by Lenny Brando
Cole wondered how he could turn the clip of Flanagan and Hannah shagging on Alice’s bed to his advantage. He was certain there would be something, he just had to figure it out. Flanagan’s mobile, email and Twitter name were on the agency website, and Cole added them to his burner contacts. Then he decided Flanagan needed to know it existed. He used a dud Gmail account to send the video link to Flanagan with a single smiley in the email body.
Then he turned his attention to Alice. Her mobile was the last resort, as once he contacted her with that, she would change her number. But her email was different. Yeah, he thought. Why not? He forwarded the email he’d sent Flanagan to her. He grinned at the delicious thought she’d know there were clips of her to come and there was nothing she could do. Cole was in control.
Then he deleted all the apps and video files from the computer. Finally, he removed all the incriminating apps from his phone. He switched the SD card with a third one and put the two with the video files aside.
Except for the pills and the burner, he gathered everything linked to Portobello Close into the holdall, including his torn jacket. He grabbed the two SD cards, wrapped them in cling film and slipped them into a pocket inside the bag.
Four shots of vodka later, he slipped out of his flat with the bag. His eyes still hurt, but the pain wasn't as bad. At least he could see. His head throbbed and his pulse seemed erratic. Paranoid ideas about the police bundling him into Wormwood Scrubs kept intruding on his thinking. He put it down to the aftereffects of the Captagon, and the beer and vodka should help in that regard. While bed would have been his preferred destination, Cole believed in his ability to plan. If he kept ahead of the game, they couldn't touch him.
It took twenty minutes to cut through Weavers Fields to a derelict building on Wilmot Street. He took the two SD cards and hid them in a crack in the wall. The bag went under some rubble, and he covered it with debris. Satisfied no-one would stumble across it, he nodded to himself and made his way back home.
It had been good while it lasted. He’d develop another plan for Alice. He’d rest for a day and plot. Figure out a way to mess her head up with the video clips. Then he'd come for her for the final time.
70
Ian rolled over and glanced at the bedside clock. 7:44AM. He groaned at the growing pain in his thumping head. The conference could wait. He rolled back and spooned into Jo. She rewarded him with a little wriggle and a stifled moan. For several minutes, he drifted in and out of sleep, breathing in the dying scent of Jo’s perfume until she stirred.
“I gotta get going,” she said.
“To the conference?”
“Meeting the CEO at 10. Need a clear head.” She sat up in the bed, and Ian ran his hand up her side and cupped her breast. She brushed him away. “Jeez. How much did we drink last night?”
Ian propped himself up on his elbows and shook his head. “I don’t think I want to know.”
Jo stood and stretched, giving Ian the benefit of a full frontal. “Don't look at me like that,” she said.
“Temptress.”
She wagged a finger at him. “No way. I’m going to my room to shower and change.” She got dressed, leaned over and kissed him on the lips. “Ew. Brush your teeth before you go anywhere. I’ll call you later.”
“Think I’ll go back to sleep,” he said. “Save my energy for you later, huh?”
“That a promise?”
“Promise.”
“Good. I’ll hold you to that.”
After Jo left, he lay on the bed, but sleep wouldn't come, so he fumbled for his phone and switched it on. Seconds passed before the import of Alice’s text message dawned on him. He sat bolt upright and read it twice more. Please call me. Someone broke in. Attacked me.
His fingers shook as he called her.
“Alice? What, uh, happened? Are you all right?”
“N... No. I need you to come home.” She sniffled down the phone.
He tried to control his voice. “What happened?”
“Someone broke in and attacked me. He... He had a key. Tried to rape me... But I fought him off. I used the mace.”
“Christ Alice. Fuck. Have you called the police?”
“They’re still here. Well one of them is, waiting for forensics.”
“Oh God, Alice. I’m so sorry.”
“For not telling me about the lounge window?”
Ian flopped back on the bed and closed his eyes. “I didn’t want to worry you.”
“Maybe...” Her voice rose and several words sounded broken. “Maybe... if you told me this wouldn't have happened.”
“No, Alice. No. There’s nothing to say they’re related.”
“But you don't know that. The police think it might be.”
“I’m sorry. Okay? Look, I’ll get the next train down. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Who would do such a thing?”
She sobbed into the phone. “It... It was your friend...”
“What? Who?”
“Flanagan. The estate agent. Your boss’s son. He did it.”
“Fuck.”
“Yes, Ian. Fuck. The police will arrest him after they leave here.”
“Why? I mean why would he do that?”
“There’s more. He had a spy camera in the bedroom. Recording me.”
“What the fuck? A camera? Christ.”
“Just come home. Please. I need you.”
71
Alice left the spare bedroom after the call from Ian. There was no point in continuing to toss and turn with a million questions keeping her mind racing. The TV was on low in the kitchen, and Moore looked up when Alice walked in. “Hey Alice, how are you doing? Get any sleep?”
Alice shook her head. “Impossible.” She brewed coffee and made small talk with Moore while they waited for the sexual assault team to arrive.
Just before 8AM, a loud rapping on the front door interrupted them. Moore went out, then loud voices filled the hall. Someone barked orders and heavy footsteps pounded up the stairs. Two women walked into the kitchen. They smiled, and the taller one in the dark trouser suit and greyish hair with a long fringe introduced herself as DS Meera Kapoor. The other, DC Liz Manning, was younger, maybe mid-thirties, brown hair tied back in a ponytail, and dressed in jeans and sweater.
“Now Alice,” Kapoor said. “We need to talk. The SOCOs have gone upstairs. We’ll let them do their job while we talk. Would you be more comfortable in the lounge?”
Alice nodded and she led Kapoor and Manning into the front room. Kapoor sat beside Alice on the sofa, and Manning took the armchair.
“Liz will take notes while we talk,” Kapoor said. “I’ll be your officer in the case. You might hear some of my colleagues refer to the OIC. For now, I will also be your SOIT...”
Alice grimaced and rubbed her hands together.
Kapoor smiled at her. “Sorry. We like our acronyms. An SOIT officer is a sexual offence investigative technique officer. It’s usually a different person than the OIC, but with all the recent austerity cuts to the Met’s budget, we don't have as many officers available as we used to. However, I can assure you I have the appropriate training.”
Manning looked up from her notebook. “It’s fine. We do more with less.”
“Forget the titles,” Kapoor said to Alice. “And please, call me Meera.”
“Sure.”
“First, I can make an appointment with one of the Havens for you. Paddington is the nearest.”
“The paramedic told me about it. But I haven’t decided yet.”
“That’s okay. It’s up to you. I can go with you if you like? If I’m off shift, I might be able to arrange another SOIT, or you can go with someone you trust. A friend?”
“I might go alone, if that’s okay?”
“No problem. Whatever you feel comfortable with.”
Alice nodded. “Thanks.”
“Why don't you tell us everything that happened?”
Alice told them almost everyth
ing that happened. She held back on the mace, and claimed she fought like a demon with her arms and legs.
When Alice finished, Kapoor asked, “Who has keys to the house?”
“Ian, myself and the estate agents. I guess Ian’s parents too.”
“Would your boyfriend have any reason to install the camera in the bedroom?”
“No. I can't imagine why. It wasn’t Ian in the bedroom, if that’s what you're implying?”
Kapoor shrugged. “Sorry. Have to ask.”
“It was the estate agent, Mark Flanagan. For sure.”
“But you didn’t recognise him when he assaulted you?”
Alice shook her head. “He wore a mask. A balaclava. He turned the radio up loud and spoke in a low voice. Like a whisper. I couldn't hear everything he said.”
“Did you scratch him when you fought him off?”
“No. The mask? I lashed out with my feet and hands.”
Kapoor cocked her head. “And he ran away after that?”
Alice nodded. “Yeah.”
“Hmm.” She rubbed the back of her neck. “We’ll have to see what the SOCOs turn up. But this could have something to do with South Kensington. Someone broke your window. You received a lot of threats on social media.”
“Maybe someone is using the terror stuff as an excuse? Someone like Flanagan?”
“Could be. Remember, others in the agency would have access to the keys and the alarm code.”
“He was the only one we dealt with. He’s Ian’s boss’s son.”
“I see.”
“You think he’ll come back?”
“In my experience, these things are once off. But you need to change the locks and your alarm code. And we’ll talk to Flanagan. If it’s him, we’ll find out soon enough.”
“It’s him.”
Kapoor looked at Manning, then back to Alice. “You’ll be safe with new locks. He’ll have no way of getting in. And you need to take the house off the market until we solve this.”
“Flanagan’s probably at home. You could arrest him.”
“Let me talk to my superiors and see what we can do.”
“Why can't you go get him now?”
“Due process, Alice. It protects the innocent and convicts the guilty.”
“Oh really? It would be terrible to arrest someone for something they didn't do, huh?”
72
DS Kapoor and DC Manning sat in an unmarked police car outside the house Mark Flanagan shared with four others. It was 9:50AM according to the clock on the dashboard, and Kapoor was getting impatient. “I think we should go in and get him, rather than wait for him to leave. Supposing he’s not there?”
“Thorne told us to wait until he comes out and do it quietly. He wanted discretion on this, hence the bullshit about finding out his movements this morning.”
“I know what he said. Doesn't mean I agree with him. You want to sit here all day?”
“Your call, Sarge. I'll do what I’m told.”
“By me or Thorne?”
Manning shrugged. “By whatever superior is present. Shit floats up, right?”
Kapoor ignored her and stared at Flanagan’s door. She shook her head. “Sod it. We’re going in.”
“Sure. How do you want to play it?”
“We’ll talk to him first, feel him out, then take him to the station.”
At the door, Kapoor nodded at Manning, then she rapped on the door while Kapoor pressed the buzzer. They waited 15 seconds before they pounded again. Someone shouted inside and the door opened. A guy in his early twenties with just out of bed hair, dressed in shorts and tee-shirt, poked his head out. “Yeah?” he asked.
“Police,” Kapoor said. She flashed her warrant card and Manning did the same. “We need to speak with Mark Flanagan. Is that you?”
“Nah. He’s in bed. I think.”
“Can we come in?” Kapoor asked.
“Don't you need a search warrant or something?” he asked.
“What’s your name?” Manning asked.
“Peter Wilkinson.”
“Okay, Peter. We don't need a search warrant because we’re not searching for anything yet.”
“Um, I still think you better wait here.” He went to shut the door, but Kapoor jammed her foot in the way.
“It’s better if we wait inside. In the hallway.”
“No way. I know my rights,” he said. He pushed back on the door. “You wait out here. I’ll go get him.”
Kapoor backed off and the door slammed shut. She heard him tramp up the stairs and bang on a door.
His voice was muffled, but she understood him. “Yo Mark? The old bill is here. They wanna talk to you. Yo Mark?” Then silence. She opened the letterbox and listened. Traces of a whispered conversation reached her, but the meaning got lost along the way. She let the letter-box clack shut. Then Wilkinson spoke from behind the door. “He’s getting dressed. Be down in a minute.”
Five long minutes passed. Kapoor lost patience. “To hell with this.” She banged on the door. “Police. Open up. Now.”
Again, she heard Wilkinson. “He’s getting dressed I told you.”
She looked at Manning. “You think there’s a back exit?”
Manning shrugged. “How would I know?”
Kapoor hammered on the door. “Peter. Open the door now or we’ll break it down.” Manning raised an eyebrow, but Kapoor ignored her. Then the door opened. Kapoor charged in. “Where is he?” Wilkinson shrugged and pointed to an open door above.
Kapoor directed Manning to stay, then hurtled up the stairs. She looked inside the bedroom. Other than tossed bed clothes, it looked tidy. But there was nobody in it. She ran back downstairs. “Where is he?” she asked Wilkinson. “What did you say to him?”
“Nothing. I told him you wanted to speak to him. That’s all.”
Then she heard a toilet flush, followed by a door lock turning. Another twenty something, dressed in collar and suit, ambled down. “You wanted to talk to me?”
“Who are you?” Kapoor asked.
“I’m Mark Flanagan.”
Kapoor felt her shoulders lighten. “About bloody time too. We need to ask you a few questions.”
“Come into the kitchen. I need a coffee.”
He walked ahead, and the detectives followed. They sat at a small table that required serious scrubbing. Kapoor reckoned this was a house full of males, with some of them yet to shed the student attitude to home life. Manning touched the tabletop with her hand. “Jesus.” She wiped her hand on the sleeve of her jacket, then fished out her notebook and pen.
Kapoor wrinkled her nose. “You ever leave out your garbage? Stinks in here.”
“It’s the heat. Makes it smell worse.” Flanagan opened a window and sat back down.
“You have a late night, Mark?” Kapoor brushed her fringe out of her eyes.
“Not really, no. Who are you guys? What do you want?”
“I’m DS Kapoor and this is DC Manning.” Kapoor leaned in closer and studied him. “Where were you between midnight and 4AM this morning?”
Flanagan knotted his brow. “Got back from the pub around 12:30. Went to bed after 1:00.”
“Anybody here that can vouch for that?”
“Sure.” He stood and poked his head into the hall. “Yo Pete? Can you come here a sec?” He sat down again. “You can ask him.”
Wilkinson strolled in. “Yeah?”
“Did you see Mark last night?”
He nodded.
Kapoor spread her arms in exasperation. “Can you be more specific please?”
“Uh, we were down the pub, left, I dunno, before 12:00. Got back here maybe 20 minutes later. Went to bed.”
“When did you last see Mark?”
He shrugged. “Dunno. Down the pub. Maybe 11:50?”
Kapoor glanced across at Manning. Flanagan could have made it to Portobello Road within that time frame. She dismissed Wilkinson with a nodded thanks and turned to Flanagan.
“Anyon
e see you after midnight?”
“Uh, I thought Pete did. But maybe not.” His eyes flitted between Kapoor and Manning, and he shifted in the chair. “What’s this about?”
“There was an incident in a house your agency is selling.”
“What?”
“Someone let themselves in with a key, disarmed the security system and assaulted the occupant.”
“Who? Where?”
Kapoor’s gaze locked on him. “Portobello Close. Alice Madsen.”
“You don't think...” Flanagan’s face reddened, and he swallowed. “Shit.”
“Shit is the operative word, all right, Mark. We need you to come to the station with us. We’re not arresting you, but the sooner you help us eliminate you from our enquiries, the better for you.”
“What? Are you saying I did something to her?”
“I don’t know, Mark. Did you? You had the keys and code to access the house unnoticed. You fancied a bit of Alice for yourself. Perhaps you knew she was alone, so you broke in, assaulted her, and only for the fact she fought you off, who knows what would have happened? Not only that, the woman identified you.”
Manning looked up. “Not looking good for you, is it?”
“But I didn’t do it,” Flanagan’s earlier redness paled, and he swallowed several times.
“We’re not convinced, Mark. You need to accompany us to the station.”
“But why? To do what?”
Manning smiled. “To answer a few more questions.”
“I want to call my dad.”
“Fine. You can do that at the station. We’ll need your phone too. Let’s go.”
Before Kapoor got into the car with Flanagan and Manning, she typed a text for Alice. We have the suspect in custody. Will keep you updated. You’re safe. She looked at it, then deleted the last sentence prior to sending it.
73
Alice sat alone in her kitchen. The adrenaline had worn off and the detectives had left, leaving the SOCOs upstairs in the bedroom. She got off the stool, then sat down again. The phone still trembled in her hand, but not as bad as earlier. It would be easy to put her head in her hands and give in to tears, then slink off to bed with a sleeping pill.
