by Jay Gill
“All his appointments go in his work diary at the gallery. As for our friends, I can give you a list. Someone might know something.”
“I checked his diary. His last appointment was with a Mr Richard Money. Do you recognise that name?”
“No.” Walsh looked as if he wanted to say something but was holding back. “This is going to sound stupid. But he did say he thought he was being followed. He told me he thought a man was following him. We just laughed about it. ‘You should be so lucky,’ I said at the time.”
“When was this?”
“A few weeks ago, I suppose.”
“What did this man look like?”
“He didn’t say. I don’t know for sure whether he actually saw anyone. I think it was more of a feeling, really. We never took it seriously. Now I wish we had.” Walsh got up and went to his bedroom. “I just remembered something,” he called over his shoulder.
A few moments later he returned and handed me a card. “We got this through the letterbox a few months ago. Toby said we should destroy it but I decided to keep it. It’s nothing, I’m sure. I’ve had hate mail before. Growing up it was obvious I was gay, so I’ve had to deal with all kinds of abuse. For Toby it was different, though. This was the first time he’d received anything of this kind. You know, he left his wife and children for me. He sees his children again now, but...” Walsh broke off mid-sentence and broke down again. “Toby’s children,” he said.
“There’s a detective with them right now. They’re being looked after.” I opened the card and read it to myself.
So glad to see you’re happy. You don’t deserve to be. I’ll make sure you suffer. Keep looking over your shoulder. One day I’ll be there and it’ll be the last thing you see.
“When did you get this?”
“Six months ago, maybe.”
“Did you report it?”
“Really? And what exactly would you lot have done?” said Walsh bitterly.
In reality, Walsh was probably right, and now wasn’t the time. Walsh curled up on his armchair while he waited for his family to arrive. I looked around the apartment for anything that might give me an insight into what had driven someone to so brutally murder Toby Fielding. Could his murder have been random? Was it a hate crime? Or, as with most murders, was it someone he knew, a family member perhaps?
And why was the murderer so filled with hate?
Chapter Twenty-Six
Baker shut his study door with his foot and placed a selection of crackers and cheeses, a bottle of red wine and a glass down on his desk. His mother could no longer manage the stairs and the whole floor was his.
Baker powered up his laptop and began flicking through pictures and video. He was pleased; the colours looked vivid, and most of the pictures were sharp. His phone had picked up the sound well, better than he had hoped. Phone and laptop synced, he began uploading the images. While they uploaded, he signed into the members’ site; this was going to be good. By now other members must have thought he was either all talk or dead or arrested. They were going to be surprised when he not only signed in again after so long but also had something to contribute.
With the images loaded onto his laptop, he opened Photoshop and began editing the pictures, brightening, sharpening and tweaking the contrast and saturation until he was satisfied.
Baker talked to himself as he worked. “Katharine, you look so beautiful. I think I’ll soften you a little. There. Perfect. Of all my work you are by far the best. Toby was just a bloody mess; no finesse. You, on the other hand, are exquisite. They are going to love you.”
He got up and ran a finger over his books. He pulled out a copy of The Great Gatsby. He turned it over, lifted the back cover and, with a scalpel, cut around a USB stick into the pages. He pushed the USB stick into the little divot; it fitted perfectly. He removed the USB, then transferred the images and video onto it and set it back in the space he’d cut at the back of the book. He put the book into a jiffy bag and addressed it with a marker pen. He checked twice he had the address correct. Next, he took the tin from his rucksack and took out the Saint Christopher necklace, which he slipped inside the envelope. Finally, he wrote two quick notes. The first read:
A gift as promised.
I call this “Ophelia.” All went pretty much to plan. Thank you, once again, for your help and advice.
Kind regards, S.B.
P.S. Next already scheduled.
Baker slipped the notes in with the book and placed the jiffy bag next to the door, ready for posting.
For the next few hours he chatted online with fellow members. It was good to catch up. He waited as long as he could before posting a few images and then finally a short video. He ate crackers and cheese and sipped wine while he waited for feedback.
He didn’t need to wait long. Within just a few minutes, the comments began pouring in. He felt a real sense of pride and accomplishment as he began receiving praise.
@dracs: Congrats.
@singlewhitefemale: Well done, buddy
@thegentleman: You one stone killer now
@hannibal: Nu u hd it in u. Smkn
@thementor: Congratulations and Welcome. I will upgrade your account once I verify.
@crucified: Awesome. Bet you’re feeling better now. Congrats my friend.
@cody666: Nice. She’s hot.
@hannibal: @cody666 u thnk nythng tht mvs is hot
@cody666: FU @hannibal. Least I’ve got a pair
@hannibal: Wht?
@saucyhorse: Well done. Bet you have a real taste for it now.
@thinkhappythoughts: top work. See you in hell, ha ha
@hannibal: Scrw u @cody666
@admin: @hannibal, @cody666, please remain courteous and professional or you will be asked to leave and blocked from membership.
@hannibal: I aplgs
@cody666: Sorry.
@cody666: That dick @hannibal started it
@miamimurders: Well done you. Go get em.
@thecrow: very well done
@priest: Welcome to the elite
The praise kept coming, and certain members, the usual suspects, scrapped it out like wild dogs. Baker finished off the wine and yawned and stretched. He was still aching, but all in all it had been a pretty perfect day. Tonight he would sleep like a baby.
Before going to bed, Baker went to his rucksack and took out the tin of photographs. He looked around the room and then placed the tin on his bookshelf. Finally, he opened a desk drawer and pulled out his list. He crossed through Katharine’s name and put a tick next to the name beneath hers.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
When the phone rang in the early hours there was a better than average chance someone was dead. I sat up in bed and fumbled the phone to my ear. It was the station sergeant. Seemed there had been a tip-off. Someone was keen to show off their work. It was rare, but it happened. I wrote down the details before I was even fully awake. I felt dazed; the body count had just jumped again.
I threw on some clothes, brushed my teeth and headed out to the car. I was on my way to a bungalow an hour or so outside London. A little off my usual patch, but the gallery murder and bungalow murder must be linked in some way if the tip-off call was delivered in the same way.
When I arrived, I was introduced to the Thames Valley Serious Crime officers, who had taken control of the murder crime scene; their investigation was already well under way. Press were just setting up and were looking to find out whether this was newsworthy. I spotted some familiar faces. A cameraman from ITV was there; as soon as he spotted me, I knew word would spread this was a murder investigation and a big deal.
I entered the house and was introduced to Detective Inspector Stowell. Our paths had crossed a few times and we’d discussed cases and suspects over the phone on several occasions but never really got to know each other. Considering the circumstances, he seemed in a buoyant mood and was keen to share what he knew so far.
“Housekeeper’s name is Mrs Anne Partridge. Around
six a.m. she found the body of her employer’s daughter. She had come to prepare the house for the return of Mr and Mrs Wells, who are returning from a week in Portugal. Has worked for the family for about nine years. She was pretty hysterical when we got here.
“Dead woman’s name is Katharine Wells. She’s thirty-three. Lives here with her parents. This is the home of the parents. Parents are Diane and Terry Wells. Mr Wells is a builder who made a fortune renovating and selling properties.
“Mrs Wells was a science teacher for thirty years. Both are retired now. Lucky them. Mr and Mrs Wells have a place in Portugal. They go there regularly, usually at least once a month.”
Nice, I thought.
“Katharine stayed behind,” Stowell went on, “which she often does, according to the housekeeper. That gives them all some space once in a while. We’re waiting to speak to Mr and Mrs Wells to find out whether Katharine couldn’t afford to move out of the family home or whether she lives here for another reason, like a relationship break-up.
“Mrs Partridge always topped up the fridge and generally made sure they had a few essentials before they arrived back. She let herself into the house as usual and did her thing. She presumed Katharine was still in bed, so she carried on with a quick tidy-up and check of the rooms, and that’s when she found her dead in the bath. At first, she thought Katharine had fallen asleep, but then when she couldn’t wake her, she called an ambulance. Paramedics could see straight away death was suspicious from the neck marks. They called us.”
He closed his notebook. “Now you know as much as I do.”
“When are the parents due back?”
“I had them picked up. They’re on their way from the airport right now. Should be here within the hour.”
“So, do you mind?”
“Not at all. I’d be interested to see what you think. Go right ahead; she’s through there.”
We walked through to the bathroom, where Forensics were examining the woman and taking samples.
“Bit crowded in here, detectives,” said a voice I recognised. “Thought I heard your voice, Hardy.” Hamilton got to her feet and held out her hand. “Guess you’re here for the same reason as me. Possibly the same killer as the victim at the gallery?”
“Guess so, Heidi. It’s good to see you.”
“You two know each other?” said Stowell. “I was wondering why we needed Scotland Yard Forensics here. And this is part of a bigger investigation? Your investigation? Well, that’s just great. Don’t I feel like the tea boy?” He scowled.
“Listen, it’s early,” I told him. “We don’t know all the facts yet. This incident could be linked or it could be isolated; it’s too early to say. All we know right now is that we received an anonymous tip-off similar to one we received about a body found in a London gallery.”
“We know this was not suicide, nor was it an accident. We know she was strangled with some sort of cord,” said Hamilton, trying to shift the subject back to the here and now. “We also know she’s been dead around twenty-four hours. We know she was killed in the bedroom and dragged through to here and put in the bath. We know she fought back. We also know the killer staged the scene.”
Stowell handed me a rose petal. “These were scattered in the bath with her.”
I stepped carefully into the bathroom to take a closer look. Such a brutal way to go; she must have been so scared. “Was that over there when you got here?” I pointed to the shower curtain, which had been folded and placed on the wash basket.
“Yes. We haven’t moved anything yet,” said Hamilton.
“Scarf?”
“The scarf was added post mortem. Most likely added once she was in the bath.”
I looked at Stowell. “Any sign of a break-in?”
“Still working on it,” said Stowell.
Hamilton shook her head and shrugged. “I’ve been in here. Not heard anything about the break-in. I do forensic pathology; I leave broken windows and jimmied doors to you and your friends – no offence.”
Stowell looked offended.
“You’ll get used to her,” I said. “She thinks because she has a microscope at home, she’s the only one who does any real detective work around here.” I smiled, trying to ease the tension.
“Well, it’s true, isn’t it? You boys just drink tea and chat all day.” Hamilton looked at my face, which was still a little bruised. She winked at me. “Some of you also like to pick fights with bullies.”
“Let’s leave the Death Detective to her work,” I said to Stowell, turning away. “We’ll check out the rest of the house.”
She wouldn’t have admitted it, but I knew Hamilton, like many of us in the business, used black humour when she was upset; she liked to pretend she was invincible. I’d worked that out a long time ago, and I sensed she was feeling it today. I made a mental note to call her later to see how she was doing. I’d see if she needed some company; perhaps we could finally go for that drink I’d been promising her, be a supportive ear for her. She’d been there enough times for me in the past; it was the least I could do.
I worked my way through the house slowly and methodically. About twenty minutes later, I heard the parents arrive. I stayed away from them for the time being. Left it to Stowell. I would speak to them later. I didn’t need to be there when they heard the news no parent ever wants to hear. Right now, I was more use to them doing what I was doing, looking for evidence that would lead to their daughter’s killer.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Katharine’s parents had given DI Stowell the name of Katharine’s best friend. Tara Bishop and Katharine had been friends in school and were still close. Tara’s flat was on my way back to London, so I suggested to Stowell I pay her a visit.
The road was full of parked cars, so I parked a few streets away and walked the short distance to 17 Dereham Mews. I rang the doorbell and waited. A face appeared at the window on the second floor. I showed my warrant card. A few moments later a young woman in a dressing gown appeared at the door.
“Hello?”
“I’m Chief Inspector Hardy. Tara Bishop?”
Tara nodded. “What’s wrong?”
“Do you mind if we go inside? I need to talk to you, ask a few questions, that sort of thing. Not the sort of thing to be done on a doorstep.”
“Let me see your police badge again.”
“My warrant card? Of course.”
Tara carefully inspected the warrant card, presumably in her mind satisfying herself it was genuine. I followed her to her one-bedroom apartment, which was warm, if a bit of a mess, with clothes scattered on chairs and some on the floor. She gathered an armful together to reveal an armchair for me.
“Sorry,” she said. “No maid service; you know how it is. Tea? I was just making some.”
I noted the pile of unclean dishes piled up in the sink and over the worktop. “That’s very kind but, no, thank you. I have some bad news.”
“My dad, I suppose.” Tara began looking at the cups amongst the dirty dishes, checking them to see if she could find one clean enough to use.
“No, not your dad. As far as I am aware, your dad is fine. I’m here about your friend Katharine.”
“Katharine. What has she done now? Whatever it is, I can’t help. I haven’t seen her in a couple of months. Is she all right?” Tara stopped trying to find a clean cup and looked at me. “What is it?”
“I’m afraid not. She was murdered. Possibly yesterday, possibly the day before. We’ll know for sure tomorrow morning. Her body was discovered early this morning at her parents’ home.”
Tara stood and stared at me. For a while she couldn’t speak, or at least didn’t know what to say. I sat her in the chair she had cleared for me and made her some tea while the news sank in. For some reason, I was tempted to do the washing up but thought better of it. I sat with her and drank tea. A biscuit would have been nice; I was feeling hungry.
I watched her for a while. She looked pale, red around the eyes, but there wa
s no crying. I was keen to get on with the questions but held back. No point pushing her straight away; better to let it sink in, and then the brain can process questions easier. I looked at the clock on the front of the oven; it was nearly six.
“You knew her well – Katharine, I mean? I understand you were school friends.”
“Yeah. Best friends since primary school. She used to look after me. I used to get bullied a lot. I was quiet and very shy,” Tara explained. “Made me a perfect target.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I haven’t seen her in a while. I moved in here with my boyfriend.” She looked around her apartment. “Her work means she sort of vanishes into her world, and for a while she sort of falls off the radar for a bit. Then after a few months she sort of pops back up again and we catch up. Then a few months later it starts all over again.”
“What work did she do?”
“Journalist. She was always clever. I lost count of the number of times I wished I could be like her.”
“For who? Who did she work for?”
“Nobody and everybody. She does her own investigative journalism; said she was freelance. Just like school, she likes to report on bullies and help the little guy. She’s always been a fighter. She exposes all sorts of stuff. Corrupt politicians, dodgy coppers – sorry. Perverts, drug dealers. She’s done stuff on how much the armed forces spend on renewing missiles. NHS wastefulness. Charity scams. She’s fearless. If she hears about someone who’s corrupt or has got away with something, something that Katharine feels she can report on, then she does a video and posts it online. She’s got so many followers, millions of followers, all around the world. Look.”
Tara called up one of Katharine’s videos on her phone and showed me. Right there in front of me was the girl I’d seen lifeless in the bath. Now alive, vibrant and full of indignation.
