Know No Evil

by Hampton Graeme

  Wendy Latimer clasped her hands even tighter and stared hard at the floor for a second. ‘When I came home from work last Monday, she wasn’t here. That was very unlike Sandy; she nearly always came straight home from work, especially on a week day. If for any reason she was going to go anywhere, she would have either told me or texted to say she’d be late. I thought at first she might have been working late, but that’s pretty unlikely: it’s the holidays and there are hardly any students around at the moment. I left it until after dinner then texted her. When she didn’t reply I began to worry. I still hadn’t heard anything by midnight; that’s when I phoned the police.’

  ‘When was the last time you actually spoke to Sandy?’ Denning asked.

  She thought before answering. ‘Saturday, just before lunch. I stayed over at my boyfriend’s that weekend, and went straight to work from his place on Monday morning. He lives in Fulham and works in the City, so he gives me a lift in on a Monday.’

  ‘So the last time you saw her was on Saturday morning?’ Neeraj asked.

  She nodded. ‘I left for my boyfriend’s just after breakfast. Sandy was still pottering around in her dressing gown; she liked a lie-in on a weekend, whereas I’m always up and about early. She always called me a lark. Sandy was more of a night owl.’

  ‘Did she say anything to you about her plans for the weekend? Was she meeting anyone? A boyfriend? A friend from work? Anyone?’

  She shook her head. ‘No. Sandy didn’t have a boyfriend. I mean, she was very attractive, but she lacked confidence.’

  ‘Was there anyone else in her life? Anyone she was close to?’

  Another shake of the head. ‘As I said, she was very shy. Apart from myself, she didn’t have a lot of friends. If she’d arranged to meet someone, she’d have said. I’m sure of it.’

  Denning felt there was something they weren’t being told. ‘Is there anything else, Miss Latimer? Is there anything you can tell us about Sandy that might help us find her killer?’

  Wendy Latimer’s hands were still clasped in front of her. She stared quietly at the oatmeal carpet for a couple of seconds before saying, ‘I don’t like speaking about her behind her back, but Sandy did like a drink. I’m not saying she was an alcoholic, far from it. Well, not exactly, but…’

  Denning broke the awkwardness. ‘When you say she “liked a drink”, just what are we saying?’

  She fidgeted uncomfortably in the easy chair. ‘It was mostly at home. Don’t misunderstand me, I’m not judging. I mean I like a glass or two of wine in the evening, especially after a tough day at work, but with Sandy it was most evenings. And sometimes a bottle rather than a couple of glasses.’

  ‘Are you saying she had a drink problem?’ Denning wasn’t sure how this might be relevant, but something told him it was a line of enquiry worth pursuing. ‘Did she just drink with you? Or did she ever drink by herself?’

  ‘Well, that’s the thing. Sometimes she would go to the pub on a Sunday afternoon, especially if I wasn’t around. She would sit in a corner, have a few glasses of wine and either read a book, or listen to music, or just people-watch. She liked glimpsing into other people’s lives. She wouldn’t speak to anyone, and she usually preferred quiet pubs, or at least ones that weren’t too busy. I suppose, in a way, she just liked a bit of company without having to physically socialise with anyone.’

  ‘Do you know which pub she usually drank in?’

  She nodded. ‘The Gilded Drake, on the Broadway. She liked it because it was mostly an older clientele that drank there, so they tended not to bother her.’

  Denning thanked her. ‘There’s just one last thing, Miss Latimer, would you be prepared to identify the body? I know it’s not pleasant, but it would help to have it formally confirmed that this is Sandy.’

  She bit her lip again, then nodded. ‘I suppose so. I mean, I think I was the only friend she had. Perhaps if I’d noticed she was missing sooner…’ She let the words trail away to nothing, already knowing they were meaningless. ‘I can take some comfort from knowing she’s in a happier place now.’ She paused. ‘That’s the awful thing: Sandy was a lovely girl, but she was so unhappy.’

  ‘Unhappy?’ Denning asked. ‘In what way?’

  She sighed. ‘I think, deep down, she was desperately lonely.’

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  The Gilded Drake sat on the corner of The Broadway and Heron Road where Finsbury Park eased itself into Stroud Green. The streets were leafy enough to give the area more of a suburban feel than an inner city one.

  The pub was a testament to Victorian architecture: tall and imposing from the outside, slightly dated on the inside.

  Trudi had texted to tell them she’d spoken to Sandra Blake’s boss at the university, who confirmed she hadn’t turned up for work the previous Monday, and nobody had seen her since. It seems she’d been owed some holiday entitlement and everyone had assumed she’d taken it without saying anything. It was only when her flatmate had contacted them to say she’d gone missing that they realised something was wrong.

  Denning asked Trudi to email him a copy of Sandra Blake’s photo from the university website. He could easily see the resemblance to the bloated corpse they’d pulled from the Regent’s Canal earlier that day. She had certainly been pretty in life: raven-haired with deep, almond eyes hiding behind large, square glasses. She was smiling professionally for the camera, but although her smile was warm, it hinted at the shyness of which Wendy Latimer had spoken.

  Wendy was at the mortuary now, identifying her former flatmate, an experience that would probably stay with her forever.

  The Gilded Drake had tried hard to retain its Victorian ambience without actually turning itself into a relic from a bygone age. The seating was liver-red leather, suitably worn and scratched in places, while the bar was all polished brass and mahogany. There was a gloriously faded grandeur about the place, and Denning could see why Sandra Blake would have come here on a weekend afternoon to sit and read by herself, or to quietly observe the passing milieu of human life without being expected to fully engage with it.

  The young man behind the bar was dressed in a white shirt and black tie, and looked about the same age as Sandra Blake. Denning showed him a photo of Sandra on his phone and asked if he recognised her.

  ‘Yeah,’ the barman said. ‘She used to come in here now and again. Sat in the corner by herself. Liked her wine. Bit sad really.’

  ‘Was she here on Sunday the 15th?’ Denning asked.

  The barman shook his head.

  ‘Can you be certain?’ he asked. ‘It’s important.’

  ‘Sunday 15th,’ the barman repeated, ‘we was closed for a private function. One of our regulars was celebrating their ruby wedding. Sweet, really.’

  ‘Was this all day?’

  He nodded. ‘Yup, all day.’

  * * *

  ‘Nice pub,’ said Neeraj as they headed back out onto the pavement. ‘I could almost see the appeal of alcohol if they were all like that.’ Denning offered up a weak smile as he unlocked the car.

  ‘Doesn’t help us much though, does it? If she wasn’t there on Sunday, then where did she go?’

  Denning’s Ford Focus was parked a few yards from the pub. He’d parked the car in full sun, and in the brief few minutes they’d been in the pub, the car’s interior had warmed up considerably. Denning started the engine and switched on the air conditioning.

  ‘We don’t know for sure that she did go out on Sunday, or if she did, that she was killed then. It could have been Saturday evening after the flatmate last saw her.’

  Denning pulled out into the heavy traffic on the Broadway. ‘The pubs would be busy on a Saturday, especially in the evening. Besides, Wendy Latimer said she only drank in pubs on a Sunday afternoon. We have to assume she went somewhere else if the Drake was closed.’

  Neeraj chomped down another Extra Strong Mint. ‘Yeah, but where?’

  ‘That’s a very good question. Assuming she did go somewhere else, it
could have been anywhere.’

  Chapter Forty

  Molly had tried to call Denning, only to be told he was out and wouldn’t back until later that afternoon. She’d wanted to head off early as she’d arranged to meet someone after work, but she had to speak to Denning first.

  But her mind had only been half on it. She’d seen the press release they’d put out about the latest murder and it had convinced her she needed to speak with Denning, and to do so as a matter of urgency.

  She was on the point of giving up hope when Trudi texted to say that Denning had just returned to the MIT suite.

  Molly took the lift up to the fifth floor. She spotted Denning chatting to Betty Taggart. His shirt sleeves were rolled up exposing tanned arms.

  Betty Taggart was saying something about a meeting with the Chief Superintendent, and Denning was nodding, a joyless look on his face. It felt like it was a bad time. She thought about leaving it until the next day, but there was no guarantee there would be a good time tomorrow either. She waited till their conversation ended and Betty Taggart headed towards the lift. ‘DI Denning, could I have a word, please?’ she asked as he was about to sit down at his desk.

  Denning looked blankly at her for a second, as though waiting for his brain to come into focus, then he said, ‘Is it important? I’m kind of in the middle of something.’

  She stood in front of his desk for a second or two, aware of a dozen pairs of eyes boring into her; one or two people no doubt wondering who she was. Although it was a small nick, and people would readily chat to one another, even just to exchange idle small talk, it was easy to be anonymous in the station.

  ‘It’s about the murder inquiry… Leanne Wyatt, and the others.’ She was struggling to speak with a confidence she didn’t feel. ‘I think there’s something you need to know.’

  She suddenly felt a spasm of insecurity grip her. What if she was wrong about all of this? But deep down she knew she had to go with her gut and share what she knew with them.

  ‘OK,’ said Denning. ‘We can talk in DCI McKenna’s office.’

  She hadn’t expected that. In fact, it she was slightly back-footed by his response. She nodded at him, then followed him into the DCI’s office.

  Denning sat behind Betty Taggart’s desk. Molly couldn’t help noticing how at home he seemed to look in the DCI’s chair. She suspected Denning was destined for better things one day.

  ‘It’s DS Fisher, isn’t it?’ Denning said.

  He wasn’t smiling, but his facial expression had relaxed from the heavy look he’d had when he’d been speaking with Betty Taggart.

  ‘Actually, it’s Molly.’ She smiled at him, gradually convincing herself he wasn’t quite the arsehole she’d initially thought.

  ‘OK, Molly. What can you tell me about Leanne Wyatt, beyond her connection with Gregor Kane?’

  Molly took a deep breath. ‘Have you heard of a man called Anthony Ferguson?’

  She watched as Denning crinkled his brow.

  ‘He was known as the Bermondsey Ripper…’

  Denning rubbed a hand over his eyes, massaging them ever so slightly. ‘I remember it, but it must have been a good ten years ago. How’s it relevant to Leanne Wyatt, Tanya Russell and Sandra Blake?’

  She explained about Ferguson, and her doubts about his conviction; her meeting with Ken Walters and how she was sure he was keeping something from her. ‘I think Ferguson is innocent and whoever committed those murders is also responsible for the recent spate of killings.’ She watched Denning, trying to ignore the look of incredulity that spread across his face like a nasty rash. ‘I realise that rules out Gregor Kane, and probably Daryl Bailey too, and I know it sounds mad, but there are distinct similarities between the Bermondsey Ripper murders and these recent ones: too many for it to be a coincidence.’ Even as she said it she knew it sounded bat-shit crazy; she sounded bat-shit crazy. And judging by the bewildered look on Denning’s face, he was probably thinking the same.

  A heavy silence clawed its way round the airless room.

  After what seemed like an age but was probably only a few seconds, Denning said: ‘I’m sorry, but where’s this coming from? Do you have any proof to back any of this up?’ He rubbed his hand over his face again, massaging his eyeballs with his thumb and index finger. He looked like he hadn’t slept for a while. ‘And how do you know there are similarities between the murders? We’ve only released limited information so far, and we’ve certainly said nothing publicly about the three murders being linked.’

  ‘People talk. A station like this thrives on rumours.’ She wasn’t going to drop Trudi in the shit unless she had to.

  Denning stared at a space slightly above her head for moment, then said, ‘Thanks, DS Fisher. This has been interesting, but I’m afraid I can’t base a murder investigation around rumours and fantasy. We need hard evidence. Unless you can prove Anthony Ferguson didn’t do it, and whoever did has decided to start killing again, then I’m going to have to dismiss your wild theory. But thanks for your time.’

  He stood up and headed to the door, holding it open.

  ‘The crosses,’ she said, blurting it out without really knowing where she was going with the conversation. ‘There were crosses on the victims’ foreheads. The Bermondsey Ripper marked his victims in the same way. You can check. It’ll be in the post-mortems.’ She caught her breath, then continued. ‘The recent victims. The killer does that. He marks them. With a cross.’

  Molly sat there dumbstruck for a moment, convinced she’d just handed in her notice from a job she loved. She could feel Denning standing behind her, the door open, waiting for her to go through it and do a walk of shame through the MIT suite back to CID downstairs, where, if she was lucky and managed to hold on to her job, she would remain forever.

  Instead, he closed the door and sat back down in the big chair behind Betty Taggart’s desk. ‘Who told you about that?’

  ‘It’s true though, isn’t it? It links the most recent murders. And it connects them to the Ripper’s murders.’

  Denning didn’t say anything. She wondered what was going through his head. Did he think she was crazy and should be chucked out of the Met for making lunatic suggestions in front of a senior officer? Or did he believe her?

  ‘I need to talk to DCI McKenna about this.’

  She didn’t know what else to say. He hadn’t thrown her out the office, which was a good sign, but he still didn’t seem convinced.

  She thanked him for listening to her and made her way back to the CID suite three floors below.

  Once she was back at her desk, DI Broomfield came over and asked for a word. She was sure Denning had reported her this time. But it seemed not.

  ‘We’ve heard back from the CPS.’ His face was stony, not its usual smiley self. She didn’t like the direction this was heading in. ‘They’ve decided there is insufficient evidence to prove that Gregor Kane provided the Ecstasy tablet that was responsible for Adam Sloane’s death. They’ll charge him with supplying, but when it comes to manslaughter, he’ll walk.’

  * * *

  Denning knocked on McKenna’s office and she waved him in and nodded for him to sit down.

  ‘Any news, Matt?’

  He sat on the squeaky chair opposite the DCI. McKenna stared impassively back at him. She seemed cool and relaxed, as though having a serial killer on the loose in London was something she just took in her stride. Perhaps, he thought to himself, after thirty years in the police force nothing fazed her. Perhaps once he reached the giddy heights of Detective Chief Inspector he’d have found a way of adopting McKenna’s laid-back detachment and made it his own.

  ‘Antony Ferguson,’ he said coldly. He’d spent the past twenty minutes studying Ferguson’s files on the PNC: they were detailed and specific. Molly Fisher had been right: there were similarities between the Bermondsey Ripper murders and the more recent ones. Similarities which were too blatant to ignore.

  He told McKenna what Molly Fisher had told him and w
hat he’d just read on the PNC.

  McKenna nodded, but her face remained impassive. ‘Most violent murders bear comparable hallmarks,’ she said. ‘Extreme violence bordering on sadism, the dehumanising of the victim. It’s not to say that all brutal murders are linked.’

  ‘There are specific links here,’ he said. ‘The crosses on the victim’s foreheads. That information was never made public.’

  McKenna nodded. ‘From memory, they held back on one or two details at the time,’ she said.

  ‘That’s not to say someone hasn’t managed to get hold of those details.’

  ‘You think this might be a copy-cat killer?’

  That certainly made more sense than Fisher’s crazy story about the wrong man being jailed for the crimes eleven and half years ago. ‘It’s a very real possibility,’ he said. ‘There are too many similarities for it to be a coincidence, but I can’t say for certain. At least, not yet.’

  ‘So we have to look at who and why. Let’s start with anyone Ferguson shared a cell with, or who was in prison at the same time as him. Maybe he discussed details with some psycho who liked the idea and thought they’d try something similar just for the hell of it. Or to gain the same sick celebrity status afforded to nutters like Ferguson.’

  ‘On the other hand, it could just be someone who’s read about the case and it’s sparked some depraved primal urge inside them.’

  She looked at him with a faintly withering expression. ‘Has Ferguson been in the limelight recently? A book out? Or one of those godawful real-life-crime porn shows that keep popping up on the telly?’

  ‘I don’t know. I can look into it, but I don’t think that’s going to lead us to the answer.’

  ‘Well, now you’ve brought it up we can’t ignore it.’ She sat back in her chair and pulled at some loose hair in the nape of her neck. ‘I vaguely remember the so-called Bermondsey Ripper case. And yes, granted these recent murders do bear a faint similarity to Ferguson’s killing spree, but then so do half a dozen others over the past decade if we were to look hard enough. Killers marking bodies is nothing unusual.’