The Scribe

by A A Chaudhuri

  But she never turned up. He’d waited for almost an hour. He’d called her mobile and landline but got no answer; tried her office, but by then everyone had left for the day. He should have been concerned. Instead, perhaps rather childishly, he’d been pissed off with her for dragging him out in the freezing cold for nothing. He should have gone straight home to Elizabeth, but instead, he’d walked for a while. His life was a mess and he’d wanted to clear his mind, pull himself together, before heading back to his loveless marriage.

  But just a few hours later, as he’d listened, stunned, to the news of Bethany’s death on the radio, his long-held dream of fatherhood had been shattered. And he’d felt racked with guilt for being angry with Bethany; for abandoning her and his unborn child when, had he gone to her, he might have been able to save her.

  And now he was getting scared. All the girls had been his lovers, and none of his affairs had ended on good terms. Somehow, it felt like he was being set up. But by whom? Possibly some jealous boyfriend, or some girl he’d rejected in the past. The public was getting jittery, and the police were getting desperate. As far as he knew, he was the closest they had to a suspect, and he couldn’t help wondering whether they were closing in for the kill.

  They’d already spoken to his loose-tongued mother about his father’s temper. And Elizabeth had done her utmost to rock the boat by revealing he’d hit her in the past. God, how I regret my actions now. With this in mind, as he prepped for a tutorial the following day, it occurred to him that he needed to destroy any evidence the police might use to prove his guilt.

  He needed to destroy the memory stick. But it wasn’t in the drawer where he always kept it. What with everything that had been going on lately, he’d neither had the time nor the inclination to look at it.

  He couldn’t understand it. He always kept it locked in the bottom right drawer, but it was nowhere to be found. He scratched his head in exasperation. No one had access to his key, which he always kept in the inside pocket of his briefcase. And he couldn’t think who would guess to look in there.

  He stopped short. Froze. Felt the colour drain from his face.

  Except Elizabeth.

  ***

  Drake took the wheel while Carver sat beside him in silence. He couldn’t understand how he’d been so wrong about Stirling. He considered himself a good judge of character. So much of police work was as much about instinct as hard evidence, and Stirling hadn’t planted that seed of suspicion in Carver’s mind.

  Granted, he was a clever man. But the killings had pointed to someone who was technically gifted – au fait with the mechanics of modern technology: CCTV, remote control bombs, hacking. He hadn’t seen that in Stirling either.

  But there was no arguing with the facts. The evidence was indisputable, as the Chief had pointed out: Stirling’s DNA was inside Bethany Williams and all over her flat.

  That was the miracle of modern science. A few years back, a female lecturer at the academy had been blindfolded and raped in her office late one night. All the male lecturers and students had been asked to give a sample of their DNA to eliminate them from enquiries. Stirling was one of them. A member of Grayson’s team had searched the DNA from the semen found inside Williams on the Police National DNA Database and matched it with Stirling’s.

  But there was more startling evidence. Grayson had determined that Williams had been pregnant when she died. He’d conducted a pre-natal paternity test with DNA samples from the embryo, Williams and Stirling, and confirmed Stirling to be the father.

  Had Stirling killed Williams to prevent word getting out that he’d got her pregnant? Had she threatened to name and shame him – reveal his infidelity to the world in the most embarrassing, humiliating way possible?

  It would have tipped his wife over the edge and destroyed his professional reputation.

  It was a perfectly plausible motive. Plus, Williams’ last text had made it clear she feared Stirling was going to kill her.

  But what of Sarah? Was that pure revenge for dumping him? Had she been an infatuation he couldn’t shake off? And the others? Natasha? Had her rejection been too much of a knock to his ego? Was he trying to teach her a lesson? And then there was Paige, Lisa, Emma. What was his motive with them? Maybe they’d also pissed him off in some way, or threatened to expose him?

  Or perhaps it went much deeper? Perhaps Stirling had had more of a difficult childhood than they’d realised. Was that the common link? Were the killings borne from an inbred hatred of women, nurtured by a cold mother and a violent father? Had Stirling himself been abused?

  All these thoughts swam through Carver’s head as they drove through the sleepy Sunday evening traffic along Gray’s Inn Road, towards Stirling’s house.

  ***

  The hacker was nearly done. He’d watched Stirling leave his house just after one that afternoon. And now, at just gone five, he’d probably be on his way home.

  He looked at the computer screen in front of him. Although physically it was his own computer, he was actually looking at Professor Stirling’s documents. It had been so easy hacking into his machine over the last few months – just as he’d hacked into Bethany Williams’ email account on New Year’s Eve – gaining access to Stirling’s emails, private documents and internet.

  Once the police looked at his internet history, saw the surfeit of sickening sites Stirling had been on – indecent images of women, women being raped, abused, tortured in the most inhumane ways imaginable – Stirling would be mincemeat.

  And it didn’t matter that the document history of the item he was looking at right now would show it to have been created at 3 pm that afternoon. Stirling could just as easily have created it on his laptop at work. Luckily for this particular hacker, Stirling used a system that allowed users to upload and sync files to a cloud storage service, and then access them from a web browser or their local device. So, anything Stirling had created that afternoon at work on his laptop would automatically upload onto his home computer and vice versa.

  When the police saw this, Stirling would be done for. They would stop hunting. And the killer would be free to put the final nail in the final coffin.

  ***

  Stirling burst into his house, calling out his wife’s name. ‘Elizabeth, where are you, Elizabeth? I know you’re here, and I know what you’ve done.’

  No response. He marched angrily into the living room but stopped abruptly just inside the door. Elizabeth was there, sitting opposite Carver and Drake.

  ‘Professor Stirling.’ Carver stood up, walked towards him.

  Stirling turned pasty. He looked at Elizabeth, who stayed where she was; silent, emotionless.

  ‘Elizabeth, what have you done?’ His voice was full of anguish.

  ‘It’s of your own making, James.’ She remained still, but her eyes sparkled. He sensed her taking delight in his distress.

  Carver came closer. ‘Professor Stirling, we are placing you under arrest for the suspected murder of Bethany Williams …’

  ‘What? You must be joking. This is insane!’ Stirling backed away.

  Carver edged nearer, as did Drake who produced a pair of handcuffs from his belt.

  Carver continued to read Stirling his rights as Drake put the cuffs on.

  Stirling had stopped listening, too stunned, too sick, too confused by the injustice of what was happening to him. They had the memory stick; he could tell from his wife’s smug face. But that wasn’t enough for the police to bring him in. What else did they have?

  ‘What possible evidence can you have for this? I demand to know!’ Stirling yelled as Carver and Drake dragged him towards the front door.

  ‘Your semen was found inside Bethany Williams, and your DNA’s all over her flat,’ Carver replied. ‘We know she was pregnant with your child. And we also know you met her on Waterloo Bridge at 3 pm on New Year’s Eve. The same afternoon she was murdered. The same afternoon she sent a text to her best friend saying she thought you were going to kill her.’
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br />   ‘This is insane!’ Stirling repeated. ‘I’m being set up! The last time I saw her was December 29th. We had sex at her place …’ a quick glance and he saw the stringy veins on Elizabeth’s neck grow taut, ‘… and that’s why you found my DNA. Sperm can survive for up to seventy-two hours, as I’m sure you know. It doesn’t mean I killed her. I never met Bethany on New Year’s Eve. I agreed to meet her, but she never turned up. Check her call history. You’ll see several missed calls from me. Check mine, for God’s sake!’

  Stirling was telling the truth on that score. A member of Carver’s team had flagged up several missed calls from him the afternoon Bethany died. But Carver couldn’t ignore the DNA or Bethany’s frightened text. Stirling could just as easily have dialled her number to make it appear he hadn’t gone home with her that day.

  ‘You didn’t come home till after 5.30, James,’ Elizabeth said, digging the knife in deeper.

  ‘I know. I was angry, confused. I walked for an hour to clear my head before coming home.’

  ‘Can anyone back you up?’ Carver asked.

  Stirling lowered his head, swallowed hard. ‘No, I don’t believe so.’

  He caught the look on his wife’s face. She was usually so good at hiding her feelings. But her facial muscles were twitching with hurt, humiliation and rage.

  Her eyes steely, her head held high, she turned her back on her husband as he was led out of their home.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Friday, 9 January 2015

  It was 9 pm. Five days on from Stirling’s arrest. Maddy hadn’t long been home. Dressed in joggers and an old sweater, she sat cross-legged in front of the TV watching Carver make a statement.

  The CPS had decided there was enough evidence to charge Stirling with Bethany’s murder, and he was currently being held on remand at Bishopsgate police station.

  She’d first learned of his arrest on Monday. It had been plastered all over the TV and made the top story in all the papers, although for now, the exact nature of the evidence against him was being kept confidential. Keen to know whether any evidence had been found linking him to the other victims, Paige especially, she’d tried several times to contact Carver, but he’d been tied up and hadn’t called her back.

  Paul was working tonight. Although Cara had tried to tempt her with a drink after work, she’d declined. She’d had a heavy week. Clients had stirred from their holiday comas, and it was all systems go.

  Although it continued to bug Maddy that Stirling somehow knew she and Paul still lived together, and she should have been relieved that the police had made an arrest, something didn’t add up. Until Bethany, the killer had been exceptionally thorough. It seemed strange that after five perfectly executed murders, Stirling had slipped up so badly with this one. She didn’t know what she was missing, but it was no doubt staring her in the face.

  ***

  Suzanne Carroll couldn’t watch any longer. She picked up the remote and switched off the TV. Then she walked to the kitchen, opened her fridge and grabbed the half-empty bottle of Chablis standing upright in the door. Her hands trembled as she poured herself a large glass, then swigged half of it on the spot. She was a wreck; physically and emotionally, her eyes red and swollen from all the crying she’d done since hearing of his arrest.

  She didn’t know how she was going to cope with her lover locked up. He was her world. No one had ever come close. Try as she might, she knew she could never love anyone the way she loved him – fiercely, passionately, all-consumingly.

  She’d banished his angry outburst towards her last November to the back of her mind; forgiven this minor misdemeanour, just as she’d readily forgiven all his previous transgressions. No matter what he did, or how he treated her, she’d go to the ends of the world for him.

  She’d been heartbroken to learn he’d fathered a child with Bethany Williams, a former student he’d taken a shine to some eight or nine years back, and with whom he’d recently rekindled a relationship after bumping into her by chance last summer.

  She could cope with his meaningless affairs, which were just about the sex and nothing else, but the idea of Stirling having feelings for Bethany, as he had for Sarah, had filled her with an almost unbearable jealousy.

  She’d been shocked at herself for secretly rejoicing in their murders, but now it seemed she was being punished for her wicked thoughts.

  She paced the floor of her luxury flat, not knowing what to do with herself. She feared it wouldn’t be long before the police came knocking on her door, demanding to know if she’d lied about being with Stirling the night of Lisa Ryland’s murder.

  She’d swear it to be the truth if she had to. She’d break every ethical code in the Solicitors’ Code of Conduct she’d sworn to abide by if need be.

  Cursing herself for not accepting a dinner invitation with an old client and his wife just to take her mind off things, she decided to do some work. It was a sad state of affairs – a well-off, successful woman in her forties with no company for herself on a Friday night, save a bottle of Chablis and her laptop – but there it was. She poured the rest of the wine into her glass and took it, together with her laptop, into the bedroom.

  As she changed into some casual clothes, she decided to put on some music – something to remind her of him. She scrolled her finger down the CD stand tucked in the corner of the room and pulled out the CD he’d given her as a birthday present two years ago: The Best of Beethoven. She slumped down on the bed, then sat upright with her back glued to the headboard, placed her laptop on her outstretched legs, and fired it up.

  A mountain of new emails, mostly work-related, had already accumulated since she’d left the office at six that evening. She wearily scrolled through them but stopped short when something interesting caught her eye.

  An email headed: I know JS is innocent.

  Her heart stopped, a myriad of thoughts rushing through her head. Was it sent by some crank – some sort of virus being circulated to all and sundry? It was possible, considering the national coverage James’ arrest had generated. Or was it meant solely for her? She wouldn’t know until she opened it. She shifted slightly, her eyes sweeping the room even though she was very much alone.

  She examined the address: rellikeht@mai.co.uk

  How odd. It makes no sense. Certainly not an address she’d seen before. Cagily, she double-clicked on the message:

  Dear Suzanne,

  I know James is a dear friend of yours, and like you, I am devastated by his arrest. He did not kill Bethany Williams. I know this because he was with me the afternoon she was murdered. He came to see me, in turmoil over Bethany’s pregnancy, once more a little boy, unsure of the right thing to do.

  The reason I haven’t gone to the police with this information is because I am afraid to. Not long before James was arrested I received an anonymous letter in the post threatening my life if I provided him with an alibi. I believe that the letter was from the real killer. James knew about it and told me to do as the killer asked. Although I know it is cowardly of me not to have come forward, despite James’ instructions, what you must understand is that I am old and alone. Rid of the husband who abused me for so many years, I am finally enjoying what I have left of life, and I am not ready to die yet. In short, I am afraid of what the killer will do to me if he finds out I’ve gone to the police. And I believe James knows this.

  You are a smart, capable woman, and James has only ever had good things to say about you. You are his rock and I know that, together, we can find a way to set James free. Will you meet with me, Suzanne? It is too dangerous for you to come to my house. Both the police and the killer may be watching. It needs to be somewhere neutral, where we’re unlikely to be followed.

  You may know from James that I live close to Hampton Court Palace. Will you meet me in the centre of Hampton Court Maze on Monday at 3 pm?

  I look forward to seeing you then.

  Janis Stirling

  Suzanne stared at the email. A mixture of relief,
resentment and anger ran through her. James’ mother was his alibi. But the selfish cow was too chicken to stand up to the killer. James had been right about her. Just as she’d put her own needs before her son’s when he was a child, she was doing the same now that he was a grown man. Even when he was being accused of murder and potentially faced the rest of his life behind bars.

  But that was by the by, an irritation she’d simply have to sweep aside. Ten minutes ago, she’d only seen a bleak future ahead of her with no James in her life. But now she’d been offered a glimmer of hope. She wasn’t afraid of the killer.

  And she’d do whatever it took to set her soulmate free.

  ***

  Monday, 12 January 2015

  10.30 am. Stirling glowered at Elizabeth, sitting across the table from him in the cheerless visitors’ room. Sparse, grey, airless. He was allowed three one-hour visits a week. She was his first.

  The rest of the time he was locked up in a holding cell, around six feet by eight, with brick walls and one solid door that locked from the outside. The minimal furnishings inside the cell – a bed, a table and a chair – were equally heavy and anchored to the floor to avoid being broken or used as weapons. There was one stainless steel lavatory, a washbasin and a barred window covered by a flimsy curtain.

  Stirling was surprised by his wife’s visit. He’d half-expected never to see her again. But maybe she’d come to exult in his misery – locked away in dismal surroundings, for a crime he didn’t commit. Although no one seemed to believe him.

  ‘Come to crow, have we, Elizabeth? If so, you can leave now.’

  ‘I can’t say seeing you like this doesn’t give me some satisfaction,’ she said. ‘Fathering a child with that girl was your cruellest blow yet, James.’

  He saw the tears in her eyes.