‘Not tempted to go on a revenge murder streak?’
Kane looked at him sombrely. ‘I don’t think killing someone else can ever bring back the dead.’
Chapter 35: O’Shaughnessy
Almira el-Mirza pursed her lips and surveyed her mark. He was sitting on the edge of his seat, leaning forward as if to close the space between them. He was obviously attracted to her. Just as she had planned, Eric O’Shaughnessy was putty in her hands.
He wasn’t unattractive, either. He had that Irish vibe going, with a mane of red hair enveloping a chiselled jawline, eyes that seemed to dance in the light, and a smile that showed off some impressive dental work. It was a shame he didn’t have that charming Irish accent to go with it. His voice was so indistinctive that he could be from anywhere south of Birmingham.
‘Why the herringbone suits?’ she asked by way of an opening foray. He had worn three suits so far during the classes, each a different shade of charcoal with the trademark chevron pattern. The only other man she had seen who came close to having such a distinctive style was Detective Inspector Ayala, whose choice of three-piece suit and pocket square had not gone unnoticed.
‘I like them,’ he said simply. ‘They suit me.’
‘I’ll say,’ Almira said, humouring him. ‘What else are you hiding? You’ve got that strong and silent vibe going on. How about you let little old me inside that beautiful mind? What drives you?’
‘My job is a small part of who I am. I work to live. I don’t live to work.’
‘So, if you didn’t have to work, what would you do?’
‘I’d travel,’ Eric said enthusiastically. ‘I love seeing the wonders of the ancient world. Where we’ve come from can tell us a lot about where we’re going.’
‘Anywhere in particular?’
‘I’d love to go exploring in South America. You ever fancied taking a boat down the Pantanal, see a bit of Brazil, a bit of Paraguay, and a bit of Bolivia? Imagine seeing nature at its wildest, enjoying sights no other living human has ever seen. I could make room for two.’
‘Slow down, big man,’ Almira said. ‘Let’s start small before we go running away into the jungle.’
***
‘More flirtation,’ Rafferty said. ‘These two need to get a room.’
‘She’s leading him on,’ Brodie said. ‘But she’s not interested. Look at her body language.’
Brodie pointed at the covert surveillance footage. ‘He leans in, she leans back. It’s not a mutual thing. She’s using her looks to get him talking.’
‘Fat lot of good,’ Rafferty said ruefully. ‘He’s not exactly saying anything interesting, is he? He sounds like he’s read a book on gap years and has a bit of wanderlust. How on earth do we use that for profiling?’
Chapter 36: Sully
Morton watched from afar as the final interview took place. His assigned students had long since finished, and so Morton’s gaze wandered. Maisie and Sully were taking much longer, probably because of her “I want a lawyer” gambit. While Maisie had played hardball during Sully’s interview, he seemed much more relaxed about being grilled. It seemed, however, that she was getting little out of him that they didn’t already know. After a further twenty minutes, Morton decided to call time on the experiment.
‘Alright, ladies and gents,’ Morton said. ‘Good work. I hope you’ve all learned how to start profiling a suspect, or, more likely, learned how not to profile one. Getting someone to volunteer sensitive information is always a challenge. Doing so without them knowing is even better. I wandered around for part of today’s session. I heard flirting, I heard rapport building, and I even heard some of you sneakily pretending you hadn’t started. Good work, there. Your mark will be at his or her weakest when they don’t know they’re a mark just yet.’
Ayala stood. ‘There will be homework. Not only do we want you to write up your thoughts, but we would also like you to write an essay, no more than 1500 words, describing any risk factors you have identified in your partner. While you’re doing this, we’d like you to use any and all lawful resources to inform your report. You can use any information you’ve learned outside the classroom. You can use social media. You can even talk to mutual contacts. Send those to me by email by tomorrow, and the best report will win a round of drinks in St Stephen’s Tavern.’
***
I watched as Ayala summed up the class. He and Morton were right: the unsuspecting fool was a much softer target than the prepared criminal. But as soon as Morton changed the lesson plan, I knew something was up. Somehow, the silver-haired old fool was on to me. He must have recognised that the crimes of the last four weeks were the crimes we’d plotted in class.
That meant he knew what I was planning to do next, but it was too easy. A terrorist incident. There was no way any man could ever work out which target I would hit or how. There were thousands of soft targets, hundreds of ways to kill.
It was time to give the washed-up old detective one tiny sliver of hope. And then crush it mercilessly.
Chapter 37: Analysis
That Monday afternoon, the extended team convened in the Incident Room.
‘That was an enlightening exercise. We now have eight transcribed interviews to assist with our profiles, and, thanks to Ayala’s quick thinking at the end of the session, we’ll have the students’ own written reports that might contain additional information. Let’s start with a quick risk assessment on each of our eight suspects.’
He looked around the room, expecting someone to volunteer their thoughts. ‘Okay. Who had el-Mirza?’
‘We did, Well, Rafferty did, but I listened to the recording afterwards, and I agree entirely with what she concluded.’ Ayala said, pointing at himself and then Rafferty. ‘I couldn’t not listen in to that recording. She’s a massive flirt, and she’s got some weird BDSM vibes going down, but there are no red flags for “serial killer” in that transcript. She doesn’t fit the demographic for a serial killer, either. She’s mid-thirties, a woman, not white, and has, as best we can tell from her Facebook posts, a loving, if devout, family. We’d rate her a 2/10 risk factor.’
‘Okay, write it on the board.’ Morton watched as Ayala put a number two underneath the picture of Almira el-Mirza. ‘Who else did you have?’
‘Eric O’Shaughnessy,’ said Rafferty
‘What did you think of him?’
‘He fancies the pants off el-Mirza,’ Rafferty said with a smile. ‘He’s a dreamer. He loves travelling, is obsessed with his herringbone suits, and he’s a bit of a mummy’s boy. I pulled his force-issued mobile phone logs, and he’s been calling home every night. He’s in the right age bracket, and obviously he’s a white male, but I’d say he’s a 4 or 5 at best.’
‘Which is it?’
‘Can we have a 4.5?’
Morton sighed. There always had to be one. ‘Fine.’
Rafferty wrote four and a half under Eric O’Shaughnessy’s name.
‘Next: Danny and Kane,’ Morton said. ‘I had them. Danny is 29, so he ticks the demographic boxes. He’s worked undercover with Vice, so we know he’s been exposed to a level of violence some would never tolerate, and it’s possible he became inured to it. I know I did when I was undercover. Danny even appeared to offer to sell Kane weed at the end there. If he’s still in the life, that’s theoretically a risk factor, but I don’t think Danny is our man.’
‘Why not?’ Ayala said. ‘If he’s engaged in criminality, fits the demographics, grew up poor and without a father figure, then surely he’s a seven or eight?’
‘I’d agree, except someone dumb enough to deal marijuana in a room full of detectives isn’t smart enough to pull off the four murders we’ve seen. The contrast is too great. I’m going to rate him a six. Ayala, as you’re closest, would you do the honours?’
He did, and a third number went up on the board.
‘Aren’t we going to arrest Danny if he’s dealing?’ Ayala asked.
‘Not now,’ Morton said. ‘We can’t
spook the killer by throwing out arrest warrants. We have to ignore the fly to catch the tiger. You can investigate, and if the evidence is there, you can bring him in the moment we’ve got our killer in custody.’
That satisfied Ayala. He nodded his thanks and returned to his seat.
Morton pointed to the next man up for discussion, Kane Villiers. ‘Now, Villiers is much harder to read. Has everyone read the transcript Mayberry prepared? He seems to play Danny like a fiddle. He’s manipulative, he’s very smart – his test scores are off the chart – and he fits the demographic. What did we think of the Uncle Greg story he told?’
Mayberry raised a tentative hand. He looked nervous at being asked to speak in front of a larger than usual group. ‘It’s b-b-b-bullshit.’
The urge to laugh hit Morton immediately. He hadn’t heard Mayberry swear before. He suppressed it with great difficulty. ‘Why?’
‘He d-d-doesn’t h-have an Uncle G-Greg.’
Interesting, Morton thought. ‘Could he have changed the name to protect his privacy?’
‘D-don’t t-think so,’ Mayberry said. ‘T-there’s n-no record of it.’
‘Keep digging, just in case,’ Morton ordered. ‘I think Kane has earned himself a risk factor of eight or nine. What do you think? Hands up for eight? And for nine? Fine, eight-point-five it is. Ayala, if you please.’
Half of the board now had numbers beneath the names:
El-Mirza – 2
O’Shaughnessy – 4.5
Hulme-Whitmore – 6
Villiers – 8.5
‘Who’s that leave?’ Ayala asked.
‘Crispin Babbage, Sam Rudd, Sulaiman Haadi al-Djani, and Maisie Pincent,’ Rafferty reeled off.
‘Exactly,’ Morton said. ‘Who had them?’
Ayala raised a hand. ‘I had Maisie and Sully. Counter Terrorism Command had Rudd and Babbage.’
‘Thoughts?’
‘Sully is the risky one,’ Ayala said firmly.
‘Why?’
‘He’s got a PhD in psychology from Cambridge, and his research topic of choice was risk factors in serial killers.’
‘Okay, that’s got to be a red flag. How old is he?’
‘Thirty-three,’ Ayala said. ‘He’s just outside the expected range, but this could be a continuation of an older series. Don’t you think these four kills feel a bit too proficient for a first-time offender?’
‘Any other risk factors?’
Ayala ticked them off as he went. ‘He’s superficially charming, an only child, and he’s been single forever. I heard him complaining about that before class. At his age, it strikes me as odd that he’s never had a serious relationship. It’s not as if he isn’t handsome.’
‘What’s your number?’
‘Nine.’
‘Write it up. Then, tell us about Maisie.’
Ayala did so. ‘She’s a woman, she’s very young, but she’s definitely bright. I don’t know if she has the physicality to overpower someone or force them to jump. She strikes me as childlike, naïve, and bland. She was very cheeky during the exercise when she asked for a lawyer. I’m surprised nobody else thought of that. I’d rate her a four on that basis. We do know she had a friend die in a police misfire incident a few years back, which is what she says drove her to join the police. Kieran was involved in prosecuting that one, so he might be able to give us some context there. My gut says five.’
‘I’ll trust your instinct, then. Write it up. Now, where’s our Counter Terrorism Command rep gone?’
‘He’s d-downstairs with B-Brodie,’ Mayberry chimed in.
‘Could you fetch him for me, please?’
Mayberry scarpered at top speed. Five minutes later, he dragged a reluctant Mikhail Antonoff into the Incident Room.
‘Mr Antonoff, so kind of you to join us,’ Morton said. ‘Your thoughts on your assigned observees, please?’
‘Babbage is a risk,’ Antonoff replied. ‘He’s egotistical. He’s an only child. And I know he’s masochistic.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Brodie and I borrowed his laptop. All legal. We searched his history. He has a fetish for fire.’
The entire room went wide-eyed at this pronouncement, and Morton’s mind flashed back to the interview transcript. Crispin’s biological parents had died in a fire. The possibility of a late-twenties, single male from a broken home, with a fetish for fire... he seemed like the obvious candidate. Too obvious? Morton wondered.
‘I make him a ten,’ Antonov said.
‘So be it. What of Rudd?’
Antonov looked directly at Morton. ‘Three. Rudd appears to be thoughtful, empathetic, and doesn’t fit the demographic.’
‘Then, we have our starting scores. Mayberry, can we put them up high to low on that blank whiteboard behind you, please?’
Morton watched as Mayberry wrote out each name in order of the score given.
Babbage – 10
Sully – 9
Villiers – 8.5
Hulme-Whitmore – 6
Maisie – 5
O’Shaughnessy – 4.5
Rudd – 3
El-Mirza – 2
Morton looked around the room to make sure he had everyone’s attention. ‘I want each of you to investigate your assigned students. Run anything risky by me. Work hard, work fast. Everybody is on overtime until we crack this. If you have to be here around the clock until Saturday night, so be it. We cannot allow a terrorist atrocity to strike our fair city.’
Chapter 38: Doorstepped
When Rafferty stepped out of New Scotland Yard that evening, she needed nothing more than a soak in the bath with a large glass of bourbon, some scented candles, and a smattering of eighties classics to chill out to.
Instead, she got ambushed. The moment she was on the public pavement, a pack of journalists descended like ravenous wolves. They crowded around her, including one sneaky so-and-so who slipped behind her to prevent a retreat.
‘Detective Inspector Rafferty!’ the nearest shouted, shoving a microphone in her face. ‘Is it true Angela King was a lesbian?’
‘Is that why Brian King was sleeping on the sofa?’ another chimed in.
‘What was she doing at the Cunning Linguist on the night of her death?’
‘No comment,’ Rafferty said, pushing past the microphone. She spotted a cab thirty feet out, flagged it down, and jumped in. The questions continued to be shouted at her until the taxi had pulled away.
Lesbian bar? This was the first she’d heard of it. Rafferty Googled the name and found it. It was less than a quarter of a mile from where Angela King had been shot.
Had Brian King been lying? Was there more to the breakdown of his relationship than his post-traumatic stress disorder?
Rafferty knew she had to find out. Tomorrow. Tonight it was time for her to grab a takeaway, veg out on the sofa with Britain’s Next Top Model, and hit the hay early.
***
The Cunning Linguist was closed when Rafferty arrived. She could see someone cleaning inside, so she banged on the door.
The woman inside yelled back immediately, her voice hoarse and angry. ‘No journalists! Get lost!’
‘Police!’ Rafferty yelled back. ‘I’d like to ask a few questions.’
The woman went silent, and then the door was unlatched.
‘Sorry. Thought you were another one of them paparazzi. This about Angie?’
Angie? Rafferty thought. It seemed an awfully familiar way to refer to Angela King. She nodded anyway.
‘Come on in,’ the woman said, gesturing towards the lit fireplace. ‘It’s much too cold and windy to be out.’
The interior of the Cunning Linguist was beautiful. Rafferty had never been in a lesbian bar before, and hadn’t known what to expect, but there was one word that seemed to encapsulate it: classy.
Chesterfield sofas were set around low tables. Mirrors and paintings hung from every wall. There was even a crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling.
‘Can
I get you a drink, love?’
‘I’m on duty.’
‘Cup of tea, then?’ the woman asked.
Rafferty checked her watch. She had plenty of time. ‘Go on, then.’
The combined coffee and hot water machine behind the bar whirred to life as Rafferty set herself down in front of the fire.
‘Earl Grey okay?’
‘Please.’
It was loose leaf tea served in a china teapot with tiny matching cups. The woman set it down on the table with a gentle chink, poured two cups, then sat opposite Rafferty.
‘I’m Grace,’ she said. ‘This is my bar.’
‘You do your own cleaning? I’m impressed,’ Rafferty said honestly, then took a moment to study the older woman. Rafferty had originally pegged her as being in her forties, but tiny crow’s feet around her eyes, thin skin around her neck, and the skin stretching across her knuckles furrowed with wrinkles all suggested she was much older.
‘Trying to guess how old I am?’ Grace said. ‘Don’t worry, love. I’m used to it. I’ll be fifty-nine next month.’
Blimey. She looked good for it. ‘Wow’ was all Rafferty could say.
‘They all say that, you know. I’ve been here nearly forty years. My husband and I bought this place. It wasn’t a lesbian bar back then. People weren’t so accepting, you see.’
‘Your husband?’
‘Dead,’ Grace said. ‘Long gone. Shame. He used to mop the floors, and now I get to do it. But you ain’t here to talk about an old lesbian and the beard she married. What do you need to know about our Angie?’
Rafferty took a sip of her tea. ‘This is fantastic.’
Grace beamed. ‘Fortnum and Mason. It costs a few pence more per cup, but customers’ll pay twice as much. Easy money, innit?’
‘Was Angie a regular?’
‘Yep, she’s been coming for years. She always has the same order: tequila sunrise with a vanilla chipotle twist.’
Rafferty was intrigued. Vanilla and chipotle? ‘Sorry, how do you make that?’
The DCI Morton Box Set Page 65
