Predator: an absolutely gripping psychological serial killer thriller

by Zoe Caldwell

  ‘Let’s see each other soon,’ Vanessa suggests, as I finally drop her off outside her house in Balham. She lives in a four-storey Edwardian terrace on a road where the bins are left out on the street and foxes prowl furtively in the distance. She shares her home with five other students. I’ve never been inside. And to be honest, I’d rather not.

  Vanessa reaches over and takes my hand. Her eyes are even more tender than usual. Oh no, she’s definitely got the feels. But can I blame her? I almost felt like that too, with my daydreams of a serene, sapphic Suffolk life, but I know there’s a difference between daydreams and reality. I know where to draw the line. Vanessa is more naïve though – hopeful, less jaded. I’ll have to manage this one carefully if I don’t want to hurt her. I make a mental note to distance myself gently over the next few weeks. I’ll make up some stuff about work keeping me busy. Soon she’ll have snapped out of this crush, she’ll be back to her books, fangirling over Aristotle once more.

  ‘Thanks for an amazing weekend,’ I say, squeezing her hand and leaning in for a kiss. Even as we’re kissing goodbye, I feel a stab of desire. The sex this weekend has been incredible, but I pull away and let her go.

  Vanessa waves over her shoulder as I steer away from the curb and drive home.

  I put the radio on. It’s still tuned into Capital FM from when Vanessa had control of the dial. I’m not usually a fan of pop music, but they’re playing ‘Starboy’ by The Weeknd and I quite like that song, so I let it play. It blends into ‘Accelerate’ by Christina Aguilera – another good one. Okay, so maybe I’m not quite as highbrow as I’d like to think. As the music fills my car and I weave through the dark streets, headlights flashing across my face, passing strangers, I begin to feel okay again. The ennui of leaving Suffolk is replaced by the familiar frantic buzz of being back in the city. London will always be where I belong, despite the rapists, the abusers, the paedos, the creeps. It will always be my home regardless of the hunt. By the time I get to Mayfair, I’m singing along to ‘Fancy’ by Iggy Azalea. I pull onto my road when suddenly, an unwelcome sight takes my breath away. Literally. Izzy carries on without me as my eyes laser in on a police car waiting outside my building. Coincidence? I hope so. But I never see police cars where I live, it’s a good area.

  I turn the radio off. Shut up, Iggy. I need to think. I glance towards the car. An officer sitting in the driving seat meets my gaze. Could he be Chief Detective Inspector Glen Wheelan? He glances at my car. Is he just checking me out, checking out my car, my BMW X1 SUV? A lot of men do, policemen or otherwise. Or does he really see me? Has he seen through the grainy CCTV image and spotted the killer underneath? I lower my head and bite my lip, trying to hide my familiar mouth as I pull into the car park of my building, my palms so damp with sweat that they’re sliding down the steering wheel. I should have stayed in Suffolk. I should have stayed there with Vanessa forever. I should never have come back. What was I thinking? London isn’t my home. London’s going to destroy me. My heart’s pounding as I steer through the car park, drive towards my space and park. The car park’s dark, silent, lit with the sodium glare of dusty strip lights. I feel like I’m being watched as I take my bags from the boot and lock up, before crossing the car park towards the exit.

  It’s a coincidence. It’s just a coincidence, I tell myself as I head towards my building. The door from the car park is next to the lifts. I glance over at the concierge’s desk, but he’s talking to a resident and doesn’t notice me. I step inside the lift and press the button for my floor. I draw in a deep, shaky breath as the doors close, taking in my reflection in their shiny metallic surfaces, but all I can see is my mouth, my jawline, those damning pictures blending with my face. If only I could get a new mouth. Maybe I should get filler. Except I like my lips. And anyway, that might look suspicious. I could change my hairstyle to hide my jawline better. That’s worth looking into.

  I’m probably overreacting though. One police car outside my building doesn’t exactly mean I’m done for. London’s the knife crime capital of the UK. Worse than New York. Moped theft is happening all the time. Someone important probably had their phone snatched, made a fuss about it, and the police came out to investigate. Yep. There’s no way the police have managed to track me down using some grainy picture of a girl with lips that slightly resemble mine. I run my fingers through my hair while looking at my reflection. I fix myself with a steely stare, taking another deep breath as the lift doors open.

  I step out. Breathe in jasmine, rose. I turn to my front door. There are two officers, waiting outside.

  8

  ‘Hi…’ I utter, giving the officers a hesitant, flummoxed look, as though I have no idea what they’re doing here. ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘Camilla Black?’ The taller of the two says.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Wheelan and this is my colleague Sergeant Porter. Could we have a word?’

  DCI Wheelan? The detective who referred to my murder as a ‘brutal slaying’, who said it was one of the most shocking he’d witnessed in his entire career. He’s young, younger than I imagined anyway. Late thirties or around forty. Dark features. Broad shoulders. What’s he doing here? What does he want from me? My heart thuds in my chest. Has he knocked on every door or did he pick mine specifically?

  ‘Okay… What’s this about?’ I raise an eyebrow dubiously, trying to put myself in the shoes of an innocent woman, who’d be completely freaked out by all this. ‘How long have you been hanging around outside my flat?’ I ask condescendingly.

  ‘We’d like to speak to you,’ Detective Wheelan says, ignoring my question.

  ‘Can you please tell me what this is about first?’ I repeat huffily, as though affronted by the intrusion. An innocent woman would want to know. She wouldn’t just let a couple of police officers into her Mayfair penthouse, into her life. She wouldn’t let them encroach on her evening without making them justify it.

  ‘It’s about an incident last Sunday, Sunday the 18th. A murder,’ Detective Wheelan tells me, his eyes fixed on mine, taking everything in.

  ‘A murder?’ I baulk, heart thumping under my cashmere. ‘Around here?’

  ‘No, in west London, Hayes,’ Detective Wheelan says, still watching.

  I glance at his colleague. His eyes are on me too.

  ‘Well, what are you doing around here then? Shouldn’t you be questioning people over there?’ I take a step towards my front door and reach into my bag for my key.

  I’m getting into my stride now. I can do this. I’ve been acting my whole life. If these two had any real evidence on me, they’d be arresting me right now. Whatever has brought them here must be insubstantial. Flimsy. They must be trying to catch me out, sniffing out more clues. My performance is crucial.

  ‘Can we talk inside?’ Detective Wheelan asks as I slide my key into my front door. I make a conscious effort to steady my hand.

  ‘I don’t see how I can help, but I’ll try,’ I tell him, sighing as I turn the key.

  ‘Thank you,’ Detective Wheelan replies.

  ‘This isn’t about that guy who was in the papers, Julian something, is it?’ I ask, trying to appear blasé, unruffled, as I push the door open.

  ‘Yes, Julian Taylor,’ Detective Wheelan replies as he and his colleague follow me into my flat.

  ‘Right, yes, Julian Taylor,’ I say as I place my bag down by the door and flick the light on.

  My flat is flooded with light. My cleaner’s been, and as usual, the light illuminates how beautifully pristine and immaculate my place is. A sight that always tends to soothe me but tonight achieves nothing.

  Nevertheless, I’m curious as to what Detective Wheelan makes of my place, but when I glance over at him, he doesn’t react. His eyes wander towards my grand piano. Still nothing. His face is completely impassive. I suppose he’s seen all sorts of homes in his line of work. Or else, he’s trained to be inexpressive. He’s hardly going to ask me where I got my sofa from.

/>   Act casual, I remind myself as I take my coat off and hang it up, draping it over the hanger, even though creases are the least of my worries right now.

  I kick off my trainers. I consider keeping my scarf on to hide my jawline in case the officers spot my passing resemblance to the CCTV image, but that might look strange. Concealing my features might only serve to draw attention to them. Better to brave it. I unwind my scarf and hang it on the peg. I briefly consider asking the officers if they’d like a drink, before deciding that would be way too obsequious.

  ‘So how can I help?’ I ask, walking over to the sofas.

  Detective Wheelan and his colleague follow.

  Even in my panicked state, I still can’t help eyeing Detective Wheelan’s shoes and the sergeant’s heavy, grubby-looking boots, and praying they don’t leave marks on my Elie Saab rug. They sit down on the sofa. I take a seat in the armchair opposite.

  ‘Can you tell us about your connection to Julian Taylor, Ms Black?’ Detective Wheelan asks, watching me with those emotionless hawk-like eyes.

  ‘Connection?’ I echo. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘How do you know Julian?’ Detective Wheelan continues, eyes almost stern now.

  ‘I don’t know him,’ I baulk. ‘I’ve read about him in the papers. I don’t know him though. What makes you think I know him?’

  ‘So, are you saying you’ve never met him?’ Detective Wheelan asks, elbows propped on his knees, leaning forward, eyeing me.

  His colleague sits mutely by his side, a notepad on his lap, pen poised.

  ‘No, I’ve never met him!’ I return Detective Wheelan’s steely gaze, even though my mind is ticking away like a broken clock, trying to figure out how they’ve connected me to Julian, getting nowhere.

  My passing resemblance to the CCTV image is surely far too weak a link. And even if my slight similarity to the image is their lead, how did they track me down? Did someone report me? Did Jess call them, referring to my date with a man called Julian? No way. She wouldn’t do that. She just wouldn’t. Even if she had done, the information would be far too compelling. The police would have taken a witness statement from her. They’d have grounds to arrest me and bring me into the station for questioning. They wouldn’t be doing casual door-knocking like they’re doing now. I can’t work it all out and the unease is making my palms sweat.

  ‘What were you doing on the night of Sunday the 18th?’ Detective Wheelan asks. His accent is slightly northern, but I can’t quite place it.

  I laugh. ‘Am I a suspect or something?’

  ‘Can you answer the question, please?’ Detective Wheelan responds.

  I raise an eyebrow. A normal woman of my status in this predicament would immediately call her lawyer, except the last thing I need is for my lawyer to get wind of all this.

  A silence passes between us.

  ‘Please answer the question,’ Detective Wheelan urges me.

  ‘I…’ I frown, looking down at the floor, as though wracking my brains as I cast my mind back to last weekend.

  ‘Sunday night… One second.’

  I pull my phone from my pocket and scan my diary, pretending I need my memory jogged.

  ‘Nothing much, I’m afraid.’ I glance up from the screen, placing my phone down on the sofa beside me.

  ‘I was doing what I do every Sunday night,’ I tell Detective Wheelan with a little shrug. ‘I was winding down. I had some dinner. I read my book. Looked over my diary for the week ahead. Usual Sunday night stuff.’

  ‘Right. So you were at home all evening?’ Detective Wheelan asks.

  ‘Yes,’ I lie.

  ‘You didn’t go out at all?’ Detective Wheelan reiterates.

  ‘No!’ I insist. ‘I stayed in. I was going to go to the shop to get some food, but I ordered in instead. I have a bad habit of doing that at the weekends, especially on Sundays.’ I allow myself a small smile. Detective Wheelan doesn’t return it.

  I’m not even lying. Before Julian and I left for Hayes, while he was slipping in and out of consciousness, drugged on the sofa, I ordered sushi. I pulled him into my bedroom when the order arrived, left him slumped on the bed, probably thinking he was going to get lucky, and then I answered the door wearing only my underwear and a silk gown. Got to make sure you leave an impression when you’re looking for an alibi. But in case that wasn’t enough, I put my clothes back on and nipped downstairs to see if I could borrow some soy sauce from my neighbours. A retired theatre couple – totally lovely, always pleased to see me. Then I stashed the sushi in the fridge. Bundled Julian into a cab. Brutally slayed him in Hayes.

  ‘Where did you order from?’ Detective Wheelan asks.

  ‘A sushi place down the road,’ I respond, smiling as though this whole thing is baffling to the point of amusement.

  ‘What’s it called?’

  ‘Musashi,’ I tell him.

  Detective Wheelan’s sidekick makes a note.

  ‘Did they deliver or did you collect?’ Wheelan asks.

  ‘They delivered.’

  ‘To your front door? Or to the building?’

  ‘To my front door. The concierge let them in.’

  ‘What did you get?’

  ‘Sushi.’

  Wheelan eyes me coldly, unamused.

  ‘Sorry, tuna nigiri and salmon rolls. I always get the same thing.’

  Wheelan nods. Sergeant Porter makes another note.

  ‘I had to borrow soy sauce from my neighbours. They forgot to include it in the order,’ I add, casually.

  ‘Which neighbours?’

  ‘The Hamiltons. They live at number seventy-nine. Maybe you can interview them? Perhaps they did it?’ I snipe.

  Wheelan doesn’t react. As per.

  ‘So you ordered sushi, what else did you do?’ he asks.

  ‘I told you, I read.’ I gesture towards a novel on the coffee table. It’s the type of thing I’d never normally read – a self-indulgent romance set in 1920s Paris about a troubled ballerina caught in a love triangle with a married man.

  ‘Any good?’ Wheelan asks.

  I raise an eyebrow, as though I don’t know what he’s doing. ‘Looking for recommendations?’

  Wheelan eyes me coolly. ‘What’s it about?’

  I’ve read it, like I said I had. I’ve kept it on my coffee table in case my friends come over. They all love that book. I pretend to love it too, but really, it’s bullshit. I give Wheelan a brief summary, replete with a few gushing remarks.

  Sergeant Porter makes a few more notes.

  ‘Why am I a suspect?’ I ask eventually.

  ‘We have reason to believe that Julian was in the area on the night of his death,’ Wheelan explains.

  Great. They must have accessed his phone records, tracked where he was that night, but I was confident that wouldn’t lead them back to me. The tracking wouldn’t be specific enough to place Julian right here, in my flat, or my building. It would only lead the police to the area, and there are thousands of people in Mayfair. Thousands more passing through.

  ‘Okay, but why me?’ I ask. ‘I’m not a murderer, I’m sure there must be some in this area, but they’re not me!’

  Little does Detective Wheelan know that in the drawer of the coffee table between us is an old Mulberry purse containing a tiny key. A spare to my garage. The garage that contains all the answers to his investigation and probably several others, too. The thought is unnerving.

  ‘We have a witness who says they saw you with Julian,’ Detective Wheelan tells me.

  A witness?

  ‘Okay, well, I’m afraid they’re mistaken. I was at home, like I said,’ I insist, furnishing my statement with a weary look.

  ‘Did you leave home at any point on Sunday?’ Wheelan asks.

  ‘I met up with my friend Eva for lunch in Soho. Got back at around 3pm and then I stayed in. You can check with Eva if you want to. Check with my neighbours. Check with my concierge if you like,’ I suggest, mustering the exasperation an innoc
ent person would feel.

  I know that if Detective Wheelan checks my story with the concierge it won’t incriminate me, because he wasn’t there when Julian and I got back. He was bunking off, probably with the resident he’s seeing. He still wasn’t back from his liaison, even when Julian and I snuck out via the fire exit. And I know the concierge desk delete all their footage after twenty-four hours if nothing untoward has gone on. I asked to see it one time when a delivery man claimed he’d dropped off a £5,000 Tommi Parzinger cabinet I’d ordered online that was nowhere to be seen.

  But who did see me? Lawrence, who owns the bar we were at, was pretty out of it that night. Even if he did get wind of the murder, he wouldn’t have called the police. He’s not the type, and there’s too much at stake for him. He wouldn’t want to get involved with the police, not with his dealing. The side street Julian and I cut down on the way back to my flat was dark, the smoking drunks didn’t even look our way. The driver of the minicab we took to Hayes barely acknowledged us, and anyway, Julian was slumped, head down the entire journey, with his cap on. The driver wouldn’t have gone to the cops, not after the company’s previous run-ins with the police. But then who was it? I can’t think. Fuck. I should never have killed Julian. It was far too spontaneous, haphazard, arrogant. I thought too much of myself. I thought I could get away with anything, but now look at me.

  I cast my mind back again as Sergeant Porter scribbles down another note. Is there anyone I’m missing? Another witness who might have recognised me? A memory flashes through my mind. A man in a hooded top along the road outside my building when we came back, who turned away as we approached. A large guy. It was dark and I couldn’t make him out. Could he have been the witness? But who was he? Could it have been one of the staff at my building? A cleaner? Another resident?

  ‘What is it that you do, Camilla?’ Wheelan asks.

  I’m pretty sure he already knows that.

  ‘I work for Couture. I’m the editor,’ I tell him.