Dana wondered whether, if she listened to the mother’s howl for long enough, it might actually drill a hole in her head.
8
THE KNOCKING HAD stopped. He’d followed the usual pattern. Three sharp knocks, loud enough to be heard in the garden but not so loud as to sound aggressive or threatening. Repeated twice. Nine times his knuckles made contact with the wood of her front door. She never heard him climb back up the steps.
In the old days, he’d have been able to break into her flat using a credit card. The state-of-the-art security he’d had installed himself had put paid to that. Funny, really. It had been intended to protect her from a killer; now it was protecting her from him.
At least two minutes since the last knock. He’d gone. Feeling herself breathe easily again, Lacey walked the length of her long, narrow garden. The walls around it were high, but whoever had planned the space had chosen carefully and its plants all thrived in the shade. In summer, the sweet scents of jasmine, honeysuckle and old-fashioned roses cloaked the acrid smells of the city. In winter, the frost and occasional snow made fairytale ice-sculptures.
There was light coming from the top floor of the house next door. She could see the top of Barney’s head, just above his computer. Strange, sweet kid. He was on his own in the house after all, there wasn’t a single other room lit up. It was getting on for ten o’clock. It wasn’t right. He was sensible enough but he’d be scared, with everything that was going on, with the newspapers and the television news full of stories of boys his age going missing from their homes.
A scuffling noise on the other side of the wall. For a second, adrenaline pumped, then Lacey recognized the head and shoulders of the man who appeared over the top. He pushed himself up and swung his legs over the top of the wall before dropping down on her side.
‘Hi,’ he said.
‘What are you doing?’
Detective Inspector Mark Joesbury, of the special crimes directorate that handled covert operations, rotated one shoulder, as though he’d tweaked a muscle. He’d cut his hair short again, close to his scalp, making him look tougher, less attractive. ‘You don’t answer my calls, you ignore my emails, you don’t even open your door,’ he said. ‘What am I supposed to do?’
‘Get the hint.’
A sharp blink and the tiniest jerk back of his head. The lines of his face hardened. ‘I thought you should know that the Cambridge gang have all been officially charged and a date set for their first hearing. Next month. The twenty-eighth.’
Cambridge. Just hearing the name of the city made her feel sick. ‘Good,’ she said. ‘But you could have sent a constable to tell me that.’
He turned to look at the conservatory door. ‘Can we go inside?’ he asked.
‘I was about to go to bed,’ she said. ‘So it wouldn’t really be appropriate, would it?’
Joesbury gave an exaggerated sigh. ‘Perish the thought. They’re all expected to plead not guilty.’
‘I wouldn’t expect anything else.’
The twenty-eighth of March. She’d known it was only a matter of time. The British legal system was slow but relentless. They probably wouldn’t need her at the first hearing. The evidence-gathering would take months. She had time. Time to deal with the panic, rising like molten lead inside her every time she thought about the events of January.
‘There’ll be a trial,’ said Joesbury. ‘You’ll have to appear.’
‘I know.’
‘Can you cope?’
No, she really didn’t think she could. ‘Of course,’ she said.
He sighed, took a step closer. ‘Dana tells me you’ve been signed off sick for another month. She says that other than official communication that you can’t avoid, no one’s heard anything from you since you got back to London. You won’t see anybody. You won’t even talk on the phone and you’re showing no interest in going back to work.’
Where was he going with this?
‘Lacey, this isn’t you.’
‘No disrespect, DI Joesbury, but you know nothing about me.’
Another heavy sigh, as though her natural desire for space and privacy was somehow childish and indulgent.
‘I know how much the job means to you,’ he said. ‘What did you tell me last year? Your career is all you have? If you’re going to throw that away as well, what’s left?’
He knew far too much about her. That had always been the trouble with Mark Joesbury. What he didn’t know instinctively, he ferreted out somehow.
‘I heard a whisper the Sapphire Units are recruiting again,’ he said.
The Sapphire Units were a relatively recent initiative in the Metropolitan Police, set up to handle crimes involving sexual violence. She’d joined the police service to work on crime against women and joining the units had always been her long-term goal. Of course, that was before Cambridge.
‘I can’t,’ she said.
He’d been edging closer, almost without her noticing. If he reached out now, he’d touch her. She couldn’t let that happen. She took a step back.
‘I meant it,’ he said.
It was probably just the light but his eyes didn’t look turquoise any more. They were the colour of storm clouds and the scar on his right temple looked fresh and vivid.
‘Every word I said on that tower – I meant it,’ he went on. ‘Jesus, Lacey, can we only be honest with each other when one of us is about to die?’
Lacey wasn’t sure whether the sound she made next started out as a laugh or a sob. What came out of her mouth was a sort of strangled howl. A second later she was pressed tight against his chest, wailing like a child with cut knees. This! This was why she couldn’t be near Mark Joesbury.
‘I know, I know,’ he whispered in her ear, playing the parental role to perfection. ‘No one should have to go through what you did.’
This had to stop right now. Much more of this and she’d tell him everything. She forced her breathing back under control, gave herself a minute until the sobs subsided, then pulled back. She ran both hands over her face to wipe the tears away before looking up.
‘What?’ he said. ‘Still pretending you don’t remember the tower?’
Look him in the eye. ‘I’m fine, Sir, really. I just need some more time. Thank you for your concern.’
Joesbury’s tender moments never lasted long and this one vanished as quickly as it had appeared. ‘I just hope you’re clear about what you do and don’t remember before the trial,’ he said. ‘The last thing we need is a prosecution witness who’s fuzzy about the details.’
Maybe all he really cared about was that she’d be able to hold it together as a witness. Well, life would be a lot less complicated if that turned out to be the case.
‘I won’t let you down,’ she told him.
‘I know you won’t. I suppose I should let you get some sleep.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Come out with me tomorrow night.’
‘What?’
‘Dinner. Nothing heavy – actually there’s someone I’d like you to meet. Would seven be too early?’
She shook her head. ‘It’s not a good—’ She didn’t get to finish. An electronic beeping came from his jacket pocket. He took a couple of seconds to read the text message. It was the chance she needed. She moved away, as though to give him privacy, edging closer to the conservatory door. She could see his reflection in the glass. He was tapping out a reply with his thumbs and wasn’t it ridiculous, to feel cross and jealous that someone had taken his attention away from her, when she really didn’t want it in the first place?
‘That was Dana,’ he said, making eye contact with her in the glass.
Dana. Who else?
‘They found the missing kids earlier this evening.’
Instinct made Lacey turn and look him full in the face, seeking information. Police instinct, which she no longer wanted to be part of her make-up.
‘I suppose they’re …’
He nodded. ‘Bodies were found by Tower
Bridge a couple of hours ago. Dana’s on her way to the mortuary with the father.’
There was nothing to be said. It was the part of the job that was unbearable. Somehow they forced themselves to bear it, because it was what they signed up for. Except she couldn’t any more.
‘It’s all going to get ugly,’ he went on, as if she didn’t know that already. ‘Four dead kids, one still missing, no closer to finding out who’s doing it.’
‘Are you involved?’
No, don’t ask questions. It’s not your business any more and information, of any kind, will eat away at those barriers.
Joesbury shook his head. ‘No, I’m just Dana’s punchbag, someone for her to yell at when it all gets too much. Do you need one of those too?’
Oh, did she ever. But if she started yelling, how would she ever stop?
‘The MIT will have to get bigger now,’ Joesbury went on. ‘Dana could really use your help.’
‘I can’t.’
‘She can have you transferred – just in an admin role if that’s all you feel up to. When the case is over, you’ll be in a strong position to apply for promotion.’
She’d run out of words. All she could do was shake her head.
Joesbury looked at his watch. ‘I’ve got to go,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow?’
Another shake, eyes on the ground this time.
‘OK, you win. You going to make me jump over the wall again or can I go through the gate?’
Without replying, Lacey took the set of keys from the conservatory door and unlocked the gate that led to the alleyway outside. She crouched to release the lower bolt, as Joesbury pulled back the upper one. In the months since she’d last opened this gate, a winter jasmine had wrapped itself around the hinges. They had to pull together to open it. Tiny yellow flowers fell to the ground.
‘See you around, Flint,’ he said as he left the garden.
Deep inside Lacey, something shrivelled up tight, like paper in a flame, then lay still.
9
‘THE BODIES OF Jason and Joshua Barlow were formally identified by their father an hour ago,’ announced Dana to the team in the incident room, including her immediate boss, Detective Superintendent David Weaver. ‘OK, for the benefit of those new to the investigation, these are the facts.’
Behind her, the photographed faces of five young boys stared down at those who were expected to come up with some answers.
‘In the last eight weeks, five boys aged either ten or eleven years old vanished from in and around their homes,’ she said. ‘No one saw them leave, no one saw anyone take them. There were no obvious signs of forced abduction. The first of those boys to vanish, Tyler King, was last seen on the twentieth of December. He is still missing and may be nothing to do with this investigation. Four bodies have now been recovered.’
Weaver was slightly built for a police officer, with thick dark hair, thin lips and a hooked nose. His resemblance to a bird of prey, Dana always thought, was due in no small part to his habit of sitting perfectly still, allowing only his eyes to move around the room.
‘Ryan Jackson vanished on the third of January, was held somewhere for seven days and then found on a muddy bank at Deptford Creek,’ she went on. ‘Noah Moore was taken on the thirty-first of January, found at Bermondsey five days later. In both cases, death had occurred within a few hours of the body being dumped. On first sight, this appears to be the case with the Barlow twins.’
Eyes flickered to the photographs of the two identical dead boys, lying on an oil-slicked, stone-strewn river beach. Weaver’s gaze remained fixed on Dana.
‘Neither Ryan nor Noah were sexually abused or tortured in any obvious way,’ said Dana. ‘Early indications are that the Barlow boys weren’t either. Cause of death in each case was extensive blood loss following the severing of the carotid artery.’
‘Do we think the killer is someone they know?’ asked Weaver.
‘Seems likely, Guv,’ answered Anderson, after a nod from Dana. ‘Kids of ten and older, especially in London, are usually quite savvy. They wouldn’t go off with a stranger without putting up a bit of a fight.’
Not a strange bloke, maybe, thought Dana. An unknown woman, on the other hand …
‘When Noah disappeared, we started looking for connections between him and Ryan,’ Anderson told the team. ‘Obviously, two days ago, we brought the Barlow twins into the circle. Trouble is, there’s nothing obvious.’
‘Although the four boys – five including Tyler – lived within roughly the same area,’ Dana said, ‘and are of the same age and ethnicity, unfortunately the similarities seem to end there. They went to four different schools and we can find no evidence that either they or their families knew each other.’
‘Families all had different backgrounds,’ explained Anderson. ‘Ryan Jackson lived with his mum, who’s a single parent, and two younger siblings. Noah Moore was an only child of affluent, professional parents. Jason and Joshua’s father has been out of work for six months, their mother works part-time in a supermarket.’
‘Two of them were Cub Scouts but with different packs,’ said Dana. ‘All four – five including Tyler – played football, but you name me a ten-year-old boy who doesn’t.’
‘There’ll be a link somewhere,’ said Weaver.
‘I agree, Guv, but we’ve talked to everyone who knew those boys, including all their mates. Every detail has gone into the system and nothing’s come up other than the football connection, which we spotted ourselves.’
As she spoke, Dana looked over at the HOLMES operator for confirmation. The Home Office Large and Major Enquiry System was a sophisticated intelligence system into which details of all major crimes across the UK were routinely fed. It could spot similarities, connections, links to other crimes in minutes. The operator, a drab middle-aged woman, shook her head. HOLMES, so far, hadn’t helped.
‘What about the coaches?’ asked Weaver. ‘Have you checked them out?’
Anderson nodded. ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘And boys’ football coaches are usually dads themselves. I can’t see this being a family man somehow.’
The detective superintendent stood and walked closer to the board. The five boys grinned down at him. Ryan had a missing front tooth from a playground injury.
‘What’s he doing with them?’ he asked. ‘We know what he’s not doing, and we can all be grateful for that, but what does he want them for?’
No one replied. They’d asked themselves the same question too many times. They’d got rather tired of endless answers that didn’t fit.
‘It’s not about rage, is it?’ he went on, looking from one boy to the next. ‘It’s all too cold, too careful. OK, tell me about the scenes. They’re not being killed where they’re found, are they?’
‘Pete,’ invited Dana.
Stenning cleared his throat. ‘No, Sir,’ he said. ‘They’re not. There’s been no trace of blood at any of the sites where we found the bodies. They’re bleeding out somewhere else and that’s significant in itself, because each victim suffered extensive blood loss. It would be messy.’
‘Not to put too fine a point on it,’ said Weaver, fingering his shirt collar. He wore expensive shirts, Thomas Pink and Brioni, always perfectly laundered. ‘We’ve got prints, is that right?’ he went on.
‘Yes, Sir. Size-ten wellington boots, the sort that sells several hundred pairs a week. But there are distinctive marks in the prints, other than just the tread of the boot, so we know it’s the same pair at each of the three sites and if we find the boots themselves, we can match them.’
Weaver nodded. It was something.
‘Pete, can you talk to the people who are analysing the prints?’ said Dana. ‘See if they appear normal?’
Several pairs of puzzled eyes looked at her.
‘Normal how?’ asked Stenning.
‘I’m not sure. Can you ask, for example, whether they can get any idea of the weight of the person leaving the prints? A big, heavy bloke would make deeper prints
than a fairly light one, don’t you think? So are these prints consistent with the size of man you’d expect to have size-ten feet?’
Stenning still looked puzzled but he nodded. ‘I’ll ask,’ he said.
‘Neil’s been in charge of processing the immediate areas,’ Dana told Weaver. ‘What can you tell us, Neil?’
‘At first he seemed to be choosing his sites carefully,’ said Anderson. ‘Deptford Creek where we found Ryan, and Bermondsey where Noah was left, are both some distance from residential properties. They’re also generally quiet as far as traffic is concerned. He seemed to be keeping to a minimum the chances of someone spotting him, although the site at Bermondsey is directly across the river from Wapping police station. Tower Bridge, though, is a whole different ball game. It’s as though he’s growing in confidence all the time.’
‘Cameras?’ asked Weaver.
‘Not at the sites themselves, Sir. Although quite a number of the roads accessing the sites do have cameras. We’ve got footage from seventeen different roads taken in the time window when our killer must have driven along several of them to offload Jason and Joshua. Fourteen for the Noah Moore investigation. Similar number for Ryan Jackson.’
Weaver’s eyebrows had risen an inch. ‘How many hours are we talking about in total?’
‘A hundred and seventeen,’ said Dana.
Weaver sighed. ‘I don’t even want to think about how many cars would have been caught on camera in South London in a hundred and seventeen hours.’
‘Four hundred and twenty-one thousand and two hundred,’ said Dana. ‘We assumed one per second to be on the safe side. It’s going to take a while.’
Weaver nodded. The footage from the cameras could be sent away to a company that specialized in Automatic Number Plate Recognition. It wasn’t foolproof, because so much depended upon lighting conditions, speed of vehicles, angle of number plate, even the font used, but most of the systems offered a reasonably good rate of recognition. If the same vehicle were spotted en route to both Tower Bridge and Bermondsey on the nights in question, it would be one they’d be very interested in.
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