THE WEST LONDON MURDERS an absolutely gripping crime mystery with a massive twist (Detective Rob Miller Mysteries Book 2)

by BIBA PEARCE

  “Hiya,” greeted Jenny, her earphones in. She was casually dressed in leggings and a jumper. They all relaxed a bit when they worked on the weekend. The dress code fell by the wayside. Rob was wearing jeans and a navy blue hoodie with SURVIVE written across the front. It was some designer label, thick and good quality, but he couldn’t remember which one. Yvette had bought it for him at Harrods last year.

  Will came in rubbing his eyes, carrying a grande coffee from Starbucks.

  “Heavy night?” asked Rob with a grin.

  Will grimaced. “Something like that.”

  By ten o’clock, the whole team was in and the air buzzed with anticipation. This was the part of the investigation that Rob loved, the bit where they connected the dots that brought them ever closer to their mysterious female killer. The hunt.

  The phone records came in shortly before midday. Mike took a break from the CCTV viewing and did something cool with a spreadsheet that enabled them to identify the calls that appeared on both men’s records. There was only one.

  “Bingo!” Mike scribbled the number on a Post-it note and handed it to Rob. “There’s your killer.”

  Could it really be that simple? Rob’s pulse throbbed in his neck as he took the Post-it. He stared at the digits written there, Mallory peering over his shoulder. “Let’s run this number through the system and see if it flags anything.”

  Mallory got right on it. He didn’t need to write the number down.

  Rob contemplated ringing it, but he didn’t want to spook their suspect. If she got wind that the police were after her, she’d disappear faster than a speeding bullet and then they might never catch her.

  “It’s unlisted,” said Mallory, a short while later.

  Of course it was. “A sex worker wouldn’t have a traceable phone,” he muttered.

  “We could call, pretending to be a punter,” suggested Will. “Make her an offer she can’t refuse, then nab her when she arrives.”

  Rob considered this. “It’s too risky.” But he had another idea. “Why don’t we set up a dummy profile on the SAAFE forum, warning others about a particularly violent punter? If she’s hunting for victims on the forum, she’ll find the feed soon enough.”

  Will nodded enthusiastically. “Great idea, guv. I’ll set it up. With a bit of luck, she’ll fall right into our trap.”

  Rob wasn’t going to count on it. They didn’t have any concrete evidence that this was their murderer yet. A couple of phone numbers on a forum wouldn’t hold up in court. Even the fact that the suspect had dialled both victims’ phone numbers would be viewed as circumstantial. “Okay, go ahead, but I don’t want to act on this just yet. We need to ID the caller, first.”

  “Gotcha.” Will’s fingers flew over the keyboard as he got to work.

  Rob called Lawrence at home and got permission to extend their existing warrant to include this latest phone number. It was with giffgaff, a satellite service provider that piggybacked off the main networks, so it was a rather more complicated procedure getting hold of the right person to request the call records, especially on a Saturday. Eventually, Rob explained what he wanted and the woman on the other side agreed to send through the logs as soon as she could.

  “I’ll run the number by SCD9,” Will said over his shoulder. “They might have it on record somewhere. You never know.”

  “It’s worth a shot.”

  Will copied the number down and picked up the phone. He still had a few contacts in Scotland Yard’s SCD9 unit and since serious crime didn’t come to a halt at the weekend, there was always someone on duty.

  * * *

  There were no other CCTV sightings of the woman in the trench coat and heels at any of the other murder scenes. Rob gazed at the still of her outside Bartlett’s place and wondered what her story was. She’d obviously been assaulted or abused by a punter in the past — an occupational hazard, he imagined — but it still didn’t give her the right to take the law into her own hands and go around stabbing people.

  Rob took a cigarette break and went outside to call Yvette, but she didn’t pick up. She was pissed off at him, he knew that, and to be fair, he probably deserved it. But realistically, he couldn’t leave work every time she had a panic attack. Perhaps it was best she stayed with her sister for a while. At least that way she’d have the support she needed. He drew deeply on his cigarette and tried not to think about how if it hadn’t been for him, she wouldn’t be in this mess to begin with. He stomped out his cigarette butt and went back to the squad room.

  “I’ve got something, guv,” said Will as soon as he walked in.

  Rob raised his eyebrows. “Give it to me.”

  “My contact at SCD9 ran that mobile phone number through their database and got a hit. It belongs to an escort agency in Central London called Daring Divas.”

  “That’s great! Good work, Will.”

  He glowed with pride. Rob didn’t dish out too many compliments.

  “So, our killer is an escort,” Rob said slowly. “Didn’t the agency notice her clients turning up dead?”

  “Why would they?” said Will. “The way it works is the client calls in and makes a booking, or books via the website. The sex worker attends the appointment, gets paid and hands the commission over to the agency. There’s no follow-through to check customer service. If the client never calls the agency again, they’ll assume he’s not interested. Not dead.”

  Rob contemplated this. “And we’ve done a good job at keeping these deaths away from the mainstream media.”

  “Even if they were mentioned in the press, none of the punters ever use their own name, so the agency still wouldn’t make the connection.”

  “Okay. Let’s go pay this agency a visit.” Rob grabbed his jacket off the back of his chair. “Thanks, Will. Mallory, you’re with me.”

  * * *

  Daring Divas had a small administrative office near Leicester Square in Central London. It was next to a seedy nightclub called Galaxy that would be pumping in a few hours’ time, but right now, at 4 p.m. on a Saturday afternoon, was deserted. The front was covered by a steel roller door, and without the backlighting, even the name looked flat and dull.

  On the other side of the escort agency was a newsagent. A crowd of youths had gathered outside and were sharing a box of cigarettes. They didn’t look up as Rob and Mallory walked past.

  “Good area for business.” Mallory glanced up at the nightclub sign. “Right in the centre of London’s West End.”

  “Not easy to spot unless you know it’s here,” said Rob. The door was painted a glossy black and there was a smart buzzer and a grated microphone on the wall beside it. Apart from that, there were no identifying features, no plaque on the wall, no sign above the door, not even a label beneath the buzzer.

  He pushed the button and a moment later a throaty female voice said, “Can I help you?”

  Rob looked up and saw a small camera hidden behind a satellite dish erected below the second-storey window. It looked like it was part of the mechanism of the dish, but its bulbous glass eye pointing at the front door gave it away.

  He held up his card. “I’m from the police. I need to ask you a few questions.” He didn’t have a warrant for this visit, so the woman was under no obligation to let him in.

  “What’s it in connection with?” the voice enquired.

  “One of your customers.”

  “We don’t give out information on our customers,” the voice replied. “We have a confidentiality agreement.”

  “I understand, but this is about a customer who was murdered last week.” Rob put his mouth close to the microphone beneath the buzzer. “It’s a homicide enquiry. We’re not with the Vice Squad.”

  A short pause. “Come in.”

  The door clicked open. They pushed it inwards and entered a manky corridor with threadbare carpeting and outdated wallpaper on the walls. Rob crinkled his nose at the musty smell. They climbed the flight of stairs directly ahead of them to the first floor. On t
he landing, the décor was different. The walls were painted a startling white, the floor was polished parquet and smart black lettering on the glass door read Daring Divas Escort Agency. The effect was classy and professional.

  Rob pushed a second buzzer and was granted access. He swung the glass door open and walked across gleaming floorboards to the front desk, Mallory at his heels. Behind the counter sat a young woman in a fluffy pink jumper. Rob showed her his card, as did Mallory.

  Her eyes widened. “W—What can I do for you?” Different voice.

  “Can we speak to the manager?”

  A door at the back opened and a middle-aged blonde (dyed) in a dress two sizes too small came out. “You’d better come through,” she said in what Rob gauged was an Essex accent.

  They followed her into a back office. It was small but tidy and contained a large desk, two visitors’ chairs and a side table upon which sat a printer and, beneath, a giant shredding machine. Shredders always made Rob suspicious, even though most companies used them to destroy unwanted personal documentation. The woman gestured for them to sit down.

  “Thank you for seeing us,” he said, starting out with some goodwill. After all, she could have refused them entry or just not answered the bell.

  She lowered herself into the chair behind the desk and studied them. “You’re not from Vice?”

  “No. We’re from the Putney Major Investigation Team. We’re investigating a murder.”

  She gave a slow nod.

  “And you are?” asked Rob.

  She tilted her head back. “You can call me Francine.”

  Not her real name, then. “Well, thanks again, Francine.”

  Before he could say any more, she cut in, “You understand I can’t divulge information about my clients.” She pursed her lips. “It wouldn’t be good for business.”

  Up close, she had smooth skin and crystal-clear blue eyes. She was possibly younger than he’d first put her at. Regardless of her age, however, he got the impression she was far more astute than her appearance suggested.

  “Actually, it’s two of your clients we need to talk to you about.” Rob took Yousef’s and Bartlett’s photographs out of his pocket and lay them on the desk in front of her.

  She stared at the grey, lifeless faces for a long time. “I’ve never seen either of these men before.”

  “I understand,” said Rob. “Their names are Aadam Yousef and Doug Bartlett. They were both killed in the last two weeks. I need to check if they were clients of yours.”

  She was already shaking her head. “Our punters don’t use their real names.”

  “We think Doug did, and Aadam may have called himself Adam.”

  She pursed her lips. “What makes you think they’re our clients?”

  “They both made calls to this agency in the days before they died.”

  The penny dropped and a flush creeped into her cheeks. “And you think one of my girls had something to do with their deaths?”

  Rob met her gaze head-on. He didn’t reply — he didn’t need to.

  “I can assure you, none of my girls were involved in this,” she snapped. “I would have known.”

  “Would you?” said Rob. “If you were paid your commission, how would you know the punter was dead?”

  She fell silent. The only sound was the gentle hum of her laptop, which was open in front of her. Eventually, she said, “I can check our booking system.”

  “Thank you.” Rob exhaled quietly. She was cooperating. Mallory met his gaze and gave a small nod. She typed something on the keyboard then waited while it searched. A whole minute passed before she raised her head again.

  “I can confirm that we have a Doug and an Adam on our books, but I’m afraid I can’t give you any more details than that.”

  “Which days did they make bookings?” enquired Mallory.

  She shook her head.

  “Was it in the last month?”

  Her eyes flickered to the screen.

  “Am I right?”

  She gave a slight nod. “But I’m not giving you the names of the girls.”

  Rob sat upright. “Girls? They saw two different girls?”

  Francine shut her laptop with a definitive snap. “If you want anything else, you’ll have to come back with a warrant.” She knew her rights. There wouldn’t be any point in pressing her for more information. The steely glint in her eyes told him she wouldn’t budge.

  “Okay.” He stood up. “You’ve been very helpful, Francine. If we need anything else, we’ll come back with the proper authorization.” Mallory seemed vaguely surprised at his acquiescence but got up all the same.

  Francine showed them out. The receptionist was on the telephone. “I’m afraid Monalisa isn’t available tonight, but I can offer you Chiquita instead.”

  “You didn’t want to push her, guv?” Mallory asked.

  Leicester Square had got even busier while they’d been inside. Theatregoers, tourists and late-afternoon shoppers crowded the pavements and spilled on to the roads. Cars tooted while mopeds zigzagged through the packed streets.

  “It wouldn’t do any good. She wasn’t going to give us the names of her girls. We’ll have to come back with a warrant or find some other way of getting that information.”

  They made their way to the car and drove back to the station.

  “Yousef and Bartlett saw two different girls,” Rob pondered. “I wasn’t expecting that.”

  “If it was them,” Mallory pointed out. “Adam and Doug are pretty common names.”

  “True, but what are the chances of them both calling the escort agency in the last month?”

  Mallory shrugged. “I guess so. Still, we can’t be sure it’s them.”

  “Not until we get hold of the escorts who met with them.” Rob deftly manoeuvred the undercover police car through the throngs of traffic. He suddenly thought of his empty house and took his foot off the gas. Why rush? There was no real reason to go home yet. Yvette was at her sister’s for the whole weekend. Then he remembered Trigger waiting patiently, or rather impatiently, for him, and stepped on the pedal again. His canine friend would be sure to be hungry by now, though Rob had left a gap in the sliding door to the garden so the Labrador could get in and out during the day. He didn’t think it was fair to keep him locked up all the time and it was pretty cold outside despite the blue sky, so he’d compromised. Yvette would have had a fit, but he was fairly confident the house would be okay. Richmond was a safe area and both his neighbours were home since it was the weekend.

  “If it’s two different girls, which one of them is our murderer?” asked Mallory, as they crawled along in back-to-back traffic through Earl’s Court.

  “And why did she target Dennis Patterson?” added Rob. A man who had no conceivable history of assault or engaging escorts. He sighed. There were too many questions and not enough answers. “Let’s wait until Monday. I’ll speak to the boss and see if I can get a warrant for the agency. We need to talk to those escorts.”

  * * *

  The rest of the weekend was quiet. He rang Yvette, offering to collect her from her sister’s, but she declined.

  “There’s no point in me coming home when you’re going to be at work next week anyway.”

  “I miss you,” he told her over the phone.

  “Now you know how I feel,” she replied stubbornly. He heard her inhale and knew she was smoking.

  He sighed. “This is my job. You can’t expect me to stay at home and not work. At some point you’re going to have to focus on getting your life back.”

  That was the wrong thing to say. “What do you think I’m doing?” she shrieked. “I even agreed to see your bloody counsellor, for all the good it’s doing me.”

  Rob didn’t want to get into an argument over the phone, so he apologized. “Okay, stay there until you feel able to come home. Just know that I love you.” His words sounded flat to his own ears and she didn’t return the sentiment. They hung up after that.

  Tri
gger whined and put his head on his knee. “I know, Trigs,” he’d said, stroking the dog’s ears. “I miss her too.”

  Chapter 22

  “I can get you a warrant for the escort agency, Rob,” the DSI said on Monday morning. “But I’d advise against it.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “I spoke to Bryson over at SCD9,” said Lawrence. “And Daring Divas is one of the better agencies around. The girls are clean, they’re well looked-after, and the woman who runs it often passes on useful information to the unit. It wouldn’t look good if you sent a bunch of uniformed officers in there, confiscating equipment and searching the premises.”

  Rob sat back in his chair and studied his boss. “So, what you’re saying is Francine is a police informant.”

  “Unofficially, yes.” The Superintendent tapped his pen on the desk. “She’s useful to Bryson’s unit. She knows everything that happens in the West End and has provided valuable information over the years. In return, they leave her alone.”

  “And you don’t want us interfering.”

  “Bryson did ask nicely. Apparently this woman has links to organized crime gangs in the area. Her husband’s family, I believe.”

  Rob ran a hand through his hair. He knew there was more to her than had met the eye. Damn it. They were getting close, he could feel it.

  “How else are we going to move forward? We need to speak to those escorts. They may have valuable information that could help us solve this case.” His voice rose in pitch and volume. “One of them might even be our killer.”

  Lawrence pursed his lips. “What about using one of the other escorts or the telephone operator? Anyone who can look up the information for you.”

  “We don’t know the names of any of the employees or the escorts.” He thought for a moment. “I suppose we could put one of our officers in there. They could pretend to be a sex worker, maybe get to know some of the other escorts or take a peek at the booking system.”

  Lawrence considered this. “It’s an option.”

  “Although, it’s not ideal,” admitted Rob. “It would take time, time we don’t have. We need that information now, before our killer strikes again.”