Let The Bones Be Charred

by Andy Maslen

  ‘Ma’am?’ she said, coming straight over to Stella.

  ‘Yes, what is it?’

  ‘There’s been another one. Brockwell Park. A DI Patel from one of the South Division MITs just referred it to you, ma’am.’

  55

  THURSDAY 23RD AUGUST 6.00 P.M.

  BROCKWELL PARK, SOUTHEAST LONDON

  Stella nodded to the forensic officer charged with taking the crime scene photographs. The photographer’s eyes, visible between the white face mask and the elasticated edge of his hood, were unblinking. A steady stare that she could read only too well. Who could do such a thing to another human being? And, for once, as she confronted evil in another of its many guises, Stella felt completely certain that if she were asked directly, she could answer, ‘Not me’.

  Standing shoulder to shoulder with Garry, overheated in her forensic suit, mask and booties, she surveyed the interior of the office, beginning with the ghastly tableau at the desk.

  The dead woman’s eyelids were – Stella searched for the right word – draped closed. And they were concave. Entirely understandable given that the dead woman’s eyeballs, plus scraps of muscle and connective tissue, were sitting on the desk on a white plate with a gold-painted rim.

  Stella knew she should leave and let the CSIs get on with their work without the SIO looking, literally, over their shoulders. But something about the picture in front of her was pinging an alarm bell deep in her brain.

  ‘I’ve seen that before,’ she said.

  ‘I hope to God you haven’t.’

  ‘No, I mean it. It’s just, I can’t think straight with that,’ she said, pointing at the body, ‘in my face.’

  Her day took a further nosedive when Lucian called her as she and Garry were pulling into the car park at Paddington Green.

  ‘Hey, Lucian, what’s up?’

  ‘It’s what’s down that’s the problem. Our oven packed up last night. We can’t get it fixed until next week. I’m afraid Saturday’s dinner is off. And Stefan’s stuck his tools in a suitcase and flown up to Scotland to do a big landscaping job that just came in. I’m really sorry, Stella.’

  Rather than feeling sad at the news, Stella felt a sudden flicker of nerves in her belly.

  ‘Look, let’s not let the evening go to waste. Why don’t I book a table in town instead? We can eat out. I haven’t seen Gareth for ages.’

  Lucian sounded doubtful.

  ‘Sure, that’s a lovely idea. As long as you don’t mind playing gooseberry.’

  Back at her desk, Stella updated her policy book, then phoned a dim sum restaurant in Soho where she knew the owner, an elderly Chinese man.

  ‘Mrs Stella! So good to hear from you,’ he said. ‘You want table, yes? For tonight?’

  ‘For Saturday, Mister Yun. I know it’s short notice but can you squeeze us in at nine?’

  ‘For you, I find table any time. How many people?’

  Crossing her fingers under her desk, she answered.

  ‘Four, please.’

  ‘No problem. We see you on Saturday at nine. I tell chef prepare special pork buns.’

  In Halifax, Cam was sitting at a long, dark kitchen table, scarred and polished from many decades of use. Liz had just placed a plate in front of her, heaped with lamb chops, French beans and mustard mash. As they ate, the conversation turned to the case.

  ‘So, is he using bell rope to strangle them?’ Liz asked, her brows knitted.

  Cam shook her head as she swallowed a mouthful of succulent, pink-tinged lamb.

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t say. I know, I mean, but we can’t discuss details.’

  Liz nodded.

  ‘Of course, I understand. Sorry. More wine?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  Liz poured two more glasses of the excellent rioja she’d served with the lamb.

  ‘I just wish there was something I could do to help.’

  ‘Maybe there is. You see, both women were prominent Christians. One a Catholic, one C of E.’

  ‘Yes, I heard about poor Sarah through the Church grapevine.’

  ‘So, while it doesn’t look like Anglicanism is the link, Christianity almost certainly is. By the way, this is confidential, right?’

  Liz laughed.

  ‘It’s not the confessional, not that we do that here, but yes. My lips are sealed.’

  ‘Thanks. The man I’m looking at gave his address as 20 Dean’s Yard in London. You know what that is, right?’

  Liz nodded.

  ‘It seems he’s definitely trying to make a point, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Mm, hmm. What do you think could be going on in his head? Like, what’s his motive? Again, I can’t give you details, but he did torture them before he killed them.’

  Liz actually shuddered, her shoulders, upper arms, neck and head taking it turns to vibrate, like a dog shaking.

  ‘How awful for them. It’s weird, actually, because although I didn’t really know either woman – although I knew of them – obviously, I heard them both on Radio 4 a few months ago.’

  Cam sat bolt upright, almost knocking her wine over.

  ‘Really? What programme?’

  ‘They called it Women of Faith, I think. Some dreadfully worthy name, anyway. It was a sort of panel discussion.’

  ‘Was it just the two of them? Apart from the interviewer or whoever, I mean?’

  Liz took a sip of her wine then shook her head.

  ‘No. There was a third guest. A nun. Rather progressive. Her name was, oh, let me think. Moira Lowney, that was it!’

  Feeling a buzz of adrenaline in her system that totally overcame the effects of the wine, Cam fished her notebook out and made a note.

  ‘Where was she from? Moira, I mean. What convent?’

  Liz frowned.

  ‘It was somewhere in London. Forgive me, I do know it, I can hear her saying it.’ She closed her eyes and began humming tunelessly. Then her eyes popped open. ‘Brockwell Park! I think she said they were a Carmelite order.’

  Cam was already pulling her phone out.

  ‘Sorry, Liz, but I have to phone my guvnor right away. I think Moira is in serious danger.’

  Stella hung up, smiling at the thought of a night off, some excellent dim sum, and Jamie’s company. Her phone immediately rang. She checked the screen.

  ‘Cam. What’s up?’

  ‘Boss, there’s no time to lose. You have to get over to a convent in Brockwell Park. Carmelite nuns, I think. There’s a nun there called—’

  ‘Moira Lowney. Sorry, Cam, you’re too late. She’s dead.’

  ‘Shit! Same MO?’

  ‘Yep. How did you know she was in trouble?’

  ‘They were on a radio show together. Radio 4. Her, Sarah Sharpe and Niamh Connolly. Liz, she’s the vicar I’m staying with, she heard it.’

  Stella sighed.

  ‘Well at least we know how he chose his first three victims,’ Stella said. ‘I just hope that means he’s finished.’

  Later that evening, having clocked up another five miles running round the streets of Northwest London, Stella sat out on her balcony, a glass of chilled Gavi in her hand, sipping the fruity Italian wine and waiting for her call to be answered.

  ‘Hello, Stella. I was just thinking about you.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Nothing bad, I hope.’

  ‘On the contrary. I was mulling over the name your killer uses to fix his appointments.’

  ‘What, MJ?’

  ‘Well, partly that. It’s androgynous, for one thing.’

  ‘Perhaps he thinks it makes him sound less threatening. It is kind of cute. Sort of Millennial, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘Agreed. But it’s the surname I’m looking at. Fox. It could be his real name. Ted Bundy, Jeffrey Dahmer, Dennis Nielsen: none of them used pseudonyms. But this feels like part of his act. What does it say to you?’

  ‘Wily? Cunning? Fox in a henhouse? It certainly fits his MO. He’s enjoying himself.’

  ‘That’s what I th
ought. I think it means you’re looking for an intelligent killer. We all talk about organised and disorganised serial killers. The former tend to be high intelligence, the latter, low. They’re all dangerous, but the organised ones are harder to get. They’re often forensically aware and take great care to avoid being caught.’

  ‘Which is just the sort of cheery news I need on the day I’ve looked into the sightless eyes of a dead nun,’ Stella said, before taking a gulp of her wine. ‘He’s done number three. Officially a serial killer.’

  ‘Oh, God, I’m sorry.’

  ‘I know, but I’m kind of a bit battle-weary at the moment. I can’t really deal with it. Listen, Jamie, I know this is a bit, um, sudden, and I’m sure you’re busy, but, I mean, you’re not free for dinner on Saturday night, are you? Only I’m meeting some friends and I’d love to bring you along. To meet them. They’re gay. Not that that matters. You can just tell me—’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, laughing. ‘I’d love to. Where and when?’

  ‘Oh. Great. Sorry for gabbling. Nervous, I guess. Comes from talking to a psychiatrist. Dumpling Palace on Gerrard Street in Soho. Nine o’clock. That should give you time to get in from, where is it you live, Reading?’

  ‘I used to. I moved last year. I’m in Kew now, just on the other side of the river from Chiswick. The commute’s not too bad and I no longer have to live in Reading.’

  Stella’s stomach did another little backflip.

  ‘Excellent. See you on Saturday, then.’

  ‘See you, Stella.’

  56

  FRIDAY 24TH AUGUST 9.00 A.M.

  PADDINGTON GREEN

  Stella answered her phone.

  ‘Ah, Stella. Craig Morgan here. The profiler I mentioned, Dr Adrian Trimmets? I’ve asked him to meet me at Paddington Green this afternoon at eleven. I hope you can be there to brief him.’

  Stella had allocated the whole morning to meeting her team individually or in small groups to catch up. She sighed.

  ‘Yes, OK, that’s fine. I’ll see you both at eleven.’

  At five minutes to eleven, as Stella was finishing updating her Policy Book, a cough behind her made her look up and around. Craig Morgan stood there, in yet another expensive-looking suit, smiling down at her. Wanting to reassert some semblance of a balance of power, she stood and took a half-step towards him, forcing him to take a step back or be standing uncomfortably close to her.

  To Morgan’s left stood a short, round man dressed in a suit as badly fitting as Morgan’s was tailored to his frame.

  No taller than Stella and with a shaved head revealing male-pattern baldness. He also sported a meagre moustache and scrubby beard that gave him the appearance of one of the old Victorian drawings her dad used to delight in showing her, where the drawing could be viewed upside down to create a different face.

  Resisting the urge to twist her head to see if it worked on Morgan’s profiler, she held her hand out instead.

  ‘You must be Dr Trimmets,’ she said, recoiling inwardly from the hot, sweaty grip of his enthusiastic handshake.

  He laughed, an oddly loud croak, too loud for the distance that separated them. His brown eyes bulged behind comically oversized black glasses.

  ‘Ha! Please call me Ade. Even my students don’t call me doctor.’

  Stella pasted a smile onto her face.

  ‘Ade,’ she said. ‘I’ve borrowed my guvnor’s office, if you’ll both follow me.’

  Ensconced behind the desk and reflecting that she clearly had a way to travel in the hierarchy before she qualified for a chair as comfortable as Callie’s, Stella looked at both men in turn. She saw the same emotion in both faces. Ambition. Morgan’s for the mayoralty. Trimmets’s for media attention and well-paid gigs for the Home Office.

  Feeling like a recalcitrant teenager but unable to wriggle out of the situation she found herself in, she spoke now, hoping to maintain her slender advantage over the two men she’d mentally christened Stan and Ollie.

  ‘Thank you for agreeing to provide a profile, Ade. And thank you, deputy mayor, for securing Ade’s services for us at no charge.’

  The profiler’s eyes widened and he glanced leftwards at Morgan.

  Oops! Did Stan not mention that part to you, Ollie?

  ‘We’ll discuss Ade’s fees separately,’ Morgan said, smoothly. ‘The main thing, the important thing, is that he gets to work as soon as possible to draw up the profile that will help you catch this killer.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ Stella said, mustering as much enthusiasm as she could. Which wasn’t much.

  Trimmets fixed her with a magnified gaze.

  ‘First of all, DCI Cole, I need to offer my thanks to you. I know that we profilers aren’t always held in high regard by working coppers and I can understand that. So many profiles are just statements of the bleeding obvious blended with enough caveats as to be almost worthless. I assure you that I will try my hardest to give you something actionable.’

  It wasn’t the speech Stella had been expecting. She’d checked out the man’s website and Googled him. His pronouncements in other cases and the text on his site had led her to believe he was just another Cracker-wannabe, boosting his career prospects and income while doing nothing of any real value for the police forces paying his fees.

  OK. So maybe I was wrong about you, Ade.

  ‘Which is pretty honest of you,’ she replied. ‘Thanks. So, I’ve put a pack of information together for you, including copies of crime scene and post mortem photographs, interview reports with previous suspects and the victimology. Is there anything else you need?’

  Trimmets steepled his fingers under his chin and looked up before staring at her.

  ‘No. I think that’s all. You clearly know how we work. You’d be surprised how many detectives think we can give them the name, address and shoe size of the killer just from a one-page evidence summary and a handful of photos.’

  Actually, I wouldn’t because no cop would do that, but if it makes you happy to say that, fine.

  ‘Good. We’ll give it to you on the way out. I’ll just need your signature on this document.’ She pushed a single sheet of paper across the desk towards Trimmets.

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘It’s what we call a Short-form OSA. You know, Official Secrets Act. Basically it says that you are bound by a duty of confidentiality to the Crown. I know you would never deliberately leak any of this,’ she smiled sweetly at Trimmets, ‘but, you know, some people can be a little careless in their document storage. This says you promise to keep secure the information I provide you.’

  Trimmets offered a nervous smile.

  ‘What if something went missing?’

  ‘Then I and a few of my colleagues would come to your place of work or your home, Taser you, then arrest you.’

  Trimmets eyebrows shot up, and Morgan interrupted.

  ‘Now, surely, Stella, that is ridiculously heavy-handed? Dr Tr—’

  ‘Joke!’ Stella said. ‘Cop humour. No Tasers, I promise.’ She paused, enjoying herself. ‘Just the usual penalties for breaching the Act. Up to two years in prison and a fine. Or both. As I said, it’s just a formality. Would you like to borrow a pen?’

  At just after 2.00 p.m., Cam arrived in the incident room. She went straight over to Stella’s desk.

  ‘Boss! I’m just, you know, I want to say I’m gutted about Moira Lowney. If I’d just—’

  Stella motioned for her to take a seat. Then she laid a hand on Cam’s shoulder.

  ‘Stop! If, nothing. That was really good work from you yesterday, OK? I know you’re upset because you were too late to save Moira, but it’s a solid lead. I’ve got Lucian doing his magic with the CCTV photo and another team looking at the Focus.’

  Cam wrinkled her nose and smiled.

  ‘Thanks, boss. So, I had another idea on the drive down. I want to contact the BBC. The producer of the show. See if I can get a list of all the women who’ve appeared. Maybe we can at least try to get ahead of Lucif
er.’

  Stella nodded. She liked the way the young DC didn’t wait to be given jobs to do. She could think for herself.

  ‘Good idea. Let me know what you get as soon as you get it. If he’s using the show’s guests as his victim pool, we need to warn them.’

  57

  FRIDAY 24TH AUGUST 5.00 P.M.

  NEW SCOTLAND YARD

  As she had promised, Callie kept Stella away from the media for the third press conference. She intended to keep this one short. And sweet?

  No. Given the subject matter, and the announcement she had spent three hours drafting with Tim Llewelyn’s help, bitter, sour, or possibly putrid would be a better word. She took a deep breath and began.

  ‘Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. Yesterday, the twenty-third of August, some time between 10.30 a.m. and 3.00 p.m., the body of a woman was found in her office at the Carmelite Order of the Unified Spirit, a convent in Brockwell Park, Southeast London.’

  Callie could see the frowns and pursed lips and the way one or two of the assembled journalists were leaning their heads together and whispering. And she could translate the body language.

  Shit! This is it! A serial killer!

  She continued before anyone could interrupt and disrupt the flow of her prepared statement.

  ‘Sister Moira Lowney was forty-seven. She was strangled to death and her killer had mutilated her. We have very strong reasons for believing that Moira Lowney was murdered by the same person who murdered Niamh Connolly and Sarah Sharpe.’ OK, Callie, my girl, time to drop the S-bomb. ‘As such we are now treating the three murders as a series of multiple, linked offences.’ Wait for it, Callie, wait for it…

  As she’d agreed with Tim, she paused here and simply let the inevitable questions come in like a lobbed hand grenade.