by BIBA PEARCE
“What?” He could do with some good news round about now.
“I was conducting the door-to-door at Bartlett’s block this evening and one of the residents, a Mrs Henderson, saw a woman in a trench coat and high heels enter the building just before six o’clock yesterday evening.”
Rob sat up straight. “Is she sure it wasn’t another resident?”
“She’s sure. She’d never seen her before.”
“Did she give a description? Did she look like a sex worker?” He fired off the questions, his pulse kicking up a notch.
“Medium height, dark hair, slim build,” Jenny replied. “She couldn’t see her very well because the light at the south entrance was out.”
Yes, it was. He remembered the police officer having to use a torch. “Was Mrs Henderson outside, then?”
“Sort of. She was in the corridor having a smoke. She lives on the first floor. Being curious, she waited until the woman had gone up the stairs, then watched to see where she stopped.”
“Fourth floor?” guessed Rob.
“Bingo.”
“Okay, great work.” His voice was breathy. “Let’s get any CCTV footage sent over. I want to ID this woman as soon as possible.”
“Yes, guv.”
She hung up and Rob took a long pull on his beer. Finally, they had a lead.
Chapter 18
Glen O’Connor was a stocky Irishman with a weather-beaten face and pale, watchful blue eyes. He was from Ballymena in Northern Ireland and had started the construction company twenty years ago when he’d first come to England. It was now a fairly large enterprise, and they had some big contracts. At the moment, they were clearing ground for a new shopping complex.
“Aye, Doug’s been working for us since last July,” he said. “Why do you ask?”
“Doug’s dead.” Rob figured it was better to come right out with it. He’d got the impression this guy would appreciate the directness.
“Dead?” Glen’s eyes widened, then narrowed again. “How’d he die?”
“He was murdered.”
There was a silence as Rob let this sink in.
Glen sighed. “You know he was inside, right?”
Rob nodded. “Yeah. Eighteen months.”
“I gave him a job because I felt sorry for him.” He glanced down and his jaw tensed. “My lad went through a bad phase a couple of years back and did some time too. He battled to get a job afterwards.”
“That was nice of you,” Rob said. Glen O’Connor seemed a decent bloke. “Can I just ask, was Doug acting strangely at all these last few days? Was he quieter than usual? More aggressive?”
O’Connor shrugged. “Not that I noticed, but you might be better off having a word with his line manager. I didn’t know him that well.”
“Who might that be?” Rob asked.
O’Connor pointed to a tall guy yelling at a man driving a digger. “That’s Tomas, over there.”
“Can you call him in?”
“Sure, take a seat. I’ll get him on his mobile.” O’Connor disappeared into his office and closed the door.
Instead of sitting down, Rob stood by the window and watched as Tomas answered his phone, then looked up at the site manager’s office. He said something to the man in the digger, then strode up the small dirt mound towards them.
“I’m DI Miller,” Rob said, giving the man a once-over. He was taller up close and lean, with a hard expression on his narrow face. “I want to talk to you about Doug Bartlett.”
“What’s Doug done?” asked Tomas straight away. He had a thick, Eastern European accent.
“What makes you think he’s done anything?”
Tomas shrugged. “He’s not here and you are.”
Fair point.
“Doug was killed last night.” Rob watched the line manager for a reaction. His eyebrows rose, but he didn’t look all that surprised.
“I’m sorry to hear that. What happened?”
“He was stabbed.”
The eyebrows lifted higher, but he didn’t reply.
“Did you notice anything different about Doug these last few days?” pressed Rob.
The manager thought for a moment, then shook his head. “No, he was always a grumpy sod.”
It was strange hearing such an English term delivered with an accent. Tomas had obviously picked that one up off his co-workers. “Did everybody think that?”
He nodded. “He never came to the pub with us at the end of a shift. It was like he was too good for us, or he had something better to do.”
“Did he ever say where he was going?”
Another shrug.
“But he was a good worker?”
“He worked hard, like all of us.” Tomas gave him a hard stare. “We didn’t know him.”
What he was effectively saying was his death had nothing to do with any of them.
“Nobody here had a grudge against him? He didn’t have an argument or a fight with anyone?”
A slight hesitation. “No.”
“You sure?”
Tomas sighed. “A couple of weeks ago he had an argument with Bill, but it was nothing serious.”
“Bill?”
“Yeah, Bill’s over there. His wife came to fetch him one day and he said Doug was giving her strange looks. Bill’s pretty possessive over his missus.”
“Really?” Rob glanced out of the window. Bill was the big guy with thick, chunky arms operating the digger. “Can I speak to him?”
Tomas hesitated. Rob guessed he didn’t want Bill to know he’d ratted on him. Rob compromised. “Okay, I’ll ask your boss to get him.”
Tomas nodded, relieved. “Thanks, mate.” He went back to work.
O’Connor put on a hard hat and went to call Bill.
The big guy entered the office, making it seem small by comparison. He was easily six foot four with a belly and huge hands and feet. He looked strong, too. Rob introduced himself and showed Bill his warrant card.
“I used to be in the military,” Bill said. “Great times.”
Rob could believe it. The digger driver looked like he could handle himself on the battlefield, and under one partly rolled sleeve, Rob could make out a tattoo. Rob wouldn’t have wanted to pick a fight with him. “Which regiment?” he asked.
“Paras.”
Like his boss. “I need to ask you about an altercation you had a few weeks back with Doug Bartlett.”
“Doug? Oh yeah, he was eyeing up my missus.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing. I told him to stop it, and he did. Making her feel real uncomfortable, he was.”
“You didn’t hit him?”
“Nah. Not worth it, little runt like him.”
Everyone was probably a little runt compared to Big Bill. Rob had to strain his neck to talk to him, and he was six foot himself.
“Okay, thanks. That’s all.”
“Is Doug in trouble?” asked Bill.
“Doug’s dead,” Rob told him.
Bill seemed genuinely surprised. “Who killed him?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out,” said Rob with a grimace.
Bill straightened to his full height, which was impressive, and stuck out his barrel chest. “Well, it ain’t got nothing to do with me.”
Rob believed him, but he had to ask. “Where were you on Wednesday evening between six and eight?”
Bill’s eyes narrowed. “I told you, I didn’t have anything to do with Doug.”
“Then you won’t mind giving me your alibi.”
A pause. “I took my wife to the cinema. And before you ask, we saw Emma, the new Jane Austen adaptation. Then we went out for a curry.”
At Rob’s surprised look, he shrugged. “She likes all those old-fashioned movies.”
He must really love his wife, thought Rob. “Okay, well thanks for talking to me. I’ll let you get back to work now.”
Bill nodded and left the office, glancing over his shoulder as he made his way back to the dig
ger.
Chapter 19
“It turns out our victim, Doug Bartlett, was not well liked by his work colleagues. ‘Grumpy sod’ was the term used,” Rob told his team when he got back to the station. They had all piled into the incident room and were standing around the boardroom table.
“Did any of them have a motive to kill him?” Mallory asked.
“No, it doesn’t look like it. I spoke to a couple of his colleagues. No one liked him, but no one disliked him either. He had a minor altercation with the digger driver a few weeks ago, but that was resolved. They all said his behaviour seemed normal leading up to the attack. This case is exactly like the others — the victim wasn’t expecting it. It caught him by surprise when it happened.”
“There is CCTV outside Bartlett’s block.” Jenny came in, pocketing her mobile phone. “I’ve asked the council to send it over ASAP.”
“Great, thanks, Jenny. Keep me posted. We need an ID on this woman. If you can get a clear frame, we might be able to run it through facial rec.” Facial recognition software wasn’t new, but it was only just being rolled out across the force. Just last week he’d downloaded an app to his phone that enabled him to identify suspects in real time. If she was on the criminal database, they’d find a match.
“Will do.”
“Her DNA wasn’t on file, so it’s unlikely her face is either,” reminded Mallory.
Rob gave him a sideways glance. “There’s always a chance.”
“If she’s a sex worker, how do we go about tracking her down?” Jenny asked.
“It would help if we knew where she worked,” replied Rob.
Will cleared his throat. Rob remembered he’d done a stint in Vice a couple of years back. Except it wasn’t called the Vice Squad anymore. It had been renamed Human Exploitation and Organised Crime Command, or SCD9 for short. He gave him a nod.
“The first thing we have to figure out is whether she’s working the streets or is an escort,” Will said. Everyone turned to face him. “The street girls pick up punters randomly and it’s all down to chance. The escorts work from home or through an agency. They do call-outs and make home visits. Because our victims were all killed at home or in a hotel, I’d say she’s the latter.”
“Right, so how does that help us?” asked Rob.
“If she’s freelance, she’s bound to have a website or at the very least a dedicated phone line or email address so clients can contact her. If she works for an agency, they’ll have a website with the profiles of all the girls on it, but a telephone operator will take the bookings.”
“She’d have to be a freelancer to get away with this, surely?” Rob remarked. “An escort would have to answer to someone. They can’t go around killing off their customers.”
Mallory snorted. “It’s not very good for business.”
“We don’t have a phone number or an email.” Rob ran a hand through his hair in frustration. None of the victim’s personal phones had been found at the crime scenes. Patterson’s records had been easy enough to get hold of, but he was in the clear. “Patterson didn’t make any calls to unknown numbers,” he said. “And we can’t access the other victims’ records since they were pay-as-you-go.”
“What about their emails?” asked Will. “Have we checked those?”
“Forensics sent through a report,” Rob acknowledged.
“I’ll get on it,” offered Mallory.
“There’s something else,” added Will. “Escorts usually stick to a specific area. Most of them don’t have their own cars, so they take public transport. Yousef lived in Hounslow, which is a lot further out than Southwark and Hammersmith. It doesn’t add up.”
“If she purposely chose these men,” said Rob, “we’ve got to find out why. Let’s dig into their personal lives and see if we can find something that connects them. Everybody get on this, except those who are looking for Bartlett’s late-night visitor on CCTV. There must be a common thread.” A thought struck him. “If this woman is an escort, you said she’s unlikely to have a vehicle?”
“That’s usually the case,” said Will.
“Are we wasting our time looking for cars that turned into Yousef’s street?”
“Maybe not,” said Will, hedging his bets. “You never know, she may be the exception.”
Rob nodded to Jeff and Mike. “Okay, let’s keep on with that line of enquiry anyway, just in case. And while you’re at it, see if any of the same vehicles pop up at the other locations.”
“Yes, guv,” said Mike.
“Now, what do we know about Doug Bartlett’s priors?”
Jenny spoke up. “He broke into an elderly man’s house two years ago and assaulted him, leaving him tied up in the kitchen, before robbing the place. It turns out he’d done some landscaping work for him earlier in the month.”
“When he cased the place,” added Rob.
“Yes, and there was also an alleged assault against a woman the year before, but she dropped the charges.”
“Now that sounds suspicious,” said Rob. “Who was she?”
“A Christy Blackman.”
“Let’s get her details. I want to pay her a visit.”
Jenny didn’t ask why, she simply nodded and began tapping away on her tablet. “I’ve sent it to you,” she said a few moments later.
“I’ve just thought of something,” said Will. “There’s a website for sex workers called SAAFE. It’s a forum where women can post warnings about potentially dangerous clients, time wasters and scam artists. It also offers advice and information to sex workers. It might be worth having a look to see if anything’s been posted about these killings?”
“Do it,” said Rob.
* * *
Rob took a delighted Jenny with him to visit Christy Blackman who, he felt, might be more inclined to talk to a female officer. Mallory was a great detective, but he wasn’t particularly warm or empathetic.
Christy lived in a functional apartment block in Vauxhall. It was one of the many new builds that had gone up in recent years. Construction was ongoing in the area and the chilly blue skyline was intersected with cranes.
Jenny followed him up a flight of stairs and they walked along an enclosed corridor to flat twenty-three. Thank God it wasn’t a freezing wind tunnel like in Bartlett’s block. In the narrow gaps between buildings Rob could make out the chilly grey Thames flowing rapidly past, its surface ragged and uneven thanks to the gusty wind. It was nearly six o’clock in the evening so Christy should be home by now, assuming she was gainfully employed.
Rob pushed the buzzer. They waited, listening to the low-level growl and occasional thunk from the construction sites around them. Rob rang a second time, and they heard footsteps on a wooden floor. The door opened.
“Can I help you?” The woman standing inside was an attractive blonde in her late twenties. Average height, she had a body to rival Yvette’s and platinum hair down to her waist. Her face was expertly made-up with dark eyes, lots of mascara and bright pink lips. Rob stared at her in the dim light. Those eyelashes couldn’t possibly be real.
“Are you Christy Blackman?” he asked.
“Who wants to know?”
He held up his warrant card. “I’m DI Miller and this is DS Bird. Can we come in, please?”
She hesitated. “Actually, this isn’t a good time. I’m about to go out.”
He squared his shoulders. “This won’t take long.”
She glanced from him to Jenny, who offered a small smile, and back at him, then sighed. “Okay, but let’s make it quick. I’m late for an appointment.”
Rob thought he knew what type of appointment that was.
They walked into a surprisingly clean apartment with inexpensive but tasteful furniture. “Take a seat.” She gestured to the cream leather sofa. Rob sat down with Jenny beside him. It was soft and they sank in further than he’d expected. He leaned forward to compensate.
“What’s this about?” she asked somewhat defensively. Her eyelashes were so long they
reminded him of a peacock’s.
“Do you know this man?” Rob held up a photograph of Doug Bartlett taken at the crime scene. His skin was tinged with grey and his eyes were shut — it was clear he was dead.
She gasped. “What happened to him?”
“Did you know him?” pressed Rob.
She shook her head, suddenly frightened. “No, never seen him before.”
“Except you filed a complaint against him in 2017.” Rob frowned. “For assault?”
She stuck out her lower lip and her eyes darted to the floor.
Jenny shuffled towards the edge of the sofa. “Christy, we aren’t here because of what you do for a living. That man was murdered and we’re looking for anyone who might have information about him.”
Christy’s gaze rose slowly to Jenny’s face. “Murdered?”
“Yes. I promise you, we don’t care about anything other than finding the person who did this.” She took the photo from Rob and held it up.
Christy studied it, gnawing on her lip. “I saw him once. He was a customer.”
Rob exhaled. Jenny continued with the line of questioning. “Did you know his name?”
“He said it was Doug.”
She nodded. “That’s great, thanks. Now, what can you tell us about Doug?”
The platinum blonde stared sullenly at the photograph.
“Was he a nice man?” Jenny prompted.
Christy shook her head. “No, he wasn’t.”
“What makes you say that?”
“He tried to make me have sex without a condom on and when I refused, he got pretty rough.”
“Did he hurt you?” asked Jenny.
Christy nodded. “Yeah, he held me down and left bruises on my arms and legs. Prick.”
Jenny shook her head. “I’m sorry you had to go through that, Christy. Did you report him?”
“I tried.” She gave a throaty laugh. “But the coppers gave me a hard time, so I dropped the charges. I just wanted to get out of there. But I did warn the other girls about him.”
“How’d you do that?”
“On a website.”
“Was that the SAAFE website?” she asked.
Christy nodded. “It’s where all the girls post warnings about the rough ones or the ones who don’t pay.”