Lying back, I sink low until every bit of me from the neck down is submerged beneath the bubbles. I exhale. Try to relax as the warmth spreads across my frozen skin, and close my eyes. I let myself slip lower, my mouth beneath the water. Breathe in through my nose, a long breath, and slide below the surface.
11
DOM
It’s just gone 11.30, and the office is almost empty. The few detectives at their desks blank him as he passes. Trying to ignore the snub, he finds Abbott in the small meeting room they’ve commandeered as the incident room for the case. He’s facing the murder board, staring at his phone as he eats.
‘What have we got?’ Dom says.
Abbott switches off the phone’s screen. He’s not quick enough, though. Dom clocks the red and white logo of one of the bitchier online news sites – News Byte – and reads the headline: Met lets the Lover strike again. From the way they reported it you’d think he’d wanted another murder to happen.
Finishing his mouthful, Abbott says, ‘Just catching up on Twitter. You got back quick.’
‘Yeah.’ Dom looks away from the phone. It’s easier to pretend he didn’t see the article. ‘How’d it go with the parents?’
Abbott looks grim. ‘Shit. That’s why I called. They want to speak to you.’
Dom’s surprised. Most people want to avoid him these days. ‘Why?’
‘Wouldn’t say. Just said they wanted to speak to the lead detective. They’re here. Downstairs. There’s a FLO with them.’
Dom nods. There’s no point putting it off. ‘Better get down there then.’
The interview room is a rubbish place to talk to Kate’s parents. Wherever you are it’s a shit job, but if they’d been in their own home they’d have had familiar surroundings, been more comfortable. The scuffed lino floor and pale green walls of this room aren’t designed for comfort. The fluorescent lighting is harsh, unforgiving. When Dom enters Kate Adams’ parents – Bernard and Lucielle – are sitting side by side on two plastic chairs, their backs to the door. The FLO is on the opposite side of a table. No one is speaking.
‘I’m sorry you had to wait,’ Dom says by way of introduction as he moves round the table. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Dominic Bell.’
They don’t get up. Kate’s father, Bernard, reaches for his wife’s hand. They’re both still wearing their coats – his green Barbour is undone over a country check shirt, her pink Puffa is zipped tight. They’re immaculately turned out, even in grief.
Their expressions are those of two people caught on a tightrope of emotion; they’ve not come to terms with the horror of what’s happened, but they’re hoping he has some answers. Or that it’s a mistake.
It’s not a mistake, though, and he has no answers. Dom can see they’re trying to hold it together but the strain is evident on their faces. He ploughs on. ‘DS Abbott said you wanted to speak with me?’
Bernard nods.
Neither of them speak.
Dom sits down and waits. Lets them take their time.
‘It’s that boyfriend of hers. Mart Stax,’ Bernard says. His voice has a tremble that’s at odds with his stern expression. ‘We’ve never liked him.’
Lucielle sniffs loudly. The sound seems strange coming from such a petite, bird-like woman. Her words come in a rush. ‘He bled her dry, always had her paying off his debts, liked living way above his station.’
‘Had she told you they were having problems? Was he violent towards her?’
Lucielle shakes her head. ‘Nothing like that, she’s just such a kind soul, wants to help people, that’s why she took the job at NHS 111. And she’s always seeing the good in people. Even Mart. Always helping him out of trouble.’
Bernard grunts agreement.
‘Had she mentioned anyone else, or anything else, that was worrying her?’
They shake their heads. Bernard’s cheeks flush and Dom can tell he’s steeling himself to ask a question.
‘What did they do to her?’
Dom hates that he’s asked. Wonders if he really wants to know the answer.
‘They’re saying on Twitter she was killed by the Lover. Is it true?’
Fucking Twitter. Dom shakes his head. ‘It’s too early to say, sir. We’re following multiple lines of enquiry. It’ll be—’
‘So it’s possible … oh God …’ Bernard’s words trail off. He clutches his wife’s hand tighter. When he speaks again his voice is strangled, forced. ‘Did they … I need to know … did they violate her like the others?’
Dom doesn’t speak. He’s not supposed to give details out at this stage; they’ll still need to do a proper interview with Bernard and Lucielle once they’ve had a chance to process what’s happened. But the anguish in the man’s eyes is killing him. Dom looks down. Gives a slight nod.
As soon as he does Lucielle buries her face into Bernard’s chest. Bernard struggles to stay strong, but fails. He grimaces as he tries to hold back his emotion. The effort twists his features and tears stream down his cheeks.
Dom stays sitting on the chair, watching Bernard howl and Lucielle trying to soothe him, and feels utterly fucking useless.
An hour later, back in the incident room, Dom tries to focus. He looks at the murder board. Photos of the victims are tacked along the top. Abbott has added Kate Adams’s picture. Dom stares at it. The smiling blonde in the picture is totally different from the dead brunette he saw a few hours ago. He follows the dotted line from the photo to the picture below; her partner, Stax. He looks back at Kate, at the block capitals written above her photo: DECEASED.
Tracking back along the pictures he looks from Kate Adams to the second victim – Zara Bretton. The photo at the top is from her twenty-first birthday party. The original picture had been of her and two friends – they’d cropped it around Zara and enlarged it for the board. He stares at the photo, at Zara Bretton’s broad smile. Like Kate Adams, Zara was blonde, although not a natural one. She was younger, too, only twenty-three. She’d worked at an artisan sandwich shop while looking for acting work. She thought she’d get her big break. Instead she got killed.
Six days ago she’d been found dead in her canal-side apartment in Camden by her best friend; naked on the bed, surrounded by rose petals and the stubs of burnt-out candles. A single black rose between her breasts. Five dotted lines go from her photo to others below. All are men. Each has a thick black cross over them. Five lines of enquiry, five possible suspects – all followed through and cleared.
He moves on to the picture of the first victim – Jenna Malik. She’d graduated that summer and moved out of a shared student house to a friend’s flat in Crouch End to house-sit while the friend was away on a gap year. According to her parents she’d originally planned to travel herself, but when she was offered a place on a prestigious graduate training scheme she decided instead to start work. She was smart, motivated, and then four weeks ago she was killed. With her light brown hair cut into a heavy fringe and her make-up-free face, she’d looked much younger than her twenty-one years. It’d taken two days before she was discovered – one of her work colleagues raised the alarm. Jenna has three dotted lines to three male suspects; each different from those below Zara Bretton and Kate Adams, each is crossed out.
Three dead women; nothing to connect them. There’s got to be something. Has to be.
He glances at the picture below; Jenna Malik again, but how she was found at the crime scene. She looks older; the eighties-style make-up ageing her, the darker brown curls making her look pale and washed out. Zara Bretton’s crime scene photo is almost identical. Her skin tone is ever so slightly darker, but everything else looks the same. From memory, he thinks Kate Adams’s crime scene picture will match just as closely.
He’s still staring at the photos when his mobile vibrates in his pocket. Pulling it out, he sees Parekh’s name flashing on the screen and answers.
‘Guv, I’m with Mart Stax, we’ve been talking about the night before Kate was killed. He says she seemed twitchy, wa
s acting a bit funny when she got in from her night out with the girls.’
‘Does he know why?’
‘No, but he reckons her friend might. Eva Finch. They worked together and were both out that night. Told each other everything, he says.’
‘All right, thanks. Get the friend’s details and text me?’
‘Will do.’
Dom hangs up and hurries into the open plan. It’s still deserted aside from Abbott over at his workstation, talking into his mobile. Dom catches his eye and jerks his head towards the door. Keeps walking.
Abbott catches Dom up. ‘Central Control are sending CCTV footage over.’
‘Good.’
‘So where now?’
Opening the door to the stairwell, Dom marches through. ‘To see what Kate’s best mate can tell us.’
12
He’s pleased their schedules align. Her routine is to swim at lunchtime, every day, but that isn’t always possible for him. Today he has the time, and for that he is grateful. Because although he knows he will see her tonight, a whole day is too long to wait. He pines when they are apart.
When she left her office at 12.30 he was waiting outside for her. They took the short walk to Breeze’s Gym, then changed quickly; her into the blue and orange racing-back swimming costume, him into black swimming shorts. Her hair is pinned up on the top of her head in a messy bun. He favours a swimming cap, black, to cover his, and a pair of goggles. He doesn’t want to be recognised.
He’s already in the water, in the deep end of the leisure area, when she emerges from the changing room. He treads water as he watches her. Admires the elegant way she slides into the pool. Her impeccable stroke as she swims lengths in the fast lane. She is so close, but he cannot touch her. Yet.
He savours the delayed gratification. It feels just as it did that first time, in the dusty old barn deep in the sun-scorched South African bush. He’d been the youngest, the pale, skinny kid from England, allowed to tag along with his older cousins and their friends as long as he did as they said. That afternoon they’d told him he had to do her. She had been his initiation – part of his journey to becoming a man. It had felt good.
He swims breaststroke as he watches her complete her twenty lengths. When she exits the pool, vaulting up onto the side rather than using the steps, he knows he will have thirteen minutes until she leaves the gym and walks back to her office. He waits until she’s out of sight before he hurries from the pool.
He is faster at changing. He’s sitting in the relaxation area facing away from the changing rooms, coffee in hand, baseball cap on his head, when she walks towards the exit. As she passes he inhales. She smells of orchids and peach blossom. He’s dizzy at their proximity. Wants to reach out and touch her.
But he doesn’t. And he doesn’t follow her either. Not again. Not in daylight.
The waiting is part of the thrill.
He cannot wait much longer.
13
CLEMENTINE
My lungs feel like they’re about to explode. Still I hold back, fighting the urge to breathe. Getting this close to death makes me almost feel alive.
The image in my mind’s eye isn’t the usual one. I’m in the reception area at school waiting for Father. I’ve been sitting on the wooden bench for a while, a long while. My bottom has got pins and needles. The sun has moved round the building as I’ve sat here, its light peering through the high windows at me, casting shadows across the stone-flagged floor.
Miss Penton, the receptionist, glances across at me again. Clears her throat. She doesn’t think Father’s coming, but I know he will. My father is a hero; he has important police work so he’s often late, but he’d never, ever let me down.
That’s when I hear the growl of an engine. Tyres on gravel. The slamming of a car door. Jumping up, I run outside. ‘Father!’
He lifts me up, pulling me into a bear hug. I wrap my arms around his neck, giggling. He smells of soap and tobacco, and I breathe in the smell so I don’t forget. I never know how long it will be before I see him again.
It wasn’t always this way. When I was really little we lived as a family; Father, Mother and me. I went to the local school and we did things like other families – weekend shopping, cinema, football in the park. But after Father’s promotion he started going away for months at a time, and Mother seemed permanently cross with me. Now Father and Mother are divorced and I live at school.
I try not to be lonely.
‘Happy birthday, Twinkle,’ he says. ‘Eleven years old already, I can’t believe it.’
‘It’s true. Miss Sue baked me a cake. Do you want some?’
‘Maybe later, don’t want to ruin our appetites.’ He gestures to the back seat of his car, at a wicker hamper and a tartan rug. ‘I thought this would be fun.’
Grinning, I nod. This is going to be the best birthday.
We walk through the grounds playing I Spy. I spy B for buttercups, S for squirrel. Father spies E for the gold earrings I’m wearing, and says he’s sorry he wasn’t there when I had my ears pierced.
When we reach the biggest oak tree, Father spreads out the rug and we plonk ourselves down onto it. I chatter away as he lays out the feast. I wait for him to give the nod, then we dive in, loading our plates and stuffing ourselves on quiche, triangle sandwiches, crisps and sausage rolls.
As we eat he asks me about school. I tell him my grades are mainly As, my piano playing isn’t going so well, and that I’ve got the part of Nancy in the next school play – Peter Pan. He listens, smiling and nodding as I talk, but he seems distracted. He keeps glancing at his phone.
‘Are you OK?’ I ask.
He smiles. ‘Just work stuff, nothing you need to fret about.’
I grin, and eat a fondant fancy to show I’m not bothered. Father’s frowning, though. He’s changed, aged, in the four months since I last saw him. His black hair is clipped shorter and has more grey. The lines around his eyes are more heavily etched. His brown eyes are just as bright, but there’s a worry in them I’ve never seen before.
‘Tell me about this job,’ I say. ‘More bad people doing bad things?’
He puts down the sandwich in his hand. ‘Lots of bad people, lots of bad things.’
I lean forward, wondering if he’ll give me details. He never usually gives me details. ‘Are you working undercover? Will you get another medal?’
He sighs. ‘I don’t think anyone will give me a medal for what I’m doing.’
‘Why is—’
His phone rings. He looks apologetically at me then gets up, answering the call in a voice rougher than his own. ‘What?’
I can’t hear what’s being said, but as he listens to the caller he looks angry. Then he’s speaking, shaking his head, saying he can’t do that, won’t do it. A minute or so later he agrees to whatever they’re discussing and hangs up. As he walks back towards me I eat another fondant fancy and pretend I wasn’t eavesdropping.
He starts packing away the picnic. ‘I’m sorry, I’ve got to go.’
‘Already? But you only just got here.’
He avoids my eyes. Puts the sandwiches back into their carton, wraps the sausage rolls in cling film, folds up the blanket. ‘It’s the job.’
My lower lip quivers. ‘Yes I know.’
Father looks sad. ‘Sometimes it makes me do stuff I don’t want to. It’s a hard world out there, Twinkle. You have to make tough choices or you won’t survive.’
Fighting back tears, I breathe in. Water floods my lungs and I’m choking.
Arms thrashing. Hands grasping. I fight myself free. Bath suds and water cascade over the sides of the bath as I struggle to sit up. Gasping. Coughing. The taste of soapy lemon foam makes me retch as his words repeat in my mind: Make tough choices or you won’t survive.
Back at my desk, I nurse a coffee in one hand and a cigarette in the other. I stare at the Twitter feed under #TheLover while I think about my next move.
@dexy457: #TheLover has killed again? Ser
iously people, are the police even trying to catch this guy?
@bigben95: Don’t go out alone ladies. I’ll protect you #TheLover #crime
@donaldgee: London just got less safe - #TheLover is in town
@witness_zero: Something needs to happen #TheLover
@mspaulabeale: #TheLover tip: stick to the south, all victims have been north
@crimefan: #TheLover is making his mark #excited #serialkiller #london
Idiots and fantasists, that’s what a serial killer flushes out in the Twittersphere. I encountered plenty when I was doing my research. Hundreds took part in my survey, always super-eager to talk about their passion, pathetically grateful I was taking an interest. True Crime Londoners seemed different, but after meeting Bob I wonder if they really are. I remember my idea to reacquaint myself with their survey responses.
Before I’ve opened my database, a new alert appears.
Death Stalker to Case Files: The Lover We’re seven hours into the first tasks. So far Ghost Avenger, Robert ‘chainsaw’ Jameson, Bloodhound, Witness_Zero and Crime Queen have successfully completed [guys – I’ve messaged you with new tasks] and are confirmed members of the group. Justice League and The Watcher, we need more from you – you’ve got seventeen hours to deliver.
He’s goading me, piling on the pressure with his ticking clock countdown. I hate how I’ve fallen into this trap, this desire, of wanting to stay part of the group.
The Watcher @DeathStalker No problem
Back when Father was a police hero, my hero, I asked him how he coped with working undercover, pretending to be a different person, for so many months at a time. He told me, when you’re walking into a situation where you have little control, having confidence in your skills is the key. If you don’t have that, he’d said, bluff.
I’m trying. But this bluff will only work if I can find more information in the next seventeen hours. I open my research database and pull up the True Crime London file. If I have their specialist knowledge, maybe I can spot a gap or opportunity to find new information. That way I’ll bring something fresh to our investigation and earn my place in the group. There’s another benefit, too; knowing all I can about this group helps me understand them, their motivations and how best to handle my interaction with them. Helping me keep my disguise in place.
My Little Eye Page 7
