Scream, You Die

by Fowler, Michael

“Well we might be, if that’s the normal stop for them. All we have to do next time is plot up around the Notting Hill Gate exit and see if either of them comes out there. Then we follow them to where they’re holed up.” In a high-pitched quirky voice he finished, “Simples.”

  Scarlett’s face lit up. She took a long drink of her wine. “You’re not just a pretty face are you?” Then she set down her glass and turned to the cooker. “Now, how do you like your steak...Medium isn’t it?”

  Twenty-four

  Scarlett stared at the macabre image of the headless torso on the large interactive screen. Beside it were two blown-up digital e-fits of the two hoodies the witness, Michael Linane, had seen on the towpath, near to where the body had been discovered. She turned back to face a full incident room, though she deliberately avoided eye-contact with DI Taylor-Butler, who was seated on the back row.

  “These are the e-fits compiled by our witness. Unfortunately, as you can see he’s not been able to come up with any striking or recognisable features with regards their faces, other than to describe them as being male, both IC1 and clean-shaven. And the only age range we can get out of him is that he believes they were both early twenties. However, thanks to some prompting from the CSI girl who did the e-fits, he has been able to better describe their clothing.” She glanced backwards and then returned her gaze. “One of them was wearing a dark-blue full-zip hoody with an orange Vans logo across the chest. He had on jeans and blue-and-white canvas-type shoes. His mate, as we can see, was wearing a grey fleece-type hoody with black arm stripes. We’re convinced from the description it’s an Adidas make. He also had grey Adidas-type jogging pants and black trainers.” She picked out a couple of friendly faces from the front row. “We’ve already had a result with these two e-fits.” She glanced behind her. The stolen black BMW sports car appeared onscreen. “This car was discovered by the search team yesterday, abandoned in the Ham House public car park. Attempts had been made to fire it but they were unsuccessful. The car was stolen during a two-in-one burglary in Hounslow three nights ago, where the thieves were disturbed by the occupants. Although the occupants didn’t get a good look at their faces, they were able to describe the clothing the pair were wearing. Guess what?” She jabbed a finger towards the two e-fits. “Fits the pair seen on the towpath to a tee.”

  DCI Diane Harris took a step forward. “Thanks for that, Scarlett. Couldn’t have put it better myself.”

  Scarlett stepped off the rostrum and took up the seat next to Tarn. The DCI waited while she settled then said, “The car was removed yesterday lunchtime and is presently in a drying room waiting to be forensically examined. I’ve spoken with CSI this morning and they’ve also confirmed that those tyre tracks found on River Lane fit the front offside wheel of this car.” She rubbed her hands together, “That means we can place this car very close to the scene where our body was found, and we can also place two identically dressed men as the thieves who took it, only a couple of hundred yards from the body. This is too much of a coincidence. I’ve spoken with the ACC and we’re going to run with this at a news conference this afternoon.” She offered a cheery smile. “The positive news doesn’t end there.” Another image appeared on the screen. It was the branded crescent moon and star on the corpse’s shoulder. “Remember I told you that the pathologist said he had seen similar marks on the bodies of two girls who had died in a house fire. Well his secretary came back to me yesterday afternoon with those details and I was able to get hold of the detective who investigated that case.” She paused, surveying the room before continuing. “It was a house fire which occurred in Camden Town, in the early hours of the second of December last year. The seat of the fire was the downstairs front lounge and was believed to be accidental –more than likely caused by a cigarette down the side of an armchair. The two girls who died occupied a bedroom in the loft space of the house. They died from smoke inhalation. Three young women who occupied bedrooms in the floor below managed to get out and it was those three the detective interviewed.” She paused again. “Or at least tried. None of them were forthcoming at all. The detective told me that neighbours said the house was a brothel and that numerous complaints had been made to the council. He also learned that the people running it were Eastern Europeans, and he suspected the girls were illegal immigrants so he took them into custody. With the help of interpreters he eventually coaxed out of them that two were from Slovakia and one from Lithuania, and that the two dead girls were Lithuanian. That’s as far as it went. The girls gave him first names, but he suspected these were false and even though he went back and searched the house he couldn’t find anything to confirm the names they had given or identify them. Custody handed them over to immigration officers the next day and that’s almost where his involvement ended. Except to say that he did eventually track down the owner of the house – an Albanian, though he can’t recall his name at the moment. Because the fire was accidental, he passed everything on to the Coroner’s Office for the inquest.” She pointed back to the close-up of the branded shoulder. “The detective has confirmed that both the dead girls, and the three handed over to immigration, all had crescent moon and star scars, and although they refused to say how they had got them he learned from Interpol that this is a typical branding used by Eastern Europeans, who mark their sex workers to display ownership. Apparently they are ancient Turkish celestial symbols of power. He told me that at that time Interpol were interested in speaking with the girls and so he e-mailed over a copy of his report to them. I’ve also requested that report.” Diane Harris clapped her hands. “Right, actions!” She tapped a forefinger against her palm. “The three girls involved in the house fire in Camden Town. It’s an outside chance but they just might know our victim, or if it not, at least be able to point us in the direction of the people who carried out their branding, which will give us a link. I want Immigration contacted to see what happened to those girls. It’s almost a year ago now, and I’m guessing they’ll either have been sent back to their country of origin or released back into the community. I want them tracing. I also want copies of their files. They’ll have been interviewed, fingerprinted and photographed. If we haven’t got current addresses I especially want their photographs for circulation. And get those over to Vice as well, just in case they’re back on the streets.” She clasped her hands together and flicked her head back at the screen. “And we also focus on our two suspects. As I’ve said, I’ve fixed up a press conference this afternoon in which I’ll be releasing those images and offering a reward.” Tightening her mouth she finished, “We’re going to be cranking things up today and the pressure is going to be on these two young men currently at large. Either they’ll go on the run or give themselves up. Hopefully we’ll get an early result.”

  Twenty-five

  Scarlett took out a carton of orange from her fridge and pinched back the top. She was about to pour out a glassful when her BlackBerry rang. With a sigh she set down the carton and picked up her phone. She cheered up when she saw who it was.

  “Hi Alex. This is a surprise.”

  “Nice surprise, I hope.”

  She held back her answer but nodded to herself.

  He said, “How’s your day been?”

  “Up to my neck. Still not found out who our victim is. Got a couple of leads maybe.”

  “And two suspects, I see. It was on the local news.”

  “Missed it. Been out most of the day, following stuff up.”

  “Snap!”

  “Snap?”

  “Rose’s friend.”

  “You found him again?”

  “It was just like I said. I hung around by Notting Hill Gate and lo and behold out he came late this afternoon. Just like I thought.”

  “Was Rose with him?”

  “No, it looks like she’s still laying low.”

  “Did you see where he’s living?”

  “No. I followed him for a couple of hundred yards. He stopped a few times to look in shop windows. And he had a go
od look around every time he set off; he’s obviously still nervous, so I hung back a fair distance. He didn’t suss me and so when he turned left into the backstreets I decided not to follow. But now I’ve seen the turning he took I can take a different approach next time.”

  “Gosh, Alex, that’s great. Are you able to go back soon?”

  “I’ve got a four day break before I have to shoot off again, but I could do with some backup. How are you fixed for tomorrow?”

  She raised her eyes to the ceiling. She recalled that she and Tarn had been given the job of travelling down to Dover to liaise with Immigration. “So sorry, Alex, can’t do tomorrow, but I should be okay for the day after.”

  “Okay, day after it is. I’ll text you with the meet and fill you in.” With that Alex hung up.

  Scarlett ended the call and stared at her BlackBerry. A flutter of butterflies took off inside her stomach.

  Twenty-six

  DCI Diane Harris strolled to the front of the Incident Room, her face lit up by a healthy smile. Stepping up onto the low stage she said, “Our suspect!” Behind her, onscreen, was a head and shoulders mugshot of a scowling, heavily acned, brown-haired young man. She continued, “Jamie Hill, twenty-four years, from Southall, part of a gang who are currently targeting homes where there are high-performance or expensive cars. They force their way in while the occupants are asleep, snatch the keys and then drive off with their car. Following last night’s news we received seven phone calls naming this man – five of those were from cops. Apparently Jamie and his crew are pretty well known to detectives at Southall nick. They are responsible for quite a number of this type of offence and are currently being targeted by the Intelligence Unit there.” Still joyful she steered her eyes around the full room. “Ten days ago, Jamie and another man, Dane Rolletts, also from Southall, stole a Mercedes sports car from a house in Ealing and got into a chase with traffic. They crashed the car in Wembley and were both arrested. Guess what Jamie was wearing when he was nicked.” The image zoomed out, opening up the mugshot to his chest. Jamie Hill had on a blue hoody with an orange Vans logo emblazoned across the front.

  “Bless him. He couldn’t have made things easier for us if he’d tried.” She dropped the smile. “Unfortunately, Jamie Hill does not fit the profile of a killer. But that’s not to say we’re going to dismiss him. He’s certainly in the area where our victim was dumped, so he’s got a few questions to answer. And we’ve still not got back the full results from forensics on the BMW found at Ham House car park. I spoke with the supervisor yesterday and he tells me they have quite a number of fibres from the driver and passenger seats, but they’re not confident this car has carried the suitcase our victim was found in. Apparently, the boot contained the owner’s sports bag and the contents of that had been scattered all over the boot. If the suitcase had been put in the boot, without a doubt, it would have squashed everything, and there are no indentations on any of that stuff.” The DCI took on a studious look and fixed her eyes on Scarlett. “Scarlett, I know I wanted you and Tarn to go to Dover today and liaise with Immigration, but I want to change that. I want you to put together an operational order and arrange for early morning knocks for Jamie Hill and his team. Liaise with Southall CID and they’ll provide all their details. Until we’ve completely eliminated him and his cohorts from this enquiry we put things on hold.” Diane Harris pulled back her gaze and settled it on the squad. “We still don’t know who our victim is. This is now day four, and although we’ve had a few calls come in regarding missing people, none of those seem to fit the physical profile of our victim. And, given the branding to the shoulder, and what the detective told me, I am more inclined to believe our victim is from another country and more than likely an illegal. Therefore I want fresh actions to involve contact with Interpol. Give them what we’ve got and see if they come back with anything. And I also want some background into the gangs who bring in the sex workers. See if we have any local names or addresses.” Clenching her hands together she finished, “Lots to do team. Let’s do it well.”

  Almost simultaneously, the squad closed their journals and noisily rose from their seats.

  Twenty-seven

  Immediately after briefing, Scarlett tasked Tarn with gathering photographs of all of Jamie Hill’s crew. She was particularly interested in seeing a mugshot of his accomplice Dane Rolletts. She hoped that he might be the one in the grey hoody who the witness saw on the towpath.

  While he engaged in that she threw herself into her work, making the many phone calls requesting background details of everyone involved with Jamie, including up-to-date addresses. The DCI had invested her faith in her to lead this operation and she wanted to make sure that her homework was thorough. She didn’t want any cock-ups. She especially didn’t want to give any excuse to DI Taylor-Butler to criticise her.

  In the midst of her work she texted Alex; the operation wasn’t being conducted until first light tomorrow and she knew she would have the paperwork finished by mid-afternoon. That meant it would give her a good few hours that evening to conduct her own personal operation into finding Rose.

  ****

  Lifted by the sight of the recent mugshot of Dane Rolletts, identifying him as being the second suspect on the towpath, it only took Scarlett a couple of hours to compile the operational order for the next morning’s raids on Jamie’s and Dane’s addresses. Leaving Tarn with the job of swearing out the magistrates’ warrants for their arrests, she nipped to the locker room, hurriedly changed into a pair of jeans and a jumper, dashed to the Underground, and by four-thirty p.m. she was standing inside a rare records shop in Notting Hill Gate, pretending to be a shopper, meddling through a rack of eighties vinyl albums, and although her head was lowered her gaze was set on the main thoroughfare outside. In the time she had been in the shop daylight had gone and a fine rain had visited the street, though its wetness hadn’t diminished her view – quite the opposite, its reflective quality had enhanced the brightness of the street lighting. Added to that, the record shop she was in was protected beneath a concrete canopy from the flat above, helping keep the store window she was looking out of clear. She had stepped in here fifteen minutes ago as the first drops of rain had begun to pepper her face. Since then she had lost sight of Alex, though she knew he wouldn’t be too far away. Before they had separated he had told her he would eyeball the Underground entrance and as soon as he clocked either Rose or the man he had tailed to this location, he would text her.

  Scarlett picked out an album. She was getting bored. She was anxiously waiting for her phone to ping so she could leap into action.

  “Can I help you?”

  The voice made Scarlett jump. She spun around to face the man who had been behind the counter when she’d walked into the shop. She had been so focussed on her surveillance of the street outside that she hadn’t been aware of him leaving his domain.

  “Looking for anything in particular?” He stuck his chin forward, eyeing the album she was holding.

  Gathering her thoughts quickly she said, “Just browsing.” She couldn’t help but notice the black T-shirt he had on – the words “I’m here to help” stretched across it.

  She pasted on a false smile. I don’t need any help, please bugger off I’m busy.

  “Anything special you’re looking for or interested in?” He met her gaze. “I see you’ve chosen the Boomtown Rats.”

  She lifted the album. It was the first time she had noticed what she’d picked out from the rack.

  “The Fine Art of Surfacing – probably their best one. “I Don’t Like Mondays” – a classic.”

  The last thing she wanted to do was get caught up a conversation about eighties pop bands. She responded, “I’m looking for something for my dad for Christmas. Like I said, just browsing.” Turning her back, Scarlett returned the album and leafed through a couple more, pretending to scrutinise.

  “Okay, you know where I am if you need any help.”

  She heard him pad back to the co
unter, mumbling some song as he went, and she returned to her vigil.

  Less than a minute later her phone pinged in her jeans pocket. Scarlett prised it out and looked at the screen.

  Alex had texted. “Target coming. Black hat, camouflage jacket.”

  A nervous energy, like a bolt of electricity jolted her into action. Pulling out another album she lifted it in front of her face, hiding her features, though leaving just enough space to see over the top edge.

  A minute later a young man wearing a black beanie and a dark-green army-style coat slipped into view and began walking past.

  Scarlett dipped her head and took a step back. She needn’t have worried. She saw that his chin was tucked deep into his jacket and he had his hands jammed into his pockets, protecting himself from the elements. As he disappeared from view she dropped the album back into the display rack and counted to ten. Then, shouting back over her shoulder, “Thank you,” to the guy behind the counter, she swiftly left the shop and stepped out into the street. The biting cold took her by surprise and it was spitting with rain. At that moment it felt like her face was being pricked by dozens of icy needles and she quickly dipped her head. December was only a week away and winter was making its mark.

  Raising her eyes she saw that her target was a good thirty yards in front and appeared to be in no particular rush. She glanced behind her, taken aback by how many people were following, many of them sheltering beneath shiny black umbrellas, shielding themselves from the slanting rain. She could see no sign of Alex among them. Returning her gaze forward she stared in disbelief as the man she had set out to follow was now nowhere to be seen. In just the few seconds she had taken her eyes off him he had disappeared.

  Shit!

  Scarlett put in a sprint to the end of the shops where the road split into a side street. There she stopped and peered round the corner. He was there, head still tucked into his coat and ambling along just ten yards away. She heaved a great sigh of relief and took a quick step back out of sight. Thank God! She would never have lived it down if she had lost him in such a short space of time. Counting to five, she poked her head around the corner just as he was passing beneath a street lamp. A warm yellow light edged his silhouette and she could see that a good enough gap had opened between them for her to pick up his tail again.