My Little Eye

by Stephanie Marland

  15

  DOM

  There’s a click as the incident room door opens. DS Biggs and DS Abbott saunter in, with DC Parekh following a few strides behind.

  ‘All right, boss,’ Biggs raises his mug in mock salute.

  Tosser, thinks Dom, struggling to keep his expression neutral. Biggs is too full of it for his taste, but so far his work’s been solid. A long server with almost twenty-five years on the job, he has the experience but lacks the work ethic. Dom watches him pull out a chair and flop down onto it. With his curly brown hair tufty behind a receding hairline, he reminds Dom of an ageing clown. ‘You done with the door to doors?’

  ‘All those in the building and within two hundred metres of the scene,’ Biggs says.

  Parekh moves past the guys and perches on the table to their right. She looks at the board, then at Dom. ‘Stax might stay with a friend for the next few days. I’ve got the address. I told him not to go far without telling us first.’

  She’s the opposite of Biggs, thinks Dom, young, only a few years into the job, and keen. Unlike Biggs in his faded suit trousers and tieless shirt, Parekh’s skirt suit is professional, her long black hair smoothed into a ponytail. He looks at Abbott. ‘Any luck getting the CCTV?’

  ‘It’s just come in.’

  ‘We need to get on it.’

  Abbott nods. Looks uncomfortable.

  Parekh steps closer to the board, looks at the smiling photo of Kate, then at the shot of her dead. ‘Changing their appearance, that’s got to take a while. He makes his victims look younger, and—’

  ‘Every woman’s dream,’ Biggs mutters.

  ‘Right,’ Parekh says. ‘We all want to look good dead.’

  Dom stares at Biggs. ‘We’re working here. Don’t be a twat, yeah?’

  Biggs doesn’t reply.

  Parekh shakes her head, but she’s smiling. ‘He must have gear, you know? Make-up, hair dye and stuff. That’s got to be a pain to lug about.’

  ‘So our man isn’t an opportunist. He stalks his victims first, waits for a time when they’re alone, then acts.’ Dom looks at Abbott. ‘Any luck with the pub?’

  ‘I spoke to the assistant manager. He was helpful, he’s sending across their camera footage.’

  Dom glances at his watch. It’s gone five. The press briefing is less than an hour off.

  ‘Anything on the note, Abbott?’

  ‘Sorry, I haven’t got to it yet, I’ll do it after the HOLMES searches.’

  ‘I can work on it if you want?’ Parekh says. She looks eagerly from Abbott to Dom.

  ‘Actually if you could get cracking on the CCTV that’d be great, Parekh.’ They need to find out what the note means, but if there’s footage of the killer on CCTV that’s got to be the priority. He looks at Biggs. ‘Anything worth following up from the door-to-doors?’

  Biggs shrugs. ‘Bugger all, really. No one in the flats heard anything unusual.’

  The sergeant won’t meet his eye. Still smarting from the knock-back, no doubt. ‘So nothing?’

  ‘Well, the downstairs neighbour remembers our vic returning home from work around quarter past ten because she heard the door slam.’ Biggs coughs, not bothering to cover his mouth. ‘Other than that no one seemed to have much to say, or didn’t want to tell me. Everyone’s so bloody distrustful these days, even of us police.’

  Dom grabs a marker and draws a timeline along the bottom of the board. At 2215 he notes Kate returned home, then adds Stax’s return at 0230. ‘So we’re building a picture of who entered and left the flat.’

  ‘Interesting symmetry with the jobs,’ Parekh says. She steps to the board, taps a bullet point listed below the photo of Zara Bretton, then another below Jenna Malik. ‘All three victims were new in their jobs. Zara had worked at the sandwich place seven weeks, Jenna had just started as a graduate trainee and Kate started as a call handler last month. I know the employers are different, but it seems rather a coincidence.’

  ‘Yup, good point.’ Dom underlines the corresponding bullet points. ‘We checked that out after the first two murders, but with Kate we have another angle. Get on to Kate’s employers and find out how they recruited her, see if they use the same agency as the others, or if there’s another connection between them. Maybe we’ll get lucky.’

  ‘Will do, sir.’

  Dom looks round the room. ‘Anything else?’

  Silence.

  Abbott flicks through his notes. ‘I had a call from the doc’s office. The PM’s scheduled for first thing tomorrow.’

  Dom hates the things. He’s tempted to send Biggs, but feels he owes it to Kate Adams to be there. ‘All right, pencil me in. You too.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Anything back from the lab?’

  Parekh shakes her head. ‘No, guv. I’ll chase them, but it’s likely to be days rather than hours.’

  Different case, same old shit. ‘Keep on at them. We’re flying blind without it.’

  ‘I’ll request a fast track.’

  ‘Ask hard, yeah.’

  Biggs sniggers.

  Dom glares at him. ‘If you’ve finished knocking doors, get digging into the relationship between Stax and Kate. Something there’s not right, we need to know what. Talk to family, friends, colleagues. Check Stax’s story, every minute of his movements. Also Kate’s parents said she was often lending him money – check that out too.’

  ‘Fine.’

  Biggs looks like nothing could excite him less. Dom figures he’d act the same whatever task he assigned. He wishes he’d get over himself.

  Abbott gestures towards the clock. ‘We need to …’

  Twenty past five. Shit. Dom can’t delay any longer. He has to prep for the press briefing. Jackson likes to call the soirées ‘media partnership’ meetings; he’s had a special room tarted up and dedicated to them. Still, at least today isn’t the full works, just a verbal update, a request for specific information to be included in news coverage and a brief Q&A, no cameras.

  Dom looks around the team, catching each person’s gaze in turn. ‘OK, good work. You know your tasks. Full team meeting tomorrow, four o’clock. Until then, Parekh, you’re up as office manager. We’ll feed all info in through you.’

  Parekh smiles. Looks pleased.

  Dom isn’t, though. In thirty minutes he’ll be standing in front of the press with virtually fuck all to say.

  16

  CLEMENTINE

  At five o’clock he posts the reminder in Case Files: The Lover.

  Death Stalker Remember, there’s a press briefing tonight at 6pm @Robert ‘chainsaw’ Jameson – you’re our eyes on this.

  Robert ‘chainsaw’ Jameson I’ve managed to get a press pass via my friend. I’ll take notes and report back.

  I have to find a way to stay in the group. The memory of my eleventh birthday with Father still lingers in my mind. Make tough choices or you won’t survive. Well, his choices were bad, and I need to do more than just survive. I want to beat the police. I have to show there’s another way to get justice.

  I stare out of the window, watching people scuttling along the street below. It’s dusk. In a few minutes the sun will be gone. It’s harder to observe in the gloom, and that makes it easier to go to places you shouldn’t.

  It gives me an idea; to get inside the crime scene. The briefing at six is my opportunity. The detectives will be with the press. If I’m lucky the uniforms will be gone too. It’s the perfect time to make a return visit.

  I grab my boots and zip them up over my leggings. Pull on my coat, and put my phone and purse into the pockets. I plait my hair into a loose braid and pin it up on the top of my head, then pull on a black beanie. I try to ignore the fluttering in my chest.

  I’m ready. I’m determined to do this. I’m terrified.

  It’s 5.50. The rain has stopped but the streets are slick with damp. I’m careful not to slip as I carry my bags along the pavement towards the Chick-o-Lick takeaway. I bought a few items at the store around the co
rner – teabags, a few packets of crisps, a magazine – just enough to give the impression I’m an office drone who’s picked up a few essentials on the way home from work. It’s prime commuting time, and I’m passed by plenty of other people whose jaded expressions look just like mine, although theirs, I assume, are real.

  As I walk past the open door of the chicken place I spot a pack of youths loitering inside by the counter. I catch snatches of their banter, goading each other to take their chicken with maximum chilli. A couple of older men sit by the window eating chicken dripping with grease.

  I look away, keep my pace steady and my head bowed as if seeking respite from the wind. I’m not, though. I’m scanning for threats, checking the environment, looking to see if a uniform is still stationed at the crime scene.

  The building entrance is up ahead. There’s no one keeping guard. A lone strand of police tape flaps from one side of the black door; the only clue something unpleasant occurred here. I don’t stop. The sturdiness of the door tells me the front isn’t viable. I could try and pick the lock, but the old boys eating chicken are facing the pavement, they’d see me. I need to find another way.

  I continue along the street. The chicken takeaway must have a place round the back where it stores rubbish, and although gardens are rare here, these old houses might have some outdoor space hidden behind their street-facing facade. It’s my best hope.

  A few hundred metres on the left, I spot a narrow side street, just wide enough for a single vehicle. I turn down it, following as it snakes between the houses, curving back towards the chicken place. There are no streetlamps, but in this city it’s never truly dark. Bright windows in the buildings either side of me light the gloom and I start to relax. The contrast with the bustle of the neighbouring streets is pronounced. Here I am alone.

  Perfect.

  The smell of cheap meat is heavy in the air. I follow it, knowing that as the odour grows stronger I’ll be drawing closer to the back of the house. The wall is too high to see over, shielding the terrace from view. I keep going, looking for a way in.

  I find one a couple of metres before the boundary with the chicken takeaway – a wooden gate. Stopping beside it, I rummage in my pocket and pull out my cigarettes. I don’t need a smoke, but it’s a good cover. As I light up, I double-check I’m alone.

  The street is clear. Inhaling hard, I let the smoke fill my mouth, and chuck my cigarette into the gutter. Exhaling, I move closer to the gate and reach for the latch.

  Stepping through the gap, I find myself in a small paved area cluttered with garden furniture. On the other side is what I’m looking for – a back door. I squeeze past an old barbecue to reach it.

  The lock looks basic enough. I swipe my phone awake and replay the YouTube clip I’d found as I walked here – how to pick a lock in three simple stages. I press play.

  The clip’s almost done when I hear it. A male voice with a strong East European accent, singing tunelessly on the other side of the fence, ‘… and you’re the one. The one I’ve been waiting …’

  I curse under my breath. Pause the video. Wait. Hear the scuff of metal on metal, followed by the clatter of glass being tipped into a bin. More singing.

  ‘… turn around, let me see your angel …’ The voice fades as the man moves back towards the building. A door slams shut.

  With my heart hammering against my ribs, I pull the two long pins from my hair and try to copy the actions shown in the video. After a couple of minutes of wrangling I feel the mechanism yield and the lock undoes. I step inside the building.

  My heart thumps harder. Anticipation makes me hyper vigilant and adrenaline floods my body. I breathe into the feeling. It reminds me of another act, one I must never speak of. One I chastise myself to never do again no matter how strong the urge.

  I force myself to focus. I’m in a narrow hallway. My boots sound loud on the tiled floor. A plug-in nightlight illuminates the passage enough for me to navigate. Stepping lighter, I advance towards the stairs.

  The light in the main hallway comes on automatically and I pause a moment as my eyes adjust to the brightness. The walls are painted a garish pink. Taking care not to touch the handrail, I take the stairs to the second floor.

  At the top of the stairs I pause. Listen hard. Hear nothing.

  It seems the residents have left this place. People are funny like that, not wanting to stay where another person died, as if somehow that person’s bad luck will transfer to them – as if death is something you can catch. As if it’s something to be afraid of.

  Still, I keep my carrier bags clutched tight in my left hand, ready to use as props in my cover story if I meet anyone. I’ll say I’ve brought Mart Stax some supplies, that I’m a friend. It’s plausible enough to let me get clear of the building before they start wondering how I got inside.

  Crime scene tape is fixed diagonally across the door to Flat B. I fiddle about with the hairpins until I manage to pick the lock, and duck beneath the tape to go inside. Glancing across the room, I see the curtains are still drawn from when the police were here, a narrow border of light from the street visible between the material and window frame. I wonder how Detective Dominic Bell approached analysing this crime scene.

  Using the torch on my phone, I sweep the light around the room. I want to get a sense of the place, a glimpse into the life of the victim, Kate Adams. The way other people live, the clutter they choose to surround themselves with, is far more revealing of their personality than the things they say. All through university I found my fellow students’ rooms and possessions the best way to assess them. Snooping among their things gave me insights that allowed me to feign interest in what they liked, helping me seem like them, letting me pretend I fitted in. I got pretty good at faking. But tonight isn’t about fun or faking; I need to stay on task.

  If this is another Lover murder then the victim will have been found in the bedroom. I move, light-footed, across the room. The torch on my phone highlights the dark powder residues on the glass table and across the worktops of the kitchenette. It makes the place look grubby. It also shows that no one has cleaned up since the forensic team left.

  Switching the phone to camera mode I enable the geotagging function, then, being sure to get the room in focus, take my first picture – Kate Adams’s bed. It’s been stripped of linens, just an iron bedstead and memory foam mattress remains. I can’t take my eyes off it. I wonder how the bed looked before the forensics team took away the parts that had contact with the victim. I wonder how the victim looked.

  I snap another picture. These images, with the geotag identifying where they’ve been taken, have to get me included in the group.

  A bang makes me jump.

  I spin round in the direction of the noise. It came from the front door, I’m sure of it. The door is closed, but there’s a strip of light visible beneath it. Something has activated the automatic light in the hallway.

  My mouth’s dry, my heartbeat’s thunder-loud in my ears. I fight the urge to scream. Fear roots me to the spot. I listen hard. Am I imagining it? Is my mind playing tricks?

  No.

  Something bangs against the door a second time. The handle turns back and forth; someone’s trying to get in. Is it the police? Could the killer be returning?

  The only way out is through that door. I’m trapped.

  I watch the door inch open.

  17

  DOM

  Heading to the press briefing, Dom can’t shake the feeling he’s a dead man walking. Up ahead, by the doorway, is Jackson. Tall and broad, the DCI is an imposing figure at the best of times. As Dom approaches he makes a show of looking at his watch.

  Dom knows he’s cutting it fine: that’s the point. He didn’t want to arrive early so Jackson could badger him about the missed meeting and why he’d been avoiding his calls.

  He stops beside Jackson. Addresses him more formally than usual. ‘Sir.’

  The DCI nods in acknowledgement. From the silence, Dom knows his c
ommanding officer is seriously pissed off. Abbott scoots round them into the briefing room.

  Jackson readjusts his tie and runs a hand across his bald head, smoothing imaginary hair into place. His tone is deadpan as he says, ‘See me afterwards. No tricks.’

  Dom nods. The indent in his skull starts to throb.

  The DCI’s assistant scuttles from the press room into the corridor. She beams at her boss and Dom, oblivious to the tension between them. ‘They’re all here. Ready whenever you are.’

  Jackson gestures at Dom to go into the room. ‘You’re running this show, Bell. After you.’

  Dom feels like such a twat. He’s sweating, a lot. Beside him, Jackson looks a picture of neat professionalism. Dom wishes he was sitting at the back with Abbott, observing the crowd rather than being the main act, or main course if this lot get their way.

  The room is full. The murder of an attractive young woman in a good part of town always gets the roaches crawling out for a feast.

  As Jackson launches into his usual ‘thank you for coming’ spiel, Dom scans his notes, trying to memorise the key points. The more he does, the more he thinks about the things he’s omitting – like the note and the women’s changed appearance.

  ‘And so,’ Jackson’s voice gets louder, breaking into Dom’s thoughts. ‘I’ll hand over to Detective Inspector Dominic Bell, who will take you through the briefing.’

  His throat feels tight. He grabs a glass of water from the table and takes a gulp, wishing it were gin. He resents sitting here doing a show-and-tell to this lot while the killer’s still out there. He hates that he has to overanalyse every sentence to make sure they can’t twist his words.

  ‘In the early hours of this morning, the body of Kate Adams was found by her boyfriend at their home. We believe she was killed between 10.15 p.m. and 2.30 a.m. There were no signs of forced entry to the property. We’re still in the early stages of our investigation, but given the circumstances in which she was found, there’s a strong likelihood Kate Adams’s death and the murders of Zara Bretton and Jenna Malik are connected.’ Dom pauses. The journos are listening; most of them are tapping notes into iPads. He takes a quick sip of his water, and continues, ‘At this time, we’re following initial lines of enquiry and would like anyone who has any information that could relate to this case to come forward. You’ll find images and further details of the victims in your briefing packs.’