by Taylor Leon
I jumped as a camera suddenly flashed with a loud pop and fzzzzzzzz. Forensics were taking photographs on the far side of the room. I could hear others in the kitchen and the bathroom across the hallway.
‘She died of asphyxiation from strangulation,’ the pathologist, Barney Rivers, announced, leaning right over the body, gloved hands holding her head on either side. Her face was a bloody soup. A pool of dark blood had spread around her head like a liquid halo.
‘Look at this,’ he said motioning for us to step closer. He gently placed her face back down, then lifted the hair away from the back of the neck. There were the markings our killer had carved into her.
“5”
‘Oh shit,’ Cade said. ‘That means there’s a victim number four that we haven’t found yet.’
‘Who found the body?’ I asked.
‘A work colleague,’ Cade said. ‘She picks her up every morning and drives them both in.’ He looked down at the pathologist. ‘Time of death?’
‘I’d say between nine o’clock and midnight.’
‘There’s no sign of a forced entry,’ Cade said. ‘She must have known him because she let him into the house late at night.’
I knew the killer had impersonated a neighbour, telling her he had a parcel for her so she would open the door to him. I’d looked around and hadn’t seen any package. Unsurprisingly, the killer would have taken it away with him. But if it had her name on it then that meant he had known who she was.
Which meant these killings were not random.
They were planned.
Barney Rivers hauled himself up and stepped away from the body. ‘Okay, I’m done here,’ he said, pulling off his elastic gloves with a sharp snap. ‘Whether it was someone she knew or not, the attack happened almost as soon as he got inside. He attacked her from behind, pushed her down and slammed her face repeatedly onto the floor before strangling her.’
I looked across and saw myself in the mirror. The same mirror the killer had been looking in when Frankie saw him.
‘Let’s start interviewing the neighbours, family and friends,’ Cade said, stepping past me into the hallway to start getting things organised.
I was left with the Barney, and Amy’s body lying on the floor behind him.
I felt so helpless, looking at her and saying “sorry” in my head repeatedly.
A couple of days ago, I had been described as a guardian angel. Now I felt anything but.
20
THE FUNERAL FOR Jennifer Brooks took place in a beautiful large church.
I sat towards the back, next to Cade trying to blend in but feeling self-conscious, as if everybody knew we were the investigating detectives and were giving us looks to say “don’t sit around in here, get out there and find out who did this.” Of course, there were also quite a few who did the opposite and avoided looking at us altogether, thinking we would read something into their nothing expressions. It sounds ridiculous, but it is surprising how many innocent people flush red with guilt when the police are present, even though they have done nothing wrong.
While one of the many eulogies was being read, Cade leaned into me. ‘Arnie’s taken another clattering from the boys upstairs over our lack of headway on this.’
‘We can’t do more than we’re doing.’
‘They just want an arrest. Something they can announce.’
We all stood as more prayers were said and Jennifer’s coffin was carried out through the centre of the church, family and close friends leading the procession outside. We followed at the tail end, behind the rest of the congregation.
‘Oh no,’ Cade said, looking ahead.
At first I couldn’t see what had got his attention. Then I saw a young woman looking back at him. She was standing to one side of the procession, watching the guests pass. She was attractive, with chestnut hair and was wearing a dark blue coat and a navy scarf.
‘Well, well, well,’ she said to Cade, as we drew up next to her. ‘Fancy seeing you here.’
‘Miss Jones is a journalist with the London Express,’ Cade told me.
‘It’s Meredith, please. Don’t be so formal in front of your friends.’ She looked straight at me. ‘And who do we have here?’
‘This is Detective Sergeant Erin Dark,’ Cade sighed.
She rocked back on her high heels and rolled her eyes. ‘Erin Dark, Erin Dark, now why do I know that name?’
Cade tilted his head. He knew she was playing with us.
‘Of course,’ she suddenly exclaimed. ‘You caught those two nutjobs in the shopping centre, single-handed.’ She leaned over and said to Cade in a stage whisper. ‘You ought to watch this one, John. She’s good. She’ll have your job in no time. If the bullet had caught you an inch higher then I guess she might have already had it.’ She gave a flirtatious smile. ‘What a waste that would have been.’
‘What are you doing here, Meredith?’ Cade said.
‘No more, and certainly no less than you two,’ she replied, her eyes twinkling with amusement. ‘That’s the problem, isn’t it? You’re not getting anywhere on this case.’
‘You have no idea where we are,’ I interjected. Her manner, particularly towards Cade, had already pissed me off.
She looked at me as though I was a naïve adolescent. ‘Oh, but I do,’ she said. ‘Just like I know about the markings connecting this girl and Melissa Fairweather and-.’
My anger flared up. ‘Who the hell-’
Cade put out a restraining arm and I saw a few mourners look back disapprovingly in our direction.
‘That’s right, calm down, Erin,’ she said patronizingly.
‘Who’s been speaking to you?’ I snapped.
‘I can’t reveal my sources,’ she said, and something that I couldn’t put my finger on passed between her and Cade. ‘I just happen to know that this killer carves numbers into his victims.’
‘What do you want from us, Meredith?’ I asked her.
‘I want to be kept in the loop with your progress. This is going to be a hell of a story, and when it is over, I want exclusivity with you and your colleagues.’
‘Forget it,’ I snapped, and turned away without waiting for Cade to answer.
‘In which case,’ she said to my back. ‘I’ll finish off the investigation into Keith Hargreaves all by myself.’
I turned to look at her and then Cade who was giving her a look that I couldn’t read.
‘Oh,’ she sighed mockingly. ‘Please tell me you have already investigated him yourselves.’
She read the expression on my face.
‘Oh dear,’ she said, and smiled.
****
I slammed the files down on the table, causing everyone in the room to flinch back.
‘We are bloody idiots,’ I screamed at them. I don’t think any of them had seen me as angry as this before.
‘I had a reporter,’ I looked around the room, and the team looked anywhere but back at me. ‘Yes, that’s right. A fucking reporter. A fucking reporter who knows about Keith Hargreaves, when we don’t. How is that possible?’
We had driven back from the funeral, with Cade trying to calm me down the whole way. He was the superior officer, so it should have been his call as to how we played this. But he had seen how furious I was with the team and with myself, so he let me take the lead. Plus, I knew this team. I knew how good we could be. How good we should be.
I had called all six of them into an office and sat them around the meeting table. They had been all smiles when they came in. Boy, that changed fast.
‘Keith Hargreaves,’ I snarled, ‘employed Melissa Fairweather four-and-a-half years ago, and he worked alongside Jennifer Brooks many years ago when he was starting out. Why didn’t anyone see the connection?’
I was as angry with myself as I was with them. After all, I had been looking as well and had missed it. I knew it, and they knew it.
So did Cade, who now stepped forward. ‘Let’s dig out everything we can on Hargreaves before Erin and I go
over to see him.’
The team stood up to leave.
‘Wait,’ I said. ‘That’s not all. The same journalist knew about the markings carved into the victims.’
Everybody froze.
‘If I find out someone in here has been talking,’ I said looking at them one by one, ‘then I swear we will come down on that person like a ton of bricks. Is that clear?’
I didn’t need to hear a reply. I glanced at Cade out of the corner of my eye and then stormed out of the room.
21
KEITH HARGREAVES WAS in love with himself, that much was clear to me within five minutes of meeting him.
He had long dark hair that was greying on the temples, and a neatly cropped beard that framed his perma-tanned face. He was wearing large spectacles, thick black frames that screamed fashion accessory as much as necessity. He met us on the third floor of the office building, as we stepped out of the lift. He greeted us with a wide smile through expensively whitened teeth.
‘Welcome,’ he said, widening his arms so we could see into the large open plan office. There must have been fifteen or so people working behind three banks of desks. There was a young girl sitting behind a single desk at the entrance. He asked her to bring drinks through, before motioning for us to follow him.
‘What is it you do here?’ Cade asked, as Hargreaves took us through to some smaller frosted-glass offices on the far side. Several faces looked up from their computer screens as we strode past.
‘We write programs,’ he explained, ‘for businesses to buy from us and use on the internet to market and promote their goods.’ He named several global corporations, all household names that were currently contracted with him.
His office wasn’t particularly large, it consisted of a large clear glass desk and an adjoining meeting table that formed a ‘T’. His wall was full of certificates and framed newspaper cuttings, all about him and his company. He sat on one side of the meeting table and motioned for us to sit opposite.
‘You appear to have a very nice business here,’ Cade said.
He smiled broadly. ‘Thank you. It’s the people who make it work though. I’m just the figurehead. Those guys out there do the real graft.’
‘And is it all work, work, work?’ Cade asked.
‘For them or for me?’
‘Let’s start with you.’
He sat back and eyed us suspiciously, faking a smile. ‘I’m not sure what you are getting at. I don’t have much of a social life beyond what my wife organises, if that’s what you’re asking?’
‘And do you have kids?’
He reached across to the edge of his desk and showed us a framed photo. There was a brunette, probably the same age as him- late thirties, early forties- and very attractive, with two very young boys.
‘Detectives,’ he said. ‘I’m confused now. I thought you came here to talk about my wife.’
Cade and I looked at each other. ‘I’m sorry Mr Hargreaves,’ Cade said. ‘Why would be talking to you about your wife?’
‘The car she hit in the car park before she drove….’ He stopped talking when he saw our blank expressions.
There was a knock on the door and his PA came in with a tray of three coffees, three glasses, and a bottle of sparkling water. We sat in an uncomfortable silence as she served the drinks and then left.
When the door closed, Cade leaned forward, clasping his hands together. ‘We understand you employed a Melissa Fairweather several years ago.’
Hargreaves’s face brightened up slightly, pleased we weren’t here to discuss his wife, but still trying to show some dignity for the girl who had just been killed.
‘My God,’ he said. ‘I read about that. Is that why you’re here? Of course, I understand now. Well, she only worked here for less than six months, not that long at all.’
‘Why did she leave?’
‘Mutual consent,’ Hargreaves said. ‘She was lagging behind the others, and she wasn’t happy.’
‘Wasn’t happy?’ I asked.
‘I’m a hard taskmaster. I pay well, but I ask for a lot in return.’
‘Did you two get on?’
‘I was her boss. Mister Mean boss. I doubt she liked me.’
‘Would it surprise you to know she ended up working at an estate-agents?’
‘I remember she went to another IT company after she left here. But no, I’m not surprised that she later changed career.’
There was another knock on the door and two men came in. One was a youngish guy, mid- twenties, good-looking with a dark stubble, dressed in a slim-fit shirt and trendy jeans. The other looked older than Hargreaves, balding with a clean shaven gaunt white face which was accentuated because he was dressed all in black.
‘Can’t you see I’m busy?’ Hargreaves snapped.
‘I’m sorry, Keith,’ the older one said. ‘But the team from Liverpool have just arrived downstairs. Leo here is happy to do the presentation with me if you’re tied up.’
‘No!’ Hargreaves snapped and Cade cast me a look which said, this guy has a short fuse.
‘This is my deal and I’ll give the presentation.’ Hargreaves said and waved his hand at them dismissively. ‘Apologise, and tell them I’ll be down in a few minutes. Make sure Jody sorts them out with drinks.’
The older man looked at us, wondering who we were and if he would be introduced. Hargreaves had no intention of saying anything, so I did the honours.
‘I’m Detective Dark,’ I said, standing up. ‘And this is my colleague Detective Cade.’
‘Vincent,’ he said giving me a very limp handshake. ‘And this is Leo Stanley.’
The younger man at the door nodded politely.
‘Have you two been working here long?’ I asked.
‘Vincent is one of my top guys,’ Hargreaves cut across. ‘And Leo joined us six months ago. A very talented young man.’
He nodded at them both as if to say- See, I’ve complimented you, now get the hell out. They both smiled weakly and quietly left.
I sat back down. Hargreaves was watching us impatiently. We were in the middle of a murder investigation, either he was so work obsessed he was agitating for us to leave so he could get on, or he had something to hide besides his wife pranging another car.
‘Do you remember Jennifer Brooks?’ Cade asked him.
‘No, should I?’
‘You worked with her nine years ago.’
His face was deadpan. ‘If you say so. It must have been when I was working at Roy Stein, before I went out on my own. I don’t remember her. Why?’
‘She was killed a few days ago.’
‘Wait, I thought the name was familiar. Was she the girl they fished out of Benham Lock?’ He looked at us both. ‘What, and you think I had something to do with that?’ He laughed at us in disbelief.
We stayed silent. Sometimes an interviewee would give something away through his body language without realising it. Some went one step further and to fill an uncomfortable silence, ended up saying something incriminating.
‘This is ridiculous. I don’t remember Jennifer and barely knew Melissa. You are seriously asking me if I killed them?’
‘We haven’t accused you of anything, Mr Hargreaves,’ I said.
‘So, what then?’ he replied abruptly.
Cade paused before speaking. ‘Could you tell me where you were on the night of the 14th.’
‘At home,’ he said quickly. ‘I put the kids to bed and then worked in my study while my wife watched TV.’
‘Until what time?’
‘Until around midnight, I guess. Then I went to bed.’
‘And Mrs Hargreaves can confirm this?’
‘Of course.’
‘And the 16th?’
‘Out with friends for dinner. The Charterhouse restaurant in Hampstead.’
‘That’s near Benham, isn’t it?’
Hargreaves’s eyes narrowed. ‘Yes, that’s near Benham.’
Cade reached into his pocket and passed hi
m a small notepad and pencil.
‘Please can you write your home phone number so we can contact your wife, and the friends you had dinner with.’
He shook his head in anger and started writing, his obvious anger shown by the way he pressed down onto the paper.
Cade’s phone buzzed. He frowned hard at it and then excused himself to take the call.
‘Would you be happy for us to take a DNA sample,’ I asked Hargreaves.
Hargreaves glared at me. ‘Are you serious?’
‘Willingly, of course,’ I added. ‘We need to eliminate everyone from our enquiries.’
He glanced over at me. ‘Whatever,’ he said, and looked back down to continue writing.
Cade stood in the doorway and called me out, closing the door behind us.
‘I’ve got Arnie on the phone,’ he said. ‘We can forget Hargreaves. We’ve got a match for the blood found on the first victim.’
22
‘MARCUS SIMMS,’ CADE told me while he drove. ‘Twenty-one years old. A couple of months ago he was questioned by police near the Lake District where he was staying, after a woman called Helen Green was found beaten to death near his hotel.’
‘That’s why they had his blood sample?’
Cade nodded. ‘They took a sample from him because he was spotted near the scene.’
‘But they were happy that he didn’t kill her?’
‘Apparently.’
We pulled up in front of the college. Cade showed me the photo of Marcus Simms that the authorities had provided. I was immediately struck by how young he looked. His face was round with puppy fat and his skin smooth, without even a hint of light fuzz. He had short, straight dark hair, thin lips and narrow cold eyes. He wasn’t handsome, that was for sure. Yet, her attacker’s good looks was something Oriane had specifically commented on.
I lifted my phone and flipped to the sketch of Oriane’s attacker, holding it on my lap against the photo of Marcus Simms.
Chalk and Cheese. There was no way it could be the same person. If Marcus Simms did murder Melissa Fairweather, then based on what Oriane and Frankie had seen, we had to be looking at more than one killer.
