Paula moved to the front. “Her mum was still stunned. She’s a nice enough woman, no drugs or anything sinister going on with her, but she’s been living on the edge financially ever since Sheila’s dad ran off to Oz with a coworker. She had nothing but good things to say about Sheila, but then mums mostly say that, don’t they?”
“What about Friday nights?” Elaine asked.
“Loretta confirmed what she told us earlier. Friday was the regular night for her to go out with her boyfriend. Loretta figured it was better for Sheila to have a regular place to go than to stay home alone. Makes sense in theory but didn’t in real life.
“According to Leah, Sheila led quite a romantic existence. The first couple of times Sheila stayed over, she stayed there all night. Then it changed. It sounds like Sheila had begun to dominate Leah, and the house became her base of operations. Sheila would show up early, they’d eat, talk, and listen to music. Then when Leah’s parents went to bed, Sheila would pop out the window and be gone, almost until dawn. Sometimes she told Leah where she was going, sometimes not. She talked about a new boy every few weeks. Leah knew some of the boys, so we’ll get on to them to see if they know anything.”
“What about Danny, last Friday night?”
“She was able to add more details. Sheila had told her that he was older and had his own flat and a flash car . . . an Audi sports job, which she thought was posh. She told Leah that she had met him at a rave a couple of weeks ago. Leah wasn’t with her at the time, so she couldn’t give us a description, but Sheila had said he was a footballer. We’ve notified uniform, and we’re canvassing the area for Danny and the Audi, preferably as a matched set. We’re checking through registrations for an Audi owned by a Daniel. Looking at CCTV. The usual. And that’s about it right now. We’ll check football clubs tomorrow.”
“Try the lower-division clubs first. If he’s premier league, he’s driving a Ferrari or a Lambo. Search the rosters on the team websites. That will save some time.”
A voice piped up. “If he’s a footballer, he’s already crashed his Lambo and the Audi is his backup.” This remark prompted a few chuckles.
“Not a bad point. Evan, have someone ask rental agencies about Audis. Anything else before we move on?”
DC Simon Costello stood. He spoke in a crisp BBC accent that was perfectly in harmony with his tailored suits. Elaine sometimes wondered how many he owned and how much he spent on his haircuts. He looked like a successful banker, but he was one of the most intelligent detectives Elaine had ever worked with. “We got a call from a young man this morning who might have been driving the dark car that was seen.” He consulted his notes. “Ian Plimpton, seventeen, address in Kentish Town. He had a late night out with friends and was trying to get home before his father needed the car to get to work. He was unfamiliar with the area, and he turned there thinking it was a shortcut. He has no form or arrests. He’s coming in after school to give a formal statement.”
“Good. Whoever takes his statement, make absolutely sure of the street he turned on, if he can remember. Anything else new?” No one spoke, so she continued.
“Last night, I interviewed the dog walker, and then I traced Sheila’s route to have a look at it. The Khoury’s store was open, so I went in. As luck would have it, Hassan Khoury was working, and he was able to confirm that Willend was there, along with a couple of other customers. One was a young man he didn’t recognize—tall, thin, Eastern European, bought smokes. The other was a Mrs. Connolly, who lives in the area. We’ll track her down today, but I have no reason to believe that Khoury was lying. It’s starting to look like Willend’s story checks out.”
“But the sign said it was closed.” Simon looked nervous.
“Don’t worry. It is, during the day. Hassan opens it after he finishes his day job, just like Willend told us. It’s not looking good for those of you who had a tenner on Willend. Metaphorically speaking, of course. Fortunately, we have a new line of enquiry.” She related what she had learned from Higgins. “Simon, take Bull and Barker and a couple of uniforms and check out that industrial estate on the east side of the tracks. Evan, find out who owns it and scrape up any more information you can. I’ve got some other work for you too. Come see me after you get them started.
“All right then, one other thing. I called forensics earlier. The DNA results will be available by the end of today. I don’t want to be negative, but I think we need to get moving in a new direction. Let’s keep sniffing.”
* * *
By noon, Elaine had moved into Benford’s office. She liked having a door she could close. At some point, she would need to box up his mementos, take down his plaques, and eventually, perhaps, have her name put on the door. But not yet.
Evan Cromarty entered and sat across the desk, looking at her expectantly, so she began. “You’re our researcher. I need you to put on your research hat. Is that all right with you?”
Evan appeared pleased. “Sure is, guv.”
“Excellent. Something tells me our killer’s done this before. The beating looked too scientific, and it wasn’t spontaneous. If he’s done it before, it could be part of a pattern that we need to find. I want to know about any unsolved crimes similar to Sheila’s in the UK in the last five years. Severe beating with fists, a signature slash. Grievous bodily harm or murder. Victim dumped, perhaps drugs in her system—although that’s not a strict criterion. For victims, we’re looking for women between, say, fifteen and thirty-five. Start local and expand out from there. Keep in mind that it doesn’t have to be identical. The older the crime, the more leeway there is for variation. Like I said, we’re looking for a pattern.”
“So not specifically murder. Include GBH?”
“Correct. Murder and GBH. Like I said, start local. Once you’ve found some, correlate them with each other on the crime scene, method, or other aspects. Look for a pattern.”
“If we find a pattern, we might stray into Serial Crime’s patch. Will that be a problem?”
“We’ll decide what to do about that if the time comes. Any questions?”
“Eventually, but not right now. There’s one other thing, though. You asked me to check the traffic accident report for Willend’s family.” He handed her several sheets of paper. “And the background report from the FBI liaison at the American Embassy came just now. It’s there too. Is that all?”
“For now, thanks. Set it up and get started. Shout if you need anything.”
Once Evan had left, she turned to the accident report. Diana and Liza Willend were riding in a taxi on the M23, having been picked up at Gatwick earlier. Heavy fog had caused traffic to slow down to a snail’s pace, and an articulated lorry had slammed into their taxi from behind, starting a chain reaction that ultimately involved nineteen vehicles. The lorry driver apparently hadn’t slowed down despite the low visibility, and toxicology showed he was full of amphetamines. The impact had instantly killed Diana, Liza, and the taxi driver.
The American Embassy had provided Willend’s background and military records in record time. Willend had no criminal record in the States. He had graduated cum laude from the University of Texas and then had gone to medical school. His military record was only a summary, but it was impressive. First there was officer’s school and assignments at Walter Reed Hospital and the Brooke Army Medical Center in San Antonio, then Iraq. Captain Willend had been wounded halfway through his second tour of duty there. After that, there was another year in San Antonio. He had left the military for unspecified medical reasons.
All of which was interesting, but not too helpful from any angle. Why had his wife and daughter come from Texas? Perhaps he was scheduled for leave and they were meeting in London. Why hadn’t he told her about the tragic accident instead of refusing to talk about it? He hadn’t been there. Judging from the dates, he was in Iraq when it happened. Maybe that in itself had something to do with it, but still, why not say that? In her experience, suspects, except for hardened criminals, seek empathy under aggre
ssive interrogation. A guilty conscience causes them to clam up, but Willend hadn’t been anywhere near the M23. Why would he feel guilty about it?
She decided to put aside any questions about Willend or his background. He wasn’t guilty, so at this point it was only personal interest, right? It was time to take care of an hour or so of administrative work, so she turned to her computer and logged in. She’d grab a quick bite of lunch once that was done.
Elaine’s mobile rang as she made her way back from the canteen. It was Simon.
“Hi, guv. When we were searching along the fence line, one of the uniforms spotted a trainer lying several yards on the other side. We drove around to the entrance of the estate. It had no gate or security and was wide open, so we went in and bagged the shoe. It fits the description of the ones Sheila was wearing that night, and Barker’s taking it to Sheila’s house to see if Mrs. Watson can verify it.”
“Excellent! I was thinking maybe she would show up at a rave dressed in trainers, but maybe she had another pair of shoes with her. Have Barker ask Mrs. Watson if any other of Sheila’s shoes are missing. I didn’t see any mention in the previous action report, but ask again.”
She heard Simon giving instructions to Liz, then he was back on the line. “Okay, done. Another thing, most of the warehouse units were locked up tight, but a couple had broken windows and one showed a forced lock. It looked like suspicious entry.”
“Do you have any reason to suspect that someone is in there now?”
“One of the uniforms thinks he might have heard a noise.”
Elaine rolled her eyes and chuckled. It was tempting, but she didn’t want to jeopardize any evidence if the trainer turned out to be Sheila’s. “I know you want to, but no. Keep an eye on it and see if anyone loaded down with loot tries to get away. Set up a perimeter while I apply for a warrant. Are there any CCTV cameras covering the entrance?”
“Point made, guv. There’s a camera at the corner, about a hundred meters or so from the gate. It might have caught cars driving down the street or turning in. But nothing any closer than that. I’ll ask for footage.”
“Is there any indication who owns the place?”
“There’s a sign, but all it has is the name and phone number of the estate agent, one Geri Harding. I’ll text it to you.”
“Good job. Keep nosing around, but don’t let enthusiasm get in the way of proper procedure. There are times to push the limits, but this isn’t one of them.”
“Right, guv. I’ll keep you posted.”
The texts arrived a minute later, and Elaine dialed the estate agent’s number. A woman’s voice answered after four rings.
“Geri Harding’s number. Alicia speaking.”
“Hello, Alicia. Is Geri Harding available?”
“No, she’s on holiday this week. May I ask your name and what this is in reference to?”
“I’m Acting DCI Hope from the Met. Don’t be alarmed. She’s not in any trouble. I have a question about the industrial park in Leaside. There’s a sign at the entrance with Geri’s name on it. Would you have her mobile?”
“This is her mobile number. I’m the receptionist in the offices. She’s forwarding her calls to me while she’s gone.”
“Well then, perhaps you can help me. I was wondering who owns it. Some of the units appear to have been broken into, and we need to contact them. Do you have their number?”
“No, I don’t. Geri works alone, and I can’t get hold of her. But there’s a solicitor she works with, Jackson Greene. Maybe he can help. His office is in Newham. Let’s see.” Elaine heard a keyboard clicking. “Here’s his number.”
Elaine repeated the series of digits back to Alicia, thanked her, and rang off. So Harding’s a loner. There was no answer at Greene’s office when she tried the number, so she sent an action to Cromarty to do a background check on Harding and Greene and returned to her paperwork.
A half hour later, Liz rang. “Hi, Chief. Mrs. Watson said the shoe looks to be one of Sheila’s. Sheila wasn’t trying to be Imelda Marcos, but she owned three pairs of trainers, two pairs of flats, and about thirty pairs of ridiculous glamour shoes. They mostly look like she bought them in flea markets and thrift shops. I asked Mrs. Watson to look through them closely, and she thinks there’s a pair of silver pumps missing, but she’s not completely sure. They could be in the backpack we haven’t found, I suppose.”
“Thanks, Liz. Phone Simon and tell him I said to sit tight and wait for the warrant. Then get back there yourself. And, Liz, please don’t suppose.”
They had the warrant within an hour.
* * *
Geri Harding zipped up her roller suitcase and glanced at the clock next to her bed. There was more than enough time to get to the airport, so she retrieved the enameled box from the lower drawer of her nightstand, opened it, and tapped out a pile of powder onto the glass surface. As she chopped and arranged the white crystals, she reflected that her monthly leasing numbers were looking pretty good. She’d exceeded her targets slightly, so she would get her usual bonus. But she hungered, even ached, for the astoundingly generous reward promised to her if she doubled her normal monthly goal. She wanted it desperately.
Of course, she networked like crazy. Her diary was packed with wine schmoozes and seminars, lunch presentations, and breakfast meet-ups. On occasion, she would fuck a hesitant businessman to ensure a deal would close. She planned extravagant promotions that she prophesied would pack the buildings like so many sardine tins, and she knew that with a bit more promo budget, she could have waiting lists for all the office and warehouse spaces in her portfolio. She had worked up dozens of proposals and submitted them to Greene. And not one had ever been approved.
That bloody Jackson Greene. He calls himself a solicitor, but he’s nothing but a lecher. He had never approached her for sex, but she was sure it was what he wanted. She never would agree. He was a sweaty pig. Yech.
Greene made sure he stayed between her and the real clients—the “cousins,” as he called them. When she gave Greene her proposals, he would listen politely, sometimes even enthusiastically, to her plans. Then he would confer with the cousins and either kill her proposal with a “Sorry, maybe next year” or scale down her plan so much that it had no hope of joyous resounding success. “Tight marketing budget,” he’d say. Or “There have been unforeseen renovation costs in Birmingham.” Or “There’s a competing project in Aberdeen.” Granted, she only saw her part of the picture, but still . . . she didn’t understand.
Maybe Greene never actually showed her work to the cousins. That was a thought. Maybe the cousins were content with what they had. Geri didn’t know any businessmen who were content with what they had, and she knew she wasn’t. She’d think about it in Ibiza. She picked the gold-plated tube from the box and snorted the line.
ELEVEN
Elaine was walking out of her office to go to the industrial estate when her mobile rang.
“Hi, Nige. What joy have you got for me?”
“We have the DNA results from the Willend house. Sorry it took so long. I hope you’re sitting down.”
“I’m ready. Please keep the boffin-speak to a minimum, though.”
Nigel chuckled. “I’ll try, but I can’t guarantee it. In a nutshell, the blood that we found at Willend’s house does not belong to Sheila.”
“Neither sample?”
“Right. The DNA from the car matches Willend. The DNA from the basement is a woman’s, but it belongs to either Willend’s mother or his sister. Can’t tell which, but the mitochondrial DNA is the same as his.”
“That’s the DNA that’s passed from mother to child, right?”
“And I thought you weren’t a nerd. Yes. Seven Daughters of Eve and all that.”
“Okay. Thanks, Nige.”
She sat at her desk. The truth will come out, and innocence was as true as guilt. She regretted that an innocent man had been subjected to interrogation and jail, but unfortunately, it was sometimes part of the win
nowing process. Still, she needed to inform the police solicitors and the Professional Standards unit. There would be an internal investigation, no doubt watched closely by certain members of the press.
A short while later, she stood outside Willend’s cell as the custody sergeant opened the door. Willend sat on the thin mattress, looking drawn and tired. “You got the DNA results back.”
“Yes. You’re free to go.”
“It took a while.” Willend studied her. “You don’t look disappointed.”
It was not the response she had anticipated. She’d expected to feel his wrath, not a comment on her own emotions. “Well, it’s important to get a result, but it’s more important to get the right result.”
“I’m glad someone around here thinks that way. How is Benford?”
“He’s getting better. The doctors say he’ll be able to go home in a couple of days.”
Willend nodded. “He pushed himself over an edge.”
The custody clerk handed Willend his possessions. He signed for them, Elaine signed the release order, and they walked to the door.
“Is there a bus stop near here?”
“Yes, there’s one at the corner. But I’ll arrange for a car to take you home, if you like. In fact, I’ll take you home. I’m going out anyway. Wait here and I’ll come around.”
As soon as she turned to get her car, she thought, Why did you offer that, Lainie? Guilt? What on earth can you say to him? Ugh. Awkward.
* * *
Elaine was silent the first few minutes of the drive to Willend’s house. She didn’t feel exactly guilty, but it was hard for her not to feel some responsibility. “Dr. Willend, I hope you realize that I was only doing my job. There was nothing personal about it.” She turned her head toward him. Their eyes met, and she could see fire in his.
Souls of Men Page 9
