by Ali Gunn
Bertie looked at her thoughtfully. ‘Every set of victims has something in common. I have a theory about how these three are connected. Before I venture my guess, would you be so kind as to explain to an old codger just how this new-fangled Review My Ex thingamajig works?’
It hadn’t occurred to Elsie that there were still people out there who hadn’t used it. ‘It’s pretty simple. You sign up on your phone and put in your details like any dating app—’
‘Can we please assume,’ Bertie said slowly, ‘that some of us haven’t used any dating apps at all, ever.’
‘You put up a nice photo of yourself, describe yourself in a paragraph, and that’s it. Afterwards, all those people who you’ve dated in the past are allowed to leave their thoughts on your profile.’
‘Even the ones that hate you?’ Bertie said.
‘Even them,’ Elsie said, ‘especially them. The whole idea is that one woman’s rubbish is another’s treasure and that by going in forewarned about someone’s biggest flaws, we can save a lot of time and heartbreak.’
‘Rather naïve,’ the profiler said. ‘People aren’t logical like that. Unless I’m way off the mark, it would be a magnet for hate and slander.’
He wasn’t wrong. Plenty of profiles were full of terrible reviews. ‘You can pay to “demote” those ones,’ Elsie said putting air quotes around the word demote. ‘It means they go to the bottom of the list and people only see them if they scroll all the way through the good reviews... which no one does because it’s a horrible interface.’
‘Clever,’ Bertie said. ‘Unleash the worst of humanity on each other and then extort them to hide their deepest secrets. Bet it’s profitable.’
Knox raised a tentative hand. ‘Very profitable,’ she said. ‘So profitable in fact that the company behind it, Better Future Media Ltd, are about to list on the stock exchange. The sole founder, an American called Adelrick Melrose, is likely to jump into the top ten of the Times Rich List. The Impartial ran a feature on him last Sunday. He’s going to be worth billions.’
No wonder he hadn’t wanted to help Elsie out. If the press had any idea that his company was connected to a murder, no matter how tenuous that connection, his float would be dead before it started.
‘And, get this,’ Knox said, ‘he’s also the biggest shareholder in StayAway.’
It couldn’t be a coincidence, could it? thought Elsie. The same man was behind two companies that cropped up in one investigation.
‘Melrose will cooperate. He has to,’ Elsie said confidently. ‘We need his cooperation to find out every place that James Robertson ever stayed using his app. Knox, I need you to find out where Melrose lives so we can go and pay him a visit. I hope you don’t mind me saying this, but you can come across as a cold-hearted bitch. We’re going to need that sass. If we play it right, we can use the float to expedite things. You up for a bit good cop, bad cop? Or bad cop, worse cop?’
Knox grinned. ‘Careful, you’ll make me cry,’ she said. ‘That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me. Let’s put his balls in a vice until he cooperates. He’s got a billion-dollar float planned and we can fuck his shit up.’
‘Then go get Googling. Speak to no one else. This list can’t leak to the press, or any of our colleagues, until we’ve got a proper plan of action. I don’t want a witch hunt on my hands and I don’t want to spook our killer any more than necessary.’
While Knox found a quiet corner of the room to work, Elsie turned back to Bertie. ‘You said you’ve got a theory.’
‘I do,’ Bertie said. ‘I think the killer is acting out his rage against women.’
‘Duh,’ Stryker said. At Elsie’s stern look he gave a subtle shrug as if to say “I could have told you that”.
‘He’s picked women who he thought were broken in some way. Nelly grew up without a father and was trying to use men for their money.’
‘And succeeding,’ Stryker chimed in.
This time, Bertie glared at him. ‘Young man, do you want my help or not?’
‘I’m sorry, Unc-... Dr Leigh,’ Elsie said, quickly correcting herself so as not to call him Uncle Bertie in public. ‘Stryker is clearly an idiot. Please carry on.’
‘As I was saying, broken women. Layla Morgan was an anorexic and Matthews had the self-confidence of a puddle.’
‘Why would he want to date broken women?’
‘Two reasons,’ Bertie said. ‘Firstly, these are women that he thought he could control. Secondly, they’re women he thought he deserved. He thinks of himself as broken and believes he deserves to be with someone else who is also broken.’
Elsie found herself nodding along. She had tried settling once or twice. It never ended well. ‘So if they then reject him...’
‘It’s the ultimate act of betrayal,’ Bertie finished for her. ‘He sees it as being rejected not by beautiful, intelligent, wonderful women who he doesn’t deserve but by broken, pitiful things he has deigned to take on. Chances are he throws money around in an attempt to buy their love and affection which compounds his feeling of betrayal.’
‘Sounds like a classic incel to me,’ Stryker said.
‘That, young man, is not a proper psychological term.’
Elsie knew what Stryker meant. The “incel” movement had been in the papers. It stood for “involuntarily celibate”, a man so obsessed with – and corrupted by – the desire for carnal relations that he demeaned women in order to avoid his own insecurity becoming unbearable. They lurked on the internet where they insulted and threatened violence against women as if doing so might actually get them laid.
Stryker piped up again, his tone dubious. ‘How did he get so close that they didn’t see him with a dirty great knife then, doc?’
‘Simple. He surprised them. This is a man who would appear to be perfectly lovely, respectful, even kind,’ Bertie said. ‘Right up until he flipped a switch. Going back to this app thing, can you see everyone in London on it?
‘Just those who’ve registered, naturally,’ Elsie said. ‘In theory, you can see all who match your sexual and dating preferences.’
‘So if I put in “straight male”,’ Stryker said, ‘it shows all the women. I can then narrow them down by age and proximity.’
Bertie sat upright. ‘Proximity? My God... When did he get in contact with Matthews?’
Nobody moved. When had Matthews started talking about her “new man”? It couldn’t have been long after they were called to St Dunstan in the East.
‘Are you saying what I think you’re saying?’ Elsie asked.
‘If you think I’m suggesting that the killer digitally “met” Matthews because he was at the crime scene then, yes, I’m saying what you think I’m saying.’
It took Elsie a moment to parse his round-about statement. She swore. Matthews had been killed not because of random chance but because she’d been near enough to the killer to be a “Proximity Match” on the app. Her attempt to come to work after a couple of drinks had cost Matthews her life.
A knock at the door made every head turn. It cracked open a little and Ian peeked in.
‘Come in,’ Elsie said. He took an empty seat and gave Stryker a thumbs-up. ‘What’ve you got for us, Ian?’
‘Found the car. It was last seen passing an ANPR camera out by White City.’
White City was out past Holland Park, a couple of miles north of Layla Morgan’s home. ‘Where?’
‘Heading west into Acton but he didn’t hit any of the cameras out that way. Half ten this morning.’
Two hours ago. If he hadn’t flashed past any other ANPR cameras, he might still be around. ‘Stryker, go scope out the area around the camera.’
He looked dubious. He must have seen Elsie was biting back a scathing remark because his doubt vanished a split-second later. ‘On it,’ he said.
‘And check in with the DVLA while you’re on the way,’ she added. ‘The car’s probably been nicked or driven on cloned plates but check anyway.’
With
Stryker gone in search of the car, the race was on to find the killer.
She turned to Knox. ‘Where are we with the owner of the office building?’
‘I pulled the land reg stuff no probs,’ Knox said, ‘and a quick squizz on Google found me an advert for property guardians. There are loadsa companies doing it and I don’t know which the office owners used.’
‘Called them?’
‘Place is owned by a hedge fund,’ Knox said. ‘They’re closed on weekends.’
‘Find out who the directors are, send the local police to find out in person if necessary. The sooner we know which property guardian agency was managing the office, the sooner we know who they let to. That ought to get us the killer’s real name.’
The net was finally closing in. Elsie said as much.
‘And that,’ Bertie said, ‘is why he’s going to be dangerous. He knows the game is up. This will force his hand.’
‘Why, though, is he so angry?’ Elsie asked.
‘He’s been hurt,’ Bertie said. ‘By a woman, of course. It was something so traumatic to his ego that it made him snap. It was almost certainly a rejection of some kind. He didn’t directly confront that rage.’
‘The women were proxy victims,’ Elsie said, recalling his first profile of the Lady Killer. ‘Doesn’t that mean there’s a real victim out there somewhere?’
She imagined some poor woman dead in her flat, unfound for months, the first victim of the Lady Killer but nobody knew about it. She wondered how long it would take for someone to find her if she were murdered. She had no close friends who visited, no family except her dad, so it could take a while.
‘The opposite,’ Bertie said. ‘If he’d killed the woman who spurned him, he wouldn’t be taking it out on proxy victims.’
‘By that logic, if you’re right about him losing control now we’re close to catching him, he’ll go after the women he loves, won’t he?’
‘I’m afraid he will. If you can’t find her before he does, you’ll have a fourth victim on your hands.’
Chapter 55: Lawyers and Jam
White City was rammed on Saturday afternoon. According to his TomTom, traffic was running bumper to bumper from Shepherd’s Bush roundabout all the way up to the A40. Once again, Stryker found himself cursing the realities of London living. He was crawling along and couldn’t see a damned thing.
How on earth was he supposed to find one car among thousands?
‘Siri, call Ian.’
His phone, which lay in the passenger seat, sprang to life.
‘Yo.’
‘Ian, I need you to run down a number plate for me. Can you do that right now?’
‘The boss lady’s way ahead of ya,’ he said. ‘She had me email you everything the DVLA’s got on him.’
He leant over and opened his email while keeping Ian on the line. A loud honk sounded from behind him.
‘Read me it, will you, Ian?’ Stryker said. ‘Can’t afford to get done for using my mobile while driving.’
‘Awright,’ Ian said. ‘Get this, the car hasn’t been reported stolen and it ain’t a cloned plate either. The registration is in the name of some law firm in Pimlico. I’m texting you the address. The DVLA’s records say that the car is an Audi A8, last year’s model, very swish and plenty of room in the boot too. It is black after all.’
The address flashed up on Stryker’s phone as Ian was speaking. ‘How far’s that from me?’
‘Dunno,’ Ian said. ‘Half hour?’
‘Look it up for me?’
Stryker heard the telltale click-clack of Ian’s mechanical keyboard. ‘Yep, twenty-five ish mins in traffic.’
‘This firm – they open?’ It was, after all, Saturday afternoon.
Ian laughed. ‘You think lawyers get Saturdays off? They wish. Someone will be in even if it’s some poor sod of a paralegal.’
HALF AN HOUR LATER, Stryker found himself in a marble-bedecked foyer where a smartly attired young lady sat in front of a large wooden desk. Behind her, stencilled on the wall in gold, was the name Faulkland & Robertson LLP. To her right was a security door. The firm was based in a grand old townhouse nestled between two embassies. It was the sort of well-heeled firm that dealt with the posh Sloanie types who lived in the area. Their website advertised them as “specialists in advising high net worth clients”. Stryker had no idea what that really meant but he imagined a lot of zeros.
The receptionist was polite enough.
‘I’m afraid there’s nobody here to speak to you, Mr Stryker,’ she said. ‘I wish we could help.’
‘Look,’ Stryker said, his eyes darting down to a name badge pinned to her chest, ‘Deborah, I’m not here to waste time. One of your cars was used in the commission of a crime. I know there’s someone here who can help with my inquiry.’
She glanced over her shoulder at the door that led through to the back. ‘I can’t, inspector. I’d be fired.’
‘For helping with a murder inquiry?’ Stryker said. ‘Surely keeping the name Faulkland & Robertson out of the press here is invaluable.’
‘Murder?’ Her eyes went wide. ‘Wait here for a moment, okay?’
She leapt up out of her seat and turned to the security door. Stryker watched as she typed 8678 into the keypad. She swung right after she entered and the door slammed shut behind her. He gave her thirty seconds head start and followed her in.
The other side of the door led through to an open-plan office area. A few people were working though none paid much heed to Stryker. Judging by the cheap desks, they were paralegals or secretaries, the unimportant kind of replaceable staff that no law firm would allocate a company car.
He turned right, following the path he thought that the receptionist had taken, and found himself in a stairwell. If, he reasoned, he was a partner in this firm, he’d have his office on the highest floor with the best views, well away from the noise and traffic. He climbed quickly, keeping his eyes peeled for anyone else in the building. As he had expected, the top floor was much better appointed than the ground floor. It was divided into two halves with a central corridor down the middle. On the left was a door with a brass name plaque which read “Faulkland” and on the right there was an identical door with an identical plaque which read “Robertson”. The left-hand door was closed while the right was ajar. Mr Robertson was in.
As he approached, he heard voices. One belonged to the receptionist he’d spoken to not two minutes earlier.
‘I’ll get rid of him then, Mr Robertson,’ she said. She walked out into the hallway with head bowed, not paying attention, and collided with Stryker.
‘I see you’ve found a partner for me to speak to,’ Stryker said. ‘Thanks for being so accommodating, Deborah.’
He left her in the hallway and walked into the solicitor’s office without knocking.
‘Mr Robertson, I presume?’
The solicitor looked up. He was wearing a suit without a tie. His top button was undone and his jacket was slung over the back of his chair. He looked the spitting image of the killer but for the lack of a lazy eye. In front of him was a nameplate that read “Joshua Robertson”. James and Joshua. Surely they had to be brothers?
‘Who let you in here?’ he demanded.
He even sounded like the man from St Dunstan in the East. ‘Your car,’ Stryker said. He reeled off the registration plate. ‘Where is it?’
‘What car?’
‘Don’t play games with me, Mr Robertson,’ Stryker said. ‘The Audi A8 your firm leased. It’s yours, isn’t it?’
‘No.’
‘Then if I subpoena your insurer, they’re not going to tell me you’re the insured driver?’ Stryker smiled sweetly.
‘I don’t own it.’
It was, Stryker thought, a subtle distinction. Of course, Robertson didn’t own the car per se. His firm leased it. ‘But your firm leases it.’
‘Get out.’
No denial this time. Just faux outrage. ‘I’ll happily go, Mr Robertson, but if I do
then I’m coming back with half of Scotland Yard and we’ll examine every inch of this place and we won’t be quiet about it. Can’t imagine it’ll stay quiet for long if a big shot Pimlico solicitor like yourself is under investigation for murder.’
Robertson set his jaw, his lower lip protruding. ‘What is it that you want?’
‘Your cooperation,’ Stryker said simply. ‘I know it’s your car, I know you don’t want me crawling all over your business, and you certainly don’t want the press involved so let’s make things nice and easy, eh? Who’s got the keys to your Audi? Your brother?’
As soon as he said “brother”, Stryker knew he was right.
The lawyer seemed to deflate. ‘I sometimes let James borrow my car.’
The Lady Killer really was called James Robertson. It had sounded almost as made up as Drew Rekshun. ‘Then you know why I’m here.’
‘What’s he done this time?’
His receptionist clearly hadn’t told him. Nor had Stryker mentioned why he was here yet. ‘This time? What did he do last time?’
Robertson looked at him, exhaled deeply and gestured at the still-open door. ‘Close the door. The walls have ears around here.’
No harm in humouring him. Once the door was shut, Stryker helped himself to a seat. ‘Siblings, eh? Always a pain in the arse.’
‘No kidding.’
‘Mine got arrested once for selling crack,’ Stryker said. ‘The week before my passing out parade.’
It was a total lie. Stryker was an only child. Robertson fell for it hook, line and sinker.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘James has always been a thorn in my side. First, he dropped out of university – it was only Loughborough mind you – and then he decided that his life calling was as a personal trainer cum sports physiotherapist. Not much money in that, I can tell you!’
That explained his knowledge of anatomy. If James had spent years giving sports massages then it was only natural that he would know how to break rigor mortis. The personal training explained his strength too. What it didn’t explain was the “last time” which Joshua Robertson had referred to.