by Tara Lyons
She opened the photos app and pored longingly over the photographs dating back to her son’s third birthday. Slowly, she thumbed between them, some holding her attention longer than others; Brad’s smiling face during their family Christmas dinner just eight months before was a harsh reminder of how drastically her life had changed. Katy stared at her husband’s face – his turquoise eyes, his blonde, curly hair and his chiselled jawline. He had been everything she’d needed, a saviour pulling her from the depths of misery, and when she’d been alone and scared, he had scooped her up into his life. Looking back, she often wondered if she’d imagined their wedding day, sordid and frightening as it was. A whole year had passed, then Frankie was born and they’d moved into a two-bedroom maisonette in Covent Garden. Katy had begun to depend on others again; her new family and friends became a comforting crutch in a life she’d forgotten existed.
Katy skimmed back through the folder to photos of another memory. Frankie’s birthday, a bittersweet date, and she threw the phone down onto the bed. Hot tears burned tracks down her cheeks when she thought of the pleasure Brad had stolen from that day. On what should have been a joyous occasion, Katy had been humiliated; slapped in the face in front of their guests, a form of punishment no one stopped, argued against, or comforted her. It was all quickly glossed over and never mentioned again.
Thinking back, Katy recognised Brad’s fury was unmasked whenever she enjoyed herself. She jumped off the bed and paced the room, fears and uncertainties scrambled through her mind. Switching the power off, Katy chucked the phone back to its hiding place and slammed the drawer shut. But, it did nothing to shield the thoughts of her last encounter with Brad; those terrifying images of trickling blood and sounds of helpless cries.
A knock at the front door dragged Katy from her haunted memories. She didn’t need to check the time; it was far too late for the postman and he was the only one who ever knocked.
“Hello.” A voice from the other side of the door broke the silence again. “It’s me, Alexina. Your neighbour from upstairs.”
“It’s me, she says. Like we’re friends,” Katy whispered to herself, edging closer to the hallway and holding her breath to listen.
With any luck the woman’s given up and returned home.
“Don’t leave me standing out here, I’m in my pyjamas.” Alexina’s pitch increased and the giggle echoed around the hall.
Worried her neighbour would wake Frankie, Katy twisted the keys and, opening the door to a mere crack, peered out.
“Yes, can I help you?” she asked impatiently.
“Oh, hi! I didn’t think you were going to answer.”
Alexina stood unabashed in a silk camisole and matching trousers, holding a bottle of white wine. Her shiny, black hair fell poker-straight to her shoulders, and her chocolate eyes shone from the warm, tanned glow of her skin. It was the London accent that caught Katy’s attention; there was an intriguing elegance to it. She made no reply, hoping the woman would think her rude, regret the intrusion and wish her farewell.
“My husband and kids are asleep,” Alexina continued, “and it dawned on me that I’ve never welcomed you to the building. So…”
The neighbour raised her eyebrows and shook the bottle from side to side, an advance Katy felt powerless to stop. She could tell straight away Alexina wasn’t the type to accept a negative answer. Almost unconsciously, Katy stood back and opened the door wider, allowing the stranger into her home.
“Is your little one sleeping too?” Alexina asked, as she enthusiastically bounced past Katy into the hallway.
She nodded. “Yes, so let’s keep it down. Straight ahead, we can sit in there.”
“Don’t forget to grab a couple of glasses.”
Katy partly closed the living room door, keeping it open just a little in an attempt to guard her son from the unusual noise of conversation. Reluctantly, she accepted the glass of wine and sank back into the sofa while Alexina spoke at an incredibly fast pace.
“I also wanted to say sorry, for the other night. You know… the police and the paramedics. I’m sure they made a racket; no consideration for other people. They just charge in, proverbial guns blazing.”
“They came for you?” With two apartments on the floor above, it was interesting to hear a bit of the story. “I guess there was some noise on the stairs, but I didn’t see anything.”
“No I bet you didn’t. You keep yourself very much to yourself, don’t you?”
Katy smiled, anxious about the direction the discussion could take. She began to regret letting the woman in. What if she asks where I’m from, or why I’m a single parent? What if she’s here to find information on me and I just let her walk freely into my home?
“Anyway,” Alexina continued. “It was all blown out of proportion. My husband and I had a barney that’s all, and the neighbours opposite us called the cops.”
“Oh, I see.”
“The thing is, my husband works away for weeks at a time, sometimes months. When he comes home our relationship can swing either way. I’m either all over him like a rash until he has to leave again, because well, you know, a woman has needs, or I want to kill him for leaving me alone with a toddler and a daughter who’s five going on fifteen.”
Katy smiled and buried the paranoia trying to take root in her mind. It was nice to have some real adult company, and she found the woman’s easy-going attitude relaxing.
“So, Alexina, where are you from?”
“Ah ha… what, you don’t think my complexation matches my South London accent?”
“Sorry. I wasn’t being rude… I was just –”
Alexina clapped her hands and laughed. “Lighten up. Well, my mother is from India, moved to London when she was a teenager and met my father who was born and bred in Sutton. They still live there but I got out at sixteen, as I was desperate to travel and see the world. Then I met ‘him’ upstairs and look at me now, stuck in our own quiet little town. The irony of life, hey.”
“It’s funny how things work out. I know Sutton, south of the river, but not too far from where I used to live.” Katy sipped the wine, immediately regretting how she’d slipped into easy chatter. She hoped Alexina wouldn’t catch on to the abrupt halt in her sentence. “I’ve never really travelled, a couple of low-key holidays, but never too far from home. Where have you been?”
“All over. Nothing better than a long-haul flight to know you’re getting away and embarking on a huge adventure. But sadly, I haven’t been on a plane since my eldest was born five years ago… Changed my life.”
Alexina’s eyes fluttered to the floor, a distant expression clouded her face. Katy somehow felt drawn to her, almost as if the woman might somehow understand her pain. But she knew it would be wrong to probe her. Sometimes, people just didn’t need to share their sad stories.
“And you’ve lived here ever since?” Katy asked.
The woman’s head sprung up, the jovial character returned. “God no! Like I said, his job moves him around the country and sometimes we have to pack up and move with him.”
“That must be hard… So, what does your husband do, I mean, what’s his job?”
A high-pitched scream from the next room interrupted the conversation. It was so unlike Frankie to wake during the night, it took Katy a minute to process it was actually her son. She quickly clinked her glass onto the coffee table and ran to him. He was sat up in his bed, rubbing his eyes and whimpering.
“Sweetie, what’s wrong?”
“I had a dream, Mummy. There was a stranger here…”
“Shh, shh, shh, darling. It’s okay. Mummy’s here.”
Katy wrapped her arms around Frankie, cradling him gently until he fell back to sleep. She lowered him back onto the pillow and crept away. The living room was empty and the wine bottle had gone. Opening the front door slightly, Katy heard the thud of another one closing upstairs.
CHAPTER SEVEN
As devastated as he was to lose another member of the team, Hamil
ton could not deny Wedlock’s request for compassionate leave. Gathering only Clarke and Fraser together left him feeling uneasy; his team was changing at the rate of knots, and he wasn’t enjoying it.
“How’s Wedlock’s mother, gov?” Clarke asked.
“Not good I’m afraid. He called me when he arrived at the hospital in Cornwall. She’d suffered a major stroke.”
“Nasty they are. My grandfather had two of them. She’ll need some looking after that’s for sure. Wedlock doesn’t have any siblings, does he?”
“No. Only child,” Hamilton replied. “Fraser, it looks like you’ll have to work on this case alone for the time being. Unless you want me to pull a uniform in?”
“It’s fine, I can manage, boss. I’ve secured a list of Paige Everett’s friends from her parents, so I’ll be busy chasing them down today. Sorry, my full update of the case is on the board.”
Hamilton took the sarcastic comment like a punch to the gut, knowing full well he couldn’t retaliate against Fraser’s snide remark. He wanted to explain why he’d pushed the case away and reassure her it was nothing personal, but there never seemed to be an appropriate moment. It had been a long time since he’d opened up and shared the events of his own heart-break. He wasn’t confident the words would flow successfully.
“Good to hear it. Right, Clarke and I –” he was interrupted by the shrill of a phone.
His partner answered the call and Hamilton walked to the alcove in the corner of the office. He cursed when he found there were no teabags or coffee, and nothing but an empty pint of milk sat in the fridge. He reached in and tossed the carton onto the work surface. Feeling Fraser’s ever-watchful gaze upon him, he avoided eye contact as he returned to Clarke.
I’m the bloody boss in this office. Maybe I need to remind everyone of that fact.
“Gov, we’ve got a case. Another mother and son murdered in their beds,” Clarke announced after he’d ended the call.
“Got the address?”
“Of course! It’s within a five-mile radius of the Mitchell victim’s address.”
“Grab your coat, I’m driving,” Hamilton instructed, and marched through the office.
The short journey to Islington allowed his mind to wonder about the man committing these crimes. The team knew from the preliminary information that their latest victim had been discovered sooner than the first, and Hamilton worried about the repercussions it could spark. Would it anger the killer more if he considered they were ruining his plans? Would it entice the monster to escalate the attacks?
Hamilton was surprised to find himself parking the car outside yet another residential cul-de-sac of apartments. There were just too many people, too many roads and buildings in central London that all looked identical; underground stations surrounded by apartment blocks, offices and shops. He could understand how easy it was to get lost. But, Hamilton was a man of the streets, and he knew these streets well, certainly well enough to decipher how unique they actually were. And so, to be called into a crime scene with a similar MO, victims and home, his intuition screamed at him that these victims had not been chosen by chance.
Entering the ground floor flat, Hamilton was overwhelmed by the life inside; the smell of last night’s roast dinner still lingered in the air, damp towels from a late-night bath hung on the corridor radiator and the landing light shone without need. He watched the buzz of activity for a few minutes, the teams of colleagues hurrying from room to room to secure any possible piece of evidence.
Hamilton came together with the same group of people to scrutinise a familiar crime scene – no forced entry, personal possessions left untouched, a half-naked dead woman and a child suffocated in his bed. They were hunting a cold-blooded serial killer, and the world outside fell away. Their dark task of giving the dead a voice fuelled their every action.
On their return to the station, Hamilton requested Clarke update Fraser on their progress with the bedroom killings. It was difficult working two cases with half the people he was used to, and while he expected flexibility from his small team, it was not an issue he was willing to ignore.
Charging into his superior’s office, Hamilton stopped at the secretary’s desk. “Afternoon, Betty. Any chance I can slip in and talk to DCI Allen briefly?”
“Oh, I’m not sure, Denis. He’s only just returned to the office,” the attractive, mature woman informed him, but made no attempt to get up and physically stop him.
“Cheers,” he replied with a wink.
He pounded on the office door and entered when the DCI barked something inaudible. Hamilton was taken aback to find his superior in sweaty gym clothes. Never before had he seen DCI Allen out of his pristine uniform.
“Ah, Denis! Take a seat. You’ve caught me on a late lunch-break,” Allen said, gesturing with his hands over his attire. “What can I do for you?”
“We’ve just attended a second crime scene of a mother and son murdered in their homes, sir.”
“Yes, I was going to give you a call about that. Give me a brief update.” The large man wiped his face with a towel and sat in the chair opposite Hamilton.
“Well, sir, unlike the first victims, Emma Jones and her son, Kyle, were found just days after they were attacked. Miss Bairden, who was an old friend of the victim, was visiting and found their bodies. We’ve scheduled an interview with her tomorrow.”
“What about the first victims?”
“Quite the opposite, sir.” Hamilton blew a puff of air. “We’re having trouble finding any family. There’s no information on Miss Mitchell’s next of kin at the moment.”
“Any link between the victims?”
Hamilton had expected these questions, but he just wished the chief would back off for a minute and let him explain why he had rushed in to see him.
“Not at the moment, sir. I’ve just returned from the scene and my team are working with fewer numbers. However, the two women were similar in looks and age, lived within a mile of each other, both single parents with young sons –”
“Right! Those families need to be informed, and we need to release a press statement, Denis. For now, I’ll do my best to ensure the press team are instructed to keep the victims’ names away from the headlines.”
Allen rose from his seat and crossed the office in three large strides. Before he was dismissed, Hamilton quickly interjected.
“Sir, there was something else.”
“Yes, Denis?”
“You realise I’m two members short on my team, don’t you, sir?”
“I’m working on it. There’s been a delay with Dixon’s transfer, the sergeant replacing Morris.”
“I understand these things happen, sir.” Hamilton clenched his jaw for a moment, keeping his frustration at bay. “But you must also understand that we’re working on two major investigations here. I will need to use Fraser’s computer skills if I’m to uncover a connection with these two women, but she’s stuck working on the… teenager’s death.”
Allen dropped his fingers from the door handle. “I thought DI Daly had been assigned that case?”
“You informed me he had been called to another crime scene that same evening, sir, and requested I attend in his place.”
The man cleared his throat. “Denis, my apologies…”
Hamilton shook his head. “No need, sir, we’re all professionals. I’m just asking for some help for my team until the new guy arrives. I’m not sure when Wedlock will return from his compassionate leave.”
He walked to the door, side-stepping Allen, and pulled at the collar of his shirt. It wasn’t a small office, but it was suddenly consumed with thick, hot air.
“Say no more, Denis. I’ll have someone transferred to your team as soon as possible.”
Hamilton bowed his head in thanks and dashed from the office, through the corridors and out into the car park before anyone had a chance to engage him in a conversation he still wasn’t prepared to have.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Fraser drove a
long Kilburn High Road, replaying in her mind the earlier interaction with her boss. Hamilton had seemed distracted over the past fortnight. Granted she hadn’t worked with him for as long as Clarke, and he appeared to be carrying on as normal, but something niggled at the back of her mind. It was something to do with the case she was working on, of that she was certain. What she couldn’t decide was whether or not to question him about it. The relaxed office environment had disappeared, the team spirit had lost its heart and she wanted to alter things. What she didn’t want to do was make enemies in the first six months. She cranked up the radio, hoping Kisstory’s tunes would drown out her thoughts.
This is definitely a perk of working alone; no one to dictate the music choices.
As Fraser approached Cricklewood Lane, she indicated right and parked on Elm Grove. From home to home, this was the closest in distance to one of Paige Everett’s friends. Despite the circumstances, Fraser couldn’t help but smile when Mrs Everett had described the girl as her daughter’s best friend. She hoped the special title was worthy of this girl and she’d turn out to be an asset to the investigation.
Fraser knocked on the door and waited with her ID badge in hand. Bellowing words and footsteps came from behind the panelled glass doorway until a shadowy figure drew near. A short, slim woman, wearing a Breton stripe top and jeans, answered the door; pale but naturally pretty, with close-cropped hair that Fraser thought added to the woman’s elegant style.
“Yes?”
“Mrs Sarah Steer?”
“Who’s asking?”
“Detective Sergeant Kerry Fraser from the Metropolitan Police. Is Caitlynn Steer your daughter?”
