by Tara Lyons
“Sleep it off, Grace. I’ll clean up this mess.”
She obliged, and her mother’s words faded into the distance as she lowered her head onto the pillow and allowed her heavy, hungover eyes to close.
****
“What?” A croaky voice grunted down the phone line.
“Lewis, get your arse out of bed. Another body’s been found. Meet me at Hyde Park, by the Serpentine. Now!” Hamilton demanded before he ended the call.
Regardless of the fact his wife had grown accustomed to him leaving at all hours in the morning, Hamilton still left a note on the bedside table. He was at the crime scene by four a.m. and waited in his car, out of the early morning chill, until his partner pulled up next to him ten minutes later.
“Let’s get moving, Lewis. I want to be out of here before dog walkers and commuters are crawling all over the place.” Without waiting for a reply, Hamilton walked towards the crime scene.
“What about the press, gov? They’re going to have a fucking field day with this. Two women killed within a week and MIT have no suspects.”
“Don’t I know it,” he replied and stopped suddenly near the forensic tent. “Now listen, Laura is already in there examining the body. I’d prefer if we could drop the charades that were played last time. Let’s get the facts and get out. Understand, Lewis?”
It was more of an order than a question, but Hamilton knew Clarke wouldn’t be able to resist a response. “Ah, gov, I can’t help it if the opposite sex gravitates towards me. I know she still wants me. You know she still wants me. Hell, if she’s honest with herself, she knows it too. She’s just too highly strung to admit it and give in to temptation again.”
Hamilton moaned as a Cheshire cat’s grin appeared across his partner’s face. The sun hadn’t dawned on the new day, but Clarke’s overconfident nature was shining through vividly. Hamilton pulled an uninterested face, his impatience growing.
“Alright, gov, your face says it all. I’ll shut up. I can be professional, of course. Besides, my nuts are freezing in this weather.”
They both accepted the obligatory shoe covers, quickly pulled them on and made their way into the tent. Except for the blue tinge to her lips, the victim’s body looked picture perfect lying on the frosty ground in a sea of dark-brown leaves. Hamilton was sure the wind would have buried her beneath the foliage if she hadn’t been found so soon. Like the first victim, the body was completely naked, and he couldn’t ignore that she too took pride in her appearance. Fresh highlights ran through her brunette hair. She had tanned skin and manicured, pink nails on both her hands and feet. The stem of a rose tattoo on her left hip flowed down to her pelvic bone. He imagined the flower would have peered cheekily out from her underwear just hours earlier. North of the inked artwork was a gaping blood-stained hole in her chest.
It was a tight squeeze inside the tent. Laura examined the body while two of her team members, whose names Hamilton had no interest in, scraped the victim’s fingernails and took photographs. The detectives waited, but no one acknowledged them. He cleared his throat, annoyed that they were being ignored.
“Sorry, detectives, we’re all busy at work here and didn’t notice you,” Laura said with an apologetic smile. “We set up our tent directly around the victim this morning. She hasn’t been moved. We hope this, and the lack of water, will allow us to collect more evidence than the first scene did.”
Hamilton jumped in before his partner could make any unwanted wisecracks. “So you think we’re dealing with the same killer?”
“That’s for you to determine, Denis, but my instinct tells me to answer in the positive. Yes, this woman was found in the park rather than the river, so I’m sure some of my findings will differ. But I don’t think any of us can ignore the similar chest wound, or the fact that her personal belongings have been left, as before.”
Clarke pulled out his notebook and pen. “So we have another name?”
“Yes, she had a driving license in her handbag.” Laura retrieved one of the plastic evidence bags from her case. “Mrs. Kate Wakeman, aged thirty-one and lived in Sloane Square. Just a fifteen-minute walk from here.”
Hamilton opened the flap to leave the tent but quickly turned around to thank the pathologist, pleased that the meeting had gone more smoothly than their previous one. He was aware of how important it was to keep the peace with this team—they held vital information that could change the direction of his investigations.
“When you have a definite cause of death, or if you find anything useful from the post-mortem, please call me immediately, Laura. I want to catch this guy before he strikes again. Thank you.” Hamilton walked out with Clarke in close pursuit. “It was another anonymous phone call that alerted us to the body,” he explained as they crossed the park to their cars. “Call the team in. Briefing commences in one hour.”
By six o’clock, the team had begun filling the incident room, most of them donning sleepy expressions. Hamilton made himself a strong cup of tea using the kettle DS Sharon Morris had set up in the corner, which held a small kitchen-style area with a mini fridge, condiments and snacks. He was always thankful of her thoughtfulness; it wasn’t unusual for his team to spend late nights in the office working on a difficult case. Clarke busied himself adding information to the whiteboard; a picture of Kate Wakeman now pinned alongside Michelle Young’s, their personal information underneath. Hamilton cleared his throat loudly to silence the room. Within seconds four pairs of eyes bore into him, waiting for information and instruction from their superior.
“Here’s what we know. Both victims were in their late twenties, early thirties, and although we’re waiting for confirmation from the post-mortem, the pathologist is confident they both died from stab wounds to the heart. The women were white, about five-foot-five or six, with long or shoulder-length brown hair and took pride in their appearance. At some point, the killer undressed the victims, but the clothing hasn’t been uncovered at the scenes. Perhaps he took them to keep as souvenirs, or he’s dumped them elsewhere. However, both victims were left with their handbags, and, therefore, their identification.”
“What about their phones and cash? Did he take any of that with him, boss?” DS Les Wedlock called out.
Hamilton shook his head. “It’s almost as if he wants us to know who the women are. He hasn’t committed these crimes to mug them—quite the opposite.” He paused to slurp his hot, sugary tea, leaving the room quiet and open for discussion amongst the team.
“Then perhaps there’s a link between the two women. Gov, do we know if they knew each other or what their occupations were?” Morris asked.
“Good question, Sharon,” Hamilton said. “Can you concentrate on that for us? Our first victim was an actress in a London theatre, and the second was a receptionist at a doctor’s surgery in Pimlico. I can’t see an obvious connection, but check it out. At the moment, we have no DNA evidence. There doesn’t seem to have been a struggle, which makes me think that the victims knew their attacker.”
He then addressed the newest recruit to the team, DS Kerry Fraser. “From what I’ve seen, both women looked after themselves, so perhaps they used the same gym, hairdresser, or tanning salon. Kerry, I want you to use your online skills and determine what, if anything, they had in common. And where they went in their spare time.”
“I can have a look at their Facebook accounts, sir. You see, users have the option to check themselves into local places, so it’s really easy to find the locations people visit regularly.”
“Brilliant.” He smiled, encouraged by Fraser’s eagerness.
Clarke took the opportunity to remind the team of the calls received by the control room. “The reason we’ve uncovered the bodies so quickly, is not because we were alerted by civilians passing by, but because anonymous calls have informed us of the locations.”
Hamilton raised his hand, bringing the attention back to him. “Okay, Lewis, I want you and Les to work on those calls. I’m sceptical that they were both mad
e by frightened members of the public. So does that mean the murderer himself called us? And if the calls were made from public telephones, check if they’re covered by CCTV. Oh, and one last thing, everyone… stay away from the bloody press,” he said, scanning their faces. “I know the leak isn’t any of you, but Christ, these vultures work fast. Let’s not give them any further opportunity for information, yeah?”
The team nodded in agreement and broke off to begin their investigations. He followed Clarke to his desk and leaned in close to his partner. “I’ll be in my office. I want to chase up Laura and see if there are any further developments. Let’s try and get all the evidence collated as quickly as possible. We have to stop this bastard destroying a third life before the new year.”
“Sure thing. And don’t fret, gov, we’ll nail him.”
“On top of that, I have a strong feeling we’re being closely watched already on this one.” Clarke’s eyes followed Hamilton’s finger pointing to the ceiling, where his own boss, Detective Chief Inspector Allen, sat in his office above them.
CHAPTER FOUR
Daylight streamed into the bedroom and woke Grace from the alcohol-induced slumber. She felt weak, unsure how long she’s been passed out, and slightly spooked by her bad dream. Although the memory of it disappeared quickly, it left a fearful aftertaste in her mind. Sheepishly, she peered over the bed, and true to her word, Valerie had cleared away the pool of sick. But a few moments later, the smell of stale vomit mixed with bleach forced Grace from her bedroom.
Downstairs, she found her mum sitting at the table in the middle of the kitchen, drinking a cup of coffee. Grace had never understood the enjoyment of the drink, and the smell, paired with her fragile stomach, made her nauseated. She covered her nose, and Valerie got up to rinse her cup in the sink.
“Have you seen the paper?” her mother asked.
“No, Mum. I think I’ve missed a day or two of my life, dying in bed. When would I have had time to read the paper?”
“Don’t give me that tone, young lady. You weren’t dying, and it was self-inflicted. I was willing to overlook your behaviour at the wake because I know how hard Granddad passing away has hit you.” Valerie’s face softened at the mention of her father. “But that does not mean I will accept rude sarcasm from you.”
“I know, I’m sorry. I have a headache from hell, as you can imagine. I’ll shake it off.” Grace took a few steps across the kitchen and hugged her mum.
As always, her mum’s tight embrace reassured her that everything was forgiven, and as soon as they let go of each other, her misdemeanour would be forgotten. Grace squeezed her eyes shut. She always found strength in Valerie’s arms, and she needed it more than ever to get through the hangover. Grace opened her eyes and began to pull away; she felt refreshed already. But the feeling was short-lived—when the newspaper front page caught her eye, she gasped.
“Oh my God! What the hell has happened?” she squealed as she picked up the paper from the table.
“That’s why I asked if you had heard the news, love. Isn’t that your friend, Kate?”
She ignored her mother while she gawked at the paper, mouth wide open. She read in disbelief that Kate Wakeman was the second murder victim, just days after Michelle Young.
“Grace. Grace? Hello, I’m talking to you,” Valerie called out.
Her mother’s voice finally dragged her from her thoughts, and she dropped the newspaper to the floor. “What?”
“Didn’t you go out drinking with that Kate girl before you went off to university?” Valerie asked, switching on the kettle.
Grace’s eyes darted from side to side while her cloudy mind tried to process the information. Her thoughts were interrupted once again as the kettle bubbled and boiled, and her mother loudly clattered about making a cup of tea.
“Yes,” she finally managed to answer. “We used to drink in the same pub. I suppose we were quite friendly once. Had a few heavy nights together. I just can’t remember.”
Valerie cut her off with a lecturing tone. “This is why young ladies shouldn’t be parading themselves in the street at night. Probably, she was so drunk, she didn’t even know what she was doing.”
Her mum placed a steaming, strong mug of tea on the table in front of Grace, but she pushed it away. “No, Mum! Kate wasn’t like that any more. Yes, we got plastered in our heyday, but she had stopped all of that behaviour. She wanted to be a nurse.”
“Oh, really? How do you know that?” Valerie asked. “Had you seen her recently?”
“No. I don’t think I have, actually.”
“Probably that Facebook. You’re all telling each other your life stories on there,” Valerie continued. “But it’s all just so awful. To think, you’re the same age. And just look at her photo in the paper, Grace. You both have your hair styled the same way, except she has highlights. Well, had highlights, I should say.” Valerie paused and threw her hand over her mouth. She stared hard at Grace. “My God, look how drunk you were the other night. It could have been you! You know, I bet she was just innocently walking home that night—the paper says she lived close—and wham! You just don’t know when your time is up. Except for your poor grandfather, of course. We’re lucky we had a chance to say our goodbyes properly before he was completely riddled with cancer. But watching him suffer…”
Grace sucked in a deep breath. And again. And again. Her mother’s speech had made her hyperventilate. She dropped to the floor in an attempt to steady her breathing. Her mother rested her hands on Grace’s shoulders, but her voice sounded far off.
“Oh, my darling! I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have shown you the paper. This is all you need right now. Like you’re not grieving enough.”
As her eyes flooded with tears, Grace focused on Valerie’s face.
“Let me get you a glass of water. It will help calm you down.”
The support of her mother’s hands left her, and she feared she might faint, until Valerie returned with a glass of water and placed it in front of her face. She felt the strength of her mother’s grasp again.
“First Granddad and then an old friend stabbed in the street. The world isn’t fair.” Valerie hugged her daughter tightly to her chest and instructed her to take deep breaths. “In and out, darling. In and out.”
Grace was suffocating. The once-comforting hands began to feel like a vice tightening around her. Memories filled her mind, flashed in then disappeared, making room for another glimpse of something she couldn’t make out. Nothing was vivid enough for her to hold on to and remember. This is not the time to tell Mum I also knew Michelle. I can’t handle another speech. She pulled herself up, using the granite worktop to steady her, and staggered out of the kitchen.
CHAPTER FIVE
Hamilton had never experienced any issues with his superior, Detective Chief Inspector Allen. Because he intended to keep their relationship professional, Hamilton made a point of conducting regular meetings to keep his boss abreast of the team’s high-profile cases.
The DCI demanded respect as soon as he entered a room. He stood tall at six feet, two inches, and though he was in his late fifties, his thick arm and chest muscles protruded against his white fitted shirt. Although he hadn’t been in a boxing ring since his mid-twenties, his physique intimidated most of his colleagues.
“It’s Christmas Eve, Denis. There are two families facing the festive day without the women in their lives: their daughters, sisters, cousins, or mothers.”
“Sir, neither of the women had children,” Hamilton interrupted then cringed inwardly at his mistake.
“That is not my point!” Allen’s voice boomed across the room.
Hamilton felt foolish. Although he had meant his comment to be light-hearted, he knew better than to be sarcastic with the chief. He had to remember he wasn’t having a conversation with Clarke.
“Two families will spend their Christmas shrouded in grief, and what is it that we have to offer them, Denis? Nothing! Absolutely zilch. What is your team doin
g down there, dare I ask?” Allen’s face turned scarlet with irritation.
Hamilton was familiar with that look of frustration because it was an emotion he battled with. But he was adamant that his team would not be held responsible for the lack of evidence. “That’s unfair, sir. The entire team are working hard to find eyewitnesses, clues—anything they can use to solve this case. It’s difficult, but I assure you, we will explore every avenue. A week has passed since the last murder, so yes, the trail may be lukewarm, but it’s not cold yet.”
Hamilton waited anxiously as the DCI closed his eyes and his huge chest sighed heavily. “What more have the pathology team told you, Denis?”
Although he didn’t need his notes to prompt him—the scraps of information were secure in his memory—he preferred to look at the notebook rather than Allen’s stern appearance. “We have all the information from the post-mortems, and our initial observations have been confirmed, sir: both causes of death were the stab wound to the heart. The first victim had a broken neck, but that happened after death, once she was dumped in the River Thames, Laura has informed me. The second victim’s stomach contents show a high level of alcohol in her system. The family found that hard to believe as she was a recovering alcoholic and hadn’t touched a drop in over five years. And no signs of sexual assault on either of the women.” Hamilton looked up from his notes and waited for a response.
The DCI continued to stare at him.
“Sir, we have no DNA or murder weapon,” he continued, hoping his boss couldn’t detect the deflated tone that was ringing bells in his own ears.
“I have to admit this is not looking good on you or the team, Denis. We may be forced to hand the investigation over if you can’t produce the results. The press is already all over this, and it could turn into a very high-profile case if we’re not careful. Especially if they want to spin that the Met are dragging their heels.”
