by Clare Revell
“And if it isn’t?” DCI Fairweather asked. “Would you rather keep quiet and we then find out we do have a bent copper in our midst?”
DI Holmes glanced at him, then at Isabel. “I’d rather you told us, and we can eliminate him and move on. There are enough Zander is the Slayer rumours going around without adding fuel to the fire.”
“And if I’m wrong?”
“This gets forgotten,” DCI Fairweather said. He eased his long frame into the chair beside hers. He took the coffee from DI Holmes. “So, sit down, constable, and tell us what we have.”
Isabel perched on the edge of her chair. “OK. For the past three murders, Zander was, well, not exactly missing, but can’t be accounted for. Two of those times, he should have been with me. When Esther Leaney was murdered, we were at the theatre. During the interval he vanished, came back with blood on his shirt. Then when Lexi Eke was killed, we were on surveillance in the church yard. He kept vanishing and came back with blood on his shirt. He says the blood was his, from a nosebleed. And this time…” She shrugged.
“Missing again?” DCI Fairweather asked.
“He was seen on CCTV footage leaving the strip club at two. Then, what looks like his car, which has been seen at the majority of the murder sites, returns just before the cameras are turned off.”
“He says he was home, but I heard his car get back, and then a key in the front door at three. He was talking to another man. Mike Spector. They’d gone to the club together. He spent the night at ours.”
DCI Fairweather frowned. “You and DS Ellery live together?”
“I’m currently staying there as the Guv wants me in a safehouse and this was the easiest option.” She sighed. “The Slayer is picking his victims from a list of this year’s New Wine attendees. I’m on it. It was Zander’s place or witness protection. I’m not about to let some scumbag murderer drum me out of my job.”
“Zander has been teased a lot as he’s the same height and build as the killer.” DI Holmes laid the CCTV stills on the desk.
Isabel nodded. “Yes, but then so is Rev. Eke, George Harmon, Barney Terrance, and Mike Spector.”
“You mentioned him just now.” DCI Fairweather placed his empty cup on the desk. “Who is he?”
“Used to be a cop over at Fleet Street.” DI Holmes said. He handed over folder. “With somewhat of a reputation.”
“The Slayer is writing to me,” Isabel said. “He sends postcards of the murder sites, never usually enough to locate them in advance, along with the relevant commandment. The only prints we’ve found on any of them are mine and Zander’s.” She shifted on her chair. “Um. Last night, he said he was going to do a tip run. He spilled paint all over the boot of the car. He took a load of stuff and dumped it. Including the boot carpet and some clothes. He burned some as well. There was blood on at least one shirt I saw him burn in the incinerator in the back garden.”
Feeling the gazes of both senior officers burning into her, Isabel pulled the evidence bags from her shirt pocket. “This is from the carpet in the boot before he dumped it. This one is from a shirt in the incinerator. I’m not even sure it’s his, if I’m honest.”
“Why not?”
“He doesn’t wear green. The rest of the clothes I insisted we put in the charity bin up the precinct. We did that on the way in this morning. But he wasn’t happy about it. I put them in one of those bright pink bags from the chemist.”
“I’ll get uniform to check and send them to the lab.”
Isabel shifted on her chair.
“What else aren’t you telling me?” DCI Fairweather asked.
“The Slayer is picking on me it seems. The postcards, my cat’s collar, the tongue, all were sent to me, and ended up in my in-tray.” She pointed to the zebra. “This has a nanny cam inside. One of our tech guys set it up for me. He sits on my desk, to everyone’s amusement, and records who puts what in my in-tray.” She pulled up the file on her laptop.
Both men watched the footage of Zander at her in-tray, then someone deleting files from her computer. The camera didn’t show who.
“That’s how those files were removed.” DI Holmes glanced at her.
Isabel nodded. “Wiped from the server. But there’s something else. When I spoke to Sara Nemec about her painting yesterday, her brother-in-law was there. He said he knew you, Guv, and I’ve seen him in church a few times. His name’s Patrick Page.”
DI Holmes nodded. “I know him.”
“He warned me to be careful. He said Zander’s name had crossed his desk recently in connection with something. He won’t tell me why, or what he does, but I can read between the lines well enough. I want to be wrong, so very much. I’m not a grass. This isn’t sitting well with me at all. I’m praying there’s a rational explanation.”
“In which case, all this will simply go away as if it never happened and no one will find out,” DCI Fairweather said. “Thank you for coming forward. Nate, can we talk in my office upstairs?”
Isabel took that as a dismissed and left the office quickly. She locked the files and laptop away and tucked the key into her bra for safekeeping. Grabbing the postcard of painting number seven, she then trotted down the stairs to the evidence locker.
She pulled out painting seven and compared it with the postcard. It took a while to find it, but the eyes were in the painting and definitely not the postcard. There was also part of a face. Just an outline, not enough to recognise it, but an outline. Going over the other paintings, she noticed something new. There was a little more revelation in each one. She took several photos on her phone, concentrating on the eyes/face each time. Was the killer putting himself in the paintings?
She called Zander.
“Ellery. How’s the paperwork, Isabel?” came the answer. Was that sarcasm?
“Done. Where are you?”
“My desk, so I know you’re off skiving somewhere.”
“Actually, I’m in the evidence room. Come find me.” She hung up. No matter what else was going on, he was her partner and sounding board. He needed to be told.
Five minutes later, he appeared by her side. “What’s up?”
Isabel showed him. “The eyes are barely there in the first one. But each time the eyes are more pronounced. Now in the last one, you have the outline of a face.” She glanced at him. “Can you paint?”
He snorted. “You’ve seen first-hand my abysmal attempt to put paint on a wall. Not to mention an almost empty paint tin in the car.”
“That’s different.”
“I draw stick figures, does that count? Oh, and I can draw that house thing without taking my pen off the paper.” He grinned. “I really think you should get out of here. Come on.”
“Where are we going?”
“Check out each crime scene. Make sure we have footage from all the cameras. I also want to swing past the art gallery and see if they got their cameras working yet.”
“They should have.” She nodded. “I’d also like to see this painting of me in the flesh. Assuming it’s still there.”
~*~
Zander parked outside the art gallery. “Isabel, you’d tell me if there was something going on, wouldn’t you?”
A haunted looked crossed her face, resonating in her eyes. “Why?”
“Austin said you got hauled into the Guv’s office with a load of files and your laptop. He also said some bloke from PSD was there.”
“Oh, him. Um, DCI Something-or-other, yeah.”
“His name was DCI Something-or-other?”
She laughed nervously, hiding something. “No. DCI Fairweather. The Guv wanted to run the case by him, that’s all with the private security guard angle and the possibility of him being an ex-cop.”
“Barney Terrance?” He wasn’t sure he believed her.
“Anyway, that was then, and this is now. You go keep Farrell occupied, and I’ll look at the paintings.”
Zander locked the car and headed inside the gallery. He made straight for the desk and held
out his ID. “Hi. DS Ellery. Is Mr. Vixen around please?”
“Sure. I’ll go and find him.”
“Thank you.” Zander leaned on the desk, watching Isabel slowly wandering around the gallery.
“DS Ellery.” Farrell appeared from a back room. ”How can I help you today?”
“I’ve been reviewing case files. Did your tech people ever recover the footage of the break in, and are your cameras working properly now?”
“Yes, and yes.”
“Would it be possible to see the footage?” Surely that went without asking.
“I can arrange that. It’s not stored here, so I’ll have to contact my people and ask them to send it.” He glanced over at Isabel. “This won’t get me into trouble for being too close, will it?”
“Just keep your distance and don’t talk to her. She wanted to see Lost Love. Let me know when you have the footage.” He headed over to where Isabel stood, his shoes clicking on the tiled floor.
She tore her gaze away from the painting. “It’s incredible. It’s even got the stain on the dress.”
“Huh?” He frowned. “What stain?”
She indicated a small red smudge on the bodice. “That wasn’t in the photo. But I did get wine spilled down myself—not mine, I hasten to add. Some woman had a bit too much to drink and bumped into me, upending her wine all over me. But I don’t have a scar on my cheek.” She frowned and tugged out her phone. She tapped her hand on her thigh. “Hi, this is DC York. Are you still in Headley Cross? Is there any chance you could swing by the art gallery now? There’s something I need to ask you whilst the painting is still here. Thank you. See you in a few.”
Zander looked at her. “The Nemecs?”
She nodded. “They’ll be here in ten minutes.”
“What are you thinking?”
“We have several other paintings by the same artist,” Farrell called from the desk. “If you wish to see them, they’re over on the far wall.”
“Thanks.” Zander guided Isabel over to them. “Well?”
“I want to know what she painted and what was added later. It’s not the first painting to have been added to from this gallery.”
“The postcard has the scar.”
“Yes, but that could have been added after the painting arrived here and before it was photographed. Am I making sense?”
“No, but that’s fine. Your hunches tend to be pretty accurate.”
They went around the paintings slowly.
Isabel stopped by the sunrise one.
It had shades of blue with a splash of yellow where the bright, rising sun hit the water.
“Wow.” She peered at the price. “That’s not bad.”
Zander looked. “A hundred and fifty.”
“Yes, but compared to all the others, it’s pretty reasonable.” She plucked the card off the wall next to it and headed to the desk, Zander at her heels.
Farrell spoke to the girl and promptly headed across the gallery to take the painting down and wrap it. At least the bloke was trying to be nice this time.
Zander shook his head as Isabel bought the painting. “You don’t have a wall to hang it on.”
“I’ll use one of yours for now,” she quipped. She nodded to the wrapped picture. “Can you put it in the car for me, please?”
The Nemecs walked in.
“I’ll hold it for now,” Zander said.
Isabel nodded. “Mrs. Nemec, thank you for coming. I have a couple of questions about Lost Love.” She led the way over to the painting. “Does it look the same as when you’d finished painting it?”
“What do you mean? You think this is a forgery?”
Isabel shook her head. “No, nothing like that. It’s just there are a few subtle differences from the photograph you were provided with and this painting. I just wondered if you’d added them or someone else did…” She broke off and shivered.
“Is? You OK?” Zander asked quickly.
She nodded. “Yeah. Just one of those ‘someone walking over your grave’ moments.”
Mrs. Nemec studied the painting, her husband silently by her side. “Actually, yes. The scar, for one thing. I noticed it in the postcard you showed me but didn’t say anything at the time. I thought maybe it was a printing error. Sometimes you get black lines and so on.”
“What about the dress?” Isabel asked.
Mrs. Nemec peered closer. “There. That red mark wasn’t there.”
Isabel took notes. “OK. Anything else?”
Mrs. Nemec frowned. “I don’t… Wait. What is that?”
Zander followed her finger. Blue eyes stared back at him from the painting.
“I definitely didn’t add those. That’s creepy. It’s as if she’s being watched.”
Isabel had lost any trace of colour and from the haunted look in her eyes, Zander assumed she’d jumped to the same conclusions he had. The Slayer had gotten to this painting too.
15
Zander tugged open the door to the fast food restaurant. The day hadn’t improved at all. DI Holmes had ridden his case all day long. He hadn’t been impressed about the art gallery information, and Zander had to ring Farrell and ask for all the footage of inside the gallery from the moment Lost Love arrived and was hung until now.
The day couldn’t end fast enough. At least he had the upcoming weekend off. He really just wanted to go home and go to bed, but he’d promised Isabel dinner out, and he was a man of his word. “You find a free table, and I’ll get the food.”
“I’ll have my usual with orange juice.”
He nodded. “Sure, you’re all right?”
“Yeah.”
He wasn’t convinced. He headed over to the counter to order and watched her as he queued. She was far from all right. Maybe the painting was weighing on her mind. Hardly surprising. Each dead girl actually looked like Isabel in a way. He was amazed no one had commented on it.
His number came up on the board, and he collected the tray. Taking it back to where his partner sat. He shot her a smile. “Here you go.”
“Thanks.” Isabel took hers and opened the box. “Sorry. Pretty rubbish day.”
“It could have been worse.”
“Don’t see how,” she muttered.
“You could have been stuck with me all morning as well as all afternoon.” He nodded a greeting to Rosa who sat at the table opposite, picking at her meal.
“True.” Isabel dunked her chips into the tub of mayonnaise on her tray.
“Seriously? Chips and mayo?”
“Goes with ice cream as well. Chips that is. Not the mayo.”
Zander pulled a face. “If you say so.”
Rosa came across. “Sorry to interrupt, Zander. Do you have a minute?”
“Not really.” He looked at Isabel, willing her to back him up.
“It’s fine.” Isabel rose. “I’ll be right back.” She headed over to the ladies.
Rosa slid into Isabel’s seat. “Please, it’s important.”
“OK.” Zander’s gaze slid sideways as Farrell took the table next to them. But then, the place was heaving this evening. Hopefully the bloke wasn’t following them. He turned back to Rosa. “Go on.”
“I have a friend who’s doing jury service this week. It’s a really nasty case, and—”
Zander held up a hand. “You need to stop right there. Both you and ‘your friend’ should know better than to discuss a case you—or she—are on the jury for. You can be found in contempt and jailed merely for mentioning it.”
“It’s not that.”
“Then what?”
Rosa shifted on her chair, her cheeks colouring. “When the jury get picked, they have to say if there’s a conflict of interest. If you know the defendant, you can’t be on that jury.”
“And for a good reason,” Zander said.
“The thing is, she does know him, and she swore that she didn’t.”
“She lied in court?” Zander frowned. “What was she thinking?”
“An
d now she doesn’t know what to do. Will she get into trouble?”
“More so if she does nothing. How does she know him?”
Rosa dropped the pretence. “Cousin…Peter Mattingly.”
Zander groaned. He’d had to recuse himself from that case for the same reason. “And he said nothing either?”
Rosa shook her head. “He sent a text. He’s on bail and wants me to find him not guilty.”
“Stop talking.”
“Zander, I replied to his message. He’s my cousin. I can’t just…”
“Rosa, I said stop. Give me your phone. Don’t make me arrest you and call uniform. They’ll cart you out of here in cuffs.”
The shell-shocked woman opened her bag and gave him the handset. “What will you do?”
Zander shoved her phone into an evidence bag. “I’ll call my boss and let him deal with it.” Sliding her phone into his pocket, he tugged out his own and dialled.
“Holmes.”
“Sorry to bother you at home, Guv, but I need some help. Something’s come up, and I can’t deal with it. Conflict of interest.”
“What’s up?”
“Case of jury tampering.”
“Meet me at the nick in fifteen minutes, with the juror, as I assume that’s why you’re calling.”
“Yes. See you there.”
Isabel came back over.
Zander rose. “I have to pop back to work. Rosa has an issue. Can you get the bus back?”
“Sure.” Isabel looked from Zander to Rosa and back again. “I’ll finish my meal and catch the bus home.”
Farrell shifted his chair across. “I can take Izzy home if you have to break your date.”
“It’s not a date,” Isabel told him sharply. “It’s a working dinner. As you can see, Zander is headed back to the office.”