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

by BIBA PEARCE

  “I’m not keen to go in all guns blazing,” said the Superintendent. “Sending in an undercover officer looks to be our best option at this point. Any suggestions?”

  At that moment, there was a knock on the glass door.

  “Sorry to interrupt. I thought I’d pop in and see how you’re getting on.”

  Both men glanced up to find Jo standing at the door. She was wearing a tight skirt coupled with a starched white shirt tucked in at the waist. Her legs were stockinged and on her feet were a pair of navy high heels, which made her legs appear endless.

  When neither man said anything, Jo asked, “Is something wrong?”

  Lawrence glanced at Rob, who gave a little nod.

  “Why don’t you come in and take a seat?” the DSI said. “There’s something we’d like to run by you.”

  * * *

  “Are you insane?” Jo gawked at them in disbelief. “It’s not even my case.”

  “You’d be doing us a favour,” said Rob.

  Lawrence nodded. “I’ve read your file, you’ve done undercover work before. This should be a doddle for you.”

  “I went undercover at a law firm,” she said. “Not an escort agency.”

  “We just need some information from their booking system,” Rob explained. “It wouldn’t involve anything dangerous.”

  “Is that even admissible?” she asked.

  “It doesn’t have to be,” countered the Superintendent. “We just need the names, something to go on.”

  Jo sighed. “Isn’t there anybody in SCD9 who can do it?”

  “Probably, but we want to keep this close to our chest,” said Rob. “You understand the case, you’ve seen one of the crime scenes. You know what this woman is capable of.”

  Jo fell silent.

  “Come on, it won’t take long. You just have to show up, have an interview with the owner, Francine, and get rid of the receptionist for a few moments while you hack in to the system.”

  “Why can’t you just bribe her?” said Jo. To be fair, it wasn’t a bad idea.

  “We may have to if this doesn’t work,” Rob said. “But it’s worth a shot, don’t you think?”

  “How do I hack in to the system?”

  Rob had been thinking about this. “We’ll arrange for a package to be delivered by an awkward courier, so the receptionist will have to leave the desk to sign for it. While she’s away from her desk, you search for the names. Chances are she won’t lock her computer just to receive a package.”

  “It’s risky. She might.”

  “If she does, then we’ve had it,” said Lawrence. “We might be able to give you a thumb drive to insert, which will enable us to clone the hard drive, but that’s violating all sorts of privacy laws.”

  “It might be worth it as a plan B,” Rob said. “We’d have access to that information if we got a warrant anyway.”

  “True.” The Superintendent pursed his lips.

  Jo sighed. “My boss is never going to sanction this.”

  “I’ll have a word with him.” Lawrence gave her a reassuring nod.

  Jo looked doubtful. “Okay, talk to him first, then let me know, but just for the record, he’s not going to go for it.”

  * * *

  Two hours later, they had the green light for the undercover work.

  “I don’t know how Lawrence talked Pearson into it,” Jo grumbled. “He’s not usually such a pushover.”

  Rob grinned. “The man knows how to get what he wants.”

  “Clearly.” She blew a stray hair off her face. They were sitting in the police canteen, eating a sandwich and discussing the case. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

  “You’ll be okay,” said Rob, his mouth full. “I have faith in you.”

  She shot him a sideways glance. “Easy for you to say. You’re not the one who has to dress up as a prostitute and hack in to a computer.”

  “Okay, let’s talk about timing.” Rob finished chewing. “How about tomorrow afternoon? I don’t think they’re open during the mornings. You can visit the office in Leicester Square and apply for a job. You’ll have to come up with a convincing cover story.”

  “I need more time to prep,” she said. “They’ll want to see glamour shots.”

  “Time is of the essence here.”

  “I know that, but if this is going to work, I have to look like the real deal. I can’t just waltz in off the street with some selfies of myself in a bikini. They’ll never hire me. I’m going to need a professional photographer to take some quality shots in a staged environment, like a hotel room.”

  “We have a photographer who can help with that.”

  “No offence, but I think I’ll hire a private photographer. I’m not having the local SOCO gawking at me in my lingerie.”

  Rob laughed. “Okay, no problem. Arrange it and bill the department. The DSI will sort it out.”

  “I’ll need underwear, too,” she said. “Somehow I don’t think anything I’ve got is going to cut it.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure,” said Rob with a naughty grin. He’d seen her in her underwear once before and it had worked for him.

  She swatted him with her napkin. “Enough of that, thank you. Let’s move on.”

  He laughed. “Okay, get what you need and set up the photo shoot for tomorrow. We’ve got to move on this.”

  She shook her head. “This is crazy. If any of these photographs make it on to that website, I’m screwed. I’ll never be able to look my colleagues in the eye again.”

  “You won’t be there long enough for them to load your pictures on to the website,” he said. “You’ll have to move fast. We’ll help by delivering the parcel to the premises five minutes after you arrive. The timing is everything. That way, the receptionist will be away from her desk for a few minutes, and you’ll have time to either look up the information or clone the hard drive.”

  She exhaled. “Gotcha.”

  * * *

  “Jesus,” spluttered Rob when he saw the photographs the following evening. Jo had called him to say they were done and she had the shots. He had met her at a pub in Waterloo, near to where she lived, for dinner. Away from the prying eyes of the station.

  “I take it you approve?” She gave him a sly glance.

  “Hell, yeah.” It was hard not to. In the first photograph she was wearing a pink lace bodysuit and bending forward, showing off her cleavage to maximum effect. In the second, she was wearing a black sports bra, minimal make-up other than lip gloss and her hair mussed up like she’d tumbled straight out of bed. A mental image of her waking up in his bed in a similar state flashed through his mind. He swallowed hard. In the third picture, she was wearing a white shirt, unbuttoned and open at the front, exposing an indecent amount of cleavage. Her lips were painted pillar-box red and she wore a pair of black-rimmed glasses. It was evocative and sexy. There were a few more images but he didn’t trust himself to look. He handed them back to her, aware his hand was trembling ever so slightly. “They’re perfect. I’d hire you.”

  She smiled and slotted them back into the manila A4 envelope that they’d come in and put them on the seat next to her. “I’m sure.”

  “Honestly, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you were a real pro.”

  That made her laugh. “Thanks. I think.” She took a sip of her beer. “So long as they work, that’s all I’m concerned about. I don’t want the woman, Francine, to see through me the first moment I’m there. You said she was pretty savvy.”

  “She is, yeah. The important part is to make sure you’re there at least fifteen minutes early. She’s unlikely to be ready for you straight away. That way, it’ll give you time to get to the computer once the receptionist is called away.”

  Jo nodded. “I’ll give it my best shot.”

  He smiled, determined to suppress his body’s reaction to her photographs. “I know you will.”

  Chapter 23

  Jo walked into the Daring Divas office with just the right amoun
t of swagger. She didn’t want to overdo it, be too stereotypical, but at the same time, she needed to make an impression. Hire me, her look had to say. I can get the men going.

  The push-up bra under her tight red T-shirt made her breasts appear full and perky, and at least a size or two bigger than they were. The new denim jeans clung to her like a second skin and showed off her long legs to their best advantage. At least her colleagues wouldn’t see her like this. She’d worked hard to get where she was, and she didn’t want to be promoted for the wrong reasons.

  It was overcast and drizzly today, so she’d worn a knee-length padded coat over her outfit, similar to what she imagined working girls would wear when on public transport, but she took it off as soon as she entered the heated interior of the agency.

  The young woman behind the reception desk looked up. “You’re early,” she said. “Francine was expecting you at three.”

  “I know,” said Jo in a breathy voice she’d been practising for this assignment. “I didn’t want to risk being late in this weather.”

  “You come far?” asked the girl.

  “Brixton,” Jo replied. “But there’s engineering works on the Victoria line near Stockwell.”

  The girl nodded.

  Jo glanced at the door leading to the manager’s office. “I can wait.”

  “You’ll have to. She’s not here.”

  Excellent. Jo took a seat and fired off a text message to Rob letting him know the coast was clear.

  The telephone rang. Jo listened as the girl took a booking. “Zahara. Eight o’clock. What do you want?” she asked. There was a pause. “CBT will be fifty quid extra.” Jo didn’t know what that was, but she suspected it had nothing to do with cognitive behavioural therapy.

  The girl tapped away on the computer. “Okay. That will be £300 in total. It’s cash in hand.”

  Come on. Ring the bell, dammit. Now was the perfect time.

  The girl hung up the phone and smiled at Jo. “He’s a new one. Could tell he was nervous.”

  “Do you get a lot of new ones?” she asked.

  The girl shook her head. “Nah. Most are regulars and have their favourites. The girls prefer it that way. They like to know what they’re in for.”

  “Do they ever have bad ones?” Jo asked.

  The girl shrugged. “Comes with the territory, innit. If they rough up the girls we blacklist them, and if it’s bad we report them to the police.”

  “That’s good to know.” Jo gave a relieved smile.

  The girl looked her over. “You new to this?”

  Jo shuffled in her seat. “Kind of. I’ve been out of it for a while. Had a bad experience.”

  Before the girl could reply, the doorbell rang.

  This is it.

  The receptionist glanced at the video feed. “Hello?”

  “Delivery,” came the reply.

  “Come on up.”

  “I can’t leave my bike out here,” said the delivery man. “Can you come down?”

  The receptionist sighed, then said, “One sec.” She rolled her eyes at Jo. “I’ll be right back.”

  Jo watched as she opened the glass door and disappeared down the stairs. It was now or never. She jumped up and ran around the back of the reception desk. The girl hadn’t logged out of the computer. Thank God.

  Jo tabbed through the open windows on the screen until she came to the booking system. It was on the page confirming Zahara’s appointment. She clicked on Clients and scrolled down until she came to Adam. Luckily, he was fairly near the top.

  She clicked on his latest booking. He’d asked for a home visit from Amber on Monday 27 January at 2 p.m. That was it!

  Clicking on Amber’s name took her to the girl’s portfolio page. Nothing there listed her contact details. Crap. She went back to the beginning and looked for the section that stored employee details.

  The receptionist was arguing with the delivery driver downstairs.

  Breaking into a sweat, Jo searched for Amber’s details. There was no physical address, just a PO box and a phone number. Jo took a snapshot of the screen on her phone.

  She heard the door downstairs close. Adrenalin buzzing in her ears, she went back to Clients and scrolled down to the D’s. She clicked on Doug’s booking details. Nothing recent. The last booking was 15 December. That wasn’t right. By all accounts, he should have hired an escort on 5 February, the night he was killed.

  Footsteps on the staircase. There was no time to do anything else. She returned to the home page and hoped the receptionist wouldn’t notice it wasn’t where she left it. Nothing she could do about that. She whipped back around the desk just as the girl pushed open the door.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, pausing in the doorway.

  “I was looking for a loo, but you don’t seem to have one.”

  The girl relaxed. “Oh, it’s upstairs. You have to go this way.”

  “Thanks.” Jo darted through the double doors and up the threadbare staircase. Safe in the tiny cubicle with the door locked, she called Rob. “I’ve got the details,” she hissed.

  “Great work. What did you find?”

  “Yousef did make a booking for the day he died,” she said. “But there was nothing for Doug.”

  “Nothing?” She heard confusion in his voice.

  “No. Sorry. Last call-out was the fifteenth of December.”

  “That doesn’t make sense. We know he had someone in the flat with him the day he died.”

  “I know. Listen, I’m going to try to sneak out of here. You don’t need me to go through with the interview now, do you?”

  “Yeah, that’s fine.” Rob sounded distracted like he’d been caught off guard. Well, it wasn’t her fault. She’d done her bit and now she wanted to go home, take a shower and clean this gunk off her face.

  She was on her way downstairs when she remembered she’d left the envelope with her photographs on the sofa in the waiting room. Shit. For a moment she contemplated leaving them there, but she couldn’t risk those photographs ending up online. It could potentially mean the end of her career. With a sigh, she knocked on the glass doors. Maybe she could retrieve the envelope and then tell the receptionist she’d changed her mind.

  Unfortunately, Francine chose that moment to come up the stairs.

  “Hiya,” she said in a cheerful voice. “You must be the new girl come for the interview?”

  “That’s right.” Jo put on her breathy northern accent and forced a smile.

  “Well, come on through,” said Francine. “Everything okay, Mary?”

  After all the exotic names on the database, Mary sounded extremely dull. The receptionist nodded. “Yes, took a few more bookings while you were out.”

  “Good. Good.”

  Francine sauntered into her office and called Jo. “Come on through, love. Let’s have a little chat and you can tell me all about yourself.”

  Jo groaned internally. It seemed like she’d have to go through with this interview whether she liked it or not.”

  * * *

  “Thank God,” Rob exclaimed as Jo rounded the corner half an hour later. “What happened? When we spoke, you said you were on your way out.”

  He’d been pacing up and down the pavement beside the car, smoking one cigarette after the other, keeping a tight eye on the time. If she’d been any longer, he’d have been hard-pressed not to go inside and look for her.

  “I’m sorry. Francine came back and I had to go through with the interview.”

  “You did?” He studied her for a moment then broke into a relieved smile. “How was it? Did you get the job?”

  Jo punched him on the arm. “It’s not funny. She asked me what my specialities were. Thank goodness I brushed up on some of the terminology before I left.”

  “What are your specialities?” he wanted to know.

  “None of your business.”

  He laughed. “Did she buy your story?”

  Jo nodded. “They have a vacancy and it’s min
e if I want it.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I said, ‘That’s great.’ What else could I say? I couldn’t change my mind at the last minute.”

  Jo looked amazing. He knew she’d be feeling like a tart, but to him she just looked like she was going to a bar or a nightclub. Half of the young women he saw out these days were dressed exactly like Jo was right now, although she wouldn’t see it that way. Those tight jeans really emphasized her legs, and that clinging T-shirt . . . God help him. He took a steadying breath. “Well, you got the information, that’s all that counts. Now we have a name.”

  “Amber isn’t much to go on. Hopefully you can trace her real name from the PO box or phone number.”

  “Phone’s probably a burner,” said Rob. “But if she has a PO box her real details must be on file. I’ll get on to the post office in the morning. You did great.”

  Jo eyed him sullenly. “I feel dirty.”

  He chuckled. “Fancy a drink?”

  She hesitated. “Don’t you have to get home to Yvette?”

  He didn’t meet her eye. “She’s staying with her sister at the moment.”

  Jo didn’t comment. “In that case, I’d love a drink.”

  “Great.”

  They left the car on the double yellows and walked to the Coach and Arms, a traditional English pub off Haymarket.

  “What are you drinking?” Rob asked, stopping at the bar.

  “Chardonnay, thanks.”

  He ordered while Jo found them a table. When he got back with the drinks, she was looking at the paper she’d scribbled Amber’s details down on. “It’s strange there was no booking for Doug Bartlett.”

  “Very. In fact, I can’t understand it. Francine said they were both on the system, so I just assumed they’d both hired an escort the day they died.” He put the drinks down and took a seat opposite her.

  “Could Doug have hired her off the books?” Jo reached for her wine. “Maybe if he was a regular, they decided to cut out the agency.”

  “Possibly, but according to his records, he called the agency the day he died. Why would he do that and not book an appointment, then negotiate with the escort separately?”