by Tara Lyons
Two giant leaps were all it took to stand right behind her. She tried to scream, but I covered her mouth and took the sound before she had a chance to make it. My leather glove smothered her face, and I pulled her hair so tightly, she had no choice but to lean backwards. I dragged her back to the middle of the bridge. She’s stronger than the others.
I let her go briefly, and she turned to face me. Why didn’t you run, stupid bitch? Before the thought of fleeing could enter her mind, my fist connected with her stomach, and she doubled over, eyes wide in pain. Her nose cracked as it met the force of my knee and sent her crashing onto the ground. She cried like a baby—and disturbed my fucking peace—so I booted her in the face. Twice. That shut her up.
Blood seeped from her nose and mouth. Her eyes spun to the back of her head, but she couldn’t fight it for long; death was knocking. She closed her eyes. I delivered forceful blows to her chest and stomach with my boot. She was limp, and I kicked her over onto her back then undid the buttons of her clothes.
“You’re meant to care for people—that’s your profession. But you don’t. You’re selfish and cruel, and you must be punished.”
I knelt, peering at her naked chest, barely moving as her breathing became slower, almost non-existent. I reached into my pocket for the knife. I didn’t slow down. I didn’t think. I thrust the blade deep into her chest—into her heart.
The rush was a release for me, and I wanted to shout it out, let it flow from me, and roar loudly that I was there. But I needed to remain in control; that was my ultimate goal. I gripped the knife impaled in her chest and didn’t move. The power was immense. All this strength is in my hands, and I refuse to let go of this feeling.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Hamilton stopped briefly on the top step of the bridge, while Clarke walked on. He scanned the area, looking out onto the beauty of London’s iconic sights and landmarks. He was stunned, and devastated, that another woman’s body had been discovered in such a usually crowded area.
“He’s stepped up his level of violence again, Detectives,” Laura explained when Hamilton rejoined his partner. “I hope you don’t have weak stomachs.”
“Where’s the witness who found the body?” Hamilton asked immediately.
“He’s downstairs with uniform. Quite shaken up, as you can imagine. He stayed with the body until we arrived. Can’t have been easy, given the state she’s in.”
“Lewis, get down there and take his statement now while it’s still fresh. Get all the information you can. Did he see anyone else lurking around? Is he usually out jogging so early on a Sunday morning?”
Clarke’s eyes widened and he headed for the stairs. “Gov, it’s not my first interview,” he said over his shoulder.
“Apologies for my partner. He’s not really a morning person.”
Laura snorted a response, and Hamilton knew best to leave it at that.
“Step into my office, Denis.”
The pair walked into the white tent that covered the width of the bridge. A member from Laura’s team was busy taking photographs of the body.
“Tight squeeze, eh?” Hamilton jested in a bid to break the tension.
“It’s imperative we get as much information from the scene, so suck it up for a few minutes.”
He regretted the sarcasm when he caught sight of the victim’s bruised and battered naked body.
“The blood on the ground indicates blunt-force head trauma, but obviously, that doesn’t necessarily mean it was the cause of death. My attention is drawn to the injuries on her face and torso; he was brutal this time. Kicked and punched her numerous times. I won’t know until the post-mortem if these occurred before or after death, but I’d guess the former.” Laura’s eyes lingered on the woman’s multiple chest wounds. “Looks like you’ve got yourself a serial killer, Inspector.”
“Thanks for the summary, Laura. I doubt I’ll be able to send anyone over to the post-mortem. Can you contact me as soon as it’s done? Maybe there’ll be the mark of a footprint we can use or finally some DNA. As he was obviously infuriated, he might have slipped up this time. Is that okay?”
“Of course. I’m getting my team to wrap up here now. We’ve had a perimeter search of the bridge but haven’t found anything, not even the victim’s personal effects. Perhaps he’s intending to make you work harder on this one.” Laura winced, and Hamilton felt the valid blow of her observations.
“Just what I need. Thanks, Laura. I’ll be in touch.”
Hamilton descended the stairs of the bridge in search of Clarke. He soon found his partner with a tall white man wearing tight black Lycra shorts.
“Boss, this is Charlie Fenton. He found the body.”
“I’m Detective Inspector Denis Hamilton. What can you tell us, Mr. Fenton?”
“That’s my old man’s title. Please call me Charlie.”
Hamilton was disturbed by the man’s grin. He raised his eyebrows for the man to answer his question; he wasn’t interested in playing name games.
“Erm… I’m local to the area, and this is my jogging route. Come rain or shine, I’m out pounding the streets because I’m training for the marathon. Just a few months left,” Charlie explained.
“What time did you get to the bridge?”
“About five a.m. like I do every morning. I usually double back over this bridge and make my way home. Except this morning, I got the fright of my life.”
“And you called 999 immediately?”
“Of course I did, Inspector.”
“How?”
“Excuse me?”
“How did you make the call? Excuse me for pointing this out, but there doesn’t seem much room for a mobile phone in those shorts.” Hamilton smirked but intently observed the man’s reaction to his question.
“I used that payphone over there. Is there a problem?”
He followed to where Charlie pointed. A row of traditional red public phone booths stood on the other side of the pavement. He made a note to check if they were monitored by CCTV.
“Did you see anyone suspicious, anyone lurking around the bridge?” Hamilton asked.
“No. Hardly ever do, really. Even for the heart of the city, a four a.m. start is early. And what with it being the weekend, I’m sure most residents are still in bed with a hangover.” The man chuckled.
“You sound confident you were definitely alone.”
Charlie frowned. “Inspector, I don’t understand. Have I done something wrong? As I’ve said, I run the area every morning. It’s usually quiet, and I see very few people. I called the police as soon as I saw that poor woman lying in a pool of blood. Should I have continued running past her?”
“No, of course not. You made the right decision,” Hamilton replied. “We’ll need you to come down to the station to make an official statement. Is that okay?”
“Of course, Inspector. As long as I can get a lift home afterwards. As you said, these shorts hardly have pockets for cash.”
“DS Clarke will arrange uniform police to escort you. Thank you for your time.” He shook the man’s hand and turned to his partner. “I’ll wait for you by the cars.”
Hamilton heard the two men exchange pleasantries as he turned to walk away. Rage soared through his veins. Another poor woman murdered.
“That was a bit harsh,” Clarke said when he approached.
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m surprised you didn’t inspect his palms for bloodstains, boss. For one second, I thought you were going to arrest him there and then.”
“Don’t be dramatic, Lewis.”
“Come on, what happened back there?”
Hamilton sighed. “I’m not sure. I’m just wracked with guilt for these women, and if I’m honest, that Charlie Fenton seemed a bit creepy.”
“I thought he was kind of cool. He’s running the marathon for Cancer Research UK.”
“Hmm, yes, well, that doesn’t discount the fact that he’s the first civilian to discover one of ou
r murder victims. He also used a payphone to inform us, the same way we’ve found out about the other women, except this time, he stayed. Coincidence, possibly.”
“What are you saying, boss? Now you think he’s our murderer?”
“No, that’s not what I said. But right now, everything is a clue. This killer is upping the ante with every victim. What’s not to say now he’s sticking round to watch us in action.”
Clarke chuckled, but Hamilton was in no laughing mood.
“Well, like I said, I thought he seemed like a nice guy.”
“Then let’s hope you’re right, Lewis.”
A silence fell between the partners, but Hamilton couldn’t afford to entice Clarke’s sulking nature.
“Look, let’s head back to the station and collate all this information. We won’t have information about the victim’s identity or DNA until Laura’s finished at the mortuary, and who knows how long that will be. So let’s not call the team in just yet. Does that work for you, Lewis?”
“Your call, boss. As you’ve pointed out already, there’s not much they can do right now, so let’s not ruin their Sunday, as well.”
It was too late; Clarke’s teenage tantrum was brewing, but Hamilton chose to ignore it. The men drove in separate cars, much to Hamilton’s delight. The thought of sharing a journey with his partner’s foul mood was exhausting. However, he was pleased to find Clarke joking with Fred, the desk sergeant, when he arrived.
“Ah, Detective Inspector Hamilton. How nice of you to grace us with your presence on a Sunday,” Fred said, laughing at his own joke.
“Not out of choice, believe me.” Hamilton mocked a large yawn.
“I bet not. Is it anything to do with this note left for you?”
“What note?” Hamilton and Clarke chimed in harmony.
Fred handed over a handwritten note.
“How bloody long has this been sitting here?” Hamilton bellowed.
“I’ve only just come on duty at six a.m., sir. Which means it would have been taken by William, the desk sergeant working last night’s shift.”
Hamilton scanned the note. “Jesus, Fred! This says eleven p.m. on it. I think someone should have made more of an effort to get this in the hands of a superior officer!”
“With all due respect, if we desk sergeants spent all our time chasing information from people who walked in off the street, we’d get no work done. And in William’s defence, I don’t think there’s much more he could have done. You’re lucky he knows about your case and left a note directly for you.” The desk sergeant stood firm in his convictions, but Hamilton noticed a slight flustered tinge appear in his cheeks.
“You’re right, Fred. I know you deal with some crap down here. The reason we’re here so early on a weekend is because we’ve just been called to another murder in Central London. The victim had no identification on her, so I just hope it wasn’t this girl,” Hamilton said, backhanding the piece of paper.
“What the hell does it say, gov?” Clarke called out.
“Lewis, we need coffee! Let’s go over this upstairs.” Hamilton walked towards the security door and waited to be buzzed in. “Thanks again, Fred.”
Hamilton took the stairs two at a time with Clarke on his tail. When they reached the incident room, he handed the note to his partner as he flipped the switch on the kettle.
“Shit! Gov, do you think it’s the same woman?”
“I don’t know, Lewis. I think we need to call the team in now. I’ll clear the overtime, and you can tell them that when you phone them. I don’t see it being a problem, not when it comes to this case.”
“I get the short straw of calling the guys in on a Sunday morning, do I? Nice delegating,” Clarke said light-heartedly.
“Hey, feel free to put the overtime request in with DCI Allen instead,” Hamilton retorted, then laughed at his partner’s silence. “No, I didn’t think so.”
Over the course of the next hour, the rest of the team trickled into the incident room. In that time Clarke, fueled with coffee, had updated the information board. Hamilton entered the office with a tray of bacon rolls, much to the pleasure of his sleepy-looking team.
“Thanks for coming in on such short notice, and on a Sunday. I really appreciate your hard work. I’ve squared the overtime with the powers that be, so don’t worry about that. Now, tuck into these while I update you on this morning’s turn of events.”
Hamilton brought their attention to the updated information and tapped the board as he explained what had been uncovered on the bridge over the River Thames. “When we arrived back at the station, I had the following note left for me by last night’s desk sergeant.” He pulled out the note and read aloud. “Detective Inspector Hamilton, I wanted to make you aware of a young lady that came into the station tonight, at approximately eleven p.m. She was highly intoxicated, swaying and slurring her words. She kept repeating “Eric attacked me. Eric attacked me, but I escaped.” When I asked for more information, she wouldn’t give me any, except that her name was Carly. I offered to call one of the senior officers down, and that’s when she ran from the station. I didn’t get a good look at her face, as she was wearing a cap and sunglasses—yes, at night, but as already stated, she was extremely drunk. Had heard snippets about your latest case, so thought you might like to know about it.”
Hamilton paused to look at his team. He was met with puzzled expressions and wide eyes. “So what do you think of that?”
Morris spoke first. “You’re thinking Eric Dexter, sir?”
“That’s exactly what I’m thinking, Sharon. I also can’t help but worry that this could be the same girl who was found brutally murdered a few hours ago.”
“I can’t believe he didn’t try and get more information from the girl. Or at least note down what she was wearing, her height, something!” Fraser added. “How about I look over the station’s CCTV, gov? I should easily be able to identify this woman from the footage; drunk girl in sunglasses at eleven p.m. won’t be too hard to trace. At least that way, we can ascertain her build and what she was wearing. Might help ID the victim too.”
“Kerry, that’s brilliant. Glad to see someone’s on top form this morning.” Hamilton clicked his fingers. “Sharon and Les, I want you both to get over to the mortuary now. Laura won’t be expecting you now, but that shouldn’t be a problem. Hang round like irritating bugs if you have to, but don’t leave without the information from our latest victim. Lewis, I think we need to pay another visit to Mr. Dexter and find out if he knows who this Carly is.”
“Boss, why don’t we bring him in to the station for questioning this time? The surprise tactic might force him into telling us what he’s really been up to with these women,” Clarke suggested.
Hamilton mulled the idea over. “Lewis, I like your way of thinking. Get on to uniform and tell them to pick him up. I’ll be in my office, gathering all the information we have so far for his interview. If he’s got something to hide, then this type of approach will highlight that.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
At that moment, Grace couldn’t think of anything less appealing than the Sunday matinee performance, which had become expected since Michael had introduced the idea for new plays at The London. He invited local businesses and the press to watch the show, believing that word of mouth would spark excitement for the main opening night the following day.
“Where the hell have you been? The performance began twenty minutes ago,” Michael whispered, his face contorted with anger.
“I’m so sorry. I don’t feel very well this morning,” Grace replied, as she wiped sweat from her brow.
Michael gasped. “Please do not tell me you’re hungover!” He left the viewing area and pulled Grace into the corridor.
“I only went out for a few drinks last night. It was stupid. I know how important these matinees are to you. I’m really sorry; it won’t happen again.”
“Important to me? They’re important to everyone here, to the whole team. Thes
e matinees are an advertisement for the main show. It gets people talking. I expected more from you, Grace. I’m really disappointed.”
She could feel Michael’s eyes fixed on her, the anger radiating from them, but she didn’t have the courage to make eye contact with him. “I know. I’m sorry,” she mumbled, twiddling her fingers round each other.
He tutted. “Gosh, I’m not saying don’t have fun on the weekends. Even I had a few drinks last night. But in all honesty, Grace, to turn up to work looking like this, you should be ashamed. Now get yourself into makeup. Only that can help with that ghastly appearance. And drink some water. I need you looking your beautiful self by the time the performance finishes. We’re dealing with the press together.” Michael stormed back to his prime position backstage, where he had a view of the play unfolding and the audience’s reaction.
Grace slumped her shoulders, completely embarrassed, and wandered down the corridor as she had been instructed to do.
“Gorgeous!” Michael squealed with excitement when she returned after the performance. “That’s the Grace we all know and love. How are you feeling?”
“Much better, thanks. Just embarrassed, really. And disappointed that I missed the show. How did it go?”
Michael waved his hand, dismissing her comment. “Don’t worry about all that, Grace. I understand the importance of letting your hair down on the weekend. I’m not an ogre. As I said, I did myself last night. I just recover better than you.”
She managed to fake her best smile while Michael chuckled.
“Anyway, our civilian audience are exiting the theatre while the local press congregates in the bar. We’ll take questions in there. It seems more relaxed and informal.” He leaned in closer and spoke softly. “I’m sure the vultures will slip in questions about the name change and that murdered girl, and our own poor Emily, of course. But ignore them. Do you understand? I’ll answer those with short and swift replies, force them to focus on the actual performance. There’s bound to be some jumped-up new journalist trying his luck; I know it.”
