by Andy Maslen
Callie pursed her lips.
‘Lovely. I’ve arranged with the media office to hold a press conference at five-thirty. That way we’ll catch the six o’clock TV news. I’ll want you there.’
‘OK, boss. Any line you think we should be taking?’
‘Och, you know. The usual. Terrible crime, hearts go out to family. Doing all in our power to find and arrest the killer. Ask anyone who saw something or knows something to come forward or call Crimestoppers. So what did you find out over in Wimbledon?’
Stella blew out her cheeks.
‘Not a lot, really. Jerry Connolly seems genuinely devastated by his wife’s murder. Garry and I kicked around the idea that he might have done it and made it look like a serial to cover himself, but it’s not really a goer in terms of a hypothesis. Plus I’m certain his alibi will check out. We spoke to DI Hellworthy over at Wandsworth nick, too. He came to the same conclusion, I think as soon as he saw the body. We need to try and stop the media turning this into Jack the Ripper: the Sequel, but it’s going to be bloody hard.’
Callie pursed her lips, coloured today, as always, a shade of dark red that emphasised her pale complexion.
‘Any mileage in emphasising Mrs Connolly’s respectability? Maybe they’ll think twice before painting her in the same light as the toms the Ripper did. London or Yorkshire,’ she added, almost as an afterthought.
‘Maybe, but then we run the risk of some right-on journalist accusing us of caring more about middle-class victims than poor ones.’
‘Brilliant. So we’re buggered either way, is that what you’re telling me?’
Stella smiled. Her boss’s Edinburgh accent grew stronger when she was under pressure, as did the general saltiness of her language.
‘I think we just lay it out the way it is. Niamh Connolly was murdered by an intruder. She wasn’t raped or sexually assaulted. We’re keeping an open mind.’
‘Oh, and obviously, we should hold back the details of her mutilation,’ Callie said.
‘Agreed. Simple enough to screen out the cranks and the serial confessors that way. Plus copycats.’
Callie scowled.
‘Although, how likely d’ye think it is that someone doesn’t tip off a journalist for a few quid, no questions asked and “I never reveal my sources”?’
In her heart of hearts, Stella knew the answer to that question. Not very. But she had an idea.
‘Could you come out in a minute and give a quick pep talk? Mention it then. That we’re holding back details of the mutilations to use against genuine suspects. It’ll carry more weight than if I do it, which I will anyway.’
‘OK. Let’s say in five minutes. One last thing. You know I’ve already had the brass on the phone, bending my ear about the need to get a quick result on this one. And despite what we say about all victims getting the same treatment, you and I also know that’s one hundred per cent, weapons-grade horseshit. Niamh Connolly was a high-profile, media-savvy CEO of a charity with some very influential donors, married to an extremely rich and successful City insurance broker. Whatever you may or may not think of LoveLife and its aims, and personally I think they should stick them up their Bible-bashing arses, there’s going to be enough heat on this squad to fire a bloody hog roast. And I for one,’ she jabbed a red-varnished fingernail at Stella, ‘am not going to be the little piggy going round and bloody round with a bloody apple in my mouth!’
Having delivered herself of this speech, Callie slumped back in her padded leather chair and ran a hand across her face.
‘Don’t worry,’ Stella said, sounding more confident than she felt. ‘We’ll get him, boss.’
‘Well, I bloody hope so, Stel. I really, really do. Because if he does it again it’s going to get a bit hot around here. We’ll have the whole bloody lot of them with their boots on our necks, up to and including that arrogant wee twat, Craig Morgan.’
Stella had just finished her report and added it to the policy book, as well as emailing it to Callie when the Chief Super herself left her office and stood beside the ‘Murder Board’ as they called the main whiteboard for the case.
Not being the tallest of women, Callie couldn’t be seen by many of the officers. Although those closest to her fell silent at once, there were plenty at the back of the room who were still attacking their keyboards, making calls or just bantering.
Callie caught Stella’s eye and winked. Then, in the Leith docker’s accent she’d learned to imitate as a girl, rough enough to cut sheet steel, she spoke.
‘Excuse me! If ye wouldn’t mind buttoning your bloody lips for a couple of minutes, I’d like to say a few words.’
Apart from the plasticky click as a Biro rolled off a desk, the room was silent. Stella waited. Callie’s party piece had a second act. She counted silently in her head. One…two…three… The tension in the room was as tight as a guitar string as everyone waited for the overboss to speak. Finally, Callie plucked the string.
‘Thank you,’ she said, at conversational volume, her genteel Morningside accent now firmly back in place. ‘DCI Cole and I have to go and feed the hyenas in a wee while.’ There was a murmur of appreciative laughter at this. ‘For obvious reasons, we’re holding back the details of Mrs Connolly’s injuries. I know I can trust you lot. You wouldn’t have been selected for this team if I couldn’t. Which means the media won’t be running any lurid stories about a sexual serial killer on the loose. As far as they and the general public are concerned, this is a stranger-murder. Full stop. So please keep your knowledge about the case private and exclusive to this team. OK?’
‘Ma’am?’ Baz had raised his hand.
‘Yes, Baz, what is it?’
‘What if he does it again? I mean if he kills another one and mutilates her the same way, or worse, won’t we have to give some details at that point? And then we risk being accused of holding back intel that could have protected the public at the start?’
A few other officers mumbled agreement. Stella had been running the two strategies through her head, too, and still wasn’t sure they’d picked the better option. In the endless mental tussle between public anxiety versus public safety, public safety always came first. She waited to hear what Callie would say.
‘It’s a good question. The answer is, we do risk that but, right now, I’d rather not start a panic. Apart from anything else, he’ll be pulling his tiny wee tadger in expectation of all the gory coverage. So we’re going to deny him the satisfaction of having his work discussed in the media. It’s exactly what his type get off on. But if he does do it again before we catch him, which, by the way, is what I hope and expect we will do, then we’ll have a rethink. I’ll take the heat if it comes. You lot concentrate on finding him before he does it again. Any other questions?’ Silence. ‘No? Good. So you go back to finding our killer, and DCI Cole and I will go and change into our chain-mail knickers.’
15
TUESDAY 14TH AUGUST 5.25 P.M.
Callie touched Stella on the shoulder as they made their way to Paddington Green’s first-floor media centre.
‘Quick chat?’ she asked, nodding at the door to the ladies toilets.
Stella nodded.
Inside, the two senior detectives stood elbow to elbow at adjoining sinks, checking hair and makeup. Stella always thought it was unfair that male cops could put their suit jackets on and be ready. But that was life. A female detective with a wonky fringe or panda eyes would make the front pages but for all the wrong reasons.
‘As it’s a Cat A+ murder we’ve got a dedicated media manager. Tim Llewelyn, you know him?’ Callie said without preamble.
‘Yeah, he’s OK. Doesn’t push too hard for stories when there’s nothing to say.’
‘He’ll introduce the conference and then hand over to me. I’ll give them the big picture and then I want you to make a short statement about what we’re doing, like we discussed. But there’s one more thing.’
‘Yes?’
‘I’m sure you’re keeping a
n open mind, but something in my waters tells me this one’s going to be a runner. And if we’re still working on it a month or a year from now, I’m going to want to shield you from the media. As SIO you’ll know everything and I don’t want to put you in the position of having to lie to the media. You know, all that, “Do you deny that it’s a member of the House of Lords” rubbish. Damned if you do, damned if you don’t. That’s OK with you, eh?’
‘Fine by me. Less time I spend in press conferences the better, as far as I’m concerned.’
Callie bared her teeth at herself in the mirror and rubbed her finger across her incisors. No lipstick on her teeth for the hyenas to snap.
‘Good! Let’s go then.’
Tim Llewelyn met them outside the media centre. His thinning hair had recently reached the point where he’d adopted the shaved head favoured by many of the blokes at Paddington Green, from the firearms officers, who saw it as a badge of office, to the detectives and police staff who probably went with it because it was easy. Only a few of the older guys bothered trying to disguise it with a comb-over these days. Which was, in Stella’s opinion, A Very Good Thing.
He smiled as he straightened the knot of his navy-blue tie.
‘Evening, ma’ams,’ he said.
‘Knock it off, Tim,’ Stella said, smiling back.
‘We’ve got a full house this evening. Standing room only. Must be a slow news day. Oh, and—’ He glanced down.
‘What?’ Callie asked.
‘We have a special guest. On the top table.’
Callie’s eyes widened and her lips compressed into a thin line. Stella knew the expression well.
‘And just who might that be?’ Callie asked in a voice that could freeze boiling water.
‘The Deputy Mayor for Policing and Crime.’
Stella’s heart sank. Though Callie’s response lifted it momentarily.
‘Craig bloody Morgan? The officious wee prick! Trust him to muscle in on our show. You know he wants to be the next mayor, don’t you?’
Tim looked crestfallen.
‘His press secretary is on our list. I’m sorry.’
Callie patted his arm.
‘Not your fault, Tim. Ah, well, let’s get it on and get it over with, eh?’
So saying, she gestured at the door. Tim pushed through and then stood aside to hold it open so Callie and Stella could make their way to the table, draped in a dark-blue tablecloth and dressed with a Met-branded vinyl frontage.
Sitting in the seat to the left of the centre chair was Craig Morgan, immaculate in a sharply tailored suit, crisp white shirt and an expensive-looking red tie. To Stella’s eye, the Labour wunderkind looked like an identikit politician on the way up, the make, or both. Trim figure. Close-set brown eyes. And neat brown hair cut short like a forties’ movie star.
Stella looked out across the ranks of expectant faces and saw one she recognised. Vicky Riley was there, in the middle of the third row. Vicky smiled and nodded at Stella, who dropped her eyelids in a minute gesture of acknowledgement.
Morgan stood as Callie and Stella mounted the low podium and took their own chairs at the table, which was groaning with mics. Face a picture of concern, he leaned across to shake hands, first with Callie, then Stella.
Already irritated by his presence, Stella felt her emotions tick up a notch as the photographers’ digital cameras whirred and hissed like a chorus of vultures. So it begins. She plastered a professionally grim expression on her face. No expressions the media could capture and then mischievously title, ‘Cop smiles while murderer still at large’.
‘Ladies,’ he said. ‘Craig Morgan, Deputy Mayor for Policing and Crime. Welcome. Ready when you are.’
He sat, leaving Stella fuming. Beside her, occupying the centre chair, Callie stared out across the forty or fifty journalists seated in tightly packed rows. As usual, the camera operators were at the back, with their tripods. A handful of sound operators stood each side of the stage, wielding their long grey fluffy mics like furry cudgels.
Stella had no need to glance to her right. She knew what would be going on beneath Callie’s immaculate black and silver dress uniform. On the one hand, rage that she had been outfoxed by a politician. On the other, a professional desire to use the media to help her SIO catch the killer.
Perhaps sensing what could happen at any moment, Tim wisely brought the press conference to order. Standing to one side of the table, he spoke without a mic, patting the air for silence.
‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you for coming. As usual, with briefings of this nature, we will have a short statement from the police officers in charge of this new case and then there will be time for questions.’
Morgan leaned forward and flicked the switch to activate the Met’s own mic, on a slender black wand.
‘If I may, Tim,’ he said.
Callie and Stella’s heads both snapped rightwards as if they’d been slapped.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, as you may know, I am Craig Morgan, Deputy Mayor for Policing and Crime. My role here is purely supervisory, but afterwards I shall be available for statements and interviews.’
As the reporters made notes and a few more cameras clicked, Stella heard the slow hiss of air being expelled under control from between Callie’s lips.
‘Thank you, deputy mayor,’ Tim said. ‘Detective Chief Superintendent McDonald?’
Callie straightened in her chair and performed her three-seconds-of-silence trick on the media waiting for the story that might lead the six o’clock news.
‘Last Friday, a woman was brutally attacked and killed in her home in South-west London. We are treating her death as murder. We are devoting considerable resources to solving this terrible crime. Murder is always horrific and frightening, but I want to reassure the public that London is still a very safe city and that there is no cause for undue alarm. Now I will hand over to the Senior Investigating Officer on the case, Detective Chief Inspector Stella Cole.’
Heart thumping all of a sudden, Stella inhaled and leaned forwards. The mic was sensitive enough to pick up her words clearly if she stayed sitting upright, but she felt it lent her words an extra edge of urgency, authority and sincerity if she appeared to the TV viewers to be speaking directly to them.
‘On Friday July twentieth, the body of Niamh Connolly was discovered by her husband at their house in Wimbledon. She had been subjected to a violent attack that left her dead. As SIO on the case I have a team of over one hundred officers working on discovering the identity of Mrs Connolly’s killer and bringing them to justice.
‘At this point we are asking members of the public for any help they can give us. If they saw anything unusual on Wimbledon Parkside between midday and 8.00 p.m., or any kind of suspicious activity, please get in touch with one of my officers at Paddington Green Police Station. The number should be visible on your screens. You can also call Crimestoppers on 0800 555 111 or via their website.
‘We are working flat-out round the clock in these vital early days and—’ She paused. Never promise, Stel. Never! It’ll come back to bite you in the arse. She opened her mouth to say she and her team wouldn’t rest until the case was brought to a satisfactory conclusion, but the voice she heard belonged to Morgan.
‘– and I have full confidence that the Met will catch the killer. They have my full support. Thank you.’
Stella closed her mouth with a clack of her back teeth. What did you say that for?
Tim sprang to his feet.
‘Questions?’
The room erupted. It sounded as though every single journalist was shouting at once. Tim pointed to a notebook-wielding reporter in the back row, speaking over the heads of the others and leading the room to crane their necks to see who’d been picked. In a voice that carried surprising authority, he called to her.
‘Yes. Rosie.’
‘Rosie Booker, Telegraph. DCI Cole, Mrs Connolly was a well-known anti-abortion campaigner. Was this some sort of political killing
? Sending a message?’
‘It’s very early days. We’re keeping an open mind. At this stage we are trying to determine a motive. I can’t comment further, I’m afraid.’
As Tim stage-managed the media pack, the questions came thick and fast.
‘James Tabor, Times. Was there anything unusual about the murder, DCI Cole? If it wasn’t political, was it a sexual motive?’
‘Again, it’s far too early to be speculating.’
‘Gary Collinson, Daily Mail. Was it a stranger?’
At last, an intelligent question, and one she felt she could answer a little more fully. Although the term ‘stranger’ meant different things to the public, the media and the police.
‘Although we are still checking alibis, I believe on the basis of the available evidence that, yes, Mrs Connolly was murdered by a stranger. It appears she may have inadvertently admitted her attacker into her home, but if she did have any prior acquaintance it would have been because her killer used a false identity.’
Stella glanced at Callie and signalled with her eyes that that was enough. There was nothing else to put out and any more answers to the media’s fishing expedition would only compromise the investigation, possibly by alerting the killer to their lines of enquiry.
Callie stood.
‘That’s all, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you.’
Over a renewed chorus of shouted questions, she and Stella left the podium to Morgan.
As they turned the corner, the last view of Morgan Stella had was of him giving an interview to the BBC.
16
TUESDAY 14TH AUGUST 6.10 P.M.
‘I’d like to murder him,’ Callie said. ‘Grandstanding like that. And what was all that “I have full confidence in the Met” business? Before he got appointed deputy mayor he was at us like some flag-waving student protester.’
Callie had retrieved a bottle of Scotch from a drinks cabinet in her spacious office and was busy pouring two decent measures into cut-glass tumblers. She handed one to Stella, clinked rims and then took a hefty slug.
