The Career Killer

by Ali Gunn

  ‘It means “I love you, Mum.” She stay true to her heritage like that.’

  Tears were beginning to form in the corner of Elsie’s eye. Whether that was genuine sadness or merely a result of her CFS which always made her more emotional particularly at certain times, Elsie didn’t know. She quickly pressed on.

  ‘What did you do when she didn’t come home?’

  This was one thing she had gleaned from the logs. Fairbanks’ notes said that Beya had waited a full twenty-four hours before calling Nelly in as a missing person. By that time her body was already in the mortuary. The twenty-four-hour waiting period was a myth that cost lives every year.

  ‘Eventually, I fell asleep,’ Beya said. ‘I tossed and I turned. And she wasn’t there in the morning.’

  For a moment, Elsie furrowed her brow. Green label? It took her a moment to realise Beya meant the message had gone through as an SMS text message rather than iMessage. At the point Beya had texted, Nelly’s phone was either dead, on Airplane Mode, or out of 3G reception.

  ‘Do you know where she had gone out to?’

  ‘She like to go to the clubs. Not to drink. My Nelly never like the booze. Instead she just like to dance. Sometimes she go to the clubs in Soho where the men don’t bother her.’

  It was plausible. Elsie wasn’t a fan of heavy drinking either. ‘Was there anyone in Nelly’s life who she didn’t get on with? A boyfriend perhaps?’

  ‘Oh no, no boyfriend,’ Beya said sadly. ‘The poor girl found the same curse I did. She is tall and broad. Men here do not like that. She had many first dates and far too few seconds.’

  ‘But she was dating.’

  ‘Oh yes, she always trying. Like all you young people, she found them online.’

  Her laptop had been seized by Fairbanks. His report hadn’t mentioned any dating sites. ‘Do you know which websites she visited?’

  ‘No, no, not on the laptop. On the phone. She was always on her phone. She hid it from me, but I saw the smile, the smile only a man can give. Many times, she smile... and then heartbreak.’

  Elsie felt like she’d been punched in the gut. Nelly was only a few years her junior and had already tried and failed.

  ‘Which app was it?’ Elsie showed Beya her own phone which had the usual array installed. Bumble, Tinder, and Review My Ex were all in a folder. The older lady arched an eyebrow.

  ‘You too?’ Beya pointed at the screen. ‘That one, the yellow and green one.’

  Review My Ex. No surprises there. Everyone seemed to be on it. Accessing the victim’s mobile had just become the top priority. Hadn’t Stryker said he was going to sort that out days ago? As Elsie fumbled with her phone to send him a chaser, Beya poured the final glass of tea. Elsie snatched it up without thinking.

  ‘Yuck!’ she grimaced. After steeping for so long, the brew was horrible.

  ‘Bitter no?’ Beya said. ‘Like death. Too much of a good thing. Just like this conversation. Miss Mabey, I am tired. Is there more you need today?’

  ‘Not that I can think of. I’ll keep you updated.’

  ‘I am sure you will,’ Beya said. Her tone said she didn’t believe it.

  IAN WAS FINISHING OFF his second bag of flaming hot Cheetos when Stryker found him hiding in the small galley kitchen that belonged to the Digital, Cyber and Communication Department. If the contents of the bin were anything to go by, the techs lived off of junk food – microwave burgers, ramen and sweets.

  The greasy-haired tech turned at the sound of Stryker’s voice. ‘Never heard of the whole five-a-day rule, Ian?’

  Ian smirked. ‘Five what? Pot noodles? Chicken and mushroom flavour counts for one, right? King size for two?’

  ‘We do pay you enough to afford real food, don’t we?’ Stryker said. ‘If not, I’ll buy you an apple. I’m generous like that.’

  ‘Buttering me up, eh?’ Ian said. ‘You need a favour, don’t you?’

  Stryker held out the evidence bag containing Layla’s mobile. ‘Save my bacon. I’ve managed to wipe this iPhone. Can you recover it for me post-haste?’

  It couldn’t have been more than a second before Ian returned the bag with a dismissive wave. ‘No can do, big man.’

  ‘Can’t or won’t?’ Stryker demanded. He could deal with won’t.

  ‘Can’t,’ Ian said. ‘It’s as good as gone. You’ve tried too many times. The data is long gone. Finito. Kaput. Dead as a—’

  ‘Alright, alright, you’ve made your point. When you say “as good as” ... that means it’s not totally gone, doesn’t it? Is there anyone who can get data off it?’ A better tech perhaps? Stryker thought scathingly.

  Ian hemmed and hawed. ‘It’s not theoretically impossible... but it may as well be. Fear not, young Stryker. I have an idea.’

  ‘If this is about me and you going to Namco Funscape after work, you can stop asking.’

  He’d asked three times now. The last time had been in the men’s bathroom where Stryker couldn’t even walk away. Ian was persistent. Stryker had to give him that.

  ‘It wasn’t!’ Ian pouted. ‘Though that place rocks. They’ve got dodgems, arcade machines...’

  ‘Ahem, your idea, Ian. Now.’

  ‘This is one of two phones, right? I saw on HOLMES that you’ve got Boileau’s too. I know nothing’s been done with it ’cause Fairbanks hasn’t sent it down to us and it’s an older iPhone unlike Layla’s.’

  ‘Which means?’

  ‘No automatic deletion.’

  There was a catch coming, Stryker knew it.

  ‘But,’ Ian said, confirming his suspicions, ‘you’ll have to try and guess manually. One every five minutes.’

  Stryker ran the number. Ten thousand combinations, twelve an hour. ‘But that’ll take me—’

  ‘Eight hundred and thirty-three hours unless you get lucky early on.’

  Stryker swore. ‘Can’t you do it?’

  ‘You wish.’

  Chapter 26: Leaks

  By six o’clock, Elsie was flagging and had to call it a day. The incident room was still buzzing when she headed home, desperate for a fluffy pillow and a steaming mug of tea. Information of dubious quality had been flowing in all afternoon on the Met’s tip line and every single one had to be investigated thoroughly. If something had even the slightest merit, it was logged, assigned to a member of the extended team and then vigorously investigated. It was never-ending drudgery which was best left to those at the bottom of the food chain. Despite the tips, nothing new had come to light during the time she’d taken to visit Beya Boileau. The siren call of her bed grew louder as she descended to the lobby.

  On her way out, she nodded dozily at the elderly Welsh night guard. He leapt off his perch by the front door and waved her down before she could cross the lobby.

  ‘Might want to take the Richmond Terrace exit tonight, ma’am.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘There’s a bit of a stir outside.’ He jerked a thumb towards the front door. ‘I think the fourth estate are waiting for you.’

  She squinted out the window but couldn’t see a thing. ‘Journalists?’

  ‘Aye, with cameras, ma’am.’

  ‘Cheers, Ted.’

  Richmond Terrace ran right down to the A3212. Elsie made it out without being caught and flagged down a cab. She’d have to leave her car where it was for the night. The journey to Muswell Hill took the better part of an hour and by the time the taxi turned into her road, it was tipping it down again. She’d hoped the rain and the winter cold, exacerbated by the winds which whipped between the old Victorian houses, would keep the tabloids at bay. She was wrong. The glint of a long-range camera lens caught her eye just as the taxi slowed down outside her house.

  ‘Keep going!’

  ‘But we’re here, ma’am.’

  There it was again, ma’am. It made her sound so old. She ignored it. ‘Just keep going. Drop me off on Colney Hatch Lane.’

  It was the nearest main road, thronging with traffic. She paid the cabbie and then
hopped out by Woodberry Crescent. The smaller road looped back down south. She kept up a brisk pace, her eyes peeled for any sign of journalists. What had they found out that was worth tracking her down for? It was one thing to find them camped outside New Scotland Yard. There was almost always one sensational crime to report on. The fact they’d followed her home meant it was her case and there could only be one that might be worth the trek – The Lady Killer case.

  She decided to forgo going home. Her dad’s place was only a mile away. She could hole up in her childhood bedroom until the storm had passed. By the time she arrived, she was sopping wet and shivering. Her eyes were closing of their own accord and she half-wished she’d stormed past the journalists while saying “no comment” over and over again.

  When she knocked on the door, nobody answered. It was odd. He rarely left the house these days and so for him to be out in the evening was troubling. It was nearly freezing out and the pavements were slippery with black ice. Dad wasn’t getting any younger.

  For a moment, she wondered if the spare key was in her other handbag. Thankfully she had it with her, tucked in amongst a barrage of unneeded receipts. She let herself in to find the house was barely warmer than outside. Someone had turned the heating off.

  ‘Dad? You home?’

  Her heart began to beat faster as horrible scenarios flooded into her mind – he’d passed out in the bathroom, dead in his bed, or on the stone kitchen floor.

  ‘Dad!’

  She went from room to room, checking them in much the way she would a crime scene. Each time she didn’t find him, a little voice shouted “Clear!” in the back of her mind. Nothing downstairs. She proceeded up the staircase, the fourth step giving that familiar little creak that had been the same since she was a girl.

  The upstairs was deadly quiet. The bathroom was empty, not a soul in sight. ‘Dad!’ she called out again. The last room to check was the master bedroom – his room – and she tiptoed in quietly as if she weren’t supposed to be there. Nothing.

  Where on earth had he gone? His house was empty and the heating was off in the middle of winter. She sat on the edge of his king-sized bed and looked around the empty room. Shivers ran down her spine. She called him, hoping that he had his mobile phone to hand, her mind conjuring up images of him fallen in a gutter or run over.

  ‘Pick up, pick up, pick up.’

  He answered on the fourth ring.

  ‘Boop? Everything okay?’

  ‘Where are you, Dad?’

  ‘In bed.’

  ‘Uh-uh, I know you’re not. I’m sitting on your bed right now.’

  Busted.

  ‘I’m... out.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Can’t a man have a bit of privacy?’

  Not when he lies to me, Elsie thought. It wasn’t like him at all. ‘Dad, this really isn’t funny. I’ve got a dozen journalists camped outside my flat, and I don’t know why, and now you’re off playing silly buggers.’

  He went quiet. ‘It happens, Boop. It means someone got a scoop on your story and they’re going to ambush you with it. Something juicy too if there’s a dozen of ’em camped out.’

  ‘How do I find out what it is?’

  ‘The quickest way is to walk outside and let them ambush you. Just stay calm and say no comment all the way. They’ll get bored quick enough.’

  ‘And the way that doesn’t involve throwing myself to the wolves?’

  ‘Call Hamish.’

  It hung in the air like lead. Hamish Porter was one of The Impartial’s editorial staff. He also happened to be Elsie’s ex.

  ‘You know I can’t.’

  ‘Then go talk to the press. Or wait until tomorrow when they’ll print whatever they’ve got with or without you and give the killer time to get ahead of the leak. If you confront this head-on, you’ve got a chance to use it to your advantage. Boop, you’ve got to be proactive, not reactive.’

  His voice was gravelly, almost pained. ‘Dad, tell me what’s up with you.’

  ‘Can’t, Boop. I’ve got to go. Dinner time for me. I’ve got a smoking hot woman in uniform waiting just for me.’

  ‘Dad! Why would you ever tell me that?’

  He chuckled. ‘Bye, Boop. Feel free to stay at home if you want to take the easy way out.’

  He hung up, leaving Elsie alone with her thoughts. A smoking hot woman in uniform? The thought of her elderly father out on a date made Elsie retch.

  ‘Damn it,’ Elsie said. He was right. She had to close down the story. She had to call Hamish Porter.

  Chapter 27: The Impartial

  Despite the late hour of her call, Hamish agreed to meet her after he finished work so long as she was willing to head towards his end of town. He chose to meet at VQ, one of the few truly twenty-four-hour restaurants in London. It was on the Fulham Road, a stone’s throw from his flat in Gilston Street. He worked late – often past midnight – but tonight he had managed to get out of the office by ten.

  She took an Uber, enjoying a brief period of shut-eye on the way that ended far too soon when the driver gruffly announced their arrival. She thanked him, quickly gave him a five star rating on the app, and headed into the restaurant.

  As was his habit, he had taken a booth right at the back where pendulum lamps swung overhead. Elsie shuffled in, her knee brushing against his as she sat down opposite him.

  ‘You look good, Els,’ he said. His lopsided smirk said he’d missed her.

  She managed a wan smile as she stole the line that he usually said to her. ‘You look tired.’

  He had once joked they ought to have T-shirts printed that said “Tired, hun?” and “Always” so they could stop having the same conversation time and time again. He really did look exhausted. There were dark bags around his eyes, his chin was studded with at least two or three days of growth, and his clothes looked like they were allergic to the ironing board.

  In front of him was a stack of pancakes slathered with what appeared to be Nutella and fresh strawberries. Hamish was a stress eater. He always had been.

  ‘Still eating healthily, I see.’

  At least he had the good grace to look bashful about it. ‘Sorry I ordered without you. Long day, no time to stop for food. Let me flag down the waitress for you.’

  His left arm flailed wildly.

  ‘No, don’t, I’m not hungry.’ She was too slow. A bushy-haired waitress sauntered over to take her order.

  ‘Could we have a jug of tap water please?’

  The waitress looked thoroughly unimpressed to be summoned so enthusiastically for a simple jug of water. When she returned, she slammed it down on the table causing droplets to spill over the top. A slightly dusty glass was placed in front of Elsie.

  ‘Grim,’ Hamish said. He leant over to wipe it out with a napkin, and then, pronouncing it clean, handed it back.

  Elsie ignored the jug and the still filthy glass. ‘You know why I’m here, right?’

  ‘Yup.’ He nodded. ‘The Lady Killer. You want to know who leaked it all.’

  Who leaked what? ‘First things first, I need to know what you’ve got.’

  ‘What’s it worth?’

  She leant back as far as she could in the confined booth. It hadn’t been built for people her height. ‘What’s it worth? Are we horse-trading now, Hamish?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said simply. ‘I’ve got something you want. You need me. Tell you what, let’s call it a favour. I’ll call it in when I need something.’

  ‘Not happening. You didn’t come and meet me just to taunt me.’

  ‘No, I came for the free dinner.’

  A small laugh escaped her for the first time in days and the tension flooded out of her. Cheap was the one thing Hamish Porter was not.

  He smiled, flashing those immaculately white teeth that must have cost him a fortune. ‘Worth a try, wasn’t it?’

  ‘It didn’t work when we were dating and it certainly won’t work now. I’ll pay for my tap water, you buy your own dessert. Now
spill.’

  She knew he was going to. He had to. Though they hadn’t worked as a couple, they could work as friends. He’d even given her a glowing summary on Review My Ex. If she knew Hamish at all, he wasn’t here to barter titbits. It wasn’t his style.

  ‘Sorry, Els, I’m afraid that I don’t know who your leak is. All I’ve seen is what everyone else has seen – photos of your incident room wall. The resolution isn’t bad. I’m guessing your leak used a smartphone camera.’

  Crap. Someone had taken photos? She summoned up an image of the long wall in her mind, desperately trying to work out what was on there that might be worth it for the press. It was too fuzzy, too indistinct. A summary of the pathologist’s report was up there. So was a summary of Annie Burke’s. Beyond that, they really hadn’t found a smoking gun.

  ‘I’m drawing a blank here, Hamish. It’s outrageous that someone has taken a photo – and mark my words, they’ll pay when I find out who – but surely none of this is worth camping outside my flat for?’

  ‘Your killer, his DNA. You haven’t found a match yet have you?’

  ‘No,’ Elsie said. ‘He’s not on the database.’

  ‘But you do know it’s a serial killer.’

  She had to concede that one. ‘Hardly a state secret.’

  ‘Right, but you know your victims were both socialites too, right? Both loved to hit the big nightclubs.’

  Beya Boileau had only mentioned that Nelly liked to dance occasionally. She’d implied that Nelly went to the gay bars of Soho to avoid men pestering her. The image that Beya had painted of Nelly was that of a studious, shy, geeky girl. Perhaps parents were the last to know what their children were up to.

  ‘Why on earth do you think that?’ Elsie asked. Beya had been pretty vociferous in Nelly’s defence, saying over and over again that “My Nelly is a good girl, I tell you, a good girl.”.

  Hamish stopped smiling as if he didn’t want to be the bearer of bad news. ‘Rumour has it that Channel 4 found Nelly’s ex. He’s set to go live on breakfast television, a tell-all about her sordid love life, how she cheated on him, yadda yadda yadda.’