by BIBA PEARCE
THE
WEST
LONDON
MURDERS
An absolutely gripping crime mystery with a massive twist
BIBA PEARCE
Detective Rob Miller Mystery Book 2
Originally published as
The Revenge Killer
Joffe Books, London
www.joffebooks.com
First published in Great Britain in 2020
as The Revenge Killer
© Biba Pearce 2020, 2021
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The spelling used is British English except where fidelity to the author’s rendering of accent or dialect supersedes this. The right of Biba Pearce to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
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Cover art by Nebojša Zorić
ISBN: 978-1-78931-832-6
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
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Chapter 1
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Aadam Yousef was in a good mood. After months of hard work, everything had fallen into place. His business was thriving, he’d finally found someone to marry his fat, socially awkward daughter and take her off his hands, and he’d just bought a banging new BMW. To top it all, he’d had a great afternoon and was feeling totally relaxed.
The doorbell rang. Aadam smiled to himself and stood up. Time to get to work. He checked his reflection in the living-room mirror and was pleased with what he saw. He still had all his hair, his teeth were straight and white, and he had a strong aquiline nose that spoke of good breeding, even though nothing could be further from the truth. He’d grown up in a dingy two-bedroom flat with threadbare carpets and not enough heating in winter. His father was a cleric, his mother — well, she was nothing. She couldn’t even cook that well. Maybe that’s why his father had been so rough with her. She drifted in and out of the shadows of his memory, a fragile figure in a dark headscarf, eyes downcast, too timid to utter a word. It was his grandmother, his father’s mother, who’d had the biggest input into his upbringing. He had spent many happy weekends at their double-storey house in Finsbury Park with his cousins, eating as much as they could and riding their bicycles up and down the street. It was Teeta who had decided which school he’d go to and what subjects he’d study. She’d always treated him with respect, even more so than his father, who — she never missed an opportunity to point out — had made such an unfortunate marriage.
The doorbell chimed again.
“Coming,” he yelled and walked down the passage to open it.
“Hello.” His smiling guest’s breath turned to steam in the cold afternoon air. Aadam was looking forward to spring. He had a big back garden, perfect for barbecues.
He shook their hand. “Hello, good to meet you. Please, come in.”
He stood back to let his guest into the house. His cleaner, a sexy Polish bitch, had been that morning so it looked better than it did most days. Having grown up with his mother picking up after him, Aadam hadn’t learned the value of cleaning up after himself. He didn’t see the point. Wasn’t that what wives were for? And if you were blessedly single, like he was, then you hired a cleaner to do it for you.
He led his guest into the lounge, a spacious room with a leather lounge suite, a glass coffee table and an enormous flat-screen TV suspended on the wall. The television was also new and, after the Beemer, his second favourite possession. He’d bought it with last month’s windfall. He knew the boss had said not to splurge on boys’ toys, it would draw too much attention, but he didn’t think a little reward here and there would do much harm. It wasn’t like he was on anyone’s radar. Hounslow was full of middle-class Muslims like him.
“Would you like a drink before we get down to business?” It was gone four o’clock, an acceptable time for a drink. He may have grown up in a strict Muslim household, but he wasn’t a believer. The only thing he believed in was money, and lots of it, so that he could enjoy himself. Wasn’t that what life was all about? Hence his choice of occupation. But for his friends and family who had no idea what he did for a living — they thought he worked for a property development company — he played the part of the devout Muslim. He even went to Friday prayers. He had to be seen to be doing the right thing. He was an upstanding member of the community, after all.
He chuckled to himself. He’d always enjoyed subterfuge. Most people were idiots — they believed what they saw, what they wanted to believe. What had religion ever done for his father? He was a hard-working cleric who’d spent his life serving Allah, and for what? A squalid council flat in North West London. No thanks. This was England, after all. Capitalism thrived here. For a man who knew what he wanted, it was easy to make money, and the police were either too soft or too stupid to figure it out.
“I’ll have a Scotch,” said his guest.
He poured them each two fingers and sat down on the couch.
His guest downed it in one go and that’s when he noticed the gloves and that he hadn’t offered to take their coat. How remiss of him. He offered now, but his guest refused, instead rising and handing him the empty glass. “I think it’s time we got down to business. I don’t have all day.”
“Of course. I’m interested to hear your proposal.”
He was about to get to his feet when he felt a hand on his shoulder followed by a sharp pain in his chest. He staggered back on to the couch, confused. That had never happened before. Was he having a heart attack?
He looked up. His guest was holding a knife.
“What the . . . ?” He glanced down and saw a red stain appear in the centre of his £450 Giorgio Armani shirt. It was mesmerizing, the blood dark red against the pale-blue material, growing b
igger as he watched.
Another thrust and the blade pierced his chest, where he imagined his heart might be. He howled in agony but then felt a snap inside him. It was hard to breathe.
He clutched his chest and stared up at his guest. “Why are you doing this?” he tried to ask, but it came out as a frothy gargle.
Panic set in. He was a big guy — maybe he could overpower his attacker. He tried to stand but his knees buckled and he collapsed. He’d lost control over his body. The whisky glass fell to the floor, the amber liquid staining his cream carpet. He was annoyed about that, he’d just had the place recarpeted.
His guest straddled him and lifted the knife again. The frenzied expression sent a fresh surge of adrenalin through Aadam’s body. “No!” He held up his hands up in an attempt to protect himself.
It was too late. His guest plunged the knife into his abdomen, pulled it out and thrust it into his chest again. He gasped as the strike took his breath away.
Stop, he wanted to say, to plead, but his attacker was beyond reason, caught up in their mad bloodlust. As Aadam’s vision began to close in, the blows kept coming, each more frenzied than the last, until the pain finally faded away and he lapsed into blissful oblivion.
Chapter 2
DI Rob Miller was sitting down to breakfast when his mobile phone rang. He glanced at his perfectly cooked poached egg, crispy bacon and toast, then at his phone.
“Leave it.” Yvette perched prettily opposite him, her satin nightgown falling off one shoulder, her hair over the other, a cigarette between her fingers.
“You know I can’t.” He reached for the phone. “DI Miller.”
Yvette blew a pillar of smoke into the air and leaned back, watching him with a deceptively calm gaze. He knew that look. Beneath the serene exterior, she was simmering with annoyance.
“I’ve got a case for you, Rob. It’s a homicide in Hounslow. Uniform are already there, but it’s yours if you want it.” It was his boss and head of the Putney Major Investigation Team, Detective Superintendent Lawrence.
Hounslow, in West London, fell under their remit and even though Rob’s team weren’t officially “on call” that week, they were picking up the overflow.
“Sure, I’m in.” Rob didn’t need to think about it.
“Great, how soon can you get there?”
It was rush hour on a Tuesday morning. He glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall. “Thirty minutes.” If he gunned it.
“I’ll text you the address.”
Yvette stubbed out her cigarette in the heavy glass ashtray and stood up. “I take it you’ll be gone for the rest of the day?”
“Yeah, probably.” He stuffed the egg and bacon between two slices of toast. Breakfast to go.
His wife of seven months pursed her lips in a perfect pout. “Of course.”
Rob put his makeshift sandwich down. “Yvette, we talked about this. I have to go back to work. They won’t give me any more time off.” He’d been half-arsing it for months now because Yvette didn’t like being left alone for too long. Despite the extenuating circumstances of his situation, they’d been more than lenient. “It’s time.”
She lit another cigarette from a box on the countertop. He noticed that her hand was shaking. “I know, but I don’t have to like it.”
Rob squeezed her shoulders. “Relax. You’re safe here and you’ve got Trigger for company.” The golden Labrador at her feet thumped his tail in agreement.
She nodded bravely and his heart went out to her. He knew she was still terrified of being by herself. Ever since she’d been abducted last year, she’d transformed from haughty and confident to clingy and insecure. Ironically, the experience had brought them closer together. She relied on him more than ever now, but while he enjoyed the attention — it made up for all the cold silences of the past — it also put more pressure on him.
“I’ll call later and check on you.”
She inhaled slow and deep until the smoke filled her lungs, then tilted her head back and blew it up towards the ceiling. It seemed to fortify her. “Okay, you’d better get going then.”
She was trying. He kissed her on the cheek, pulled on his jacket, picked up his sandwich and left the house.
* * *
“It’s a messy one,” DS Mallory warned as Rob got out of the car. He’d parked halfway down the street behind the crowd of ambulances, police vehicles and forensic vans. The street had been cordoned off with police tape and, despite the cold, several bystanders were hovering beyond the line, craning their necks to see what was going on. Uniformed officers were keeping them back.
“Go back indoors, please,” Rob told a nosy neighbour who was loitering on his doorstep. “We’ll be around in due course to take your statement.” The grey-haired old man shuffled back inside and closed his door.
“SOCO are processing the scene now.” Mallory handed Rob a disposable forensic suit in a plastic bag identical to the one he was wearing.
Rob removed his jacket, tore open the packaging and pulled it over his clothes. “Who’s the victim?”
“A forty-year-old Asian man called Aadam Yousef. The house is registered in his name, as is the fancy BMW in the drive.” Rob took in the sturdy double-storey property with its sloping driveway housing what looked like an 8 Series Coupé in metallic blue. He wondered what Mr Yousef did for a living.
“Was there any ID on the body?”
“His wallet was in his back pocket, yeah.”
Rob nodded. He zipped the suit up, then pulled on the shoe protectors. He grabbed a pair of latex gloves out of a box on the back seat of his car. “Right, let’s go.”
They gave their names to the uniformed officer at the entrance and proceeded into the living room. The curtains were open, yet the room felt dark and oppressive. There wasn’t much natural light — the heavy cloud cover didn’t help — and the furniture was mostly black. Rob surveyed the leather sofa and matching armchair, chrome-rimmed glass coffee table and the enormous flat-screen television that covered half of the far wall.
“Is Yousef married?”
Mallory shook his head. “He doesn’t appear to be.”
It figured. The décor was masculine and functional. He thought of Yvette’s chic Parisian style, full of pastels and soft edges, and how guests always commented on what a fabulous job she’d done. This place hadn’t seen a woman’s touch in a long time.
Mallory nodded to a dark shape on the floor. “His body’s over there.” A crime scene photographer was taking pictures, his camera flashing every few seconds, creating a strobe effect.
Rob crouched down to inspect the victim. He was a big guy, over six foot, and lay in a pool of his own blood. His face was contorted in pain, but his eyes were empty. Multiple stab wounds punctuated his torso. “Can we get some extra light in here?”
A forensic technician set up a portable spotlight and switched it on. Immediately, a bright puddle swamped the dead man.
“Good morning, detectives.”
Both Rob and Mallory glanced up. A middle-aged woman with a clipped voice and intelligent eyes stood there holding a silver case. “Do you mind if I get to work?”
“Hi, Liz.” Rob straightened up to give her room, but he didn’t move away from the body. He’d worked with Liz Kramer before. She was terse but efficient and didn’t suffer fools gladly. Any stupid questions and she’d shut you down. He’d learned that the hard way.
She set her forensic case on the carpet and got to her knees with a little grunt. “I haven’t seen anything this bad in a while.” She inspected the puncture wounds that covered his torso.
“There’s a lot of blood,” Rob agreed. A faint metallic smell permeated the air around the body.
“The victim has been stabbed multiple times,” said Liz. “I’d say the fatal one was probably this one, over the heart. It looks like it severed the aorta, hence the rapid blood loss.”
Mallory scrunched up his nose. “Why didn’t the killer stop there? Why stab him so many times
when one would do?”
Liz smiled grimly but didn’t look up. “That’s your job, gentlemen, the mental state of the killer is not my remit. But I’d say there are seven, maybe eight puncture wounds covering his chest and stomach. Some bled more than others.”
“Do we know when he died?” asked Rob.
“Probably sometime yesterday afternoon or early evening, judging by the viscosity of the blood and the state of the body, but I’ll know more after the post-mortem.”
A yellow sign with a number three on it stood on the coffee table beside a plastic evidence bag.
“What’s this?” Rob asked one of the scene-of-crime officers. They always reminded him of worker bees in their white suits, buzzing around collecting evidence and marking out the crime scene. Right now, he was one of them.
“It’s an empty glass, sir,” the young man said. “I’m no expert, but it smelled like it contained whisky.”
Rob scanned the room and walked over to an elaborate serving trolley that doubled as a liquor cabinet. It was covered with assorted bottles of spirits — white rum, tequila, vodka, whisky and gin, as well as a cream liqueur and two bottles of Bordeaux. On the shelf below were a range of glasses. He picked up a bottle of Scotch and sniffed it. He tried the top. It was loose. “Could have been this,” he said to the technician. “Let’s bag it, just in case.”
Another marker lay on the floor beside the victim’s body. The carpet was lightly stained, but it was hardly noticeable next to the puddle of blood. “Another glass?”
The technician nodded. “Yep, also empty. Most of it spilled on the carpet.”
Rob looked at Mallory. “Our victim had a guest?”
His DS nodded. “It looks that way. There are no obvious marks on the glass, no lipstick, nothing to indicate who the guest was.”
“Maybe we’ll be able to grab some prints or DNA off it.” Rob sounded more positive than he felt. The guest’s glass was on the table in front of the leather armchair. “Have we processed this chair for DNA?”