by Andy Maslen
‘The media are making a big deal out of it already, even without us confirming it’s a serial. If we hold back completely, they’ll accuse us of dragging our feet. And if, God forbid, he does it again, we’ll be screwed seven ways from Sunday.’
Callie nodded her head, her lips a thin line. Wordlessly, she pushed that morning’s copy of the Sun across her desk to Stella, who picked up the tabloid and unfolded it.
Beside a picture of Sarah Sharpe, a studio shot by the look of it, the headline, set in white type out of a black panel, screamed out at the reader.
TWISTED KILLER
SLAYS SECOND
‘GOOD WOMAN’
As she read the two brief paragraphs beneath the headline, Stella could feel anger boiling up inside her.
The sick killer of anti-abortion campaigner Niamh Connolly has struck again. Yesterday evening, Sarah Sharpe, 60, the editor of The Church Times, was found dead at her London home.
A source close to the investigation told the Sun, ‘These were good women. They’ve been butchered like animals.’ The Sun has seen photos of the victims’ injuries, but as a family newspaper we can’t print them as they are too distressing.
Stella flung the paper down. She looked at Callie.
‘Some bastard’s leaked the crime scene photos.’
Callie nodded.
‘Aye, that would be my conclusion. Any point my asking how you’re going to shut them down?’
Callie’s meaning was clear enough. There were far too many people who had access to the photos. And in the age of digital imaging, finding, copying and sharing them was, literally, child’s play. To track down the leaker would devour resources Stella simply didn’t have to spare. They’d just have to live with it. She’d impressed on her team the need for total confidentiality. It couldn’t have been one of them, could it?
A thought flitted across her brain. Morgan had been examining them after the morning briefing.
‘You know as well as I do. We’d be chasing our tails when we should be chasing the killer. But I’ll have a word in a few ears. See if anyone’s been flashing the cash around all of a sudden. Buying themselves a new watch or paying off a car loan.’
‘It’s going to make today’s press conference interesting,’ Callie said, a wry smile twisting her lips. ‘The beasts will be baying for blood.’
‘Yeah, ours,’ Stella said, still feeling like she wanted to hit somebody very hard. ‘I don’t suppose we can keep that prick Morgan out of it, can we?’
Callie shuddered. Then she shook her head.
‘’Fraid not, Stel. He has a right to be there and as he pays the commissioner’s wages there’s no way I can get support from higher up. I tell you, if anyone ever offers you a chief super’s position, point over their shoulder and when they turn round to look, run for the hills.’
Stella stopped off at Becky’s desk on her way to her own.
‘Hi, Becks. How’s that list coming on?’
Becky smiled. She never seemed to get tired. Stella envied her for it and supposed it must be something to do with being in your twenties and not racing up to the big four-oh.
‘It’s coming, but it’s also growing. I’m up to seventy-nine, so far. All women who have been on radio or TV, or in YouTube videos, or written articles for the press, or spoken at conferences or workshops. Plus visitors from overseas. Did you know that there are over two thousand female televangelists in the USA, boss?’
‘No, Becks, I did not,’ Stella said, smiling.
Becky shook her head. ‘I’ve watched some of their YouTube videos. They scare me!’
‘Maybe that’s why he’s killing them. Maybe he’s scared.’
‘I tell you, boss, if you saw the hairstyles, you’d be scared!’
Stella laid a hand on the young DC’s shoulder.
‘This is excellent, Becks. And great idea of yours in the first place. Keep going.’
At 5.30 p.m., Stella sat beside Callie, staring out at the assembled journalists. After the Sun’s scoop, the number of replies to the standard release inviting the media to a briefing had almost doubled.
Tim Llewelyn had booked them into a room normally used for conferences at New Scotland Yard. It held a hundred seated. Today, that number had swelled by half again. TV reporters, photographers, camera crews, print journalists, bloggers: it seemed anyone with a press pass or National Union of Journalists card or Fisher Price ‘My First Reporter’s Kit’ had blagged themselves a seat. Or, failing that, a couple of square feet on the carpeted steps leading up the sides of the raked auditorium.
To Callie’s right, a frown etched into his features, sat Craig Morgan.
43
WEDNESDAY 22ND AUGUST 5.30 P.M.
Stella looked across at Morgan. In profile, his nose looked undersized for his face, a snub triangle where something more substantial was needed. He swept the room with his eyes before his gaze fell on Stella. He nodded, lips unsmiling. She felt obliged to return the brief, professional gesture, though internally she was anxious he was about to pull another stunt like the last time.
‘I’ll now ask DCI Cole to update you on the progress of the investigations into the murders of Niamh Connolly and Sarah Sharpe,’ Tim said. ‘Please save your questions for the end.’
Before he’d found his way to the side of the stage, a young woman sporting a shock of turquoise hair tied up in little plaits yelled out, an iPhone held above her head.
‘Is this Jack the Second, DCI Cole?’
Stella ignored the question and was pleased to see a few of the older hacks shaking their heads and smirking. She read the prepared statement she and Callie had drafted with Tim’s help.
‘On Tuesday the twenty-first of August, the body of Sarah Sharpe, sixty, was discovered by a member of the public at her house in Ladbroke Grove.
‘At the moment we are working hard to identify the time of death but I can say that Sarah was murdered some time in the past few days. On behalf of the Metropolitan Police Service, I want to extend my sincere condolences to Ms Sharpe’s family and say that we will be devoting all the resources at our disposal to catching her killer. At this point we have a number of promising leads and my team are working round the clock to follow these up.
‘My first duty is to the public, and specifically to their safety. For that reason I would like to ask women to be careful about agreeing to meet people they don’t know, especially if meeting at their own home is proposed. We do know that Niamh Connolly’s killer used a false identity to persuade her to agree to the meeting. We are trying to ascertain whether the same approach was used on Sarah Sharpe.
‘This man is extremely dangerous and we advise members of the public who believe they see anything or anyone suspicious to call the police immediately using nine nine nine. On no account should they approach them directly.’
Stella turned at nodded at Tim as the cameras flashed and buzzed. He stood and spoke into a handheld mic.
‘Thank you, DCI Cole. Questions?’
The room erupted. Shouted questions collided in mid-air and rained down on the two senior detectives and the deputy mayor like spears hurled by hostile forces. Stella saw Vicky, hand aloft, and pointed at her. She raised her voice and injected a little steel into it.
‘Yes, Vicky.’
‘Do you believe the two murders were committed by the same person?’
‘At this point we can’t rule it out. There were similarities between the two murders, but without firm evidence linking them to the same perpetrator, we can’t exclude the possibility that we’re actually looking for two separate killers.’
Vicky smiled encouragingly at Stella as she wrote down the answer in her notebook. Stella had no time to acknowledge the gesture before a deep male voice bellowed out a question.
‘Andy Robbins. The Sun. Do you deny that women in London are under threat from a serial killer?’
He’d thrown her a hospital pass of a question. ‘Yes, I deny it,’ could come back to haunt her if the
killer went for his third. ‘No, I don’t,’ would cause panic. But Stella hadn’t got to be an SIO by buckling under incoming fire.
‘Two murders, as yet unconnected, do not constitute multiple linked offences. As such, it is premature to use labels that would only lead to public anxiety.’
‘Yeah, but a third one would do it, wouldn’t it?’
Feeling she was being backed into a corner, Stella tried to deflect Robbins.
‘As you know, three serious crimes committed by a single person is the criterion for considering them the work of a serial offender.’ Good, so far, Stel. You haven’t said ‘serial killer’ out loud so they can’t quote you. And the formal language won’t sell papers. She looked away from Robbins and pointed at the BBC’s crime correspondent.
‘Yes, Harry.’
‘Both victims were prominent Christians. What do you make of that?’
Stella preferred the longer, rambling style of questions often asked by inexperienced journalists. While they were enjoying the sound of their own voice, she had plenty of time to prepare an answer. This was short and sharp. No thinking time. No hesitating allowed, either, it made you look weak and indecisive at best and a liar at worst.
‘It’s obviously a factor we are investigating. So far we’ve discovered nothing –’ Shit! Just said we’ve discovered nothing. Too late. Move on. ‘– to indicate that the killer or killers had a religious motive.’
Stella was sweating under the combined heat of the bright TV lights and the blood rushing round her system like it was late for a wedding. Her pulse was thudding inside her ribcage, in her ears and her throat.
‘Connor Davis, Buzzfeed News. Were they sexually assaulted?’ a young guy shouted.
Christ! Stella thought, he looks like he hasn’t left school. But at least that was more of an underarm toss than the last one.
‘Niamh Connolly was not sexually assaulted. We are still waiting for the results of the post mortem on Sarah Sharpe so I can’t give you an answer on her.’
She looked round at the forest of hands. Tried to block out the noise of the dozens of journalists shouting at her. Spotted a woman she’d had a couple of reasonably helpful exchanges with in the past.
‘Liz?’
‘Liz Valentine, Guardian. Thank you, DCI Cole,’ she said, smiling. But it was a smile with a sting. The eyes betrayed her. ‘Are you going to use a profiler?’
Frustrated that her contact had apparently decided to throw a spear instead of a beanbag, Stella opened her mouth to answer. And once again heard Morgan’s voice emerging.
‘Yes, we are looking at all avenues and certainly a profiler is in the mix.’
Stella whirled to her right to see Callie doing exactly the same. Even without seeing her boss’s expression, she knew Callie would be struggling to maintain her composure. ‘Every wee bastard that’s ever watched telly thinks all you need’s a bloody profiler to catch serial killers,’ she’d said the previous night over the second or third single malt.
Callie faced front again.
‘As DCI Cole said in response to an earlier question, at this point we are unable to confirm or deny that these two appalling crimes are the work of a single perpetrator. Therefore, whilst we do keep all our options open, there are no grounds as yet for thinking we are looking at a serial offender.’
Thanks, Callie. You took my head off the block and replaced it with your own.
But Morgan clearly hadn’t finished grandstanding.
‘Detective Chief Superintendent McDonald is right, of course. Nevertheless, I can confirm, as Deputy Mayor for Policing and Crime, that we are in the process of engaging the services of an experienced offender profiler. I intend to leave no stone unturned in bringing this man to justice.’
Stella was exerting herself so hard to prevent the stream of expletives in her head from bursting free that she missed Tim bringing the press conference to an end.
When the room had emptied out, Stella turned to Morgan.
‘What the f—, what the hell did you say that for?’
Morgan smiled and wrinkled his forehead as if baffled.
‘Say what, DCI Cole?’
‘About bringing in a profiler?’
‘Have you considered it?’
‘Not as yet. Profilers are expensive and often a waste of time.’
‘That’s not what I’ve heard. But are you saying your budget won’t stretch to an external profiler?’
Grateful for the get-out, Stella agreed. Too readily, as it turned out.
‘Yes. You must know that we’re under financial pressure. You’re the one with his hands on the purse strings, after all.’
‘That’s true. Although the Mayor is the woman you should really be directing your anger at. I am only her deputy, after all. But here’s the thing. I have a contact at Westminster University. He’s a lecturer in Abnormal Psychology. And a Home Office-registered forensic psychologist. He’s been doing a lot of good work on serial killers. I think I could secure his services at, what shall we say, a significant discount.’
Stella opened her mouth to protest that the last thing she needed was an academic looking to burnish his credentials by spouting off to the media about how the killer might, or might not be, a manual worker with mummy issues, when Callie laid a hand on her shoulder.
‘If you think your,’ she paused, ‘contact would be amenable, deputy mayor, then please, send us his contact details.’
Morgan smiled at Callie. Then shook his head.
‘I wouldn’t want to put you or your officers to any trouble, Callie. I’ll give Ade a call and get him to come in and meet you.’
With his words hanging between them, he left, shouting to an aide who was hanging about at the back of the auditorium.
Stella turned to Callie.
‘He planted that question on Valentine.’
‘Maybe he did and maybe he didn’t.’
‘But, Callie, we don’t need a profiler. Jamie Hooke could actually give us something concrete, but you know what those profilers are like. A white male between eighteen and thirty-five who has poor social skills. That’s basically the entire IT department of the Met!’
Callie smiled.
‘You’re not wrong. But Morgan’s a powerful man. I heard he’s going to be Labour’s mayoral candidate next time. It pays to keep him onside.’
Raging internally at Morgan, and at Callie, Stella tried to hold back. And failed.
‘You’ve drunk the political Kool-Aid. I thought you’d stand up for me.’
As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Stella knew she’d made a mistake. But there they were, hanging in the charged air between them. She looked down, ashamed to have insulted her friend. Callie’s reply made it worse.
‘I’m trying, Stel, believe me. But behind the scenes you have to pick your battles. Going head to head with that wee prick isn’t the right one. So he gets in a profiler. It’s like a bloody tick box nowadays. The media expect it, the brass, too. So we listen to whatever rubbish he comes up with and I’ll try and make sure it doesn’t come out of our budget, OK?’
‘OK. Look, I’m sorry for what I just said. It’s just, I really hate the way he’s barging into my investigation to score political points. I want to say it’s so unfair, but that makes me feel about fifteen.’
Callie laughed, a sound full of warmth and genuine good humour.
‘Aye, well, how does that prayer go, “God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know when the only thing that’ll hit the spot is a bloody big drink”?’
Now it was Stella’s turn to laugh.
‘Come on, then. How about a swifty at the Chandos? It’s only up the road.’
44
WEDNESDAY 22ND AUGUST 5.45 P.M.
The pub sat at the southern end of St Martin’s Lane, a stone’s throw from Trafalgar Square. Tourists vied for space with office workers having a quick drink before fighting their way onto
the overheated tube.
With two pints of lager in her hands and a bag of cheese and onion crisps dangling from her teeth, Callie cut an unlikely figure in her splendid dress uniform. Spotting her looking for a table, a couple of youngish guys, mid-twenties, Stella estimated, jumped up from the little round table they’d snagged by a coatrack.
‘Hey, er, excuse me?’ the nearest guy said. ‘Would you like our table?’
‘That is extremely kind of you,’ Callie said through clenched teeth.
He shrugged.
‘What you lot do to keep us safe, you know, I mean, thank you.’
Callie and Stella sat, thanking the two guys who moved a few feet away and found a shelf to sit their pints on.
‘There’s a surprise,’ Callie said. ‘I think the last time a man gave up his seat for me I was pregnant with Louisa.’
Stella sipped her lager.
‘How is she?’
‘Och, you know. Sixteen years old and thinks she knows it all. Plus having a mum who’s a copper, well, it’s not exactly, like, cool, is it?’
Hearing Callie doing a fair imitation of her teenaged daughter’s lingo, but in a prim, Miss Jean Brodie accent, was too much for Stella. She snorted, ejected a spray of lager onto the table.
‘Oh, God, sorry!’ she said, swiping at the sticky liquid with an inadequate paper tissue.
‘Not a problem. Good to see you laughing. Now, about the media.’
‘Please say you’re taking me off the board,’ Stella said.
‘I am. We’ve got, or we’re about to get, to the point where some smart-bloody-arse journalist is going to figure something out, or our leaker’s just going to sell it, and then I don’t want you having to “confirm or deny” anything. As your PIP 4, I’ll do it.’
