sunday morning is to go and check on the rabbits. She’d had a nightmare that something horrible has happened to them and while she can’t quite remember the details, it’s made her feel upset. The threat posed by her unknown stalker is infiltrating every part of her life and being.
The shed looks intact and untouched, but there has been a light dusting of icy sleet or snow overnight which hasn’t settled everywhere, but can be seen under bushes and where there are dips and dents in the shade.
Amber the rabbit is still sitting in the corner of her hutch, ears forward and not touching food. Rachel gently picks her up and looks her over. There’s nothing that’s showing outwardly but she feels cold and her stomach looks distended. She adds some more hay to their cage and sits with her, trying to tempt her with her favourite foods. Amber is unresponsive.
Rachel stays cuddling her, keeping her warm for over an hour. It’s not cold in the shed and she’s careful not to leave the door open, but she’ll set up something inside today; bring them both in to keep warm and see if that makes Amber any better. Tomorrow she’ll take her to the vets.
Reg is quieter than his usual self. Every now and then he’ll stop and sniff around for Amber, standing on his hind quarters, nose twitching, ears searching. Claire will show him she’s still there and he’ll get back to eating. The pair of them have been together for years, and he’s not used to her not being with him.
Her concern for Amber is a distraction to worrying about her own unwelcome attention. It’s constantly there, niggling at the back of her mind, but focusing on the rabbits gives her some respite. It takes until after lunch to put the rabbits into their travel cage, clean out their hutch and struggle across the garden with it into the house. She sets it up in the utility room before transferring them back inside. Reg seems unperturbed by the move, but Amber backs into her corner again and sits there moodily.
Having the rabbits in the house changes its dynamic. She can almost sense the air in the rooms shifting and moving to take into account the new presence in her utility room. Now there are ears in the house for her to talk to and soft warm bodies to look after. It gives her courage somehow and as the clouds have cleared to leave a bright a
fternoon, she decides to go for a walk on Wimbledon Common. On a Sunday afternoon, it will be busy with families and couples strolling around the footpaths with their dogs or children. She’ll feel safe. It will feel normal.
She avoids Windmill Road and the constant stream of weekend visitors driving up and down. Instead, she chooses to walk the paths that criss-cross the common and skirt around the Windmill Museum; its black and white wooden top rising above the canopy of trees. The ground is thick with fallen leaves and every now and then another will come spinning or floating to the ground in front of her, ready to be crushed under-foot. The smell of autumn is in the air, the freshness in the wind muted by the earthy damp decay of leaf mould. Empty chestnut and conker shells litter the ground where little fingers have prised out their prizes and slipped them into coat pockets.
She’s careful not to allow herself to wander into trees where she can’t be seen, but at the same time she stays away from the most well-trodden paths.
The rhythm of walking and the distraction of nature begins to relax her. She breathes in deeply, consciously trying to shake out the tension in her body. Her neck feels stiff and there’s a pinching in the middle of her shoulders which she’s only just become aware of. Rachel lifts her shoulders towards her ears and drops them again, circling each one which scrunch and crunch with the movement. It feels so good to be out doing something normal.
All of a sudden the sound of crashing footsteps bursts from the bushes just behind her. She spins round, instantly on alert. Body tensed for flight. She’s confronted by the vision of an overweight black Labrador, tongue lolling, tail wagging, emerging through the undergrowth. It’s the closest she thinks she’ll get to see a dog smiling. His eyes are bright and excited, his nose in raptures with the huge array of wonderful scents around him. Rachel breathes out. She smiles as he carries on his olfactory adventure, nose to the ground, ears peaked for the slightest rustle of a squirrel - although somehow unable to hear his owners who come tramping after him calling, ‘Benson, Benson, here.’ He disappears off as fast as he came, making the most of nature before he is returned to the tarmac and concrete of his London home.
