The Career Killer

by Ali Gunn

  ‘Fuck. Not much justice there then.’

  ‘Au contraire, Knoxy. You got his briefcase.’

  ‘Isn’t it all in code?’ Knox asked, already wondering if GCHQ would be able to crack it. The Triads were notorious for using complex codes that were unique for each operation.

  ‘We got the Sister. She was in the third flat. Yohann spotted her trying to make a break for it. She’s been watching the accountant for years now and wants to cut a deal – her help breaking his records in return for a place in the Witness Protection Programme.’

  ‘She’s getting off lightly then. You going to deal?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Ozzy said, ‘if what she’s got is legit, it’ll be enough to bust his entire network. And don’t forget, she was once a victim too. If she’d argued, they’d have killed her. She really didn’t have much choice.’

  Knox grumbled. There was always a choice. But it sounded as if the decision was already made. ‘I want in on the bust when we find the real masterminds.’

  ‘Me too,’ Ozzy said. ‘However, as you’ve no doubt already guessed, the National Crime Agency has seized this. There’s no more imminent risk of loss of life so it’s out of my jurisdiction. I’m ’fraid you’ll have to get back to your murder enquiry. Your DCI has been asking after you left, right and centre. She’s pretty pissed off that you went AWOL without texting her.’

  ‘Suppose I could have dropped her a line. It was all a bit rushed,’ Knox said. ‘I guess I’ll have to hide in my office ’til this all blows over.’

  ‘About that...’

  ‘What about my office?’ Knox loved that office.

  ‘On my way up here, I saw someone carrying boxes out. Sounds like Fairbanks has reassigned it to his new DI.’

  ‘You’re bloody kidding me. Why now?’

  ‘Bad timing, I guess,’ Ozzy said. ‘It is technically his team’s office. If you’re caught short, I can spare a desk in our hot-desking area.’

  ‘I’m going to kill him.’

  ‘He’s not worth it.’

  Chapter 41: Disaster

  For Catriona, cleaning up after other people was a way of life and she’d seen it all. Or so she thought. For years she’d worked in upmarket hotels where she’d seen first-hand how quickly the apparently civilised public could become savages. She’d seen faeces smeared on walls, urine everywhere, and cleaned up more used condoms than any woman her age ought to have. She’d seen televisions smashed in a fit of rage, mattresses thrown out of windows, and even found an elderly guest dead in his bed where he’d fallen asleep but never woken up.

  None of that had prepared her for Saturday morning. It was still dark when she struggled down to the house from Holland Park tube station, her cleaning trolley trundling behind her with the wheels spinning against the icy pavement.

  This was supposed to be an easy job, a one-off clean for a homeowner who let their house out online on one of the sharing economy websites. Catriona didn’t know which website the house was listed on. It could be Airbnb, Homestay, FlipKey or one of the many other websites to have sprung up in recent years. It didn’t make a difference to her. A mess was a mess and twelve quid an hour was... well, barely enough to make ends meet, but it was all she had.

  She’d never even met her client. All business was conducted by email. The landlord had told her to pick up the key from a neighbour which she’d done with no fuss despite the ungodly hour. The neighbour was a nice old chap who’d said the place hadn’t been rented out for a while so she had opened the front door expecting the worst. It seemed this landlord was one of the few who respected the ‘no more than ninety days per calendar year’ rule that stopped landlords becoming perpetual hoteliers.

  The house appeared normal at first, a beautiful Georgian townhouse in a very desirable postcode. When she opened the door and flicked on the light, she found that the interior was as nice as the exterior with an enormous hallway bedecked with parquet wood floors. The centrepiece of the hall was a grandfather clock taller than she was. She turned to grab her cleaning supplies from her wheeled trolley which was still on the front doorstep. It was a strain to lug the thing over the threshold, an effort which made her ticker thump in her chest. It was then that she thought she heard a thud at the back of the house. It was the same sound her husband often made when he fell asleep on the sofa and his arm hit the floor. She put the thought from her mind. Old houses made noises... didn’t they?

  The second thud followed shortly after. Perhaps the landlord was home after all. It looked as if there was a light on somewhere at the back.

  ‘Hello?’ Catriona called out.

  An unnatural stillness descended. When nobody replied, Catriona called out a second time. This time, she could definitely hear something. It could just be a cat. The landlord hadn’t mentioned one – it would be a bit weird to impose an animal on temporary houseguests after all – but such an omission would be far from unusual.

  No. It was too loud. The thud was something – or someone – heavy. Catriona felt her breath quicken as that thought took hold. As an asthmatic, she was prone to hyperventilation.

  ‘Calm down,’ she told herself, her voice barely a murmur. ‘In. And out. In. And out.’

  She had just about convinced herself that the noises were a figment of her imagination or some inconsequential banging like air in the pipes when she heard a different sound. This was the sound of footsteps, growing ever louder. She imagined an intruder coming for her out of the darkness, a looming menace waiting to hurt her.

  This time she couldn’t control her breathing. She inhaled and exhaled, faster and faster, so quickly that she began to hyperventilate. Within seconds, Catriona began to feel lightheaded. It was the feeling that some got when they stood up too fast yet it lingered for much longer. Another sound. Someone was definitely in the house.

  ‘Hello?’ Catriona gasped for the third time. ‘Help... me...’

  The hallway went dark as Catriona leant heavily against her cleaning trolley for support. For a moment she thought it was her vision fading from lack of oxygen but then the shadow of a man – and it had to be a man because he was huge – barrelled past, knocking her to the floor.

  XAVIER HATED THE LARKINS next door. Not only did the family rent out their townhouse, they asked him to handle the keys for them too as if he were some sort of concierge rather than a neighbour. It wasn’t a friendly request for a favour either. It was a demand.

  He had little choice but to comply. The Larkins family owned the whole street so they were practically royalty around Holland Park. They even claimed to be related to the Charles John Larkins who’d built the neighbourhood. Whatever the current Mr Larkins wanted, he got. Xavier was home, he had reasoned, so what harm was there?

  That was why Xavier had dragged himself out of bed just before six thirty in the morning to let their cleaner in, a woman nearly as old as he was. How strange it was for the old to wait on the young.

  He heard the noise just as he was dragging himself up the stairs to bed. It sounded like it was coming from the other side of the wall. Perhaps that cleaner had taken a tumble? At her age, it could be serious.

  Despite his own advancing years, Xavier was still the first to venture out into the darkness to investigate, leaning heavily on his cane as he went. He saw the neighbours on the other side of the Larkins’ silhouetted against the lights inside their lounge. They must have heard something too for they were pressing their noses up against the glass of their bay window, craning their necks to see what was going on.

  The Larkins’ front door was banging against the frame in the wind, a light on inside. Xavier shuffled over as quickly as he could. He was about to click the door shut when he heard another yelp within. He shoved his foot inside just before the door closed and then pushed it fully open. It was then that he saw the cleaner on the floor, her trolley on its side next to her.

  The urge to run to her was strong but his head knew better. He turned to lean off the porch far enough for the neighbours
to see him and yelled out. He had no mobile with which to call for an ambulance.

  It seemed to take an age for the neighbours to respond. Eventually, the youngest of their children sauntered out to see what was going on.

  ‘Get your dad, boy! Tell him to call an ambulance. You got that?’

  The kid nodded. He couldn’t have been more than eight or nine. Was he old enough to understand? Xavier hoped so.

  His leg cracked as he dragged himself back to the cleaner.

  ‘Hello? Miss? Can you hear me?’

  By now the lady was spread-eagled on the ground, her arms quivering from the effort of trying, and failing, to push herself up to a sitting position. She was taking short, shallow breaths. Xavier knelt down next to her without thinking and immediately realised that he’d have almost as much trouble getting back up as she would. Hopefully, someone would be along soon to help them both to their feet.

  From here, he could grab her wrist to check her pulse. It was fast but steady. She wasn’t in any immediate danger. ‘What’s your name, miss?’ he asked. When she didn’t reply, he repeated himself a little louder.

  Her eyes flickered behind her eyelids and then opened just enough for her to realise someone had come to her aid. She wasn’t unconscious just yet. ‘Kah... tree... na...’

  It was a struggle to make out what she was saying. Xavier could see her purse beside her, cards spilling out. He glanced at the top one to double-check her name before tidying them away.

  ‘Okay, Catriona, help is on the way.’ He didn’t dare add “I hope”.

  She mumbled something he couldn’t quite hear. He leant in closer again.

  ‘What is it, Catriona?’ Xavier said, his neck twisting back and forth as he looked out the front door for any sign of help. ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘Man... barge... past...’

  She had to be delusional. This looked like a classic slip and trip, something Xavier was all too familiar with given the age of his friends. ‘Forget about that for a moment. Tell you what, why don’t I go and get you some water? Your voice is cracking.’

  Satisfied that she could be left alone for a moment, Xavier heaved himself up ever so slowly, his knees crackling with pain as he rose. If the Larkins’ house was laid out in the same way as his own, the kitchen would be at the back of the house adjoining the garden. He pushed the hallway door open and caught a whiff of meat, a kind he couldn’t quite place. It was subtle, delicate, a little like pork.

  Slow, careful steps took Xavier into the kitchen, his bones aching from having been kneeling on the floor. The kitchen was already lit which set Xavier’s nerves on edge. Perhaps the woman wasn’t delusional after all? If she’d fallen on the way in, why was the kitchen light on? He felt his muscles tense as if ready to fight. How ridiculous at this age. What was he supposed to do, have a heart attack in front of an intruder? He swallowed, put the thoughts of Catriona’s dark stranger out of his mind, and opened the door.

  He froze in the doorway. Surely the scene in front of him couldn’t be real? Time seemed to unfreeze and he heard screaming, a pained sound that sounded alien to him. And yet, it was coming from him. The scene before him had unleashed a guttural reaction that he couldn’t stop.

  There, on the kitchen floor, was a young woman, undressed, with a knife sticking out of her chest. Behind her, a spurt of blood was splattered all over the wall like a Jackson Pollock painting.

  His mind focused as he turned away from the horrors in front of him.

  ‘Help!’ he yelled, hoping that the useless neighbours next door might finally hear him. ‘Help!’ he yelled again and again. He could feel his heart palpitating in his chest. At this rate, Catriona might not be the only one in need of medical assistance. He forced himself to breathe. In and out. In and out.

  Forget the ambulance.

  This was one for the police.

  Chapter 42: An Act Interrupted

  The call came in as Elsie was working up the willpower to drag herself out of bed and have a shower. The week’s washing was still piled up on the bedroom floor, the dishes were in the sink unwashed, and the kitchen bin still hadn’t been emptied making the stench almost unbearable. Without the adrenaline of another murder to investigate, her Saturday morning would have been a time to catch up on the rest that the hectic nature of the week had so far denied her.

  She skipped the shower and brewed herself a cup of instant coffee which she knocked back with a grimace before heading out. The address which she had been summoned to was a short drive south into zone two, an upmarket place in swanky Holland Park.

  Uncharacteristically, Valerie Spilsbury had beaten her to the scene. Despite the early hour, the pathologist was immaculately put together as if she’d been up and working for hours. The first thing that struck Elsie as off was that Spilsbury wasn’t with the body. Instead, she met Elsie on the narrow pathway which ran through the front garden and to the house. Her expression was unusually sombre. The doc didn’t usually let cases get to her.

  ‘What’ve we got?’ Elsie asked, fearing the worst.

  ‘You should recuse yourself from this one.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Trust me,’ Spilsbury said.

  ‘I asked why. What’s going on here? This isn’t a graveyard shift case.’

  Elsie looked past Spilsbury towards the front door of the house. That explained why she’d been paged and not whoever was on the morning shift. ‘I’m not following you here, doc. If this is a serial killer – my serial killer – then it’s my case. If you’re not coming in with me, would you mind moving off the path?’

  Spilsbury stayed right where she was. ‘Elsie, we know the victim.’

  The “we” echoed in Elsie’s mind. Who on earth did both of them know? And since when had they been on a first-name basis?

  ‘Who?’

  The pathologist shuffled uncomfortably. ‘It’s Detective Sergeant Matthews.’

  It sounded like an abstract statement, so matter of fact yet so profound. Elsie knew what Spilsbury was saying and yet it didn’t register.

  Confusion must have shown on her face; almost of its own accord, her head shook slowly, in denial.

  ‘Like I said, you’ll want to recuse yourself from this one,’ Spilsbury said. ‘Trust me. It’s not worth the pain.’

  It sounded as if Spilsbury had seen it all before. No doubt she had, wizened and old as she was.

  There was no way Elsie was letting someone else take this one. She could just imagine Fairbanks traipsing in and lapping up the media attention. He didn’t give two figs when it was a black girl from Croydon and Elsie wasn’t going to let him pretend that now he did care. ‘I’m not giving up on Matthews, or Morgan or Boileau for that matter either,’ Elsie said. ‘Just show me where they found her.’

  Spilsbury gave a “don’t say I didn’t try to warn you shrug”. ‘If you’re sure,’ she said and then finally stood aside to allow Elsie access to the crime scene. The pathologist followed her, keeping back a few feet. The front door was open and Annie Burke was already suited and booted.

  ‘Gear up before you cross the threshold,’ Annie said.

  ‘Hello to you too,’ Elsie muttered. But something inside told her that she’d better copy Annie’s professionalism or risk fouling up. So along with a veneer of detachment, she put on the required booties and plastic clothing and made her way in.

  Annie launched into a recap before Elsie could utter another word. ‘At half past six this morning, a cleaner came by to clean the house ready for visitors who were due tonight. It seems that she interrupted the killer midway through his own clean-up routine. He barrelled past her, knocking her to the floor. An elderly gentleman next door heard the commotion and came to investigate. He then found the body.’

  Elsie played it all back in her head, trying to make sense of it. The timeline was jarring. Why was the killer cleaning up early on a Saturday morning?

  ‘I’m not following,’ Elsie said.

  ‘The body may help
explain,’ Spilsbury said. ‘Let me show you.’

  They left Annie and her team to continue collecting samples, and Elsie allowed herself to be led through to the kitchen where a white sheet covered the body. Matthew’s body. Swallowing down the bile in her throat, Elsie asked bluntly: ‘is this the Lady Killer, doc?’

  Spilsbury demurred. ‘Not for me to say. I can tell you that we found her on her back with a knife through her chest. She was stabbed just once. It is consistent with the Boileau and Morgan investigations.’

  ‘How?’ Elsie demanded. ‘How did the Lady Killer find Matthews?’

  There was a thought floating somewhere in the back of her mind, an idea that hadn’t yet coalesced.

  ‘Again, not for me to say,’ Spilsbury said. ‘Can we go back to the forensics?’

  Elsie waved for her to carry on while she stared, transfixed, at the body under the sheet.

  ‘Are you going to be okay if I peel back the sheet?’ Spilsbury asked. ‘It has to be done to put her in a bag but I can do it without you present.’

  ‘No,’ Elsie said. ‘Do what you need to do.’

  She looked as if she might refuse at first. At Elsie’s insistence, she relented and pulled back the sheet to reveal Matthews’ lifeless body. Elsie tore her gaze away.

  ‘You okay?’ Spilsbury asked. ‘I can send my report or ask Fairbanks to take—’

  ‘No,’ Elsie said quickly. Not Fairbanks. He’d never get justice for Matthews. ‘I can handle this.’

  She wasn’t sure if she were trying to convince Spilsbury or herself. When she wrenched her eyes open, she turned back to Matthews’ body, her stomach churning as she tried not to puke.

  Someone had closed Matthews’ eyes so it looked like she had simply fallen asleep just like the other two victims. Except, the red bloom upon her chest was definitive proof she was dead. That, and as the pathologist had forewarned Elsie while they were outside, a knife stuck straight up out of her chest.