My Little Eye

by Stephanie Marland

  5

  CLEMENTINE

  I’m not bored any more. I stand on the outskirts of the crowd, a few feet away from the others. Inside the restricted area, a tall black guy wearing a navy parka strides over to greet a newcomer.

  I step closer to the crowd to get a better view. The newcomer stands, shoulders hunched, with his back turned to the driving rain. The denim jacket he’s wearing is already sodden, his dark hair plastered against his skull; dishevelled-looking, but not unattractive for an older man. He looks like the picture I’ve seen of the lead detective on the Lover case. He looks seriously pissed off.

  As if sensing my scrutiny he glances this way, so I turn, angling my face away from his line of sight, and hope my hood shields my features from view. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch as he and his colleague start walking towards the building, heading for a black door that I recognise from the photo Death Stalker posted. As they reach the entrance the guy stops and looks back, scowling. I feel like he’s staring right at me, but I know that’s ridiculous; with me standing here behind the crowd he’ll barely be able to see me.

  I twist the lid off the takeaway cup of green tea I got from the coffee place on the High Street, and raise it to my lips. The heat coming off it feels scorching. I blow on it rather than drink, and can’t resist glancing back at the detective. As I do, he turns away and steps inside the building. The black door closes. I gaze at it for a moment and wonder what he’s doing now. Then I focus back on my task.

  Pulling my phone from my pocket, I open the CrimeStop app and reread Death Stalker’s last post.

  First assignment: All actions must be completed within 24 hours and useful intel contributed. Anyone who doesn’t achieve this will be removed from the group. Post intel gathered online here. I’ll message each of you your task privately.

  I tap the messenger icon. My brief appears. It’s the first and only private message I’ve received.

  Death Stalker to TheWatcher Attend the crime scene (you’re closest). Document activity, take photos, listen for information shared by police and media. Find something useful. You have until 06:23 tomorrow.

  The deadline stresses me. Panic flutters in my chest. It’s almost 7.30; in theory I have twenty-three more hours, but the crime scene is live now and there’s no way for me to get through the barrier. I can take photos but I’ll need more than that. I have to find something useful, or I’ll be ejected from the group. I can’t let that happen.

  The noise of an engine on the road behind me draws my attention. A police van halts at the cordon sending a burst of watery spray over the tape and the small gathering of people standing beside it. A uniformed officer rushes over to them. She’s pointing along the barrier towards the rest of the crowd, telling those near her to move. There’s some head shaking and muttering, but most of them obey and shift along the barrier. A couple sharing a pink golfing umbrella stop a few feet to my right. Their heads are bowed in conversation. He’s speaking in a low voice, but she’s no way near as cautious. I can’t help but overhear.

  ‘… told him I had an early briefing … God knows how long the street will be closed …’ the woman says. Her pink lipstick is the same shade as the umbrella. ‘… little bastard won’t cover for me … told you this was too risky …’

  If they’re having an affair she should be more worried about the news crews setting up their cameras on the other side of the barrier.

  I snap a couple of shots of the police van easing through the cordon into no man’s land. As I do, two girls in front of me start talking about the victim – Kate, they’re calling her. From their comments about her boyfriend and the unhappy state of their relationship it sounds like they knew her, although they don’t seem upset that she’s dead. That I find strange. From my observations I’ve found death makes normal people feel sadness; they cry, or frown, or their voices sound strained. I don’t detect any trace of that here.

  I shuffle closer to try and hear more. The blonde turns – her dark eye make-up and red lip-gloss are total overkill for this time in the morning. She looks at me, but doesn’t smile. Instead she nudges her friend and they move away.

  Inside the crowd I feel invisible again. But I’m not. There’s a man looking right at me. I inhale sharply. I recognise him, well, a version of him anyway. With his disappearing hairline and rounded paunch, there doesn’t seem to be anything much ‘chainsaw’ about Robert ‘chainsaw’ Jameson in real life, but it’s him, definitely him. He smiles and starts making his way through the crowd towards me.

  I fight the urge to bolt. Tell myself that he can’t know who I am – my profile picture only shows my eye. Even so, my heart’s bouncing in my chest at double speed. My free hand curls into a fist inside my pocket. I glance round, checking my exit route. There’s a clear path to the High Street. I could leave. If I go I’ll be home in half an hour. But, if I do, I won’t be able to complete my task. I’ll have to forfeit my place on the investigation.

  I watch Robert ‘chainsaw’ Jameson weave through the crowd. He’s ten metres away and closing.

  Stay or go?

  Fight or flight?

  I clench my fist tighter. This is my first test. I will not run from it. I’ll find out if he can tell who I am, what I am.

  So I let the tubby, balding version of the man whose face is so familiar from his twenty-years-younger profile picture come to me. Online he’s the group know-it-all. If you’re after random case facts, or the details of strange forensic anomalies, he’s your man. But online behaviour does not necessarily follow the same pattern as real life interactions. I’m going to find out if that’s true for him.

  He gestures to the taped-off area and the building beyond. His wispy, overlong eyebrows rising as he speaks, testing the water. ‘They say a woman’s been murdered.’

  His words might be serious, but the glint in his eye gives him away; he’s excited, delighted. This is the most fun that’s happened to him in years. I nod. ‘That’s the rumour I’ve heard.’

  He leans closer and I catch a whiff of Old Spice. Tapping the side of his nose with his finger, he says, ‘Stop pretending. I know.’

  Am I that obvious? My breath catches in my throat.

  Robert ‘chainsaw’ Jameson smiles, not noticing my fear. ‘You’re TCL, right?’

  I stare at him. He’s waiting for a response. There’s little point denying it; somehow he’s worked out who I am, and it’s too late to run. ‘How did—’

  He grins. ‘Your eyes, love. Never seen green-blue eyes like yours in real life.’

  ‘Impressive,’ I say. Him noticing such a small, subtle detail is more than I’d have given him credit for.

  He looks pleased by the compliment. I file that knowledge for future reference. Flattery is easy, and those susceptible to it are among the quickest to manipulate.

  ‘It wasn’t hard. Death Stalker mentioned you were tasked with coming here.’ He nods at my eyes. ‘Are they contacts?’

  I shake my head. Death Stalker told another member my task but wouldn’t share the tasks with the group? From that I have to assume he and this short, pot-bellied man know each other well, that he is part of the inner circle.

  He holds out his hand. ‘Robert “chainsaw” Jameson,’ he says. Leaning closer, he gives me a conspiratorial wink. ‘But you can call me Bob.’

  I hesitate a moment, then clasp his hand. I keep my expression friendly, hiding the repulsion I feel from his clammy skin touching mine, and give his hand a firm shake.

  ‘I’m The Watcher,’ I say. The name feels odd on my tongue, like it’s not designed to be spoken out loud, but it has to do. I don’t want this man, or any of True Crime London, knowing my real name. I force a smile, faking a happy emotion to hide my discomfort. ‘It’s nice to meet you.’

  Bob’s yakking on, continuing the blow-by-blow account of his tube journey to the crime scene. I don’t do the tube. Can’t. So its inner workings hold no interest for me. I tune him out. Bob doesn’t seem to notice.


  I start to appraise him. He’s in his early sixties I reckon, but not in good condition. I clock his blotchy complexion and the purple thread veins zigzagging across his nose. High blood pressure, I suspect, most likely with a high alcohol consumption kicker. As a threat to me, physically he doesn’t rate highly.

  He grins, and from the intensity in his gaze I guess he’s expecting me to agree to something. I say nothing. Wait.

  ‘Look, I’ll show you,’ he says, and starts rummaging in his trouser pocket. He pulls out a mobile. Angling it towards me, he starts swiping through photographs.

  Bob’s been busy. His glee at having a found a fellow TCLer, someone he deems a worthy audience, is unbounded. He doesn’t notice my irritation. He flicks through picture after picture. In his accompanying monologue, he highlights the obvious subjects in each: the crowd, the police, the media and the location. There must be seventy images. He’s completed my task before I’ve begun.

  ‘The crime scene photos are my task.’

  He smiles. ‘It’s no trouble, love. I like attending scenes up close. Helps me get a feel for a case. Crime’s my passion, you see. I like being at the heart of the action, try to get as close as possible to the body. There’s nothing like the mystery of a good murder, is there? At my age it’s good to have something to pit your wits against, stops the grey cells dying off.’ He swipes to the next photo. ‘And here’s you.’

  The image is taken from a distance. It’s a little pixelated, and my hood hides my hair and most of my face. Only if you look closer can you make out a few stray wisps that have escaped. Unless you know me well, and I can count the number of people who do on less than one hand, less than one finger, it’s unlikely someone would recognise me. I don’t like it, though. ‘Promise you’ll delete it.’

  Bob looks rather crestfallen, and I realise my error.

  I lean closer to him, as if I’m taking him into my confidence. ‘With us doing our own investigation, don’t you think it’s best if there’s no photographic evidence of us at the scene?’

  Bob’s eyes widen. ‘You’re right, love. Can’t be too careful these days. Eyes everywhere.’

  He deletes the picture.

  ‘Thanks, I appreciate it.’

  ‘Not a problem,’ he says, giving my arm a squeeze. ‘I’ve got more pics on here. You’d be surprised how addictive this crime lark is once you’ve a taste of it.’ He goes back to the picture menu. The photo albums number into the hundreds. ‘I’ve got a great shot of a dead body on one of them.’

  Before I can reply, thunder rumbles overhead and the rain starts again in earnest. Bob tucks his double chin into his collar and turns away from the wind.

  ‘Maybe later,’ I say, gesturing towards no man’s land. ‘So, what usually happens at these things?’

  His porky cheeks flush pink. ‘This is the exciting bit. All the key people are here – detectives, forensics and the coroner. They’re all doing their thing inside the inner cordon. It’s a real shame we can’t see inside. If you’re quick enough to the open air ones you sometimes get a look before they screen it off. A residential one like this, the most we’ll see is the trolley when they wheel it out – everything will be covered though.’

  I ignore his glee over seeing dead bodies. His delight at murder seems rather distasteful, even to me. ‘It’ll be a while before the road’s opened again then?’

  ‘Well, they can’t let the public through until they’ve got all the evidence. If they open it too fast we’ll contaminate the scene. Could make them miss something vital. Can’t have that, can they.’ He points towards the police van inside the cordon where a couple of uniformed officers are loading plastic boxes into the back. ‘Looks like it might not be too much longer.’

  Dampness has penetrated through the seams of my jacket. Shivering, I think longingly of my warm, dry apartment, but I can’t leave yet. ‘I should get on,’ I say. ‘I need to take the photos for the group before they finish.’

  ‘No need, love. I’ll upload mine.’

  ‘I need to do it, it’s been assigned to me.’

  He gives me a hard stare. ‘Well, we can both upload them.’

  Not helpful. ‘Or you could let me—’

  ‘I can’t and I won’t. I always upload pictures to my profile page. I’m not making an exception; I’ve got a reputation to uphold.’

  Shit. ‘If I don’t contribute something I’ll be ejected from the team.’

  He shrugs. Shifts his weight from one leg to the other. Then raises a hand at someone in the press area. ‘Just spotted an old mate,’ he says, not meeting my eye. ‘I best go and see what he knows about this murder.’

  As Bob scuttles away like a portly cockroach, I wonder if sabotaging my task was his main purpose for coming here. Whether beneath the affable persona is a ruthless competitor who wants to keep the group as exclusive as possible.

  I can’t let him force me out. I glance around the crowd. Death Stalker must have been here earlier, when he took the first photos. I wonder if he hung around.

  Opening the CrimeStop app on my phone, I search for Death Stalker’s profile. The location finder isn’t enabled. Cursing, I send him a private message:

  The Watcher to @DeathStalker Are you still at the scene?

  I wait. Ten seconds pass. Then twenty. A green light appears beside Death Stalker’s name – he’s come online. Moments later an answer appears.

  Death Stalker to @TheWatcher No

  I wonder where he is. Why he’s not shared his location with us, despite his call for transparency.

  The Watcher to @DeathStalker I’m not the only TCL here. They’ve taken pictures. Is there any point me continuing? Do you want to reassign me?

  From the High Street, I hear the siren of a police car or ambulance. It passes and gradually fades from earshot as I wait.

  Three dots appear beside Death Stalker’s name. He’s typing.

  Death Stalker to @TheWatcher That’s irrelevant. The crime scene is your assignment. If they’ve already got photos then find something better.

  I glance across to where the journalists are gathered. Bob’s there, deep in conversation with a man in a tweed cap.

  Tension builds like an overloaded valve in my chest. I have to stay part of this. I need to test if I can hide in plain sight. To beat the police at their own job and demonstrate why they are no longer fit for purpose. To prove my PhD conclusion right – crowdsourced crime solving could be the future.

  The Watcher to @DeathStalker What if I can’t?

  Death Stalker to @TheWatcher Then you’re off the team.

  6

  DOM

  The hallway is painted bright cerise. It’d be migraine-inducing enough at the best of times, even if his head wasn’t already pounding from dehydration and lack of sleep. Dom looks up the stairs. They’re steep; typical Victorian with those narrow treads that he can get barely half his foot on. He glances at Abbott, who’s making slow work of zipping his suit. ‘Better get up there.’

  Abbott nods. Waits for Dom to go first.

  Dom knows why. This many years into the job and you’ve got a flood of crime scene memories; so many dead bodies, too many. It’s like your brain tries to second-guess what you’re about to find, or floods you with old images in an attempt to desensitise you before you see the real thing again. It doesn’t work, though. Can’t. It’s not like any dead body is ever a good thing.

  He grasps the banister and takes the stairs two at a time. Abbott keeps close behind. The stairs creak.

  Stepping into the flat, he takes a moment to get a sense of the place. It’s a decent size for a one-bed in this part of town, newish furniture, with lots of glass and leather in the open plan living space – modern, with a nod towards pretentious. Stripped floorboards. The walls are painted burgundy. Kate Adams and her boyfriend must earn a decent wage to afford this place. The look is contemporary, like a copy of some celebrity pad. Dom imagines that matters to them.

  On the glass coffee table there are t
wo glasses of red wine. One looks half-drunk, the other untouched. An indication Kate Adams had company before she died. Dom nods at the glasses. ‘Same as the last two.’

  ‘Yeah. CSIs are on it,’ Abbott says. ‘Unlikely he’s left prints, though.’

  ‘True.’ He hadn’t at the homes of the previous victims. ‘Her wine or the killer’s?’

  ‘I’ll get that checked with the boyfriend.’

  Dom nods.

  ‘Photographs are done.’

  ‘Good,’ Dom says, but he doesn’t mean it. He was last to arrive, and the team are professionals; there’s no reason they should have waited for him, he knows that.

  He unclenches his fists a finger at a time. Rolls his shoulders, once and again. He needs a clear, logical head on for what comes next.

  ‘Nothing looks out of place, no sign of a struggle …’

  His DS doesn’t say it, but Dom hears the implication: for all their poking, the CSIs haven’t found anything useful yet. ‘Noted.’

  ‘Bedroom?’

  Abbott points him towards the doorway on their far right. ‘Over there.’

  The CSIs look up, and he sees one of them roll her eyes at the other. He tries to ignore it. Spots Emily Renton, Pathologist, standing in the doorway. The white paper suit does nothing for her mumsy figure.

  She raises an eyebrow. ‘So nice of you to join us, Dom.’

  ‘It was meant to be my day off, all right?’

  She laughs. Her glasses slip down her nose, and she pushes them back into place with a gloved finger. ‘So I’m told. And did you have a nice rest?’

  As usual with her, he can’t help but smile. ‘For about two minutes.’

  ‘And now you’re here.’ She nods into the bedroom; her tone becomes more serious. ‘Seems we’ve got another one. Similar MO, but—’

  ‘Give me a minute, yeah? I need to take a look before we dive into the detail.’

  ‘Not a problem.’ Emily moves into the bedroom, speaking to people out of Dom’s view. ‘Can we clear the room, folks. Take ten.’