The Mimic (A DI Erica Swift Thriller Book 6)

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The Mimic (A DI Erica Swift Thriller Book 6) Page 4

by M K Farrar


  Erica went through the roll call and got started.

  “Good morning, everyone. At approximately eleven-thirty last night, twenty-nine-year-old Brandon Skehan was attacked in his home with a knife. We believe the attacker to be male, but other than that, we have no further description of the assailant.” She brought up photographs of Brandon Skehan’s injuries. “The attacker left the weapon at the scene, and it’s currently being processed by forensics.” She clicked the computer to show an aerial view of the rows of houses. “We believe the assailant both entered and escaped from the rear of the property, which means he must have gone over the back wall or fences until he reached one of the alleyways that lead back onto the road here,” she pointed out one of the access points, “or here, or here. We don’t yet know if he was on foot or in a car, but we have some CCTV footage from a neighbouring house security camera that will hopefully catch him.” She took a few paces across the front of the room and came to a halt again. “As of yet, we have no motive for the crime. Nothing was stolen, that we’re aware of. I’m going to speak to the victim at the hospital, but I also want us to find out everything we can about Brandon Skehan. Someone out there decided to do this to him, and I want to know why.”

  Erica made sure everyone knew what their actions were for that day and then drew the meeting to a close.

  She had some paperwork from a previous case to catch up on, and then she’d go back to the hospital and speak to the victim. She also hoped forensics would send a report through quickly. There was nothing worse than having a case with no decent leads. It always left her floundering. Shawn would be landing in the UK later that day. She hoped he’d had a good holiday, but she was looking forward to having him back in the office. It never felt right when one of her team weren’t in.

  ERICA CALLED AHEAD this time to make sure she’d be able to speak to Brandon Skehan and then she drove to the hospital and walked up to the ward.

  The doctor who’d chastised her during the early hours stood at the ward’s reception desk, his head bent over a file.

  “You’re still working, I see,” she said, drawing his attention away from the clipboard.

  He checked his watch. “I’m finishing shortly. I’ll be in again tonight.”

  “I see. And how is Mr Skehan this morning?”

  “He’s doing well. He’s still on some strong pain medication, but he’s awake and talking.”

  “That’s good. I assume it’s okay if I go and have a word with him now?”

  “Yes, that’s fine, and, Detective, I really do hope you find whoever did this.”

  “We’re doing our best.”

  Brandon Skehan was awake when she entered the room. A television was on in the corner, but someone had put it on mute, so only the picture served as entertainment.

  “Mr Skehan,” she said as she moved into his line of sight. “I’m DI Swift. I came to see you in the early hours to try and ask you some questions, but you were still recovering from the surgery. Do you remember?”

  He frowned in her direction. “No, sorry. I don’t.”

  She flashed him a smile. “Well, you seem a bit brighter now. Are you feeling up to having a chat about what happened to you?”

  He fixed his remaining good eye on her and nodded. “I thought someone would be around to talk to me. On top of being attacked, one of your lot stole my clothes.”

  He didn’t sound pissed off about it, his tone surprisingly jovial, considering everything he’d gone through. It was helped by the soft lilt of an Irish accent, and some heavy-duty painkillers.

  She crossed the room and pulled up a chair beside the bed and sat down in it. “Sorry about that. They were needed as evidence. We might be able to get the attacker’s blood from them if he was injured in the struggle.”

  “Then you’ll have to excuse the fetching outfit.” He threw her a disarming smile. “I’m not looking my best.”

  She sat back and crossed her legs. “Don’t worry about that. I’ve seen a lot worse.”

  “That’s not exactly a compliment.” He pushed himself to sit upright on the bed and winced.

  “Is there anything I can do to help you?” she offered. “Can I get you a nurse?”

  “No, I’m fine. Just stiff and sore after...” He waved his hand in the direction of his face.

  “Of course. That’s completely understandable, Mr Skehan.”

  “My name’s Brandon. Mr Skehan makes me sound like my dad.”

  She smiled at that. “You don’t sound as though you’re from around here?”

  “No, I’m not. I’m from Dublin, but I’ve been here for ten years, much to my mother’s dismay. She’s always said that London was a dangerous place.”

  And Dublin isn’t? Erica thought but didn’t say.

  “And now you’re going to have a pretty impressive scar with which she can make her point.”

  “Aye, exactly. The plastic surgeon came around and talked to me, though, and said the scar shouldn’t be too bad. They did everything they could to minimise the damage. He also said women normally have a thing for scars, so it might not be all bad.”

  “Well, I don’t know about that, but I’m glad there was no permanent damage to your sight.”

  “Me, too. It was what I was most worried about. Well, that and some feckin’ psycho trying to kill me.”

  “That’s why I’m here, Brandon. I want to find the person who did this to you.”

  “You mean you haven’t caught him yet?”

  “No, I’m sorry. By the time we arrived at the scene, he’d already run, but it’s my job to find violent criminals, and I’ll do everything I can to track him down. I will need a little help from you, though.”

  “Aye, sure. I’ll do whatever I can to help. I don’t much like the idea of going home, knowing that bastard was in my house.”

  “Do you have any idea of who might have done this? Anyone you’ve fallen out with recently?”

  He shook his head. “No, I’ve not a clue. Just because I’m Irish doesn’t mean I like to brawl or anything.”

  She shifted in her seat. “I didn’t think that. It’s the first question I’d ask of anybody in this situation.”

  “Ah, right. I wondered if it might have been because I was Irish, though. Maybe someone out there doesn’t like us much.”

  “It’s still early days, so we’ll keep all possibilities open. Do you live alone?”

  “Yes, I do. Haven’t quite managed to find someone who’ll put up with me enough to want to live with me yet.”

  He threw her that half smile again.

  “No children then?” she checked.

  “Not that I know of.”

  “And how long have you been at that address?”

  “Not long.” He shrugged. “Less than a year.”

  “What about your spare time? How do you like to spend it?”

  “I don’t have any hobbies or anything like that, if that’s what you mean. I hang out with friends, go to the pub, watch films on Netflix and that sort of thing.”

  “What were you doing before the attack?”

  “Exactly that. I’d been having a couple of drinks with some mates down at the pub, and that son of a bitch must have been lying in wait for me or something. It was dark, and I didn’t even manage to put on the hallway light. I threw my keys onto the side and was pulling off my jacket when he attacked.”

  Erica made a note to speak to those friends in case any of them saw anyone unusual hanging around and also to get the CCTV from the pub.

  “Do you think he was alone?” she asked.

  “As far as I know, but I can’t say for certain.”

  “Do you think you might have interrupted a burglary?”

  He fixed her with his one good eye. “You tell me? Did it look as though the flat had been gone through?”

  “At first glance, it’s hard to tell. Of course, it’s difficult for us to tell if something was missing or not, but nothing big had been taken. The expensive items like the
television and your laptop were still there. Once you get home, perhaps you’ll be able to check through the drawers and see if anything smaller is missing.”

  “I can do that. Like I said, whatever it takes to find the guy.”

  Erica settled back in her seat. “Tell me about what happened preceding the attack. Start from when you got up that morning.”

  He sighed and lifted his gaze to the ceiling. “I got up about seven-thirty and got ready for work.”

  “What do you do for a job?”

  “I work on the security desk at Canada Square in Canary Wharf.”

  “And you went straight into work? How do you get there?”

  He shrugged. “I just get the Tube and then change to the Docklands Light Rail. The station is about ten minutes from my front door, so it’s convenient.”

  “And did anything unusual happen at work? Did you have any run-ins with anyone? Prevented someone from entering the building or thrown someone out?”

  He gave a small laugh. “It’s not like I’m a bouncer in a nightclub. I deal with people in suits all day. They tend not to cause much trouble.”

  “You didn’t notice anyone unusual lurking outside or anything like that? Nobody caught your attention.”

  He frowned and sat forward slightly. “You think they might have followed me from work.”

  Erica gestured with both hands. “Again, at this point, it’s a case of making sure we’ve covered all possibilities.”

  “I understand, but no, I didn’t notice anything or anyone strange. It was just a normal day...right until it wasn’t.”

  Erica sat back. “Did you go straight home after work?”

  “Aye, I grabbed a shower and got changed, and then headed back out again.”

  “What about dinner? Did you eat while you were out?”

  “I thought I’d probably get a kebab at some point. Can’t beat a good kebab and chips after a few pints.”

  She tilted her head, questioningly. “And did you?”

  “No.” He laughed again. “I filled up on the pints.”

  Erica nodded. “I’m going to need a list of everywhere you went and the approximate times. If someone was watching you, a security camera might have caught them. I’m also going to need the names of the friends you were out with that night.”

  “But if you don’t know who it was, how will you know who to look for?”

  He had a point.

  “It’ll help us build our case. What time would you say you got back home?”

  He thought for a moment. “About eleven-thirty. I opened my front door, chucked my keys on the side. The flat was in darkness, but that’s normal. I was planning just to go straight to bed and pass out.”

  “What happened after you threw your keys on the side?”

  “I walked down the hall planning to go to my bedroom. I must have heard a noise, but I’m not sure what—maybe the scrape of a foot, or just someone breathing—but it stopped me walking. I felt myself do that freeze thing, you know, when your body goes stiff and you’re straining your ears, and literally, a second later, movement darted out at me, and a knife slashed my face, right across my eyes. Thank fuck I managed to jerk back a wee bit, so it only did the damage it did, ’cause I think the bastard would have cut me bad otherwise. I’m lucky I still have my eyes.”

  Erica shuddered at the mental image. She’d worked on a case previously where the victims hadn’t been so lucky. “And then what did you do?”

  “I lashed out at the knife and I must have knocked it from his grip, ’cause it fell to the floor.”

  “You saw it?”

  He shook his head. “No, I heard it. It clattered when he dropped it.” He gave a soft snort of laughter. “I wish I could tell you that I throat-chopped the attacker and did a cool kick to take his legs out from under him, but I didn’t do any of that.”

  “I wouldn’t have expected you to,” she said. She liked people who were able to keep a sense of humour about them over such frightening circumstance.

  Brandon continued. “I couldn’t see anything, partly ’cause it was dark, but also because my eyes were filled with blood. I was lucky that I was facing my front door ’cause I bravely ran away. I put my hands out, and even though I couldn’t see a fucking thing, I ran for the front door. I remembered shouting for help, but it was late, and I had no idea if anyone was around to hear me. I must have moved faster than I thought, ’cause adrenaline was just pouring into me, and I somehow managed to open the front door and get out onto the road.”

  “Whoever attacked you didn’t chase after you?”

  “No. I mean, I don’t think so. I couldn’t see anything, so maybe he did, but then saw that woman who came to help me and ran off.” He glanced away. “I’m just guessing, though. I couldn’t see a thing.”

  “Do you think he left via the rear of your flat?”

  “I suppose so. Maybe he even got in that way. I have no idea.” He paused and then asked, “Do you like your job, Detective?”

  The question surprised her. “Yes, I do. I love it.”

  “I’d considered getting into the police force myself years ago, after I finished school. But then I got distracted by partying and just wanted to have a good time for a few years, and it never happened.”

  “There’s still time. Plenty of people don’t start until their twenties.”

  He gave that half-smile. “I’m six months off thirty.”

  Erica laughed. “That still counts. If it’s something you’re serious about, the Met could always do with more officers, especially good ones. If you have a background in security, you might make a good candidate.”

  “And then I could help prevent someone doing this,” he gestured to his face, “to another person.”

  “That’s one of the main reasons I love my job,” she admitted. “I hate to see decent, law-abiding citizens being affected by the illegal acts of others. Sometimes it feels like the world is a very unfair place, but it helps to feel as though I’m rebalancing the scales a little bit.”

  She thought to Chris and what her family had been through. They’d never done anything to bring such horror upon them—she’d literally been in the wrong place at the wrong time when Nicholas Bailey’s brother had died—and yet they’d all been punished severely for it. Now Bailey would be spending the rest of his life behind bars as his punishment. Did the two equal out? She didn’t think so, but it was a form of justice, at least. Would the man lying in the hospital bed in front of her think whatever sentence his attacker would eventually receive be enough to payback the scars he’d now be forced to live with?

  Brandon gave her a cautious smile, as though he could read what was going through her mind. “I like that idea.”

  A nurse knocked on the door and stuck her head into the room. “Sorry, check-up time.”

  Erica rose to her feet. “That’s okay, I’m done here.” She plucked one of her cards from her jacket pocket and placed it on the small over-the-bed table that also held some of Brandon Skehan’s belongings. “If you think of anything else that might help us find who did that to you, please, don’t hesitate to call.”

  “Aye, I won’t. I’ll be happy to call you, Detective.” He finished with another smile.

  Her stomach flipped. Was he flirting with her? There had been an easy camaraderie between them the whole time, something that was surprising considering the circumstances. Besides, it didn’t mean anything. He had that Irish charm and was probably like it with everyone.

  The nurse swept into the room, pushing a trolley containing additional bottles for his drips. “How are you feeling?”

  “All the better for seeing you,” he quipped and threw Erica a wink with his one good eye, which didn’t quite give the effect he’d probably been hoping for.

  She found herself smiling, though. She’d been right in thinking that was just his personality.

  She slipped out of the room. It was disappointing that he hadn’t been able to give her any leads on who had done t
his to him, but at least he was going to be okay. She was going to have to hope Rudd had got on better with the neighbours and the CCTV, and that one of them had seen something. She also had the report from SOCO on its way. With any luck, the attacker wouldn’t have been wearing any gloves and they’d be able to pick some prints from the handle.

  Luck wasn’t something she could rely on, though. Good police work always trumped good fortune.

  Chapter Six

  Erica grabbed a sandwich and a coffee on the way back into the office and sat at her desk to eat. In between mouthfuls, she phoned DC Howard and gave him the names of the men Brandon Skehan said he’d been out with before the attack, and also the name of the pub where they’d been drinking. Howard had already been looking into Skehan’s family and friends, so it made sense for him to do it.

  The forensic report from the flat and the garden were back, and she opened them up with interest, a flickering of hope in her chest that this would give them a decent lead.

  She read through it, her brow drawing into a frown, that flicker of hope doused like a bucket of water over a campfire.

  She picked up the phone and dialled Keith Allen, who was a Forensic Submissions Officer.

  “Hi, it’s DI Swift. I’ve just gone through the report on the Skehan case. Tell me it isn’t right.”

  “Hang on a sec. Let me just pull it up.” There was a pause and the distant tapping of fingers on a keyboard. “Okay, shoot.”

  “Forensics didn’t get anything from the crime scene, and I’m finding that hard to believe. I get that there might not be prints on the knife or prints on the door anywhere, other than that of the victim, but the rest of it doesn’t seem right. Blood spatters, hair, and clothing fibres were all matched to the victim. Assuming the assailant went over the top of the wall, which, other than the fences either side, would have been his only escape route, I’d have expected to at least find clothing fibres caught in the brickwork, but there was nothing.”

 

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