My Little Eye

by Stephanie Marland

  Abbott slides off the stool and moves towards the door.

  Stax looks confused. ‘Is that—’

  ‘Like I said, I’m sorry for your loss.’ The words sound less genuine than Dom would like. He is sorry about Kate, but he’s not sure about Stax. He needs to keep him onside, though, for now, so he tries to inject a bit more warmth into his tone. ‘You’ve been helpful, Mr Stax, thank you. The team will keep you updated.’

  As they exit the flat, Dom turns to Abbott. ‘Keep Parekh with him and get his alibi checked. I want to know what he was doing every minute of last night.’

  Abbott frowns. ‘You think he’s good for it?’

  Dom glances at his DS. He’s doing that irritating thing where he bites his bottom lip with his front teeth; it makes him look like a damn rabbit. ‘I’m not sure yet, but he’s hiding something. I want to know what.’

  The phone rings when he’s halfway down the stairs. Pulling it out of his pocket, he sees the familiar number and presses answer. ‘This is Bell.’

  As ever, DCI Jackson skips the pleasantries and jumps right to the point. ‘How’s it looking?’

  Dom halts on the first floor landing and gestures at Abbott to go and check Emily’s progress. Abbott nods and moves away.

  Dom pauses before speaking. Nothing he’s got to say will please Jackson. ‘The changes to the victim’s appearance and posing of the body are similar to the Malik and Bretton murders.’

  Jackson mutters something under his breath. ‘Any leads?’

  Dom notices a flap of cerise Anaglypta has curled away from the wall where it meets the banister. Beneath the paper, the wall is vomit green. ‘Nothing noteworthy, not yet.’

  ‘I suppose forensics giving us something useful is out of the question?’

  He reaches out and presses the flap back against the wall. As soon as he removes his finger the paper peels away again. ‘It’s too soon to be sure.’

  ‘We’re going to need something for the press, something positive if we can. They’re already—’

  ‘I know. There’s a load outside my crime scene. I’ll give them the usual holding statement – it’s all I’ve got right now.’

  ‘I’ve tasked my assistant with arranging the press briefing.’

  Dom swears. The DCI’s assistant is super-efficient. The briefing will be organised before he has a chance to catch his breath. ‘There’s no point until we’ve got—’

  ‘Anyway, that’s not why I called.’

  He waits for Jackson to continue. Theatrical pausing is something his boss does whether he’s on camera or not, usually right before he delivers shitty news.

  ‘The IPCC want you over the river for that interview. Ten thirty. No excuses.’

  Dom glances at his watch. It’s almost half nine. ‘What, today?’

  ‘You’ve been stalling too long. They’re threatening all kinds of nonsense if you don’t go.’

  Dom hears the rattle of metal on metal. Looking round, he sees the doc’s people wheeling a gurney out of the flat. He turns away. Lowering his voice, he says, ‘But I gave Professional Standards a written statement weeks ago.’

  ‘And now the IPCC have taken over the investigation, they want to hear you say it.’

  Dom exhales hard. He’s been dodging their calls all week. Now they’ve gone over his head and got Jackson to pull rank. Bastards. ‘Didn’t you tell them I’m running a murder investigation? There are three dead women and bugger all leads. But, slap in the middle, you’re giving me a timeout to—’

  ‘It’ll take you an hour, two at the most.’

  Conscious the medics are still on the stairs, Dom tries to keep his anger in check. ‘Two hours at a critical point in the investigation. I need to tell the victim’s parents—’

  ‘Send Abbott to do that.’ Jackson raises his voice an octave. ‘My advice, Dom, is get this interview done. You keep avoiding Holsworth, you’ll only end up with more grief.’

  The unsaid implication isn’t lost on Dom. If he hadn’t been vague in his original statement five weeks ago he wouldn’t be having this grief at all. Operation Atlantis had been well researched and thoroughly planned. After months of work they were ready to bring down criminal kingpin Markus Genk. The team were competent and reliable, or at least they should have been, with his mate DI Simon Lindsay leading the team on the outside and Therese on the inside. But their cover got blown and the raid went bad. Dom’s hand goes to the slight indent in his forehead above his right eyebrow; the spot where he was knocked unconscious by the blow that buggered his memory. He rubs the skin, wincing from the pressure against the still tender area. ‘I don’t know what they think I’m holding back. I got injured. I’ve told them what I can remember of what happened, what I saw.’

  ‘Look, things like this, they’re distracting. They make good people screw up. Do the interview then focus on the case. We both need a win on this one.’

  Dom sighs. ‘Yeah, fine. I’ll get it over with.’

  ‘Good man, just tell them anything you remember, answer their questions and you can move on.’

  Dom thinks about that night. About the darkness and the confusion. He can remember, but the faces, and the facts, are blurred like an old movie projected onto a threadbare sheet. He flinches at the memory of the gunshot. The thumping in his head starts again with greater vengeance.

  Move on? If only it were that simple.

  8

  CLEMENTINE

  In my sights are the two overly made-up girls from earlier. They seemed to know the victim. I want to know what they know. They’re deep in conversation, scarlet-painted mouths working overtime. They haven’t noticed me.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I say. My mouth feels dry and my words crack against my lips. ‘I’m trying to find out more about the victim, can you help?’

  They stare at me, all frowns and disinterest. Say nothing. My heart’s punching against my ribs so hard it hurts. I pull the notebook and pencil I always carry with me from my pocket. Wave it towards them like a weapon. ‘I’m doing research.’

  ‘And you’re what?’ says the taller one with the ratty brunette extensions. ‘One of them reporters?’

  I nod. What does a lie matter, after all? I’m already assured of a hotspot in hell. ‘That’s right.’

  Their expressions soften and they beckon me closer, under the protection of their umbrella. I step into their space and ask, ‘So how do you know the victim?’

  ‘Don’t know her that well, to be honest,’ the brunette says. ‘I mean, I seen her about and that.’

  ‘Right stuck-up little cow she was, you know?’ The dumpier blonde one with the too-tight skinny jeans cuts in. ‘Thought she was better than us. Bitchy little princess.’

  I make a few notes in my book. Look back at the shorter girl. ‘So you argued?’

  ‘Nah, not really argued.’ She glances at her friend. ‘Just felt sorry for her man, you know? Mart Stax, he’s a DJ, right? Really good, but she never went to the club or nothing.’

  The taller one is shaking her head. ‘It’s not right to treat a man that way.’

  The blonde nods. ‘They’ve been living here about a year and a half. Reckon she’d let herself go a bit, you know, not making an effort for him. A year back she was always at the club.’

  I don’t comment. Make a few more notes. ‘So they were having problems?’

  The girls shrug.

  I’m guessing they don’t want to drop Mart Stax in the shit. I lean closer and give them a conspiratorial wink. ‘Go on, you can tell me.’

  They glance at each other and step back in unison leaving me standing in the rain again. The brunette shakes her head. ‘Can’t really say any more. Don’t know nothing else.’

  The shorter one nods. Stays silent.

  I’ve blown it. I open my mouth to try and save the situation but they’re already turning away. Shit.

  I stand on the pavement and watch them move through the crowd. My jacket has given up any pretence of being waterproof, my cashm
ere jumper is damp and clinging against my spine like a cold flannel, the backs of my jeans are saturated and heavy. The siren call of a hot bath is alluring, but I can’t go yet. The information on Kate Adams and her boyfriend is interesting but it’s not concrete fact and there’s no obvious lead from it. I need to find something better.

  The door to the flats opens, and a hush descends on the crowd. Two medics emerge, a portable gurney with the body on it between them. A pulse of energy surges through the crowd and those around me push forward towards the barrier, eager for a look-see. The medics don’t look at the crowd. They move fast, propelling the gurney from the building to the van in a matter of seconds.

  I glance across to the other side of the cordon and see Bob, camera in hand, braced against the tape. He’ll have a close-up shot of the body bag, no doubt. I snap a couple of pictures, but I know it isn’t enough.

  The medics emerge from the back of the van and slam the doors shut. Moments later the vehicle starts up and inches towards the outer cordon. There’s murmuring among the crowd. Everyone’s watching the van.

  That changes when the door opens again and the detective and his sidekick emerge. Now all eyes are on the pair, including mine.

  It’s definitely him – Detective Inspector Dominic Bell. He looks just like the pictures on my Google search. His hair’s drier now, making its trademark curl more apparent. Bowing his head against the wind, he takes long strides across the cordoned-off area. The lanky black detective has to hurry to keep pace.

  On the opposite side of no man’s land the growing media pack are jostling for position, shouting to the detectives, waving to get their attention, their smartphones and voice recorders outstretched towards the two men. DI Bell says something I can’t hear.

  The journalists yell more questions. I can hear them well enough.

  ‘Detective Bell, is it the same killer as in Camden?’

  ‘Dominic, over here, tell us what you found.’

  ‘Early thoughts, DI Bell?’

  ‘Did the Lover do this? Why’s it been four weeks and there’s still no arrest?’

  He doesn’t break his stride as he growls, ‘Press briefing at six.’

  Maybe he’s been told not to engage with the press and is following the chain of command, but there’s something angry, contemptuous, about the way he ignores their questions. I wonder what his story is.

  The van reaches the outer perimeter and brakes, waiting for a uniform to remove the tape and let it through. The two detectives look like they’re heading towards the gap as well.

  I see my chance; there’s nothing more for me here, but if I can find out more about the police effort, that would be information of value to Death Stalker and the team. I wait, using the rubberneckers as camouflage until the detectives have gone past, then ease through the crowd away from the barrier. No one gives me a second glance.

  In terms of threat, Detective Inspector Dominic Bell spells danger; if he finds out about True Crime London and what we’re doing, he’d close down our citizen’s investigation, I’m sure. Like a poisonous snake, he requires careful handling. I watch as he and the other policeman exit the cordon and head down the side road towards the High Street. I can’t see their faces, but it’s clear they’re having a heated debate.

  I wait three seconds then follow.

  At the junction with the High Street, they stop. I’m far enough behind not to look suspicious, but too close to stop without drawing attention to myself. I keep going. Drop my head so the hood of my jacket droops lower over my eyes.

  As I draw nearer, I hear the sidekick talking.

  ‘So what’s the urgent—’

  ‘Errand for Jackson. Non-negotiable.’ DI Bell’s tone is hard. It’s obvious the subject isn’t open for discussion. ‘Shouldn’t take too long, all right?’

  ‘I’ll let you know if something comes in.’

  ‘Yeah, do that. Thanks, Abbott.’ DI Bell strides away. He turns left up the High Street and disappears.

  My fingertips tingle. It’s a small triumph, but now I’ve got both their names: Detective Inspector Dominic Bell and his sidekick, Abbott.

  I keep walking. Go past Abbott, and take a left. Now it’s just Bell and me. He walks fast and I have to take two paces for every one of his to stop him extending the distance between us.

  We reach Angel tube station. It’s a busy spot, people bustling in and out, others loitering on the street outside – magazine sellers in dripping raincoats with stacks of soggy papers piled beside them; a line of people huddled at the bus stop, backs pressed against the glass of the shelter, trying to keep dry. The traffic along the road is as relentless as the weather.

  DI Bell heads inside. He crosses the foyer towards the turnstiles. I hover on the pavement, unsure of my next move. I don’t go on the tube. Not ever. I don’t want to let him go, though. He’s my best shot at finding something better to bring to the group.

  I follow him. I’m passing through the cattle crush of the turnstiles as DI Bell reaches the escalator. Inch by inch he disappears. I push past a fat man in an expensive-looking suit as I hurry to catch up. I can’t lose sight of the detective now. From his tone it sounded as if he didn’t want his sidekick to know where he’s going. That can’t be normal in the middle of investigating a fresh crime scene? I hope it’s not normal. I need it to be something unusual and interest-worthy.

  I have to get enough information to stay in the team.

  I’m halfway down the escalator when the first symptoms manifest. My breath catches in my throat and I start coughing. The woman in front, a skirt-suited forty-something, turns round to glare at me. Fighting the urge to keep coughing, I ignore her until she turns back round.

  By the time I’m at the bottom it feels like there’s a leather strap being tightened notch by notch around my chest. I fight through it, keep my eyes focused on DI Bell, as I navigate the swarm of people in the tunnel. He’s eight, maybe ten metres in front of me as we round a bend.

  Papery moth wings flutter in my chest and I swallow hard, trying to force them away. Doesn’t work. My throat’s too dry and I cough, louder this time. Keep coughing. My legs feel odd, weightless. I wobble, unable to maintain pace behind the detective. More coughing. No one around me makes eye contact.

  The crowding is worse on the platform. There’s a tube train already here and people are barging towards it. Those inside are already rammed tight. I stand on tiptoes, scanning the platform for the detective. Where is he? Have I lost him?

  The door alarms beep. An announcement sounds over the tannoy: Please stand back from the closing doors.

  That’s when I spot him along the platform to my right. He jumps into a carriage; it’s too late for me to follow. The doors slam shut behind him.

  This train is about to leave. Stand back from the platform’s edge. The next train will arrive in one minute.

  ‘Stand back,’ shouts an irate guard. ‘This train is leaving, the next one is right behind.’

  The people closest to the carriages shunt backwards. There’s no room. It’s hot, so hot – stifling. Something sharp, an elbow or the corner of a briefcase, smacks into my back. I stumble deeper into the crowd. Panic surges through me. It feels like I’m suffocating. I have to get out.

  Twisting round, I shove my way back towards the tunnel. I hurtle back up the escalators, blast through the turnstiles and I’m free. Stumbling onto the pavement, I take a few steps to get clear of the heat and the people, and stop. Leaning against the iron railings with the rain pouring down on me, I fish in my pocket and pull out a soggy packet of cigarettes. Lighting up with shaking hands, I inhale, deep and slow.

  I tell myself it’s OK. I know that it’s not, though. Dominic Bell has got away.

  The clock is counting down to Death Stalker’s deadline.

  I’ve still got nothing.

  9

  DOM

  The atrium of the IPCC offices is vast, and far grander than any police building. With the curved reception desk
, the granite-clad walls and the huge flower displays, it’s more like some fancy hotel. The young guy behind the desk watches Dom approach through black-framed glasses.

  Dom nods at him. ‘I’ve got a meeting at ten thirty with Mr Holsworth.’

  Dom watches as he brings up a diary on the computer. From the look of Holsworth’s schedule, he’s the only appointment the investigator has that morning. Hopefully they can make it quick.

  The reception guy looks back at Dom, smiles with an air of smugness. ‘That’s fine. I’ll let him know you’ve arrived. Take a seat and someone will be along to collect you shortly.’

  Dom hates this place already. The echoing space and high ceiling makes him feel uncomfortable, out of place. He sits down heavily on a cream armchair.

  He crosses his legs, then uncrosses them. Jigs his left heel up and down as he thinks about what he’ll say when Holsworth asks him about the raid. The brief for the undercover operation was clear enough; get Markus Genk to take the bait that would let them destroy his sex trafficking business and arrest him. DI Therese Weller had been in the lead. She’d initiated contact with Genk, handled the communications and got them close to him. As far as their target knew, Therese was a criminal looking to do business. Dom had been her her back-up. DI Simon Lindsay, his mate from their rookie years, and DS Darren Harris, boyfriend to his sister, Chrissie, had been leading on communications. The memory of the raid is jumbled in his mind, the thump on the head saw to that, but he knows someone had to have tipped off Genk, and someone must have helped him get away.

  He jigs his leg faster. For someone to tip off the target they’d have to have been part of the team, people he counted as friends as well as colleagues. One of the team had been much more than a friend: Therese. Now he’s no idea if he should trust any of them.

  Dom glances towards reception. Above the desk, screwed into the black and pink granite, four clocks show the time in London, Hong Kong, New York and Sydney. Dom has no clue why people in this office need world time information. He stares at the London clock, watching the minute hand move from 10.30 to 10.40 and beyond, and feels more pissed off with every second. Holsworth had nothing in his diary to delay him, so why the wait? Dom assumes it’s a power play. That pisses him off even more.