Despite her rational mind chewing away at the stupidity and futility of her turbulent heart, Neva can’t stop herself from riding this terrible rollercoaster. She has no one to talk to about it. No one to help straighten her out, or put things in perspective. She may be a mature killer used to dealing with the harsh reality of death, but to her relationships are new and confusing. Neva doesn’t know how to process this abject sense of loss or how to mend the hole inside her that it’s created.
Since MI5’s raid on the flat, Neva has avoided any contact with Janine, even though they can reconnect through the web at any time. Like Neva, Janine has bolt-holes all over Europe. She doesn’t know where Janine has fled to anymore than Janine knows where she is. Even so, there’s comfort in knowing she’s out there, ready to be called back should Neva want her. For once Neva imagines talking to her associate on a girl-to-girl level. But what would she tell her?
‘Janine, I’m in love…’
Neva gives a harsh giggle at the thought of saying such a thing to Janine. All they ever talked about was assignments. They are not friends, not really. Neva explores what she feels about Janine, but the pain of losing Michael blocks out all other emotions.
With her new identity in her hand, Neva can no longer use it as an excuse to stay. She says goodbye to London and, subconsciously, to any chance of speaking to Michael as she boards the Eurostar to Amsterdam.
She thinks about Janine briefly when she’s settled. Neva has no use for a double now. the last thing she needs is to be ‘seen’ anywhere. She has to remain hidden. At least until she knows for sure that she isn’t a sleeper agent. What will I do if I am? A chill shivers up Neva’s back followed by a whirl of paranoia. If it’s me then I’ll have to deal with it.
To convince herself that she is in control, she takes to recording and monitoring her movements in the apartment she now lives in. Every few days she skips through the footage. So far, nothing out of the ordinary has occurred, as she sees herself doing exactly what she remembers doing. But still she doesn’t feel secure.
She calls herself Mila Jansen. This identity was a real person once, except that Mila Jansen died at the age of 8. The death record, however, has been expunged and Mila was ‘reborn’ a few years ago with a new life. A life that Neva had occasionally dipped into. She’d done this frequently to free herself from her handler, Tracey, using Janine in her stead. On such occasions, Janine, armed with Neva’s phone, would live in an apartment in London and she’d also take on hits that came in during that time. Neva would take 20 per cent off the top and Janine would get the rest for doing the wet work. It was a situation that profited them both, and it also gave Neva the opportunity to be free of the Network’s control. When Janine wasn’t working for Neva, she worked freelance, taking jobs that were being farmed out, or which she gleaned from the dark web. Neva didn’t know, or care, how Janine spent her down time. What she did care about was that Janine disguised herself. Neva had trained her well, and trusted that she did. Neither Tracey nor Beech ever got wind of her exploits, and none of it ever came back to Neva, and so for a few years Neva and Janine had a good arrangement.
On paper, Neva’s new personality is a student and as such she dresses the part. Casual jeans and sloppy slightly grungy tops. Make-up-less for the most part, she ties her hair back in a scruffy bun. She doesn’t hang out in the student bars and she is quiet. So, her busy neighbours don’t pay too much attention to her. She is, as always, hiding in the plain sight of normality because she knows this is the best way not to be noticed.
After showering and dressing, Neva checks her security footage, sees nothing unusual, and then she packs a small holdall. In the bag she stows a Glock 17 with several cartridges. On her wrist she has her usual knife holster, ready with a mere flick of her hand to use when needed.
After weeks of waiting, her hacker source Elbakitten has at last sent her a very important lead which is the only reason she would take a risk now to venture out of Amsterdam. Crossing borders is risky, but to catch up with Beech’s former chauffeur, Eldon Fracks, the danger is worth it. Last time she had a lead on Fracks, the Network had set a trap for her in Brighton. Even now she doesn’t know if Fracks was ever genuinely there and had somehow skipped away before she arrived and before Network operatives had tried to capture her. She thinks of this as she prepares for her mission now. She will be extra vigilant, just in case he’s been used to lure her in again.
Packed and armed, Neva leaves her apartment and sets off on her journey to face Fracks. She pushes down the dancing excitement that tries to surface, forcing herself back into the coldness that an assassin of her calibre has as a default setting. But after all she’s experienced, going back into that stark cold place once more isn’t easy. She stops trying to quell the anticipation. Letting it lift her up and out of the constant sadness she’s felt since leaving London. It’s not the thrill of a potential chase that makes her adrenaline surge, but the thought of something tangible to aim for after weeks of inertia. Or the thought that she might learn something that could redeem her in Michael’s eyes. Wouldn’t that be the ultimate prize?
Chapter Seven
Michael
The woman is in her own garden shed, staked out on the wooden plank floor as though she is sunbathing. The only difference is that she’s tied to four posts which have been driven through the floor, and that she’s under cover. Her femoral artery has been sliced, and it’s clear that she’s bled to death. The end would have been quick, no more than ninety seconds, judging by the depth of the wound.
‘How long has she been there?’ Beth asks over my shoulder.
‘Judging by the smell, anything up to a week,’ I say.
We both back away as Elliot and the police forensic team approach the shed, having traversed the front garden and travelled around the side of the house.
It’s dark and electricity hasn’t been fed through to the shed from the house, and so they set up several battery-powered lights on tripods inside. The garden is cordoned off, but I see a man watching from the upstairs window of the house next door. The heavy police presence in the street and around the front of the house will keep most of the curious away. Already a news van has arrived and one of the homicide detectives is dealing with them. On the face of this, it appears as though they are in charge of this investigation but in reality, MI5 is running the show. It’s unusual, but so is this murder or we wouldn’t have been called in.
I go into the house and find PC Parker in the kitchen, making a cup of tea.
‘Who raised the alarm?’ I ask him.
‘Work colleague and friend of the victim. She’s in the living room, Sir, if you want to speak to her.’
‘Is that tea for her?’ I ask.
Parker nods, then after stirring in two spoonfuls of sugar, he hands the mug to me.
I go into the living room where the victim’s friend waits to be interviewed. She’s a very attractive woman in her late 30s. Long brown hair that curls in such a way to look casual but actually takes a lot of work to do. Her clothing is expensive and stylish and she is, overall, very well groomed.
‘Security Agent Michael Kensington,’ I say, introducing myself as I give her the mug of tea. ‘You’re a friend of…’
She takes the tea and sips it, grimacing when she tastes the sweetness of the sugar.
‘For the shock,’ I say.
‘Lizzie,’ she says as though she’s just processed my first comment. ‘Her name was Lizzie. Elizabeth Seacroft.’
‘Can I take your name please?’
‘Victoria Johnson. Everyone calls me Vicky,’ she says.
‘How long were you friends with Lizzie?’ I ask.
‘We went to school together,’ Vicky explains. ‘And worked for the same firm. Lizzie is… was a graphic designer. I work in the accounts department.’
‘And Lizzie hadn’t turned up for work for a few days?’
‘That’s right. She’s always so reliable. She loves her job and she didn’t
call in sick so, I got worried. I rang and texted her, but got no response. I knew something was wrong.’
I ask Vicky about Lizzie’s personal life and learn she is recently divorced.
‘But it was amicable,’ Vicky explains.
I make a note of Barry Seacroft’s name and address for further investigation. But I already know it isn’t Lizzie’s ex that killed her. No, this was done by someone with a precise knowledge of murder.
‘Was Lizzie seeing anyone?’ I ask.
Vicky shakes her head. ‘She was on a dating site, but she told me it was just flirting. She wasn’t really ready for dating yet. She was just, you know, having fun and building her confidence.’
‘So, she didn’t discuss meeting up with anyone?’
Vicky frowned, ‘No. She’d have told me if she was going to do that. We were always in touch. Every day. That’s why I knew there was a problem.’
‘What’s the dating site she was on called?’ I ask.
Vicky gives me the name and I make a note of Yin and Yang. I question her a little longer but don’t learn much more. I let her go after taking all of her details for future contact.
When she’s gone, I pull on my gloves and do a cursory search of Lizzie’s house. In the sitting room I observe that Lizzie liked her house minimalist. There are no photographs or ornaments on the window ledges or the mantlepiece in the living room. Not even family photographs that you’d normally find in a home.
I find a photograph on the wall going upstairs. Lizzie’s ex-husband is laughing as he peels off the garter from his wife’s thigh. Lizzie is turned away from the camera as though someone had just asked her something and drawn her attention away so I can’t see her face properly. It’s odd to see pictures of a couple in the home after one or other has left and it could mean anything that Lizzie hadn’t removed this one. Was she still in love with her husband? Or it didn’t bother her that their life together was over, and so the photo didn’t offend? I recall again that Vicky said the split was ‘amicable’. If this was really the case then Lizzie was lucky indeed. At least until she met her killer.
I look around the bedroom, it’s neat and tidy, like the rest of the house: the bed is made. Not everyone does that in the morning. It says a lot about Lizzie. She worked full time and yet managed to keep her home perfectly in order. She was not someone to break her routine, nor someone likely to take a chance on meeting up with a stranger. So, what had happened? How had Lizzie been led astray? Or was her death a random attack?
I give a brief glance into the other bedroom and the bathroom and then I go back downstairs. In the hallway I spot Lizzie’s handbag. It’s dropped at the door, almost forgotten. It jars with me that it’s there like that, but I’m not sure why. I pick the bag up and open it. Inside is her wallet, holding credit cards and a little cash. I look for her mobile phone but realize it isn’t there.
The phone could tell us who Lizzie was last with and its contents are therefore very important. I look around the house, checking the plug sockets to see if the phone is on charge anywhere, but I don’t find it.
I look back at my notebook and find Vicky’s number. I ring her. The call is picked up right away and Vicky, her voice thick and tearful, asks who’s calling.
‘It’s Michael Kensington. I’m sorry to disturb you. Can you give me Lizzie’s mobile phone number please?’
Vicky’s voice echoes as she rattles off the number and I realize she’s on a hands-free device in her car. I don’t keep her on the phone.
After I hang up, I call Lizzie’s phone hoping it will ring and give away its location but instead it goes straight to voicemail. Not a good sign. If the phone is switched off locating it won’t be easy. I hang up.
I go back outside, just in time to see Lizzie’s body being loaded onto an ambulance trolley. They wheel her around the side of the house then put her into the mortuary van.
When Elliot has finished his search of the shed and his forensics team are still bagging and tagging possible evidence, I follow him to the front and to the van.
‘Thoughts?’ I ask.
Elliot removes his mask but keeps the crime-scene suit and gloves on.
‘I’ll do the autopsy this afternoon and let you know what I find. The first thing I noticed though… well this could be a serial killer,’ Elliot says.
‘How do you deduce that?’
‘She looks like an older version of the other one. The girl we found in the hotel.’
‘Sinead O’Brierley?’ I say.
Elliot nods. ‘They could be sisters, or mother and daughter if this girl had given birth to her very young.’
I hadn’t seen Lizzie’s body properly before Elliot arrived but now I want to take a closer look.
‘But the killing was different?’
‘I suspect it was the same knife used, but yes. This one seemed… crueller.’
Elliot leads me to the mortuary van where Lizzie’s body is now stowed. The driver stands by the back doors: they lie open as though waiting for us. We climb in the back.
Elliot unzips the top of the body bag and I see Lizzie’s face for the first time. There are streaks of black mascara running down her rot-bloated cheeks, which suggests she’d been crying seconds before she died.
I’m shocked and breathless as I study Lizzie’s face. It’s like a glass of cold water is thrown over me. Yes, I see the resemblance to Sinead. I also recognize another likeness to someone else. I push the thought of this away and try to focus on the evidence that will help me develop the growing profile of the killer.
‘She was possibly awake and very scared when she was cut,’ I say.
‘We’ll see what toxicology comes back with,’ he says. ‘But I think so too.’
Elliot zips up the body bag and we get out of the van. The driver closes the doors locking Lizzie’s body inside. I find myself staring at the back of the van, lost in my own thoughts. I see Lizzie’s face behind my eyes and I super-impose another face over it. I shudder. Can this really be happening?
‘You can take her now,’ Elliot says to the driver.
The man goes around to the front and gets in the van. I watch as the vehicle pulls away.
‘I’m going to get back and start my examination,’ Elliot says before removing his crime-scene suit and gloves, throwing them into a black bag in the boot of his car.
I remove my gloves and wait while he closes the trunk.
‘You okay?’ he asks.
‘Just mulling over what I’ve seen today,’ I say.
‘I’ll be in touch,’ he says, climbing into his car.
As Elliot drives away, I return to the back garden and find Beth speaking to PC Parker.
‘I’m waiting for the ex-husband to come and secure the house,’ Beth says. ‘I’ve told him we’ll want to speak to him.’
‘He has keys?’
‘Apparently they were still friends,’ Beth says. ‘But we’ll be looking at him very closely anyway.’
I leave Beth and PC Parker and look around the garden once more. Elliot’s team are just finishing up searching the whole yard and one of them points out some footprints behind the shed. It’s a female pathologist who I haven’t met before but she appears to be leading the search.
‘Size 11,’ says the woman behind her mask. ‘So, someone the same height as our constable there.’
I glance at Parker, my eyes sweep over him down to his uniform boots. ‘Or… our constable himself… look at his shoes. Come on people! We’re on a crime scene!’
Parker’s size 11 boots are covered in mud. I shake my head at the sheer naivety of the constable.
Once I’ve pointed out Parker’s contamination of the scene, it changes the ballgame for the team. The pathologist is embarrassed that she hadn’t noticed.
‘We’ll have to take a print of his footwear to prove it’s his,’ she says trying to cover the slip.
‘One other thing,’ I say. ‘Did anyone find the victim’s mobile phone?’
The
pathologist shakes her head. ‘Not out here. But we’ll look when we have a proper search of the house.’
I tell her about the handbag in the hallway, explaining the phone’s absence. Then I leave them to do their job, knowing they’ll be very thorough now. She takes Parker inside the house to remove his shoes.
‘Stay here and make sure all protocols are followed,’ I say to Beth. ‘That was a bit of a rick with Parker’s shoes.’
Beth rolls her eyes and looks back at the house. I follow her gaze. We can see Parker and the pathologist through the kitchen window. The body language isn’t as professional as it should be.
‘I’ll speak to Elliot about her,’ Beth says. ‘You’ve got to keep your head in the game no matter who you work with.’
‘I’m going back to the office to do some digging,’ I say. ‘I’m going to search for Lizzie’s profile on this dating site and see if anyone in particular has commented on her pictures.’
‘Right. I’ll crack the whip around here now and read them all the riot act,’ Beth says.
I know the crime scene is in safe hands as Beth can be a real – and the only word that suits her is an Americanism – bad ass, when she’s riled.
‘How’re you getting back?’ she asks because we came in her car.
‘I’ll call an Uber,’ I say.
‘See you back there,’ Beth says. She walks away and back into the house, her voice fading as she enters. ‘Okay, can we have a bit of professionalism in here?’
Kill a Spy: The House of Killers Page 5
