by Ian Robinson
‘Kebab for old times’ sake? On me?’ Harris asked.
‘You never did know how to show a woman a good time did you, Carl? That would be lovely. I’m sure the Commissioner wouldn’t begrudge us getting fed.’
CHAPTER TWENTY
The warmth of the sun was weak, but Nash accepted its energy with grace. The magistrate’s court had been stuffy and dark as she exited the court building with a warrant for further detention. Buchanan’s solicitor had been present. Buchanan was going nowhere but his cell. Nash’s team had seventy-two hours to obtain the crucial evidence to make a charge stick tighter than an overwound screw. Her gut reminded her she had some way to go as she ducked into a bakery and grabbed a coffee before she hit the tube for the journey back to base.
Her evening with DS Harris had been a good tonic. She’d been reminded that undercover work could have its moments, but for the majority of the time it could be as frustrating as investigating murder. The residual taste of kebab hung on her tongue like the scent of a sudden death. She hoped the caffeine would cake her tongue and blast the final remnants of taste from the previous evening into history. She felt her suit jacket pocket vibrate.
She took out her phone. The screen said “Sherlock”.
‘Morning, Nick, I hope you’re well?’
A laboured breathing filled her ear as she pressed the phone closer to her skin. She could hear the sound of traffic in the background. He must be on foot, or running for a bus, she thought. She hoped it wasn’t an arse dial, as she needed to update him on the events at court. It wasn’t.
‘Have you left court?’ Moretti asked.
‘I’m headed back to the office, what’s up?’
‘Don’t. I need you at St Thomas’s Hospital. A female presented there last night. She’s alleged a male wearing a ski mask raped her three weeks ago. Her hands were bound, mouth gagged, and she was threatened with a Stanley knife. The venue’s an alley near a block of flats not a million miles from where Buchanan has been getting his head down.’
Nash had stopped walking to ensure she didn’t lose their connection. She looked around for a black cab. The quicker she got to the hospital the better.
‘Who’s with her now?’ she asked.
‘A SOIT officer from a borough Sapphire team. The ones specially trained to deal with victims of sexual offences. She’d seen the Intranet appeal and called the incident room once she’d heard the victim’s initial account,’ Moretti explained.
Nash knew what a SOIT officer was but had the good sense to understand her DS’s mind was in overdrive.
‘I’ll meet you there,’ she replied, and killed the call.
Nash got to the hospital and texted Moretti to advise him she’d arrived. They met outside and went to find the SOIT officer.
They found her in a side room off a main ward. She was in her twenties, brunette, hair scraped back from her forehead that was braided down to her neck. She was making notes in her SOIT log and looked up as Nash tapped on the door to the room, Moretti behind her.
‘The nurses’ station is down the corridor on the right,’ the officer said.
‘DI Nash, and this is DS Moretti, Homicide Command. You contacted the incident room?’
The officer closed the log and sat back in her chair.
‘Sorry, guv. It’s been a long night; I’m PC Roberts, Sonia Roberts, Sapphire. Thanks for attending so quickly and not making me come to you.’
Nash sat opposite and draped her jacket behind her.
‘No problem, but don’t get any ideas of handing this over to my team. You’re the experts in this field, not us. It’s been a long night for you, don’t you have an early turn who can take this on?’ Nash said.
The officer laughed.
‘You haven’t worked on borough for a while have you?’
Nash shrugged. ‘Point taken. So, what can you tell me? How’s the victim?’
‘Diane’s doing all right, considering the trauma she’s been through. She presented last night after she’d broken down in front of her best mate who suggested she sought medical help. Her friend said she’d be better off going to hospital rather than her GP as the hospital would be more empathetic and know who to contact in the police. That’s when I was called…’ She paused as a nurse stuck her head into the room.
‘Would either of you like a drink? I’m just making one,’ the nurse said.
‘I’d love a tea please,’ Moretti said.
Nash and Roberts both put their orders in, and the nurse left.
‘Please carry on,’ Nash said.
‘As I was saying, I spoke with Diane and tried to get an initial account so that I could establish what had happened, where and when. She explained that a few weeks ago she’d been returning home from work when she sensed she was being followed. She didn’t look around, out of fear, and she thought her mind might have been playing tricks on her. As she got closer to the block where she lives, she was grabbed from behind and a hand was put over her mouth. She tried to kick out but was overpowered. She was forced into an alley and dragged into a bush. Her mouth was taped and her hands bound. She was raped… vaginally. She had her eyes closed for most of the assault but does remember the suspect wore a balaclava.’ PC Roberts paused before she looked up from her notes.
‘A few weeks ago?’ Moretti asked.
‘Diane is clear it was a few weeks ago. Three, at the most. She never reported it as she was in such a state of shock and didn’t think she’d be believed.’
‘The alleyway where it happened, where is that exactly?’ Nash asked.
‘It runs close to the Howard Estate not far from the posh blocks near the river like Thamesmere Heights,’ PC Roberts said.
Nash listened and as Roberts finished, she thought of the proximity to the murder scenes and the rape kit in the panniers of Buchanan’s motorbike. Nash’s mind was working hard as she assimilated what she knew from her caseload with this additional information. A silence had fallen on the group and Roberts looked between the two detectives.
‘Was it something I said?’ she asked.
‘I’m afraid I’ll have to remain vague with you, at this time, but you’ve been most helpful so don’t worry. You did absolutely the right thing in calling us,’ Nash said. ‘In the mean-time I will get your crime report restricted so that only a few who need to see it can. I trust the alley is secured as a scene?’
‘Yes,’ Roberts replied.
‘Good. A member of my team will attend as an observer while the SOCO is there. When will Diane be spoken to?’
‘Well, she’s not fit at present. She took a turn after speaking with me.’
Nash produced a card and handed it to Roberts. ‘When she’s ready for interview I’d like to be notified. I’ll need one of my team to be present in the audio room behind the one-way screen. She may, and I emphasise may, be able to assist us with our enquiry. However, I appreciate she’s in no fit state to be spoken to and it’s unclear whether we will need to,’ Nash said as she stood up and grabbed her jacket from the back of the chair just as the nurse returned with the drinks.
They shook hands with Roberts and left. Nash phoned the incident room and spoke with Sagona to raise actions in relation to the event and get Jonesy down to the scene to see what was being done. He needed to be eyes and ears only while the SOCO worked. Anything of interest was to be fed back to her. She then phoned the SOIT officer’s DI and appraised him of the developments.
As they got back to Moretti’s car her phone went.
‘Nash,’ she said.
‘Guv, it’s the custody inspector here. Mr Buchanan is being taken to hospital, suspected heart attack after his solicitor informed him of the warrant of further detention. Thought you’d wish to know.’
Nash thanked the inspector and closed the call.
‘You look flustered?’ Moretti said.
‘Our suspect is on route to hospital with a suspected heart attack.’
‘Oh dear,’ he replied, as he ducked into
the car.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Buchanan was flat on his back, his head caressed by a nest of pillows. A section of blue fluff had divorced itself from the cell blanket and attached to his pillowcase. He wasn’t handcuffed to the bed, but was under the watchful eye of PC Tipton, a probationer whose sole purpose was to ensure Buchanan remained in the hospital until officially released.
Buchanan awaited being seen. For Nash it gave her more time to work the investigations. Time that she could ill afford to waste.
‘Penny for them?’ Moretti said whilst they headed back to base.
Crossing Westminster Bridge, the traffic was as sluggish as ever. Nash stared out of the window as a pleasure boat meandered along. She restrained the desire to wave at the tourists as they enjoyed London’s rich history, unaware of the brutality it harboured on a daily basis.
‘Where next?’
‘The office, I thought,’ Moretti said.
‘No, I mean where in terms of the enquiries?’
‘Why not go to the CPS and get a charge authorised? God knows we have enough for Melissa Phelps. Jade Williams is certainly on the cards, even though circumstantial; if the Crown saw fit to link the two and fall on balance of probabilities.’
Nash observed the wash from the tourist boat as it swirled in a white mass of foam and water whilst she considered Moretti’s suggestion. It was tempting.
‘No. I don’t want him to slip the net on a technicality in our rush to get him on the sheet. We need a solid case for both victims. How’s Jade’s scene looking?’ Nash asked.
‘SOCO have very little to go on. The killer’s meticulously clean. Buchanan doesn’t strike me as much of a neat freak when you look at the state of the garage he used. I’m not saying it should look like an advert for a cleaning firm, but it would be suggestive of a disorganised mind and our killer would appear to be anything but,’ Moretti said.
Nash nodded. She liked the way he remained open-minded as to whom they sought. Her phone came to life.
‘Nash,’ she answered.
‘Guv, it’s Owen. Are you coming back to the office? I’ve something to show you that may open up a line of enquiry,’ DS Matthews said.
‘I was considering eloping with Moretti and risking my pension but now you’ve said that – well, I’m on my way.’ She hung up.
‘Charming. What makes you think I’d be interested in eloping with you? You’ve more baggage than a British Airways luggage hold,’ Moretti said.
Nash shook her head as Moretti drove.
* * *
As they entered the incident room Nash was pleased to see phones being answered and camaraderie among her staff. Those not inside were still engaged in the day’s actions. House-to-house follow-ups and CCTV were still on-going. Jonesy was out at the rape scene and hadn’t called the office with any update. Despite Jonesy’s maverick approach to detective duty, he was a dedicated officer and Nash was confident he’d call when he needed to.
They went to find DS Owen Matthews. He was tucked away surrounded by mobile office dividers.
‘Excuse the mess, I’m in the middle of our relocation into the main incident room as you can see, but there isn’t the space to occupy everything we had in this nice, secure, little room off the corridor that the canteen staff now inhabit,’ he said as Moretti and Nash drew up chairs around Matthews’s desk and awaited his revelation.
Nash shrugged off Matthews’s resentment at giving up his office, but she’d been given no choice. Office space had become so scarce as so much property was being sold off. Hot-desking and remote working from secure laptops was now in vogue, causing a management headache at the best of times.
‘Right, I’ve found what I need,’ Matthews said, spreading various sheets of A4 across the table in front of his audience.
The pages contained pictures of cats. Nash glanced at Moretti.
‘Now, I know you’re thinking, what the fuck are we looking at pictures of cats for?’ Matthews said. ‘But there’s a valid reason I assure you.’ He looked about for his own seat and realised Moretti had occupied it. As one of his DCs got up to see Sagona, Matthews commandeered his.
‘Remember you asked me to research social media history for each victim? Well, we did, and this is what we found…’
‘A love of cats?’ Moretti mocked.
‘Yes and no. They both had the usual accounts: Facebook, Twitter, Snapchat. What revealed the most for our purposes was Instagram.’ Matthews paused as Moretti and Nash scanned the images in front of them.
‘Owen, forgive me, but none of these images are of the victims’ cats? So what relevance is this to the investigation?’ Nash asked.
She picked one photo up. It showed a hairless creature all pink-skinned which looked like a rat with alopecia that affected the entire body.
‘They’re meant to be hairless. It’s a breed thing,’ Matthews commented as he took back the image and replaced it in the order he’d arranged them.
‘Anyway, you’ve thrown me off track. Now, where was I? Oh yes. Each victim loved to show where they were and what they were doing despite their high-profile roles within their own fields. They liked to get out at weekends and let their hair down. Lots of images at clubs and wine bars for Phelps, while Williams preferred restaurants and coffee places.’
‘Owen – what do you want us to know that was so urgent we came in?’ Nash asked.
It wasn’t that she didn’t value what Matthews had to say, it was that Matthews had previous for not getting to the point.
‘Sorry. Each victim shot images with location services active on their phones. This meant whenever they uploaded an image to any of the sites, it was shown where and when it was taken. Naturally, they both uploaded more images to Instagram and every single shot had the location it was taken.’ Matthews paused.
Nash’s eyes widened, as she held her hands out, palms towards Matthews, her forearms on her thighs as she bent forward. When he didn’t carry on, she spoke.
‘That’s interesting. Not being a fan of social media, I find it astonishing that you can do that, but how is it relevant to our enquiries? It’s good that we can build a lifestyle picture beyond what we found at each flat. Can we link Buchanan to each scene beyond what we have at present in addition to his statement and the forensics? On the phone you sounded like you had more than that?’ Nash said.
Matthews turned away from his computer screen and tapped the images on the desk that contained cats.
‘You’re right, Pip, none of these images contain our victims’ cats, but all these cats live in the same blocks as our victims,’ he said.
Before Moretti or Nash could comment, Matthews produced further pages of A4. Each sheet contained pictures of the victims’ cats. Each image Matthews had captured from their Instagram sites showed the location of where the victim lived. He produced a further sheet. The data showed the images they’d taken over the period of a year. First, Melissa Phelps. Each thumbnail of her cat showed an image from kitten to adulthood. Each taken with the location displayed.
‘So, these show Melissa’s block as an address?’ Nash asked.
‘Yes. All you have to do is click on the location the image was taken and you go to a map. Zoom in and there’s the block. Now, if the killer knew her Instagram account then he could work out where she lived by following her or trying other Internet searches for name and address. Same for Jade. Hers too showed her block as the location where each image of her cat was taken,’ Matthews said.
He sat back and placed his arms behind his head, rocking the swivel chair with the sides of his brown leather boots as he massaged the floor.
Both Nash and Moretti remained silent for a short while as they considered the presentation. It was interesting but was it significant? The suspect could’ve followed each victim and established a pattern of lifestyle using the pictures of places frequented from social media pages as a resource. A possibility.
‘What privacy setting is on the accounts?’ Moretti as
ked.
‘They’re both private. Only those following them can see the images,’ Matthews said.
Moretti stood up and went over to the murder board Matthews hated so much and looked at how it was shaping up. Pictures of the victims, and one of Buchanan on his motorbike, and his mug shot from custody, tacked to the board along with the block details for each victim and a map of where they were situated.
He turned back to Matthews.
‘Correct me if I’m wrong, Owen, but are you theorising our killer is targeting cat lovers via Instagram? From the locations posted, as a result of their phone settings, he or she knows where they live?’ Moretti raised his eyebrows.
Matthews ruffled his hair.
‘Now you say it aloud it does sound far-fetched, but when I established the pattern it seemed feasible,’ Matthews said.
‘But that would mean the killer is on each of their friendship lists, wouldn’t it?’ Nash chipped in.
‘Well, it’s a possibility,’ Matthews said.
Moretti sat back down.
Nash addressed Matthews, ‘Check the friends list for each victim and see what you find. If Buchanan is on both, I want to know. If nothing shows, then we’ll reconvene and decide whether to pursue the line of enquiry or put it to bed. Any other links with Buchanan beyond what we already know then I want to be informed. I want the same done for Buchanan with any social media sites associated to him. We’ll look at the venues the victims habitually frequented and get them visited with an image of Buchanan. Let’s see if he’s been to any of those and asking questions. If he has, I want to know when and why he was there.’
Nash went back to her office and was greeted by a mountain of paperwork. She sat down and pulled her in tray towards her as she summoned the energy for the task ahead. Moretti knocked on her door.
‘Can I come in?’ he asked.
‘Of course. I need a distraction from this lot,’ she said, a batch of paperwork in her hand.
‘I’ve just heard from Jonesy. They’ve finished at the rape scene. Jonesy made sure Dan, the SOCO, spoke with me before he left. I’ve told him to ensure any marks, DNA or fibres, are compared with what we found in each of our scenes. He said he’d liaise with our SOCO, Yvonne, as soon as he had any results. Jonesy mentioned the SOCO had retrieved some fibres and a partial shoe mark, but he’s not certain there’s enough for a match. Nevertheless, it’s something and at the very least it may help catch the bastard who raped her,’ he said.
