Killed in King's Cross

by Samantha Silver

  I raised my eyebrows slightly. I never felt so old as when I wondered what kind of person decided to open their business late at night. Ten o’clock was for sleeping, not for starting off the day. Yep, I was definitely an old grandmother at heart.

  “I’ll call you tomorrow if I can,” Jake said to me as we got ready to leave. “No guarantees, though. I’m pretty sure the boss is going to want me to have the full report on this done as fast as possible.”

  “No problem,” I said, giving Jake a quick kiss before heading back towards the elevators.

  “Don’t think I haven’t forgotten about your medical school applications,” he added, wagging a finger at me. “You don’t necessarily need to do it, but you do need to make a decision.”

  “I know,” I said, my heart dropping slightly in my chest. I knew that I was going to have to make a decision. The problem was, I was petrified that I was going to make the wrong one.

  * * *

  About twenty minutes later, Violet and I were standing in front of the trendy little shop in the West End that took up a tiny shop space at the corner intersection between two streets. The blue brick exterior didn’t look like much, but directly across the street from the spot was a gorgeous graffiti mural of an ancient Greek or Roman statue, showing signs of the neighborhood’s newfound trendiness. Even though it was now almost eleven o’clock, crowds of young partygoers and clubbers roamed the streets, getting ready for a night of excitement and drinking.

  The sign above the entrance to the tattoo parlor read ‘Tyger Tattoos’, and the windows had been tinted so that no one looking could see what was going on. It wasn’t exactly the most inviting place in the world, but then again, I thought that about most tattoo parlors.

  It wasn’t that I had anything against tattoos; I had actually considered getting one at one point, but simply never got around to it. Plus, while I wasn’t afraid of needles, I wasn’t a huge fan of pain and after my accident had experienced enough of it for a lifetime. I wasn’t sure I wanted to go through a lot of pain willingly just to decorate my body.

  “Come,” Violet said, dragging me out of my reverie, and the two of us made for the entrance.

  I wasn’t sure exactly what to expect when I entered, that this space looked absolutely incredible. Clean and modern, the walls were painted an extremely bright turquoise, and covered with black-framed pictures of available art. Against a far wall was a hanging rack that displayed dozens of other potential designs. The doors and trim were all painted black as well, which was striking against the bold walls.

  In the middle of the room was a black table surrounded by black benches, with a few scattered sheets of paper set atop it. Against the far wall was a huge leather couch, on which lounged a woman who looked almost exactly like Kat Von D. Her arms were covered in ink, her dyed black hair was stylized to make it look huge, and her lips were a ruby red that belonged on a magazine cover. As soon as we walked in, she looked up, and those fiery red lips broke into a huge smile.

  “Violet,” she exclaimed in a California accent, which seemed a little bit jarring here in the middle of London. I definitely had not expected that. “How are you?”

  “I am good, Cleo, thank you.”

  “And what can I do for you today? I know better than to ask if you need some ink of your own done. Maybe for your friend here?” Cleo asked, looking over at me.

  “Unfortunately, we do not have the time today. Today, we come looking only for information.”

  “Well, I have a lot of that as well,” Cleo said with a wink at me. I smiled back at her. Cleo obviously had a lot of energy, and her happy personality was contagious. “Come, have a seat at the table and let me know what it is that I can do for the two of you.”

  She motioned for us to sit on the long bench and Cassie and I did so. I looked around, wondering where the actual tattooing took place, then realized it had to be behind the closed black door.

  “I believe this is some of your work,” Violet said, getting straight into it. She handed Cleo her phone, and the American woman nodded slowly a moment later.

  “Yes, this is mine,” Cleo replied. “I must have done this about a year ago?”

  “What can you tell me about the customer who ordered it?” Violet asked.

  Cleo frowned. “Wow, now you’re asking for a lot. I think I vaguely remember the man who got this. He’s not a regular; he walked in, saw the design on the wall, and told me he wanted it.”

  “Was he homeless?”

  “No, but I have a feeling he wasn’t exactly flush with cash,” Cleo said slowly, trying to remember what she could about the man. “His credit card was declined when he went to pay, and he left me his driver’s license while he went to an ATM to get some cash.”

  “You wouldn’t have happened to have taken a photocopy of that driver’s license, would you?” I asked, and Cleo’s face lit up.

  “You know, I think I might have. Let me into the back and find the man’s file for you.”

  “This could be just the stroke of luck we were after,” I said to Violet while we waited for Cleo to return.

  “I hope so,” Violet replied. “Cleopatra Blake is an absolutely remarkable woman, and it would not surprise me to learn that she had kept important information about her client.”

  “Blake… the name of the shop?”

  “Yes,” Violet nodded. “Cleopatra is related to William Blake, the author of the poem ‘The Tyger’, and that is from where she got the name of the parlor.”

  “And Cleopatra?” I said, raising my eyebrows.

  “Perhaps her father was exceptionally arrogant,” Violet said with a smile. “Seeing as the name derives from the Greek for ‘loves her father’.”

  I laughed just as Cleo made her way back into the room, holding a manila folder happily over her head.

  “Here you go, I found it!”

  The two of us pored over the files as Cleo opened them up and handed them over. There was a picture of the original drawing, photos of the finished tattoo, with the typical red scarring that accompanied new ink, and a few scribbled notes, along with a photocopy of a drivers’ license that Violet immediately grabbed.

  “Where did he live?” I asked, peering over at the photocopy myself. The picture was definitely that of our murder victim. We finally had a name: Joseph Fenman.

  “The address listed is one at Golden Lane Estate, a council estate on the outskirts of the city,” Violet replied as she jotted down the address. “Hopefully, there is someone there who can help us to determine the man’s identity.”

  After thanking Cleo for her time, and her telling us we should really consider getting tattoos in the future, Violet and I left, heading to our next stop: Golden Lane Estate.

  Chapter 7

  “Why don’t you want to get a tattoo?” I asked Violet as we sat in a cab taking us straight to our next stop.

  “It is simply prudence. A tattoo, a permanent mark, makes you more identifiable. If you are ever required to conceal your identity, a tattoo makes that more difficult. I keep my body as mark-free as possible for when I am required to mask who I am.”

  “You know, sometimes you say things that make me think you’re not always on the right side of the law,” I said.

  “Yes, that is correct. In my line of work, laws occasionally require breaking in order to solve a larger crime. You have accompanied me in such times. Tell me, if we were to get caught on camera sneaking into a suspect’s home, would the presence of a tattoo be an advantage, or a hindrance?”

  “Got it,” I said, shaking my head slightly. Violet was completely insane sometimes, but at the same time, I could see her point. It was true that I had never committed so many felonies as I had since moving to England, in the sense that before moving here my running total had been exactly zero.

  Now I was probably making my way towards double digits.

  “Something as permanent as a tattoo requires long-term thinking.”

  “What would you get as a tattoo if
you were to get one?” I asked, leaning back in the seat.

  “I do not know. I have never thought about it, since I have never considered getting one.”

  “You have the worst imagination of anyone I have ever met.”

  “Why should one have the need for imagination when there is so much real wonder in the world?”

  Wow. That was a surprisingly poignant response.

  “I guess, but isn’t our imagination the thing that sets us apart? Anyway, I don’t really know what I would get if I were to get a tattoo. I like the idea of something symbolic, something that means a lot to me.”

  “Such as?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe a caduceus?” I replied, referencing the symbol of the staff with two serpents that represented medicine these days.

  “Now that is telling,” Violet replied with a small smile. “Anyway, there is no time for you to continue imagining that which does not exist; we have arrived.”

  The taxi pulled up to the curb and the two of us got out, with Violet paying the driver while I looked around. We were surrounded by plain-looking brick buildings of varying heights, with most of them being around three to five stories tall, but with a couple that stood significantly taller. The buildings all had a real Soviet-style, built in the sixties look to them.

  Violet checked her phone for the exact address, then pointed ahead to one of the low-rise buildings straight ahead. As we approached the door, someone was just leaving, so we didn’t need to try and get someone to buzz us in.

  I reached forward and grabbed the door before it closed, and the two of us made our way to the first floor apartment listed on the address. Violet knocked, and a couple of moments later, the door opened.

  “Yes?” a woman answered. She was short, and thin. Incredibly thin. Her short, black hair was plastered against her head, and she looked like she hadn’t slept in a few days.

  “Hello, my name is Violet Despuis, and I am looking for a man who may have lived here in the past. Do you know a Joseph Fenman?” Violet asked. As soon as she said his name, the woman’s eyes widened.

  “Something’s happened to him, hasn’t it?”

  “Why do you say that?” Violet asked.

  “He was supposed to come by last night. He comes by here once every few weeks, to get a feed and have a shower. He’s my brother, you see.”

  “Ah,” I nodded. Now that she mentioned it, I could see the resemblance. They both had the same light brown, deep-set eyes.

  “Has something happened to him?”

  “We should step inside, perhaps,” Violet said, and the woman burst into tears.

  “I’m sorry to tell you, but your brother was found murdered this afternoon,” I said softly. The tears turned into sobs, and the woman turned and entered her apartment. Violet and I shared a look, then slipped in after her.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said softly, while Violet made her way to the kitchen straight away and put some water in an electric kettle. I had now been in England for long enough that I knew she was making this woman a cup of tea. That seemed to be what people did whenever literally anything happened in this country. Stressful day at work? Cup of tea. Found out about the death of a loved one? Cup of tea. Won an Olympic gold medal? Cup of tea. It was just what was done.

  I led the woman towards a ratty old couch and helped her sit down on it as she buried her head in her hands. Violet came by a moment later with the tea and the woman took it gratefully.

  “What happened?” she finally asked, her voice hoarse.

  “We don’t know yet,” Violet replied quietly. “You may have heard about the body found at King’s cross this afternoon?”

  “That was him? Oh, Joey,” the woman cried. “Who on earth could have possibly done this to my poor brother?”

  “I was hoping you would be able to help us figure that out,” Violet said. “I am working with the police to try and find your brother’s killer.”

  “Ask away,” the woman said. “I’ll do whatever I can to help you find the monster that did this to my baby brother.”

  “First of all, can I have your name?”

  “Alyssa. Alyssa Fenman.”

  “Thank you, Alyssa. And your brother, he was homeless, correct?”

  “He was,” Alyssa confirmed. “He had always had a lot of trouble in his life. We both did, really. Joey was never able to hold down a job for that long, not since he came back from Iraq. He had PTSD, from the war, and it was like no matter how hard anyone tried, he just wouldn’t get help. I tried to get him to live here with me, even though it’s small, but we could have managed. Joey preferred the streets, though. Still, he came by from time to time to have a shower or for a hot meal if he really couldn’t find anything. He used this place as his address for official documents. I tried to take care of him as best I could; I promised mum that I would before she died. Oh, I’m so glad she’s not here to see this day.”

  Alyssa broke into sobs once more, and Violet and I waited a moment for them to abate before continuing with the questions.

  “Do you know where your brother was last night?” I asked.

  “He was supposed to be here,” Alyssa replied. “He texted me. I made sure he had a phone so he could always get in touch with me if he needed to. He told me he was going to come by, but he never did. I don’t know what his other plans were.”

  “When was the last time you saw your brother?” Violet asked.

  “Just yesterday, but in the morning. I tripped, falling down a set of stairs at Baker Street station on my way back from work and hurt my wrist. I texted Joey, and he insisted on taking me to the hospital himself. He got me to A&E and waited with me while the doctor sent me for X-rays. It’s not broken, just sprained. But that was the kind of person he was. Joey might have had some issues, but he was a good person. He didn’t deserve this.”

  “How did he seem?” Violet asked. “That day you saw him, was there anything different about him?”

  “No. No, I would have noticed if there was. I’m telling you, there was nothing the matter with him then.”

  “Alright,” Violet said softly. “Do you know where he preferred to spend his time when he wasn’t here?”

  “He liked Regent’s Park. I know he spent most of his days there. I don’t know where he slept most of the time.”

  “Do you know if he had any friends?” I asked, and Alyssa shook her head.

  “I’m afraid I have no idea. Joey didn’t like to talk about his life with me. He always insisted on talking about me, instead. He always told me he was so proud of me.”

  “Alright, thank you, Alyssa,” Violet told the woman. “We really appreciate it.”

  Alyssa nodded glumly. “What can I do about his body?”

  “I will have someone contact you,” Violet replied. “Can I get your phone number? And while I am at it, could you get me your brother’s phone number as well?”

  “Sure,” Alyssa said, getting up off the couch and finding an old scrap of paper onto which she jotted a couple of numbers, handing them over to Violet.

  “Please find the person who did this,” she implored. “I know my brother didn’t live a normal life, but he was a good person. He served this country. And he didn’t deserve to die.”

  Violet nodded. “I will do everything I can to find your brother’s killer.”

  As we left, I couldn’t help but feel for the poor woman in there whose life had just been ripped apart. There had been no pictures of a boyfriend, no sign of a child, or any other sort of indication that Alyssa was close to anyone else. I had a feeling Joey had been all she had in this life.

  I swore that I would do my best – whatever little I could offer – to help get justice for the poor woman.

  Chapter 8

  “Let me guess – the next step is to trace the phone number?” I asked, and Violet nodded.

  “Yes. I will send this number to DCI Williams and have him send us all of the information.”

  “Is DCI Williams on this case?”


  “No, but I prefer him to DCI Kilmer, who is a pompous git at best.”

  I smiled to myself as we hailed another cab and headed home.

  “Well, I’ll leave you to it, because unlike you, us mere mortals do require sleep.”

  “I will come and get you in the morning when I know what our next step is to be.”

  I really hoped it was going to take Violet eight hours to get another lead, but somehow I doubted a full night’s sleep was in my future.

  * * *

  Sure enough, it was five in the morning when my phone began to ring. I grumbled and simply pressed the button on the side to mute the sound, but when it rang again immediately afterwards, I knew it was Violet. And I knew she wasn’t going to let up, either. No matter what, I wasn’t going to be getting any more sleep tonight. And as the events of the previous day flooded back to me, I realized I didn’t really want to, either.

  “Did you find out about the phone?” I asked.

  “Yes,” Violet replied. “DCI Williams was good enough to wake up a judge, and then find an employee at the phone company who was willing and able to get us what we wanted in the middle of the night.”

  “It’s still the middle of the night.”

  “It absolutely is not. Now, come over here, and we will have breakfast before making our way to the hospital where Alyssa was seen yesterday, then to Regent’s Park, which was the last place where our victim used his phone before being killed.”

  “Only if you promise this breakfast doesn’t involve almond milk.”

  Just as the sun was rising over London, Violet and I were in a cab making our way over to University College Hospital. It was only two stops on the underground between Baker Street station and the hospital, so it made sense that it would have been where Alyssa had gone.