Dr Samantha Willerby Box Set

by A J Waines

  I called Aiden back and explained. Aiden shrugged as if it was the least of his worries.

  ‘Okay,’ I said, ‘but only on one condition.’

  The DI drew a long patient breath.

  ‘That I’m there too, from the point of entry to the point of exit, to check that nothing gets damaged and his home is treated with respect.’

  ‘Fine. If that’s how he wants to play it.’

  I smiled up at Aiden. ‘It’s how I want to play it.’

  ‘Karen said she phoned you earlier and you sounded… a bit out of it.’ I could hear muffled footsteps in the background.

  ‘You could say that. I’ve had some kind of twenty-four-hour flu thing.’

  I hesitated, uncertain about whether to tell him I’d seen an intruder outside the boat last night. What exactly had I seen? I was still confused by it. Why was it Aiden’s face I recalled every time I thought about the hooded figure?

  ‘I’ll be there tomorrow,’ I said, aware I was keeping him waiting, ‘no matter what.’

  He gave me the details.

  As soon as I turned the corner into Radcliffe Square, I could tell which house it was. The press were hovering around the front steps like kids outside an ice-cream van. They must have had a tip-off that the police would be here.

  I strode onwards, feeling a million times better than yesterday morning, but still not a hundred percent. I’d barely slept a wink, not due to the fever this time, but because I couldn’t switch off all the fretful questions that were burning holes inside my brain. Nevertheless, if anyone stepped over the line inside Aiden’s home I’d be onto them in a flash. I was in no state to take any nonsense.

  Jeremy climbed out of a patrol car and came to greet me.

  ‘Teeming with vultures,’ he said apologetically. ‘Let’s get this over and done with. Just say no comment if anyone asks you anything, okay?’

  ‘I know.’ I dangled the keys Aiden had given me in front of him and he took them before we ploughed into the mob. Jeremy got ahead of me straight away and I felt the crowd close around me like the jaws of a clam. There were too many legs in the way – tripods and elbows compounding the problem. It was like the first day of a Harrods’ sale, only without the handbags.

  ‘Is Mr Blake your serial killer, sir?’ barked a voice, behind a microphone thrust into Jeremy’s face. He pressed on and I ducked, narrowly missing losing a tooth.

  ‘Is Blake the towpath murderer?’ came another. He was an overweight guy, trying to manage a television camera on his shoulder as well as a furry microphone. His zoom lens nearly took my ear off.

  The DI reached the top step and turned round. He straightened his tie and in a crisp, even voice called out, ‘Nothing now, ladies and gentlemen, we’re pursuing lines of enquiry and will keep you posted about any forthcoming press conferences.’

  I found myself shoving with my fists, arms and knees, keeping my head down as Jeremy slid the key into the lock.

  ‘Are you expecting to find more bodies at this address?’ another voice persisted. ‘Sources have indicated there are two missing women who are connected – are you expecting to find them here, sir?’

  ‘Sir, why haven’t–?’

  ‘How long–?’

  ‘Are the missing–?’

  I slammed the door. Finally we were inside, squashed into the tiny entrance where there was space for only a mat and an umbrella stand.

  ‘Did you bring the paperwork?’ Jeremy asked, as he turned to face me. There was a line of sweat coating his upper lip. I pulled the emailed papers Aiden had signed out of my bag.

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘We need to stay here, until we can get kitted out.’

  I nodded and made a move to go into the hall, but he grabbed my arm. ‘No, I meant here, inside this tiny porch.’

  We stayed where we were until the inner door opened and someone handed us the SOCO accoutrements we had to wear to prevent contamination; a white suit, rubber gloves, overshoes, face mask, the shower cap affair. As the other officers waited inside, we shuffled into our outfits in the confined space. I turned at an angle so we weren’t blowing air into each other’s faces and Jeremy sighed and looked up and down in the way people do when they’re too close in a lift.

  ‘I thought we’d be able to change in the front garden,’ he said. ‘Impossible with that mob outside.’

  Finally, we shuffled into the lounge area. It was stifling in our suits and I almost keeled over. I narrowly avoided grasping Jeremy’s arm, making a grab for the edge of the sofa, in the nick of time.

  That innocent act earned me a glowering stare from one of the forensic team. ‘Don’t touch anything,’ she hissed.

  ‘Sorry…’

  There was no doubt about who owned the flat. Aiden’s stamp was all over it. In fact, it was a more spacious version of his boat; luxurious, clean-cut and stylish at every turn. His distinctive pictures hung on the walls, photographs mostly, of snow, ivory piano keys, Greek columns, rice, radiators – all in shades of his trademark white.

  Along the wall in the lounge was a long cabinet displaying a selection of textiles under glass, again mostly in white with touches of silver. Scarves, hats, gloves, ties, purses; each with a twist in the design to make them unique and striking in some way, but always elegant. Each accessory was designed to be worn to enhance; there was nothing garish or outlandish for the sake of it. I was itching to open the lid to touch the cool soft silks and run my fingers over the delicate silver adornments, but knew I had to keep my hands to myself.

  I spent the first few minutes looking around in awe before I remembered what the police were there for. Then I clicked into psychologist mode. What could this space tell me about Aiden? He was proud of his achievements, that was obvious, and he had a deep attachment to white; the colour of beginnings, of beauty, purity, good taste and simplicity.

  Skin deep, Aiden, himself, was certainly beautiful with humility and integrity, but what had I not yet seen about him? Carl Jung talked about us all having a shadow side; an aspect of ourselves that we keep hidden, traits we deny or are ashamed of. What was lurking in Aiden’s shadow side? Was his moral compass as pure as his art work? Was he tainted with unstable and aggressive streaks like his mother?

  The forms Aiden had signed stated that he agreed to fingerprints being taken from any surface in the property and for a thorough search to be made of all the rooms, including a cellar or loft if these existed, and any outhouses. Aiden’s flat looked like it used to be part of a large Victorian townhouse. It was on the ground floor, with only a small concrete backyard. No attic, but chances were there’d be a cellar.

  The scene of crime officers spread out, so it was impossible to keep an eye on all of them at once. The fingerprint guys worked meticulously, brushing powder over spots on chair arms and cupboard doors, lifting the prints with special tape, using ultraviolet torches on light switches and in places where prints would be less visible.

  I followed the two officers heading towards a door under the stairs, instead. The skin on the back of my neck prickled as an officer sank a key into the lock. All of a sudden, I wasn’t so confident about what they might find down there.

  The first officer flicked on the light switch and we clomped in a line down the wooden steps. In the centre of the cellar, a table tennis game was set up, complete with net and bats, and behind it, a wine rack ran along the whole of one wall. Neat piles of household junk; the sort you’d expect to find in any cellar, filled the floor space; crates containing tins of paint, rusty tools, an old kitchen cabinet in the corner, empty glass bottles ready for recycling. There were no manacles and chains hanging from the walls, no chairs with restraints or bodies wrapped in black plastic. No chest freezer. No smell of rotting meat.

  One of the officers was picking with a sharp tool at the mortar between the bricks.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I asked.

  ‘Checking if any of the brickwork is new. People build hidden rooms or false walls inside their cellars.’
He looked up scanning the ceiling, then took out a small item like a torch that threw a thin red beam across the space, checking measurements from one wall to the other. ‘I want to see whether the space down here matches the floor design above.’ He said something into his radio, then turned back to me. ‘We’ll get fingerprints taken down here, too. Then we’ll move everything, open everything, make sure everything is what it says it is.’

  ‘Looks too tidy down here, to me,’ said the other officer.

  I shuddered, aware of the damp chill. After my recent bout of flu, I retreated back up to where it was warmer.

  In the master bedroom, a female officer was looking under the vast four-poster bed, while another was tapping the walls. Waiting for that telltale hollow sound that signalled a secret hidey-hole, no doubt. She moved on to the wardrobe, to the cases above it. I started to feel stupid standing about; totally redundant. Everything was being examined with precision and care.

  By the time we left, it was impossible to tell that anyone had been snooping around.

  ‘Satisfied?’ said Jeremy, as we changed out of our white suits and wandered outside. The paparazzi had gone. It was an ordinary summer morning for the Chelsea hoi polloi, on their way to their coffee mornings and business lunches.

  ‘Find anything?’ I said, ignoring the arch question.

  ‘Our labs will tell us what we need to know.’

  ‘But nothing obvious?’

  ‘Our killer isn’t an “obvious” kind of person,’ he said, giving me a direct stare. A patrol car drew up at the front steps for him. Before he got in, I had to hand over a signed form to confirm that the police hadn’t wrecked the place. Barely had the sheet of paper left my hand before the door of the car slammed shut and he disappeared.

  I headed back to the underground, feeling alone and strangely unnerved.

  Chapter 40

  Instead of going back to the boat I caught the Tube to Waterloo and from there, the overland train to Clapham Junction. I hadn’t been back to my own flat in more than ten days. So long, in fact, that the door jammed as I tried to push it open; a pile of mail wedged underneath. I wrestled with the envelopes and took an armful to the kitchen table. The place felt sterile and unfamiliar, as if it now belonged to someone else.

  I separated the bills from the junk mail and put them in my bag, before pulling some fresh clothes out of my wardrobe, although it wasn’t my main reason for coming back.

  I dragged myself to the bathroom and ran a bath. I’d missed soaking in a tub. More than that, I was constantly on my guard at Limehouse, watching Aiden in case he was able to bring a crucial memory out into the open, checking he was okay. I needed a few moments to myself.

  I was starting to miss the hospital, too. My line manager had sent an email letting me know that they’d consulted with the police and I shouldn’t worry about how long I was away. But how many more days was this going to go on for?

  It was tempting to consider not going back to the marina. I could stay where I was for the next day or so, follow the advice from the senior officers. Steer clear of the boat, the police – everyone – and have some much-needed downtime. Let Natalie and Didier watch over Aiden.

  I sank down into the water and let my body flop. Only then did I realise how utterly exhausted I was. Even before recent events, I was long-overdue a proper break and in the end I’d never had one.

  Then I thought again of Aiden and my defiance melted. I was the only person he had a connection with, right now. He trusted me and we were making progress. I couldn’t leave him. It was as simple as that.

  As I rubbed myself down with a towel, a conversation I’d had several days ago with Miranda flashed through my mind. She’d asked me how it felt being around someone who didn’t utter a word. But she’d said something else. A twinge of disquiet caught me by surprise – it was the tiniest of pinpricks. It was some other statement Miranda had made about being on the boat with Aiden.

  But it wouldn’t come to me.

  I pulled on fresh jeans and a clean silk top, grabbed my belongings and set off.

  I sat down with Aiden to explain where I’d been.

  ‘The police were very careful at your flat,’ I assured him. ‘It’s beautiful, by the way. They didn’t mess anything up.’ I searched his eyes. ‘They didn’t find anything, but they took samples away.’

  I watched his face carefully as I spoke. The only emotion I could find there was relief.

  When I’d come back on the boat he was finishing off a series of yoga exercises. There was a plate drying on the draining board. He must have made himself lunch. A good sign. He seemed refreshed and emotionally stable.

  That’s when it hit me.

  A few days ago, Miranda had asked me about being vegetarian on the boat, about what it was like having to eat halloumi cheese all the time. It was very specific. Halloumi cheese. How did she know that about that? I’d certainly never mentioned it.

  I took out my phone and scrolled through my photo gallery until I found a photo of Miranda and I. Like other users at CCAP, Miranda said she’d heard of Aiden, but had claimed she’d never met him. But what if that wasn’t the case?

  I showed him the screen. ‘This is Miranda Willerby, my sister. Do you know her at all?’ He considered the picture for several seconds. ‘She works at CCAP. Paints oils.’

  He shook his head, but a trace of concern shaped his features.

  ‘It’s not a problem. She’s fine. It doesn’t matter.’

  Perhaps Miranda had read about Aiden’s eating habits from a magazine article, or something.

  Aiden yawned and stretched his arms above his head, probably the most relaxed I’d seen him. It certainly seemed worth having another go at identifying the Mazda. I brought Aiden’s sketch pad and pastels to the table and made a passable sketch of the car logo. Using a stub from his wooden box, I shaded in the background in a pale grey colour, then showed it to him.

  ‘Is that the colour of the car?’

  He shook his head, so I held out the box of colours for him to choose. He ignored the pastels and picked up a stick of charcoal instead. To my astonishment he began sketching the shape of the whole car itself, then filled it in with colour. I sat back, holding my breath until he’d finished.

  I was straight on the phone to Jeremy.

  ‘It’s pale blue,’ I said as soon as he picked up.

  ‘I take it this is Dr Willerby,’ he mused.

  ‘Yeah. Sorry.’

  ‘I was about to contact you, as it happens – you first…’

  I got up and wandered out of Aiden’s earshot. ‘The Mazda car in the car park when Kora was attacked was pale blue.’

  ‘Good work. We’ll get on to it.’

  ‘I can send over a photo of what Aiden has drawn. It might help you work out the model, it’s pretty detailed.’

  ‘Even better, although we’re chasing our tails on that front, to be honest.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘We’ve re-questioned everyone working at CCAP at the time of Kora’s death. No one seems to drive a Mazda or knows anyone who does. Murray Kent drives a Ford van for his flower deliveries, Sponge doesn’t have a car, or a licence. Neither does Sue Reed, the cleaner.’

  ‘And you already know Lou doesn’t have a licence.’

  ‘Yup. Kurtis Mills goes everywhere on public transport, too. Simon Schiffer drives an Audi.’ I pictured the Audi logo. You couldn’t mistake four rings for the Mazda insignia. ‘No regulars, users or staff at CCAP drive a Mazda,’ he continued. ‘We’ve had a watch on CCAP’s car park, just in case, but drawn a blank.’

  ‘What about local car hire firms?’

  ‘We’ve already got a list of locals who hired a Mazda over the period in question. At least now we can narrow it down to pale blue and cut down the leg-work.’

  ‘You said, when I rang, that you were about to contact me,’ I prompted.

  ‘Yeah. I’m sending you a photo. During our recent search of Henry Dodd’s funeral
parlour, we found an earring.’ He cleared his throat, pointedly. ‘Given you were there yourself not long ago we need to check it isn’t yours. Otherwise we’ll need to identify it.’

  ‘Okay, email it over and let me look at it.’

  I got straight back to him once it pinged into my inbox.

  ‘It’s not mine,’ I said. I looked at it again. ‘It definitely doesn’t belong to me, but–’

  ‘But, what?’

  ‘I’m not sure. There’s something slightly familiar about it.’

  ‘Okay, so it could be a lead. Let me know straight away if it rings a more definite bell.’

  ‘Is there anything else? Any other leads?’ I was hankering after any results from the samples they’d taken from Aiden’s flat, but it was probably too soon.

  ‘We’ve got Henry Dodd in for questioning again. Forensics discovered traces of a substance containing formaldehyde on Katarina’s clothes.’

  ‘Formaldehyde?’

  ‘It’s used in funeral parlours to make the bodies presentable. We know Katarina was there the afternoon she died. She managed to barge past the reception and ended up in the chapel.’ He sniffed. ‘I’m sure you’ll remember the layout of the building from your little escapade.’

  ‘Mmm…’ I wasn’t going to apologise for it. ‘Surely, if corpses are regularly going in and out, wouldn’t that explain the formaldehyde on her clothes?’

  ‘Two things,’ he said. ‘No one can account for the large amount of the substance on her clothing, especially around the collar.’

  ‘And she was strangled…’

  ‘Exactly. A trace of it here and there from touching a door handle would be understandable, but not around her neck – and she didn’t even get as far as seeing her husband’s body.’

  ‘And the second thing?’

  ‘It isn’t formaldehyde, itself. It’s a substance containing it. Not pure embalming liquid. Something else.’

  ‘Do you know what car Dodd drives?’

  ‘A red Volkswagen.’

  ‘The killer could have borrowed a friend’s car,’ I added unhelpfully.