The Career Killer

by Ali Gunn

  She steered the conversation back in a more useful direction. ‘Mr Larkins, who has a key to your home?’

  ‘Well, I do, of course. So does my wife, my son, and Xavier.’

  ‘Where are your wife and son?’

  ‘Here,’ he said, ‘in bed.’

  ‘And their keys. Where would they be?’ Knox prompted.

  ‘Here too, I’m sure of it,’ Larkins said. ‘Shall I check?’

  ‘Please.’

  She heard footsteps followed by the sound of keys clinking against one another on a fob.

  ‘All present and accounted for, sergeant,’ Larkins said. ‘That just leaves Xavier’s, doesn’t it? Where’s his key?’

  ‘It’s also present and accounted for, sir.’

  To Knox’s surprise, Larkins sounded almost jovial. ‘You’ve got him in custody then? Xavier?’

  ‘For what purpose?’

  ‘Aiding and abetting a killer, sergeant! If that fool let someone into my house...’

  ‘There’s no evidence that his key was compromised,’ Knox said. ‘What kind of key do you use?’

  ‘Just a bog-standard one,’ Larkins said. ‘It’s in my hand right now. What am I looking for?’

  ‘Could you describe what it looks like?’ Knox said. ‘Does it have a brand name on it?’

  ‘It’s... umm... pointy. Five prong bits. Look I’m going to send you a photo okay?’

  It came through. Knox reverse-image searched to find out what it was. A hit came up immediately. It was a standard British Fortress mortice key, a type which had been used for decades. Any half-decent locksmith could copy it in a minute flat, no questions asked. It wouldn’t be impossible to pick either.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Larkins. Are there any other locks?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ he said. ‘There are two deadbolts that we use whenever we’re in. Do you think someone copied my key? Oh God... that explains everything.’

  Knox paced back and forth in Xavier’s living room. Out the window, she could see the scene of crime officers packing up. ‘What does it explain, sir?’

  ‘I thought guests were trying it on...’

  Impatience got the better of her. ‘Trying what on, Mr Larkins?’

  His voice went quiet. ‘I think I ought to speak to my solicitor...’

  Knox swore. ‘You only need a solicitor if you’ve committed a crime.’

  ‘No harm just talking to them though... but it is a weekend... and with the time difference... could we chat again next week?’ Larkins said. ‘Say Wednesday?’

  ‘Time is of the essence here, sir,’ Knox said. ‘I needn’t add that if you fail to assist this murder inquiry, I would be obliged to consider arresting you for obstruction of justice.’

  It was a reach especially when Larkins wasn’t even in the jurisdiction. She imagined him turning pale, his hands becoming clammy at the thought of the police turning up at his door at daybreak to arrest him.

  ‘Fine,’ Larkins said. ‘I had some complaints.’

  ‘From?’

  ‘From those individuals who rented from me. I got kicked off one of the platforms because of the reviews which is why all my recent holiday lets have been on StayAway.’

  StayAway was one of the latest “rent out your home” apps to hit London. It was looser and less regulated than some of the competition. Fees were lower and so too was the quality of most of the homes listed on there. Larkins’ luxury place in Holland Park would have been in hot demand.

  ‘What sort of complaints?’

  ‘Things going missing. A watch here, a few pounds there. One lady said that she lost a pair of diamond earrings. As I said, I thought they were trying it on. People know I’ve got money and they always want a part of it.’

  ‘Do you have CCTV?’

  ‘Absolutely not,’ Larkins said. ‘It would ruin the character of the area.’

  An area he didn’t actually live in, Knox thought scathingly. ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I told the first couple to sod off.’

  ‘How many were there?’

  ‘A dozen perhaps out of dozens and dozens of customers. After the first few complaints, I thought it might be my cleaner so I fired her. No big deal there. The agencies change them a lot anyway and that makes it so hard to find someone decent, reliable and affordably priced. The new girl Karina—-’

  ‘Catriona,’ Knox corrected.

  ‘Whatever her name is, her agency came highly recommended. Several of my friends use them and none have had a problem. As far as I was concerned, that was that. None of them ever actually sued me so I assumed they’d given up on extorting me, or simply found their missing things after all.’

  ‘How long has this been going on?’

  ‘Seven, maybe eight months. I took a break from letting for a while. It’s only legal to rent out a place for ninety days per calendar year so I try and pick the days with the highest demand. People love to open their wallets around Christmas and I get another ninety days on the first of January anyway so I may as well make a few quid while we’re sunning ourselves on the beach here.’

  Knox paused. If someone was stealing, and it wasn’t a cleaner, then this wasn’t a recent problem. Could the old man Xavier have been helping himself to a trinket here and there? He clearly hated Larkins.

  ‘What’s your relationship like with Xavier?’

  ‘Fine, I think,’ Larkins said. ‘He’s been one of my tenants forever. Occasionally he handles the keys for the guests and the cleaner and in return, I let him stay on for well below market rent.’

  ‘How far below?’

  ‘Hmm... I’m not totally sure... I seem to recall he pays something in the ballpark of fifteen hundred per calendar month. I’ve got another unit down the road that I let out last month for four thousand two hundred. But they’ve got kids and a dog so they’re bound to wreck the joint.’

  It was a hefty discount. ‘Why so much off?’

  ‘Feel sorry for him, I suppose. He’s been there forever. I can’t rent it out for nothing, I am a businessman, but I’ll break even in return for a bit of free admin here and there. It seems to work for both of us. Hang on... do you seriously think he’s involved? At his age?’

  Larkins sounded like he relished the thought. Perhaps he was keen for an excuse to evict Xavier and rent the place out at a higher price. Knox ignored him. ‘How long has he been handling the keys for you?’

  ‘Three and a bit years.’

  ‘Doesn’t seem likely then.’ Unless something changed eight months ago. Knox made a note to check Xavier’s finances for any sign that he might have started struggling more than usual around then.

  ‘And you’re sure nobody else has keys?’

  ‘Dead certain,’ Larkins said. ‘Look, I have to be getting back to bed. It’s GMT plus twelve here and I’m going to fall asleep on you. You’re welcome to call back any time, this phone number is always on. Is there anything else you need from me in the meantime?’

  ‘A list of everyone that stayed with you,’ Knox said. ‘Going back for as long as possible.’

  ‘That might take a while. I used so many sites over the years.’

  ‘Then, Mr Larkins, you’d best make yourself a big pot of coffee and get cracking, hadn’t you?’

  Chapter 51: False Positives

  For the second time, Annie was summoned to St Dunstan in the East. This time she wasn’t skipping her anniversary dinner. Instead, her Saturday afternoon task – window shopping for the best divorce lawyer in town – was put on hold so that she could see the devastation Sebastian Stryker had wrought when he forced entry into the office cark park.

  He was such a typical man. He’d driven straight through a metal barrier at top speed, found the crime scene empty, and then fled the moment that the local uniformed officers had secured the scene.

  How he’d found this place was anyone’s guess. The abandoned office block was a stone’s throw from where she’d found the thread snagged on the bush. Indeed, the fire exit on
the west side of the building was directly across the road. As a theory, Stryker’s hypothesis that Layla Morgan was murdered here and dumped just outside made sense.

  It didn’t hold water for long though as the initial forensic tests didn’t show any evidence of a bloodbath. Annie sprayed the place liberally with luminol. While she did see the characteristic chemiluminescent blue glow that could indicate blood, it wasn’t a large quantity. If the victim had been stabbed here, she would have expected to see arterial spray as well as a pool of blood at the site of the stabbing.

  Luminol didn’t make things quick or easy. It reacted with any oxidising agents so that while it did flag the location of blood, it also reacted to plenty of substances that weren’t blood like horseradish or hair dye.

  That wasn’t to say there was no blood. There were a few out-of-place drops at the end of the parking space nearest the stairwell in the garage which could indicate that the body was transferred from a car before it was dumped in the lower garden of St Dunstan in the East.

  What was worth the trip was the chance to prove Stryker wrong. If the killer had lived here, his DNA would be all over it. The fastest DNA test available to Annie would take around four hours plus the time to get the sample to the lab. If Stryker were wrong, she’d get to say “I told you so”. If, on the off chance, he was right... well, a manhunt would be on.

  Either way, they’d know by late afternoon.

  STRYKER WAS ACCOSTED the moment he walked into the Yard. He had expected Elsie to ambush him, to demand to know where he’d been. He was all ready to confess everything he’d done wrong, to come clean about “Andrew Rekshun” and ramming the garage door when Flick the e-fit artist shouted out his name. She was legendary around the Yard for changing her hairstyle on a daily basis much to the confusion of some of the less observant members of staff. Today her hair was bright pink and pixie cut.

  She bounded over to him as if her feet were sprung. She had a leather satchel slung over one shoulder. ‘You’re Mr Stryker, aren’t ya?’

  ‘Guilty.’

  ‘You stood me up this mornin’. I’ve been waiting for you to show. Your man identified your killer.’

  She pulled her iPad from her satchel to show him the e-fit she’d drawn. It was unmistakably him.

  ‘You’re miles too late,’ Seb said. ‘Found the git on CCTV. Has anyone else seen this?’

  ‘Nah,’ Flick said.

  ‘Then can you do me a solid? Keep it to yourself. The Lady Killer has fled. All his stuff is gone. If this leaks to the press, he’ll know we’re onto him. This needs to stay between us until he’s in custody, okay?’

  ‘You got it.’

  Flick jogged on, leaving Stryker to make a beeline for conference room one. Elsie had sent out a group WhatsApp while he was driving back asking everyone to convene there and then sent a second message just to him asking him to take over while she finished up with Dr Spilsbury.

  With any luck, his mistake wouldn’t come back to haunt him. He knew he was on thin ice, but with one woman down, the team needed every available body to catch this guy. The lack of backup justified ramming the garage door, didn’t it?

  Now that there was an e-fit, there was no hiding the fact he’d run into the killer without suspecting a thing. It was, in many ways, a relief. He could go back to playing it straight, put his hands up and say sorry, and be damned if there were consequences. No job was worth his integrity.

  He couldn’t undo his mistake, but he could help catch the Lady Killer.

  Chapter 52: Told You So

  Burton Leigh was proving to be an absolute pain in the backside. Surely the old duffer knew he was being picked up. Anyone else would have been waiting at the door. But oh, no, not Doctor Burton Leigh. Conscious of Stryker’s need for speed, Ian had jiggled from one foot to the other as he’d waited in the hallway while Burton Leigh changed into his “lucky sweater”. Next, as if aware of – and amused by – Ian’s impatience, he’d made himself a thermos full of hot tea (“not that crap you lot brew at the station”) and filled a tiny plastic lunchbox with cucumber sandwiches and rich tea biscuits “for dunking in the tea”. By the time Ian had loaded him into his Kia, they’d wasted so much time that he felt justified in putting his foot down the entire way back into London.

  The drive back had been mostly silent, punctuated by the occasional burst of music as Bertie had jabbed the pre-set button which turned on Classic FM and Ian had just as quickly switched it back to his favourite heavy metal. After three miles of this battle of the bands, Ian ejected the music system from the dashboard and stashed it under his seat.

  ‘That, young man, was uncalled for.’

  Ian shrugged. ‘Sorry, old man. My ride, my rules.’

  Halfway into London, Bertie piped up again. ‘I take it he struck again then.’

  ‘No idea what you’re blabbering about,’ Ian said. ‘I’m literally just your taxi driver. You got an issue, you take it up with the boss man, ‘kay?’

  ‘Young man, I think you’ll find that’s “boss lady”. DCI Mabey is in charge of the team after all. She’s also my goddaughter and I won’t tolerate rudeness.’

  Suitably chastised, Ian drove in silence the rest of the way. The promised day out with Stryker would be worth it. And he’d be sure to take lots of photos of him and his bestie riding Funscape’s rollercoasters, photos that would go straight onto his “Review My Ex” profile. Maybe then, he’d finally get a response to one of the many hopeful messages he sent to likely looking young ladies.

  While Ian drove, Bertie busied himself with his phone. He seemed to be texting someone though when Ian leant over, Bertie turned the screen away and tutted.

  Conference room one, the largest in New Scotland Yard which been designed to hold meetings of joint task forces featuring hundreds of staff, was buzzing when they arrived. News of Georgia Matthews’ murder had spread like wildfire and so many colleagues had arrived to offer their assistance. Ian watched as Bertie greeted a number of them like old friends as they made their way from the back of the room to the podium at the front.

  ‘No sign of the team,’ Ian said. ‘Lemme text Stryker and find out where they’re at, yeah?’

  Bertie wasn’t even listening. Before Ian had finished talking, he’d ambled over to the podium. In the absence of DCI Mabey, DI Stryker and DS Knox, it seemed that Burton Leigh had decided to assume control.

  ‘Mr... sorry, Doctor Leigh, you can’t—’

  It was too late. He’d flipped the microphone’s power button to on. ‘Testing... testing... can everyone hear me?’

  A terrible feedback screech drew everyone’s attention to the front of the room.

  ‘Ladies and gents. If it were not in such dire circumstances, I would say that it is a pleasure to see you all once more.’ Bertie’s voice echoed through the auditorium.

  From where Ian stood off to one side, he saw heads nod accompanied by murmurs of recognition. Many of the older detectives seemed to know Bertie. Just how long had he been “retired”?

  ‘Alas,’ Bertie said. ‘Today is one of those days where the worst has happened – one of our own has been slain – and it is up to us to come together to catch her killer. I wish I could say that this is a one-off event, an unexpected and unexplainable tragedy. This is the...’ he trailed off as if trying to consult a memory that was just out of reach.

  ‘...thirty-ninth serial killer case which I’ve consulted on and so far the Lady Killer has followed a typical trajectory.’

  A large man in the fourth row from the back stood up, his belly spilling over the, thankfully unoccupied, seat in front of him, and waved impatiently. ‘If he’s as predictable as you say, Doctor Leigh,’ the man said. ‘Where exactly is he? I’ll send my team to go pick him up right now.’

  A few brave souls sniggered. Bertie glared at them.

  ‘DCI Fairbanks, thank you for joining us. The first case was yours, wasn’t it? Why don’t you join me at the front?’

  The fat man squeezed past
his team and loped up towards Bertie, all eyes in the room watching him intently. Even though social skills weren’t his strongest point, Ian could see from their expressions how little respect he commanded among his colleagues.

  ‘As I was saying before DCI Fairbanks interrupted, this serial – who the press have dubbed The Lady Killer – is a compulsive, dangerous killer.’

  Fairbanks snatched the microphone off Bertie. ‘Didn’t you say predictable before?’ He handed it back looking pleased with himself.

  Bertie stepped away from Fairbanks. Ian thought he detected the glimmer of a smile around Bertie’s eyes as if he were pleased to be mocked by the big man.

  There were a few seconds of silence before Bertie answered. ‘I said typical, not predictable. As you would have discovered, if you’d bothered to put the effort in to investigate.’

  A vein in Fairbanks’ temple throbbed. He was livid to have fallen for the trap. Bertie had handed him the rope and watched as he’d hung himself.

  The room hung on their every word. The audience hadn’t expected this war of words. ‘It wasn’t until the second murder that I was brought in to profile the killer. There was a lag of two weeks between the deaths of Leonella Boileau and Layla Morgan. One week later, he struck again and Georgia Matthews was found dead before she could be posed like the first two victims. Now that his preferred modus operandi has been disturbed by an interloper, it is my expectation that the killer will lose control and strike again even more quickly—’

  At that moment, the back doors burst open. Stryker. He had a panicked look about him as his eyes traversed the conference room.

  ‘Where’s DCI Mabey?’ he demanded, ignoring Ian’s frantic waving. Instead, when Bertie beckoned him to the front and then killed the microphone, he hurried towards the stage. He just hasn’t seen me yet, Ian consoled himself and trailed after him, as a good sidekick should.

  He reached the stage in time to hear Stryker talking to Bertie. ‘Elsie’s not here,’ the doc said.