The Career Killer

by Ali Gunn

  It was absurd. Knox had just been demoted for disciplinary reasons. She couldn’t possibly have been on track for promotion six months ago. Curiosity got the better of her. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Honestly? I don’t know. She and Fairbanks had a blazing row – I heard muffled yelling coming from his office – and the next thing I know, she’s the same rank as me. Until a month ago, she was Detective Inspector Knox – she’s been on the force for a decade and a half and she’s solved more murders than...’

  ‘Than me?’ Elsie demanded.

  ‘Well, yeah.’

  ‘I’ll tell you what I told Knox. If you don’t want to serve under my command, walk away now. There’s a reason I’m leading this team. I’m the best woman for the job, and we’re going to solve this case or die trying. Are we on the same page?’

  ‘Yes, boss.’

  ‘Then keep your nose out of things that don’t concern you. If Knox wants to apologise, she need only walk into my office and do so.’

  The scene looked markedly different in daylight. Today, tourists thronged around the edges of St Dunstan, many of them asking the uniformed officers stationed around the perimeter why they couldn’t visit the famous church garden. The blue and white police tape ought to have been a bit of a clue, Elsie thought.

  The winter sun gave the atmosphere a crisp, clean feel – Christmas was in the air and so everyone was wrapped up tight under thick coats, woollen mittens and patterned scarves – the sort of clothing that made it all too easy to conceal a knife as the killer must have done.

  The cordon was still in place as they approached in unamiable silence, and a different officer greeted them – yesterday’s numpty was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he too had gone AWOL. Elsie signed the crime scene log, donned her protective clothing, waited for Matthews to do likewise, and headed past the tape. The rigmarole of plastic shoe covers was pointless now that the whole of St Dunstan in the East had been combed over by the scene of crime officers. Putting the forensic booties on was just for Matthews’ benefit. Elsie didn’t want to be responsible for getting her into any bad habits.

  Once they were back in the lower garden, they could see a chalk outline marking where the body had lain on the bench.

  Fresh eyes might not yield very much, and Elsie’s were far from fresh after a fitful night. Her only hope was that the morning light would help them spot something they’d missed in the darkness. Until Stryker and Spilsbury were finished with the autopsy – which ought to be any moment now – there was little Elsie could do but try. She had asked the crime scene manager to attend to run through the initial findings. It was five to twelve, and they’d agreed to meet on the hour. If only Elsie could keep her eyes open.

  ‘...results.’

  The words pulled Elsie out of her funk. Matthews was looking at her expectantly.

  She pulled a confused face.

  ‘I said: “when do you think we’ll get the autopsy results?” Seb ought to be done by now.’

  ‘Soon, I’d imagine. No doubt Inspector Stryker will get in touch as soon as he knows what’s up,’ she said just as her phone buzzed.

  ‘Speak of the devil,’ Matthews commented. Her own phone buzzed moments later as if Stryker had group-messaged the whole team. Out of the corner of her eye, Elsie caught the glimmer of a smile as Matthews unlocked her phone.

  ‘Quit grinning,’ Elsie said sharply. ‘Think of the optics.’

  It wouldn’t do for one of the Met’s finest to be photographed smirking at a crime scene, especially when they were investigating such a sensational murder.

  ‘Sorry, boss,’ Matthews said sheepishly. ‘But look – he’s so cute!’

  Matthews turned her screen towards Elsie.

  As curious as she was, Elsie didn’t even look. It was obvious she was chatting to a fella on work time.

  Elsie scowled. ‘Put it away, or I’ll take it off you.’

  She ignored Matthews’ protests and unlocked her own mobile. The message wasn’t from Sebastian Stryker. The phone had buzzed because of a WhatsApp message. Raj. Again. At the risk of looking like a hypocrite, she quickly swiped down at the top of her screen so that she could read the message from the within the notification without opening the app.

  This time his message read:

  How about having that dinner tonight? I won’t let you get away from me this easily.

  ‘Creepy,’ Matthews said. She had clearly snuck a peek at Elsie’s message. ‘I went on a date with a guy like that a few weeks back. He was like so lovely at first, and then the moment I didn’t give him what he wanted, he turned into a right psycho.’

  For a fleeting moment, Elsie wanted to yell at her not to peek at her screen. Then curiosity got the better of her for the second time in one morning. ‘How’d you meet Mr Wrong?’

  ‘Review My Ex, obvs,’ she said.

  It was the same dating app that Elsie was on, a fact which surprised neither of them. The app had gone viral earlier in the year thanks to a very unusual premise. Users were encouraged to review their exes and say what did and didn’t work for them. One woman’s rubbish was another’s treasure. Better yet, the first six months were free for women, and Review My Ex claimed that most women found their ideal man long before that arbitrary deadline. Raj’s reviews said he was “intense”, “overly generous” and “a bit old-fashioned”. None of those sounded like deal-breakers to Elsie.

  ‘What’re your reviews like, boss?’ Matthews asked. Then, without waiting for permission, looked her up on the app. ‘Ooh, that’s harsh. “No work-life balance”, “unreliable, cancels frequently”, and “extreme emotional swings”. Men can’t half be harsh, eh, boss? I had one dreadful ex say I “looked crap without make-up”. Says more about him than me, though, doesn’t it?’

  Elsie was saved from swearing by the arrival of the crime scene manager, Annie Burke. Her ECCO Chelsea boots echoed against the path in the most reassuring manner, and the woman herself did not disappoint. She wore a grey Karen Millen belted overcoat which hugged her hourglass figure. She had a Michael Kors bag slung over one shoulder which she opened the moment she stopped to retrieve an iPad Pro.

  ‘Miss Burke, I presume?’ Elsie said. ‘I’m Elsie Mabey, and this is Detective Sergeant Georgia Matthews.’

  ‘Mrs... for now anyway,’ Annie shot her a wan smile. ‘Call me Annie.’

  ‘I was expecting someone in a lab coat, not someone quite so stylishly dressed,’ Elsie said.

  ‘I’m afraid your call caught me short. I was about to have a belated anniversary lunch with the hubby. It was supposed to make up for last night’s abandoned dinner. That’s twice now this case has ruined my plans.’

  ‘Sorry about that,’ Elsie said. She flashed a wan, knowing smile. The job took a lot away from them.

  Annie waved a hand dismissively. ‘It happens. Now, if you ladies would follow me, I’ll walk you through my findings. There isn’t much to tell, I’m afraid.’

  They followed Annie through the crime scene. She didn’t lead them straight to the spot where Layla had been dumped but instead started at the road on the eastern edge. She flicked the iPad screen as if searching for something, and then turned it towards them to show a single long white thread magnified so much that it appeared almost like a ribbon undulating across the screen. Annie turned away to point towards the east.

  ‘On that bush here, right next to the eastern entrance, I found this tiny thread snagged on a bush approximately one hundred and eighty-two centimetres above the ground.’

  Elsie stifled the urge to roll her eyes. If that was Annie’s idea of a ballpark figure, she’d hate to see what Annie was like in the lab. It was the same thread Elsie had seen in Annie’s initial report.

  It soon became apparent that Matthews hadn’t read the report. ‘It’s like just a thread though, right? What’s the big deal?’

  ‘The silk is consistent with the dress that your victim was wearing,’ Annie said. Her voice sounded patient, almost teacher-like, though he
r expression was strained as if she were frustrated at having to deal with a non-scientist. ‘I’ve sent it to the lab for confirmation. I’m waiting to hear back but it looks like this is where your victim was carried into St Dunstan.’

  ‘Nice work.’ Elsie nodded appreciatively.

  ‘If you think that’s impressive, you just wait,’ Annie said. ‘From the height at which it was found, we can deduce that the body was carried over the shoulder of the killer.’

  Matthews leapt in before Elsie could. ‘A fireman’s lift?’

  ‘Exactly,’ Annie confirmed. ‘If I’m right – and I usually am – then we can deduce from the height of the snagged thread that your killer is well above average height, somewhere approaching two metres tall. It also suggests a single killer working alone as two men wouldn’t carry a body at shoulder height. In my experience, a team would carry a body closer to hip height as it’s much more manageable.’

  Aha, Elsie thought. She’d had the exact same thought. ‘I figured as much. One psychopath killing women and dumping them in public gardens is a push, two would be phenomenally unlikely. But I think your numbers are off.’

  ‘Never,’ Annie said. Her tone was so certain that Elsie began to doubt herself.

  ‘Think about it,’ Elsie said. ‘The body wasn’t in rigor when it was found so it would have been a literal dead weight. If the killer were smart, he or she would have distributed that weight evenly so the body would have crumpled over the shoulder from the midsection. The thread is from a wedding dress – one with a puffy, billowy skirt.’

  Annie looked pensive. ‘I suppose you could be right...’

  ‘The thread was approximately six foot off the ground—’

  ‘A hundred and eighty-two centimetres,’ Annie reminded her.

  Bloody metric. Elsie did the maths in her head. ‘Right, so that’s about six foot. We think the body would have been laid over the killer’s shoulder. What’s the average man’s shoulder height? Anyone know?’

  Matthews immediately Googled it. ‘One thousand, four hundred and forty eight millimetres.’

  It was like an auction in precision. They’d leapt from inches to centimetres to millimetres.

  ‘Feet please,’ Elsie said.

  ‘Four-foot nine give or take.’

  About a foot under the average man’s height. Elsie thought. ‘Then even the tallest men are going to have a shoulder height in the region of five-and-a-half-foot.’

  ‘So,’ Matthews said, ‘the rest of the height had to come from the dress billowing in the wind?’

  ‘Exactly,’ Elsie said. ‘We don’t know how windy it was at the precise moment the killer walked by. We know that he or she’s reasonably tall – that much is obvious from the fact that Layla Morgan was carried in – but beyond that, we’re making an educated guess.’

  ‘That’s all on you,’ Annie said defensively. ‘I’m following the evidence. How you extrapolate that data is none of my concern.’

  ‘It is when you make a leap like “perhaps two metres tall”,’ Elsie said. ‘But we all read into things a bit much now and then.’

  Annie nodded glumly as if she were angry with herself. ‘Sorry,’ she said tersely. ‘We have to follow the evidence. I extrapolated too far.’

  The sudden contrition was a departure from the businesslike demeanour she’d exhibited so far. It seemed that Annie worked best when she was on solid ground. Like so many of her colleagues, she clearly wanted to follow the evidence but didn’t have a detective’s knack of considering it in the context of the people involved. Elsie knew she herself often swung too far the other way. ‘Don’t worry, it happens. I read your report about the thread on HOLMES. What else do I need to know?’

  In truth, Elsie had merely skimmed the summary of Annie’s report. The full report was so long that trying to scroll through it maxed out her laptop’s RAM and caused it to slow to a painful crawl. What was worse, her brain was taxed just as much. Trying to wade through ultra-technical forensic reports while half-asleep had sent Elsie into a stupor. The bloody chronic fatigue syndrome had a lot to answer for. It was at moments like this that she wished there was something, anything, she could do to reset her brain. The laptop could be turned off and on again. Her brain couldn’t be.

  ‘There are two inconsistencies you won’t like,’ Annie said. ‘There was trace evidence on the dress – fibres of some kind – which I’ve sent off to the lab. More importantly, I found a number of unknown DNA samples on the dress, and of course, there are hundreds of DNA samples all over St Dunstan itself.’

  That hadn’t been in Annie’s report unless Elsie had missed it thanks to her foggy brain. ‘What kind of samples on the dress?’ Elsie demanded. ‘Contact transfer?’

  Annie nodded. ‘Yes. The dress had hairs on it inconsistent with the victim’s own hair – we had a mix of blonde, brunette and black hairs. They’re all with the lab.’

  Elsie chewed the end of her finger as she thought. ‘Long hairs?’

  ‘Indeed,’ Annie said. ‘Didn’t look dyed either from a cursory glance under a microscope... not that I’m venturing a definitive opinion on that front. My gut says they almost certainly came from three different women, maybe more. I sent them off for urgent analysis.’

  ‘What did they find?’

  ‘Nothing yet. You’ll know as soon as I do. I’m hoping there’s a bit of root left – couldn’t see much in the rain so bagged and tagged the samples and left them to the lab to deal with.’

  ‘That would be a pain.’ No root meant no DNA.

  ‘There’s always mtDNA,’ Annie said. ‘While there’s no nucleus in a hair shaft so you can’t run a Y-DNA or autosomal test, mitochondrial testing still works. If you can find the mother of the person that the hair came from then we can get a match.’

  Fat chance of that.

  ‘Anything else I need to know?’

  ‘Nope, but could you do me a favour?’ Annie said. She rifled through her purse.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Give Sebastian this.’

  She plucked out sixty quid in used notes from her purse and held them out.

  Elsie looked at her quizzically.

  ‘He’ll know what it’s for.’

  Chapter 11: Dad

  It was nearly nine o’clock when Elsie plonked herself down on the L-shaped sofa that she usually spent all of Saturday curled up on with a good book and a bottle of Chianti. It was good to be home, tucked up safe and sound in her cage well away from the frantic pace of the incident room. The afternoon had gone badly – it had been wasted requisitioning all the funding she needed for the investigation – and her evening had been even more tortuous. Her date had gone as badly as she’d expected. Raj had been an outright letch. Within minutes of taking her seat opposite him at London’s renowned Rules restaurant in Covent Garden, he had begun to slowly drag his leg against her own. At first, she gave him the benefit of the doubt. When she leaned back, he leant forward closing down her personal space. Before dessert, she’d made good on her excuses and left.

  Maybe Matthews was right. Maybe the men on Review My Ex were pigs. Who voluntarily signed up to a website that encouraged everyone to slag off their former partners? You did, Elsie, a little voice in the back of her mind said as she made it home. She never could resist a freebie, and the idea of going into a relationship forewarned about a suitor’s foibles meant no nasty surprises. She’d once come home early to find her then-partner trying on her Victoria’s Secret underwear. What was worse was that he looked better in it than she did.

  She needed to vent which meant talking to the one man who had her back no matter what. He answered the FaceTime call after several rings.

  ‘Hi, Dad,’ Elsie said as his image appeared in low resolution on her iPhone. Her father was still stuck on an ancient iPhone 4 and refused to upgrade before it physically fell apart. ‘You look awful.’

  It was true. His hair was unkempt, and there was less of it than in years gone by. Dark bags under his eyes made hi
m look perpetually exhausted. Even his skin had a sallowness to it that made him look much older than his sixty years. He sat at the partner desk in his office that Elsie remembered so fondly. It was a huge oak thing off of a ship and had been the perfect place for games of hide and seek.

  ‘Nice to talk to you too, Boop,’ Dad said with a smile that was all teeth. ‘Keeping well? Haven’t heard from you much this week.’

  ‘I’ve got a murder case, a proper one.’

  ‘My girl!’ he cracked a toothy grin.

  ‘Fancy a remote cuppa to celebrate?’ Elsie had in mind a big mug of steaming loose leaf tea, maybe a digestive biscuit, and a chance to pick Dad’s brains and make sure that she did this thing right.

  On the screen, she could see him wrench himself from his seat and shuffle gingerly towards the kitchen. She did likewise though she opted for a fruit tea rather than her dad’s choice of builder’s tea.

  He spoke loudly to be heard over the sound of the kettle boiling. ‘Nice to see they’re letting you loose on more than just the manslaughter and infanticide cases now. What’ve you got? A domestic?’

  He was referring to the most common category of murders. Domestic killers ranged from a spouse killing their significant other to a child murdering a parent, and everything in between. Spousal murder was the Met’s bread and butter. Those cases were less about the investigation and more about doggedly compiling and logging mountains of evidence so that the case was watertight at trial. In Elsie’s experience, the watertight cases never got that far as inevitably the defendant would plead guilty in the hope of a lighter sentence. The Ministry of Justice encouraged early guilty pleas because it saved money by offering an “early plea discount”. It was as preposterous as it sounded, but thankfully that hare-brained scheme didn’t cover the few crimes which carried a mandatory life sentence.

  She shook her head. ‘Not sure, don’t think it’s domestic.’

  ‘Robbery? Sexual gain?’ he prompted again. She could see a vein in his temple throbbing as the cogs began to whir, his eyes twinkling with that old detective’s spark.