To Kill a Man - Maggie Costello Series 05 (2020)

by Bourne, Sam

  ‘Except for Caroline’s files.’

  Natasha smiled. ‘I suppose so. Her files were probably the most comprehensive around.’ She seemed to be forming another thought which she kept to herself. Another sip of whisky. ‘The point, Maggie, is that this man had essentially evaded justice for years. It was clear that he was a serial menace to women, acting with unfettered freedom.’

  ‘But you worked in the DA’s office years ago, right?’

  ‘Yes, several years ago. But I stayed in touch with Caroline. The occasional vodka.’ That smile again. ‘I knew he was still at large.’

  Maggie nodded, encouraging Natasha to return to the story.

  ‘It might have been after one of those conversations, but I remember thinking that the only way we’ll ever get these men is if we have cast-iron evidence. I mean, even then it won’t be guaranteed. Still, a rapist’s worst nightmare would be to attack a woman like me. Because a lawyer would know how to collect the incontrovertible evidence.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Well, there’s obviously the DNA and so forth. But audio and video is what I had in mind.’

  ‘Video?’

  Natasha nodded, her lips glued tightly together.

  Maggie hesitated, unsure what she was being told. Quietly, she said: ‘And is there . . . video?’

  ‘We’re getting ahead of ourselves again. The key moment came a few months ago, when I hit on the notion of entrapment. I found whatever I could about Todd, including police reports of cases where they suspected but could not prove his involvement. You have to realize, Maggie, that thanks to DNA evidence, police in at least three states had been looking for him for several months. He was the prime suspect in at least four rapes and one homicide. He was on the FBI’s “wanted” list. But he’d gone to ground.’

  ‘So you had to flush him out.’

  ‘The files made clear that he had a modus operandi. That he used dating sites. That’s how he found his victims and how he got access to them.’

  ‘Always BDSM sites?’

  ‘He used a whole range. “Suddenly Single” for divorcees and widows. “The Heart is Sacred” for Christians. He was on so many. But, yeah, he was on those ones too. And it made sense to do it there.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because this was needle-in-a-haystack stuff. I needed to target him specifically. And the one thing I knew about him was that he was a rapist.’

  ‘Those things are all anonymous, right?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘So how did you know it was him?’

  ‘Oh, that wasn’t so hard. Part of the country, approximate age. Oh, and he used his initials as part of his username.’

  ‘You’re kidding.’

  ‘I’m not. Some of these men are wickedly manipulative and cunning. And others are just not very bright.’

  ‘So once you were sure it was him, it was a matter of creating a fake ID and persona for yourself and then, what? Inviting him to come into your home and . . . force himself on you?’

  ‘Please, Maggie. This is already so difficult.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘We were in touch via encrypted message. I gave him the time and place. I had it all planned. I would have hidden cameras, audio recording equipment and – of course – personal security guards, all standing by. He would be caught and the evidence against him would be unarguable.’

  ‘But if you’d entrapped him, it wouldn’t count, would it? Legally, I mean.’

  ‘I’d thought of that. I had only consented to the pretence of rape. The moment I signalled that I wanted it to stop, he had to stop. If he didn’t stop, then it ceased to be a pretence. It would become a crime at that moment.’

  ‘And you’d have the proof. Video, audio, CCTV, the lot.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘So, and I know this will sound a bit obvious but . . . where is it? Where’s the proof?’

  Natasha’s shoulders slumped and she let out a long sigh. For the first time since Maggie had come to this extraordinary house, Natasha Winthrop looked vulnerable and oddly lonely. After a long pause, she said finally, ‘Because, Maggie, my terribly clever plan went wrong. It went horribly, fatally wrong.’

  Chapter 20

  Stockholm, Sweden, one week earlier

  Could she send another text, or would that be annoying? She’d thumb it out and see how it looked. The woman had sent two already, in the last half hour, and the reply to the second had come markedly slower than the reply to the first, so maybe that was a sign – one of those little cues that, in her working life, she was so good at picking up. But in this area, it was so much harder to keep her distance, to sound cool and detached. She knew it sounded needy, that it was almost certainly counter-productive, that the risk was high that it would trigger that sullen response she dreaded: the withdrawal of affection. But still, she needed to know. She typed out the words and looked at them on the screen.

  Hi there! Just wanted to check, before I disappear into this meeting. Did it work? Does he look sleepy? You’re a star, thanks v v much. Let me know!!

  Even she could see the double exclamation mark reeked of desperation. And yet, how else to keep it light? An emoji? Maybe an emoji. The last babysitter used them all the time, but then when the woman used them in response she’d made a grimace, as if the woman had brought in a terrible smell. Maybe this one would feel the same way. No point trying to pretend you were on the same level as these girls. They were younger and prettier than you were and – crucial point – they had all the power. At this moment, she had the woman’s little boy in her hands – was probably bathing him right now – and so you did whatever it took to keep them happy. If that meant no emojis and a couple of desperate exclamation marks, then so be it.

  She pressed send, hoping that the nanny would show mercy and, rather than wait, fire a short, reassuring message back. Ideally it would read: Lucas enjoyed his supper, is now nice and clean and sleepy. Every now and again he looks at a picture of his mummy and smiles. Not like he’s pining for you, but because he loves you.

  Yes, that would be perfect. Why couldn’t Maja just do that? Send a message telling her that her baby boy was happy without her, though of course not so happy that he didn’t miss her. Why not send that, Maja? And why not send it right now.

  The woman looked at the clock. Just after seven pm. The office was empty, the city through the windows twinkling in the dark. Usually there’d be at least a few partners, real and aspiring, toiling away, but there was an ‘off-site’ tomorrow, and they were all having dinner tonight in a spa resort. The woman had chosen to stay behind so that she could get back to Lucas, but the timing also suited her. She needed to meet Granqvist and, since he had insisted on total discretion, an empty office was as good a place as any.

  When it came to the sending of desperate texts, August Granqvist had shown far less restraint than the woman had with her babysitter. He had been bombarding her for at least twenty-four hours, hinting that his place in the cabinet was at stake. His financial arrangements, supposedly tidied up and placed in a blind trust when he’d taken ministerial office, were exercising him. The clear implication was that the newspapers had seen something and were about to make trouble. The woman’s guess was that he wanted to make hasty amends, yet was also aware that any housekeeping he performed now could itself look suspicious. Politicians always got themselves into these pickles, where not to act risked embarrassing exposure but to act risked an accusation of cover-up. Tonight she would be asked to find some golden path between the rock and the hard place.

  A beep. The woman grabbed at the phone. Not the babysitter. Granqvist.

  I’m approaching the back entrance. Can you meet me?

  Fair enough. The woman understood that it wouldn’t look great if a government minister were seen pacing around, waiting to consult his lawyer. Out of hours too. She ch
ecked her phone again, kept it with her and went to let him in.

  Five minutes later and they were in the managing partner’s office – he’d told the woman she could use it to go through her proposed plan of action. She laid it out calmly, eschewing the laptop she normally favoured for such presentations. (It would spook Granqvist if he thought any documents existed.) Instead she relied on a yellow legal pad and a ballpoint pen. Old school.

  The plan involved retrospective divestment, with disclosure not required until the end of the tax year. The beauty of it was that it didn’t need his signature. The woman could do it for him. Which meant he could look reporters in the eye and say, ‘I have nothing to do with the investment decisions conducted on my behalf and executed by my lawyers.’ The retrospective element meant they could plausibly imply that Granqvist (or his advisers) had dumped these dodgy investments ages ago and for sound financial reasons, rather than that they’d got rid of them today because they’d suddenly hit the news.

  Once she’d explained it and answered the last of his questions, he fell back in his chair and let out an almighty roar, his fist pumping the air, like a football coach whose team has scored an injury-time winner: YES!

  He took off his jacket, ripped off his tie and reached into his briefcase from where, like a cruise ship magician, he produced a bottle of Bollinger. ‘Let’s celebrate,’ he said, rushing out to the water cooler to bring back two plastic cups.

  ‘I really ought to be getting back to my son,’ the woman explained, packing away her papers.

  ‘I insist! You don’t know the relief I am feeling right now. And that’s all down to you. One glass.’

  The woman looked at her watch. If she left now she might be just in time to do Lucas’s last bedtime story. And yet this office – the boss’s office – was a reminder that August Granqvist was one of the firm’s most influential clients. The last thing she needed was him firing off a dissatisfied customer note to the managing partner. ‘One glass,’ she said.

  ‘Sit, sit,’ he said, gesturing at the couch. The transformation from worried, needy client to dominant male had taken no more than a minute. He was now playing the generous host, filling the space of the room with his presence. As she’d feared, he now sat himself alongside, rather than opposite, her.

  ‘So how come they’ve left you holding the fort, eh? Don’t tell me you’re not only the firm’s most beautiful lawyer, but also the one who runs the show? I wouldn’t put it past you. I’ll tell Anders: he needs to watch his back!’

  The woman laughed and took a deep swig of champagne. Not because she wanted it, but to fulfil her one-glass obligation as quickly as possible. That proved to be a mistake.

  ‘Ooh, she’s eager, this one,’ Granqvist said, stretching across to top up her glass. ‘I can never resist a woman who drinks like a man!’

  The woman gestured her refusal, but he wouldn’t hear of it. She pulled her glass away just as he began tipping the bottle, but it was too late, Bollinger spilled onto her skirt, foaming and soaking the fabric. She tried to spring to her feet, but his hand got there first, rubbing her thigh as if to wipe away the drink.

  ‘Please, there’s no need—’ she began, but the touch of her leg had triggered something in him and, in an instant, his face was in hers, his tongue on her lips, licking at her. She recoiled, but as she moved away his hand gripped her thigh and then, less than a second later, it was up between her legs, reaching for her underwear.

  All of that had happened in a couple of seconds, no more. The speed of it shocked her, so that she could barely let out a sound. Suddenly, she could hear a noise by the door and she imagined he had somehow kicked it shut, or had thrown off his shoes, ready to press himself on her fully. She closed her eyes, involuntarily scrunching up her face in expectation of the worst.

  Which meant she could not explain the yelp she heard, a howl of male pain as Granqvist leapt off her, clutching his eyes. She looked to see that a third person was in the room: Elsa, a senior colleague, clutching a can of pepper spray which she had discharged into Granqvist’s face.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Elsa was asking, and it took a moment for the woman to understand that she was asking the question of her. She stammered some kind of reply, but Elsa was not listening. She was using the boss’s desk phone to call the police. ‘I’d like to report a sexual assault,’ she was saying. ‘No, I am not the victim. I am a witness. Yes. That’s right, an eyewitness to a sexual assault. I have the perpetrator right here.’

  Only then did the woman see that Granqvist was on the floor, the heel of Elsa’s shoe on his neck. With her other hand, she was still holding the pepper spray ready to be fired in the man’s face if he dared move so much as a muscle.

  Chapter 21

  Cape Cod, Massachusetts

  ‘You mean, because you killed him?’

  ‘Oh no. It went wrong long before that.’

  Natasha was back on her feet, pacing. She seemed nervous, agitated even. And yet, it was also clear that her current state was only temporary, that it existed on the surface. Underneath, and Maggie had been struck by this the first time they met – even, truth be told, when she’d first seen that viral video clip of Natasha at the senate hearings – there was a steadiness. As if all that she had gone through – the attempted rape, the life-and-death struggle, the killing, the police interrogation and now a public, sexual shaming – as if all that could not shake the core of her, which was solid.

  To her surprise, Maggie found herself thinking of the man whose presidential campaign she had joined all those years ago: he’d had that same quality. Voters found it reassuring, soothing even. Everything’s going to shit, the economy’s in freefall, the planet’s burning up, but this guy seems pretty Zen – and if he’s calm, well, maybe I don’t need to panic. Like a captain sounding unfazed on the PA even when the plane was flipping around like a hooked trout. That was a big part of the former president’s appeal; it helped get him to the White House. Maybe it would do the same for Natasha Winthrop.

  ‘I should have seen it coming really,’ Natasha said. ‘In retrospect it’s obvious. We agreed a day and a time and he came on a different day and at a different time. I mean, why wouldn’t he do that? I’d told him that I wanted to play out a rape scenario, and so he decided to make it a bit more real. I wouldn’t be pretending to be caught by surprise. I would actually be caught by surprise. Maybe that made it more exciting for him. Or maybe he didn’t care, he just wanted my address so he could come and rape me. I don’t know.’

  ‘But it meant you weren’t prepared.’

  ‘That’s right. I hadn’t set up any of the cameras or recording equipment. I didn’t have anyone there. It was a complete disaster.’

  ‘So how did you know it was him?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘When he finally came into your room. Your study. How could you be sure it wasn’t just some random intruder?’

  ‘Oh I see.’ She seemed to hesitate for a second. ‘I’d seen pictures of him, remember. From the police files. He was wearing a ski mask, but the height, the build, the eyes: it all matched.’ She paused again, hovering near the fireplace. ‘Funny thing is, now that I think about it, I never doubted it was him. The moment I heard a sound in the house. Of course it was him.’

  ‘And he knew how to get in.’

  ‘Sure. I’d given him instructions, hadn’t I?’

  ‘Right. And is there a record of those instructions, including the proposed date and time? Because that would show that he had caught you by surprise.’

  ‘We communicated by Signal. All messages set to “disappear”. They evaporate within an hour. Well, they certainly did at my end.’

  ‘But maybe not his.’

  ‘I don’t know. No doubt the police will find out soon enough.’

  ‘Though if they had found them, I suspect we’d already know about it. Maybe they’re hard to retrieve
. But those messages would confirm your story. That you invited him into your home. There’d be no doubt about it.’

  ‘In order to trap him, Maggie. With a view to bringing him to justice.’

  ‘And is there anything that would confirm that that was your plan? Did you mention it to any one?’

  Natasha shook her head.

  ‘Why the hell not? Jesus, Natasha, isn’t that basic?’

  For just a moment, Natasha replied with a look that cut right through Maggie, a glare of pure ice. And then it was gone, as quickly as it had arrived, Natasha’s face restored to its previous shape: warm, open, curious. It all took less than a second, so brief Maggie wondered if she had imagined it. But the chill on Maggie’s skin lingered, the sense that she had glimpsed something that could not now be unglimpsed.

  She pressed on, as if nothing had happened. ‘What about the security guys, the ones you were planning to have on standby?’

  ‘I hadn’t fixed that up yet. I was going to.’

  ‘OK,’ Maggie said, trying to hide her disbelief. Not of Natasha’s story, but of her stupidity. She was such a smart woman, why hadn’t she taken even those basic precautions? Without any proof of her intention, her plan, this would look like a straightforward, premeditated murder: she had lured a man to her home to kill him.

  And yet, Maggie now understood, that was not how she herself saw it. She was furious at Natasha’s failure to leave a trail of supporting evidence not because she did not believe her but because she did. Almost without noticing it happen, she had accepted Winthrop’s account. It rang true. Not least because, crazy as it might sound – and it sounded deranged – there was no other possible explanation for why Natasha Winthrop would have arranged to have a wanted rapist and killer come to her home.

  ‘But it was such a risk,’ Maggie said eventually. ‘You were taking a huge risk. You knew this man was dangerous. Extremely dangerous. Yet you sought him out. Even if he had come when he was meant to come, and you had some guys hiding in the basement, he posed a direct threat to your life. I just don’t—’