THE THAMES PATH KILLER an absolutely gripping mystery and suspense thriller (Detective Rob Miller Mysteries Book 1)

by BIBA PEARCE

  “Yes, I suppose so.” He smiled sadly. “We made out under the oak tree on the grass. It was a spur of the moment thing. We were driving by and hadn’t been there for a while, so we thought it would be fun . . .”

  Would vigorous sex account for the grass stains on her jacket and heels? Yes, certainly. Rob exhaled. “Okay, thanks Ben. You’ve been extremely helpful.”

  “Really?”

  Jo smiled and stood up. “Please have a think about that name and get hold of me. Putney Police Station.”

  He nodded.

  They left the room, a sense of excitement surrounding them. Rob couldn’t wait to get back to the car and discuss what they’d found out. He glanced through the glass pane as the door shut and saw Ben staring into the corner of the room, a faraway look in his eyes, lost in the past.

  Chapter 22

  By the time they got back from the prison, Jo and Rob had discussed every angle of the Bridget Kane case and settled on a plan of action. First, they needed to request the call records from Bridget’s phone going back six months before she died. If her ex-boyfriend had been harassing her, then his number would show up on the records.

  “That might be enough to ID him,” Jo said.

  Rob thought it more likely a guy like the stalker would use a prepaid burner phone, so there’d be no trace, but he didn’t want to spoil the mood. It was worth checking, for sure. Back then — with his first victim — he may not have been so smart.

  Secondly, they needed to speak to Bridget’s mother. Jo called Becker from the car and learned the mother was still alive and living in semi-sheltered housing on the outskirts of Deal. According to the retired detective, her mental faculties were still intact, so she might just remember her husband going after Bridget’s ex to warn him off. Becker himself had no recollection of the incident, and it certainly hadn’t been reported to the police.

  On the way to Deal the next morning, they planned to stop at the meadow Ben had talked about to see if they could find the oak tree. Unfortunately, Bridget had long since been buried, so unless they exhumed the body, they wouldn’t be able to match the grass on her heels with any samples they collected.

  “If she did get the stains from earlier in the day, we can rule out her being murdered there,” pointed out Rob.

  “So, she could, in fact, have been killed at the beach,” Jo said. “But given the fact that it would still have been light at seven the previous evening, surely someone would have seen them or heard her screaming? You can’t rape and strangle someone on an exposed public beach at sunset without someone noticing.”

  “Which means he killed her somewhere else and dumped her body on the beach during the night.”

  “Well, at least that explains why he didn’t leave her in the field.”

  Rob turned to glance at her. “Yes, but it still leaves us without a primary crime scene.”

  “We’ll probably never know,” said Jo. “But if we can trace this guy, we might be able to pin Julie and Sara’s murders on him.”

  They could dare to dream.

  * * *

  Rob’s phone rang as they walked into the squad room. It was Mallory. His deputy hung up as soon as he saw them. “I’m glad you’re back. Gowan, the pathologist, just called. He’s got something on that duct tape.”

  Jo’s face lit up. “DNA evidence?”

  “Yeah, a small amount. He’s sent it to the lab. Maybe we’ll get a hit on this one.”

  “That’s great news.” Rob thumped him on the back. Please let it turn up something.

  “If the guy’s got a record, we’ll have him.” Mallory grinned. “Things are looking up. How’d it go at Whitemoor?”

  Rob filled him in while Jo went to brief Lawrence. She flashed him a smile as she headed to the boss’s office. “Great work today, partner.”

  “You too,” he called after her.

  “You two seem to be getting along well,” Mallory remarked. He gave Rob a knowing look. Rob ignored it and told Mallory their theory about Ben Studley.

  “Poor guy,” muttered Mallory. “Imagine spending six years in that shithole for a crime you didn’t commit.”

  “Yeah, on top of losing your fiancée.” Rob shook his head. “The worst thing is, even if we catch this guy, it’s unlikely we’ll be able to link him to Bridget Kane’s murder, which means Ben won’t get his ‘get out of jail free’ card.”

  “The stalker could confess,” said Mallory. “You never know, these serial killers want people to know what they did — they like the attention. It feeds their ego.” At Rob’s surprised look, he added, “I read the profile on the stalker, it’s all in there.”

  Rob hadn’t had the time, so he just nodded. “Let me know when you find a match on that fingerprint.”

  He called Gowan to thank him.

  “Don’t get too excited, it’s only a partial. It was on the tape covering her mouth.”

  Rob was unable to keep the hopelessness out of his voice. “We’re running it now,” he said. “So, there was nothing else? No DNA inside of her or under her fingernails?”

  “No, I’m afraid not. I can tell you the brand of condom he wore, if you want? We were able to identify it from the residue. It’s a common brand, available at any pharmacy.”

  “That doesn’t help much,” admitted Rob. It might if they had an inkling as to where this guy lived, but they couldn’t very well go into every pharmacy in the county asking if they remembered a tall guy in a hoodie buying condoms. Chances were he didn’t wear the hoodie when he wasn’t out stalking, and without it, they wouldn’t be able to identify him.

  * * *

  “How about that drink?” Jo asked Rob when she returned from Lawrence’s office. She’d been in there a while, updating him on their afternoon and the next steps they’d proposed. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes shone with excitement — they were getting somewhere. Finally.

  Rob thought about his cold, empty house. “Why not?” There didn’t seem any point in going home. Besides, he wanted to go over that report the profiler had put together. He said as much to Jo, who nodded towards her briefcase.

  “I’ve got it with me. We can dissect it over a beer.”

  That did sound good.

  They left the police station and walked up the high street. It was well-lit, with the popular local restaurants doing a lively trade.

  “How about down here?” Rob gestured to a narrow alleyway which wound down towards Richmond Green. Jo was from up north originally, now based in Central London, so she didn’t know the area. “There’s a great pub on the right. It’s quiet and has good food in case we fancy a bite.”

  “Perfect.” She smiled and followed him down the alley lit by old-fashioned Victorian lamps that cast a coppery glow onto the cobblestones. The Britannia, a quaint Victorian pub, was sandwiched between two other similar buildings and was the type of place you wouldn’t notice unless you knew it was there. It was an eighteenth-century brick building with a parapet, two windows wide and three storeys high. The yellow gleam emanating through the sash windows was cosy and inviting.

  “It’s so quaint,” breathed Jo as she pushed open the door and went inside. The interior was surprisingly large and covered the entire ground floor.

  Rob led her to a table at the back where they’d have a modicum of privacy. They passed a well-stocked fire that crackled reassuringly and threw a rosy glimmer onto the dark wood tables. There were a few television screens mounted to the walls showing golfing highlights. Rob remembered that in the real world, the one where people went about their normal lives, the Masters was on.

  As Jo took off her jacket, she twisted her body towards him, and he caught himself staring at the V in her neckline. He averted his gaze before she noticed.

  They sat beside each other rather than opposite, so they could both view the report. He was suddenly very aware of her closeness. A waitress came over and took their order.

  “Do you come here often?” Jo asked, while they waited for their drin
ks.

  “Occasionally, when I need the peace and quiet. Otherwise, I go to the Cricketers just around the corner, but that’s rowdier and more suited to after-work drinks than to reviewing case files.”

  She chuckled and reached down to get the folder in question out of her briefcase. Her blouse escaped from the band of her skirt and he glimpsed a flash of pale skin. The waitress returned with two pints of lager and a bowl of crisps, which she set down between them.

  Jo opened the folder while Rob took a long draw on his beer. God, he needed this. It felt great going down his throat and he resisted the urge to go “aah” at the end of it.

  “The profile’s pretty detailed,” she said. “The forensic psychologist asked a lot of questions, and I told him what I knew about our suspect and the crime scenes, mainly from reading your and Mallory’s reports.”

  Rob nodded and read the introduction. “White male, late twenties to early thirties, tall in stature. This is all stuff we already know.”

  “Yes, I gave him that much. He builds on it from there.”

  “Emotionally unstable childhood probably consisting of inappropriate interests or obsessions. Prone to bouts of violence and temper tantrums.” He glanced up. “We don’t know any of this for sure, only that he lost it after his girlfriend dumped him.”

  “And according to Ben, she wasn’t really his girlfriend, just a one-night stand, which means he has an irrational and unrealistic view of relationships.” She pointed to a paragraph where the profiler had said just that.

  Rob read on. “Our suspect probably had a dysfunctional family life with divorced or separated parents, frequent arguments resulting in a messy break-up.” He gave a wry grin. “That could be said for a lot of people. They don’t all turn out to be serial killers.”

  Jo snorted in response.

  Rob carried on. “He was probably an introvert at school, unpopular or bullied, certainly socially awkward.” He looked up. “Well, that makes sense given how he reacted to his fling with Bridget. For him it was a big deal, perhaps his first love affair. For her, it was a drunken night out, a mistake.”

  Jo’s hand was wrapped around her beer glass, even though she’d yet to have a sip. “We know that Bridget dumping him was the catalyst. It spurred him on to commit murder for the first time.”

  “But only when she got engaged to Ben,” Rob pointed out. “That seemed to be the trigger. He harassed her after the break-up, but he only killed her when she got engaged.”

  Jo straightened. “How did he know?” she asked. “How did he know she was engaged?”

  “He must have been watching her all that time.” Rob frowned. “Ben and Bridget had been together six months before she proposed to him. That’s a long time to stalk somebody, to remain in the shadows.”

  Jo shuddered. “Talk about obsessive.” She did take a drink after that, a big one, downing at least a quarter of the pint, as if she was trying to banish the creepy thoughts in her head.

  “Hey, go easy,” he said when she gave a little splutter.

  She grinned. “I tend to be a bit extreme. Nothing in half measures.”

  He gazed at her wet lips and twinkling blue eyes. “Does that extend to your work too?”

  She shrugged. “I guess so. I work long hours, like we all do, which is why I don’t have a social life.” She gazed into her glass. “It’s a bit sad, really.”

  “I understand. I don’t socialise other than work drinks with the team after we close a case, or perhaps the odd one after work, like this.”

  She gave a half-smile. “I’m glad to know I’m not the only one.”

  He studied her for a long moment, then against his better judgement, said, “So I guess you’re not seeing anyone?”

  “You guessed right.” She met his gaze and he felt a flutter in the vicinity of his lower abdomen, but then she glanced down at the table. “I don’t have the time to dedicate to anyone else. When I’m on a case it takes up every waking moment of my life. When I’m not at work, I’m thinking about it, and when I am at work, I keep going until I can’t keep my eyes open any longer.”

  Those words could have come straight out of his own mouth. “I know exactly what you mean,” he said.

  “How about you?” She turned to him. “Are you seeing anyone?”

  He knew what he should say, but the truth was, he wasn’t sure about anything. He pictured Yvette’s face at the cocktail bar.

  I’m not sure you’re what I want anymore.

  He shook his head. “My girlfriend moved out a couple of days ago, thanks to the hours I was putting in on this case, and now I have no idea where we stand.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” Jo tugged the elastic band out of her hair. It was much longer than he expected and fell in a wavy blonde cascade down her back. “Do you think she’ll come back?”

  “I don’t know,” he said honestly. He wanted her to come back, or at least he thought he did, but then he gazed at Jo’s hair falling over her shoulder, the hollow at the base of her neck and the soft blush on her cheeks, and he wasn’t so sure.

  “It’s an occupational hazard,” she said. “No one understands what it’s like, unless they’re in the game themselves.”

  How true that was. Perhaps he was crazy trying to make it work with Yvette. It was so obvious she didn’t understand, nor even attempted to understand the type of work he did. She had no idea of the pressure he was under, or the deep-seated desire that drove him to pursue dangerous criminals and get them off the streets.

  But Jo did. She lived and breathed it every day like he did. To her it wasn’t just a job, it was a vocation. Same as most of his team. They were in first thing in the morning, often pulling all-nighters, or spending hours on mundane jobs like scrolling through CCTV footage or going door to door looking for anyone who might have seen something.

  “What else is in the report?” he said. The heat from her thigh was seeping into his. Somehow, she’d moved closer to him, almost shoulder to shoulder. He reached for his beer.

  “It says he’s likely to have some sort of disability that he’s ashamed of.” Her hair fell forward onto the document and he brushed it aside. It was soft to the touch. She didn’t react, nor did she move away.

  “That’s a peculiar thing to say.” He tried to focus on the material in front of him instead of her. “How did he come to that conclusion?”

  She frowned slightly as she tried to remember. “I hope I get this right, but it was a deduction based on the crimes he’d already committed. The secluded locations where he wasn’t likely to come into contact with anyone else, the fact that none of his victims had been approached in a crowd or manipulated into going along with him, and that he surprised them all in the middle of nowhere. This means our killer feels awkward or ashamed about himself. Overpowering an unsuspecting victim and being able to dominate and control her is his way of overcoming this handicap.”

  Rob nodded slowly. It made sense. “Well, I don’t think it’s a physical disability, based on his physique and the nature of the crimes. He’d need a certain degree of strength to overcome his victims, particularly since we know they put up a fight. And he’d need both hands to strangle them, or to hold them down while he assaulted them.”

  “Indeed.” Jo reached for her glass and downed the rest of her lager. It seemed she was incapable of taking just one sip. All or nothing.

  “So, are we talking about a stutter here, or a lisp, or maybe even a limp?”

  “Or possibly bad acne scarring, or some other skin condition. Bad teeth, even.”

  Rob rubbed the stubble on his chin. “It didn’t look like it from the partial profile shot, but then he did have some facial hair which would cover any scarring.”

  “Perhaps Bridget’s mother will be able to shed some light tomorrow?”

  He leaned back in his chair. “Let’s hope so.”

  * * *

  They strolled back down the high street towards the station. “Do you live locally?” Jo asked. Even t
hough they had an early start the next day, neither was rushing to get home.

  “Yeah, I’m off Kew Road, the other side of Richmond Circus.” He grinned. “It takes me a whole ten minutes to get to work in the mornings, which is why I chose it. How about you?” He knew she lived in Central London.

  “I’m in Borough,” she said with a little shake of her head. “It’s a great area, close to the market and really vibey, which I like, but it’s a good ten-minute walk from Waterloo station.”

  Rob knew his next words would condemn him.

  “You’re welcome to stay at mine tonight. I’ve got the whole house to myself, and the couch is moderately comfortable.” He rolled his eyes. “I can vouch for that.” It seemed he’d slept there more often than not recently.

  She laughed. “Are you sure you don’t mind? It would be easier than going all the way home, just to come back at the crack of dawn tomorrow.”

  “No, of course not. Come on, it’s this way.”

  He led her across the busy roundabout at the bottom of the high street and down Kew Road, which was just as busy with people spilling out of bars and restaurants and making their way towards the station. He was aware of her heels clicking on the pavement beside him and her arm brushing against his every so often.

  She waited while he opened the door. The floorboards creaked as they stepped into the dark hallway.

  He fumbled for the lights. “Sorry about the mess.” He gathered the scatter cushions up off the floor and picked up an old coffee mug he’d left on the table beside the couch. Apart from that, it wasn’t in too bad a shape, thank God. He hadn’t cleaned since Yvette had left, partly because he’d been so busy but also because of the listlessness that he’d felt at the state of his relationship.

  He wasn’t feeling listless now. “Can I get you a drink? I’ve got beer and I think there’s some Prosecco left in the fridge.”

  “I’ll have a beer, thanks.” She put her briefcase down and followed him to the kitchen. “Do you have anything to eat? I’m starving.”