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

by BIBA PEARCE

  Rob’s breath caught in his throat. “She never arrived for the appointment?”

  “No, he said he waited all morning, but she didn’t come. Eventually, he gave up and went out. Right pissed off he was.”

  “Who was the girl?” Rob asked.

  “Amber.”

  Chapter 27

  “Jesus Christ, she was bloody there!” Rob paced up and down the squad room. “She was in the same hotel as the second victim on the day he died.”

  His team had gathered around to see what he was ranting about.

  “That’s too much of a coincidence,” remarked Jenny, who’d just got off the phone to Francine. “It must be related.”

  “Damn right it’s related.”

  “But she didn’t know him,” pointed out Mallory. “We showed her the photographs, remember?”

  Rob ran a hand through his hair. “She must have been lying.” He recalled the strawberry-blonde hair, the towelling robe, the face devoid of make-up. She was a damn good liar.

  “Maybe Amber and Ruth were in it together,” Mallory suggested.

  Rob stopped pacing and stared at him. “It’s possible. Let’s bring her in right now. Send a squad car to pick her up. It won’t hurt to scare her a little.” Mallory reached for the phone.

  Lawrence bellowed across the floor. “Rob, my office.”

  Rob strode in, feeling highly agitated. He’d sat face to face with Ingrid and been taken in by her sob story, when all the time she’d been playing him.

  “Update.”

  Rob got him up to speed, ending with Angie’s latest revelation.

  “Get her in here now,” barked the Superintendent. “Find out why she lied. Also, it might be worth talking to the staff at the hotel again. Maybe someone saw something. A cleaner, perhaps.”

  He had a point. They’d spoken to the receptionist, but not the cleaning staff. The receptionist had found the body and no one had been into Patterson’s room since the day before, so there hadn’t been any need. But Lawrence was right, someone may have seen something. “I’ll get DC Manner and DC Clarke to follow up,” he said. They deserved a change from viewing endless rounds of CCTV footage in the warren. “I’ve sent out an alert for Ingrid, which is Amber’s real name.”

  “I need you to give a press release this afternoon,” Lawrence informed him, moving on. He wasn’t interested in names, he just wanted the perpetrator caught.

  Rob ground his teeth. He hated speaking to the media. It was always an ordeal, no matter how often you did it. Fielding a million questions, unable to give any real answers, while trying to restore the public’s faith in law enforcement. Not an easy job in the current climate.

  The Superintendent threw a newspaper on the desk in front of him. “We need to do some damage control. Look at this tosh.”

  Rob glanced down at the headline. Revenge Killer on West London Murder Spree.

  “Christ, how’d they find out?” He grabbed the paper off the desk and scanned the first paragraph. All three of their victims were mentioned, along with the brutal nature of each attack.

  “They always do eventually,” intoned Lawrence. He was not impressed. “They’ve linked Yousef’s, Patterson’s and Bartlett’s murders. They’re talking about a serial killer. They’ve even suggested it might be a woman! How the fuck do they know that?”

  Rob went cold.

  No, surely not. She wouldn’t do that to him. But then, she was the only person he’d told, and she was currently very pissed off with him. It might not be her, he rationalized, hoping for the best. His entire team also knew. Any one of them could have leaked it to the press or told a friend or a family member who’d mentioned it to a willing journalist. Hell, even Jo could have inadvertently mentioned it to one of her colleagues at the National Crime Agency. That’s how these things went.

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  He needed to speak to Yvette.

  “Well, regardless, Vicky wants to have a word, so go see her now. The conference is at four outside the building, so make sure you’re prepared. We have to be seen to be on top of this.”

  * * *

  Vicky Bainbridge, their press liaison officer, was based on the second floor with the other administrative departments. It was only the murder squad who were on the top floor.

  Rob knocked on the door and a throaty feminine voice called out, “Come in.”

  He went in and smiled. “Vicky, how are you?”

  They didn’t bump into each other very often, but when they did Vicky always had a friendly, bordering on flirty, smile for him. Rob liked her. She was a confident, attractive woman who knew how to handle the press. Something he was clueless at.

  “Good, Rob. It’s nice to see you.” She gave him a little hug. “Please, take a seat. Let’s go through what you’re going to say.”

  Rob sat down. He had no clue what he was going to say, so he started with the basics. Twenty minutes later they had his “speech” outlined, and happily, it ticked all the right boxes — assertive, showed they had the investigation under control, allayed the public’s fears about a serial killer.

  “And strictly no questions at the end,” Vicky told him. “This isn’t an appeal, this is a statement updating the public on the status of the investigation. Don’t get suckered into saying anything more.”

  Rob nodded. “I’ve got it. Thanks, Vicky. See you at four?”

  She nodded. “Of course.”

  * * *

  The next couple of hours flew by. An ecstatic Mike and Jeff were dispatched to the Pear Tree Hotel to interview every available staff member, including the outsourced cleaning service and kitchen staff. They’d been told to collect statements from anyone who was on the premises on Thursday 30 January. “Check everyone,” Rob had told them.

  Guadalupe, the escort who’d been with Doug in December was brought in. She’d been away for a couple of days because it was half-term and her eight-year-old son was off school. Rob had interviewed her himself, because he hadn’t envisaged she’d have much to contribute to the investigation. It was simply a matter of dotting the i’s and crossing the t’s.

  Guadalupe was a stunning Afro-Caribbean woman in her late twenties. She had poise and style and could have easily been a model. Rob wondered if she’d still look so great in ten years’ time. He resisted the urge to advise her to leave the industry and do something else, anything else, to get away from selling herself for sex. It wasn’t his place.

  Her real name was Sharon Leonard and she lived in a flat in Fitzrovia with her mother and son. She was an exotic dancer and picked up some extra work as an escort. “It’s not a full-time thing,” she’d explained. “I don’t get no maintenance from Mikey’s dad, so I have to do it.”

  If only Tesco paid more, thought Rob.

  Guadalupe, or rather Sharon, told him Doug was “pretty rough” but “all right”. He liked to assert his dominance, but he wasn’t a big guy, “if you get my drift,” so it wasn’t painful, and he never slapped the girls around. He preferred to hold them down instead.

  Sounded like a real charmer.

  She didn’t recognize Yousef or Patterson. Rob watched her eyes as she studied the pictures and could tell she was shocked by their lifeless expressions. He was pretty sure she wasn’t lying to him. Not like Amber.

  * * *

  Rob finally got hold of Yvette. He’d tried to call her several times the last few hours, but each time it had diverted to voicemail.

  “Darling, I’ve been trying to get hold of you,” he said. “There’s something I need to ask you.” It was freezing outside on the pavement. The air was heavy with cold like it was going to snow. He could feel it pressing down on him, seeping into his collar and up his sleeves. He turned his back on the wind, which didn’t make much difference.

  She snorted gently and he could imagine her pouty face. “I’ve been busy.”

  “Busy doing what?”

  “Helping Naomi.” Her sister ran a small cooking school from her house in Sou
thfields, he recalled. He was surprised. Yvette had never shown any interest in cooking before. She was more of a canapés-and-cocktails kind of girl. Her diet was limited to salad, soup and cigarettes.

  “That’s great.” At least she was doing something constructive and not mooching around. “How are you feeling?”

  “Better than being at home,” she said, which meant she was staying put for the time being. It was probably for the best, anyway. The case was hotting up, and this way he would be free to work the long hours it would take to catch this person.

  “I miss you,” he said. The wind whistled around the detached brick building. He hunched over.

  “What do you want, Rob?” Her voice was soft but the bitterness was still there. He sighed. Married eight months and already his wife had moved out. Was he really that bad a husband?

  “You remember what I told you the other day, about the killer being a woman?”

  “Yes?”

  “Did you tell anyone?”

  A heavy pause. “I may have mentioned it at dinner the other night.”

  Shit. He kicked the wall with his boot.

  “Sweetheart, I told you it was a secret. It’s in all the papers today.” What the hell was he going to tell Lawrence and the others? That he was the leak? He cringed and shook his head.

  “I think people should know, for their safety.”

  He sighed. “Except now the killer knows too, which makes it that much harder for me to catch her.” Why couldn’t she understand that?

  “Je suis désolée. I didn’t realize it was such a big secret. Naomi and Harrison had friends over for dinner and we were talking about you. I didn’t know they were going to tell anybody.” She did sound sincere. Perhaps she really hadn’t realized.

  “It’s okay, don’t worry about it. What’s done is done.” It was his fault for mentioning it to her in the first place. The blame lay with him. He wondered what they’d been talking about at dinner. It couldn’t have been good. It was a wonder his ears weren’t burning.

  “Any idea when you’ll be home?” he asked.

  “When you catch this killer,” she stated. “I don’t feel safe there by myself knowing that psycho is out there.”

  I’m doing my best, he wanted to yell. She made it sound like it was his fault a serial killer was on the loose.

  “Are you still seeing Becca?” he asked wearily.

  “Yes, she came yesterday.”

  “Good. I’m proud of you.” That was something at least. “I’ve got to go now. I’ll call you later.”

  “Sure. Bye, Rob.”

  Chapter 28

  Rob glared at the sea of reporters outside the police building. Their voices seemed to merge into one continuous chant.

  “Do you have any leads?”

  “Is there a serial killer out there?”

  “What are you doing to catch this person?”

  “Is it true you’re looking for a female murderer?”

  The questions flew at him from all angles. Luckily, he’d got his speech out of the way, assuring the public that they were doing everything possible to catch the killer. He thanked them all for coming, although he doubted if anyone heard him, and darted back inside the building. No wonder Lawrence delegated the press statements to him.

  “Bloody hell,” he murmured to Vicky who’d stayed by his side for moral support. “I’m glad that’s over.”

  “You did well.” She smiled alluringly. “Let me buy you a coffee to celebrate.”

  He grimaced and squeezed her arm. “Actually, do you mind if we take a rain check? I’ve got to prepare for an interrogation.”

  “Sure, no problem.” A flicker of disappointment crossed her face, but she hid it with her lip-gloss smile. “Take care, Rob.” She headed for the elevator, leaving him alone in the silent foyer.

  The duty sergeant gave him a nod as he walked towards the stairwell. Now he was alone, his ears were ringing, a high-pitched sound that permeated his brain. The pressure was on. They had to catch this killer before she struck again. If they didn’t, it would be his head on the block. The last thing he needed was for the National Crime Agency to waltz in and take over the investigation, but that’s exactly what would happen if they didn’t find a lead soon. Lawrence was already fielding calls from Scotland Yard, who were worried the Putney murder squad were out of their depth. He gritted his teeth as he climbed the stairs to the third floor. He’d show them.

  * * *

  Shortly after six, Rob, accompanied by Jenny, went to interview Mary. They greeted her cordially and offered her a cup of tea, but she declined. The interrogation room was cold and sterile with blank walls that seemed to close in on you. In the middle was a steel table and four chairs, bolted to the ground. There was nothing to look at other than the cameras positioned in the two opposing corners to catch the suspect from a side and front angle.

  A recorder sat on the table, its red light flashing ominously, indicating the interview was in session. Mary sat upright, her thin arms folded in front of her. Despite being in her late twenties, she appeared almost childlike as she watched them with wide eyes.

  Rob got down to business. “Can you state your name for the recording?”

  “Mary Larson.” He could hear the tension in her voice.

  He tried to allay her fears. “Mary, you’re here because we need to ask you some questions about the men that were murdered. You have been cautioned but you’re not under arrest. You also have the right to a solicitor, should you wish to have one present.”

  She shrugged. “I don’t need one. I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  Rob smiled at her. He knew she’d waived her right. The duty sergeant informed all persons of interest about their rights before they were interrogated. Suited him fine. “Okay, let’s get started.” He nodded at Jenny, who positioned three photographs on the table in front of her. “Do you recognize any of these men?”

  She glanced down, then shook her head. “Are they the ones who were killed?”

  “Yes. Take a good look.”

  She did so, her eyes flitting from the first to the second and then to the third, before re-settling on him. “I don’t know them.”

  “Mary, Francine told us that before you were a telephone operator, you were a sex worker. Is that right?”

  Mary seemed surprised by the sudden change in direction, but she nodded. “For a short while, yes, although I didn’t have any bookings. I couldn’t go through with it. When I cancelled, I thought Francine was going to fire me, but she didn’t.”

  “She hired you instead?” said Rob.

  Mary nodded.

  “That was nice of her.” This from Jenny.

  Mary managed a weak smile. “She was very kind to me.”

  “How long ago was that?” asked Rob.

  Mary thought for a moment. “It must have been about a year ago.”

  “What did you do before that?” Rob asked.

  She pursed her lips. “Waitressing, bar work, promotional stuff, that sort of thing.”

  “Was there a reason why you didn’t go through with it?” asked Jenny, catching her off guard again.

  She blinked. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, did you have a bad experience with a man in the past, something that made you decide not to go through with it?”

  “Oh, I see. No, nothing like that. In fact, I had a very happy childhood. It was only when my father passed away that I decided to get into the escort business. My mother and I needed the money, or we’d lose the house.” She dropped her head. “We ended up losing it anyway because I couldn’t make the mortgage repayments. Office admin doesn’t pay as well as prostitution.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Jenny said.

  “Where is your mother now?” asked Rob.

  “She’s in semi-sheltered housing near Reading.” She didn’t elaborate. That would be easy enough to check.

  “Mary, did you make Amber’s booking on the twenty-seventh of January with a man c
alled Adam?” Rob pointed to Yousef’s photograph.

  “Yes, I did, but I didn’t know who he was.”

  “That’s okay. Do you remember speaking to him on the phone?”

  “Yes, he’s used us before. Not Amber, but other girls. He doesn’t like using the same girl more than once.”

  “That’s unusual, isn’t it?” asked Jenny. “Don’t the punters like to stick to their favourite escorts?”

  “Sometimes.” She shrugged again. “I don’t know. He wasn’t like that.”

  “Did you also make a booking for Amber at the Pear Tree Hotel on the thirtieth of January?”

  She thought for a moment. “Was that the prank caller?”

  “Prank caller?” Rob stared at her.

  “Yeah, Amber got to this guy’s hotel room and he told her to piss off. He said he hadn’t called anyone.”

  “You think it was a joke?”

  She nodded. “It happens a lot. People think it’s funny to waste the escort’s time. Sometimes kids do it to prank their friends, that sort of thing.”

  “I see.” Some prank, he thought.

  “Okay, what about Doug Bartlett?” He nodded to the third photograph.

  Mary frowned. “I don’t remember that name.”

  “Are you sure? According to his phone records he rang the agency at 12.39 p.m. on Wednesday the fifth of February, the day he died.”

  She pursed her lips and shrugged. “I’m sorry, I don’t remember talking to him. Could he have used a different name?”

  “It’s possible,” said Rob. He studied a printout of the agency’s system log for that day. There were no appointments booked between 12 and 1 p.m.

  Rob gazed at the paper in his hand. “The call lasted over three minutes. If it wasn’t you he spoke to, then who was it?”

  “I don’t know, maybe Francine? I do take a lunch break, you know.” Her gaze was steady and slightly accusatory. He sighed. They were getting nowhere. Mary had no reason to kill these men, she hadn’t been sexually assaulted in the past and she had no history of actual sex work. Frustrated, he pushed his chair back, got up and exited the room, leaving Jenny to tie up the interview.