A cup of tea, thinks Cody. A nice steaming mug of tea in the café downstairs – that’s what we all need right now.
Cody looks up at the evening sky. It comes as a shock to see how black it is. He has become accustomed to being in the tiny bubble of brightness created by the cathedral’s external spot lamps and those set up by the police. The white light bounces off the cathedral stone and the plastic awning erected over the body to protect it from prying eyes.
Blunt reappears after a couple of minutes. Picks up where she left off. ‘So what’s she doing here? Strange place to be touting for business. Mind you, when you think about some of the things Catholic priests get up to . . .’
‘We don’t think it was business, ma’am. Apparently she was a regular here.’
‘A regular? You mean inside the cathedral? You mean she came here to pray?’
Blunt’s quick-fire questions are rattled off as her mind takes her in the direction she was probably hoping to avoid.
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘And she was in there today?’
‘Yes. The woman at the reception desk remembers her.’
‘Shit! You’re telling me this is definitely connected to the death of Mary Cowper, aren’t you?’
Cody nods. ‘It’s looking that way.’
‘Shit. Has Stroud been here yet?’
‘Been and gone. His preliminary opinion is that Cassie was probably battered to death with a hammer or some such.’
‘Just like Mary.’
‘Yes.’
Blunt takes a moment to look around. She turns to look along Hope Street towards the Anglican cathedral.
‘What is this?’ she muses. ‘Two cathedrals, with a murder at each. An attack on the Protestants, and then the Catholics.’ Her eyes widen in alarm. ‘Bloody hell. If there’s even the slightest indication that there’s a Muslim behind all this . . .’
She lets the thought trail away. It’s too early to be making wild and unfounded conjectures, and she knows it.
‘All right,’ she says. ‘Let’s get to work. Talk to everyone you can find who may have seen something. That includes people in the cathedral, the gift shop and the café.’ She gestures vaguely across the street. ‘It’s a Saturday, so most of these university buildings will probably be empty, but knock on doors anyway. And see what you can do about grabbing any CCTV footage.’
She pauses, her face grave.
‘We have to go through the motions, but my guess is that we’ll come up with nothing. Unless last time was a fluke, our killer is careful. He knows how to keep his identity hidden. Our best bet is to figure out what makes him tick. So when you’re done here, I’ll see you back at base. Make sure you’ve got your thinking caps on.’
*
‘When you’re ready, Grace.’
The signal comes from Blunt, standing at the front of the incident room. Grace notes that, of all the people in the room, only DS Cody turns to look at her, an expression of mild surprise on his face.
He realises, she thinks. He is aware that it’s after ten o’clock at night, and that I don’t have to be here. I’m a civilian. I probably won’t even get overtime pay for this. I could be at home in my slippers, drinking cocoa. Or ripping my legs to shreds.
Cody smiles his appreciation at her, and she feels weak at the knees. She throws him a hesitant smile back. Nobody else notices or cares.
Responding to Blunt’s request, Grace hits a key on her computer. A close-up image of Mary Cowper appears on the large monitor in front of the squad.
Oh, yes, she thinks. They love their screen now. Now that they’ve got someone who knows how to work the thing. They should give me a pay rise just for that.
‘Mary Cowper,’ says Blunt. ‘Age forty-two. A schoolteacher. Kept herself to herself. Deeply religious. Regular churchgoer. Charity giver. Very few friends, and apparently even fewer enemies. Other than her dog, no loves in her life, but then no obvious haters either.’
Blunt nods towards Grace, and Grace hits another key.
I need to teach them how to use the remote, Grace thinks. If they’re just going to see me as a glorified button-presser . . .
‘Cassie Harris. Age twenty-eight. Sex worker. Arrested numerous times for prostitution and drugs offences. This is the most recent mug shot from her arrest file. In her line of work she will have come into contact with all kinds of unsavoury characters. Some of them may have been psychos, or crazy on drugs. Some of them may have beaten her up before. She may have owed money. Sad to say, but the death of a prostitute is less of a surprise than the death of Mary Cowper. So there we have it: a saint and a sinner. What links the two?’
There is a silence of a few seconds. DC Webley is the first to speak.
‘To be honest, we’re not yet sure that this is the same killer. What if it’s a revenge killing? Someone kills a Protestant, so a Protestant takes out a Catholic?’
‘She wasn’t a Catholic, though,’ says Ferguson. ‘The story we got from the clergy at the cathedral was that Cassie just liked to go there to pray.’
‘The killer might not have known that, though. If you want to find a Catholic to kill, pick someone who’s just been praying in a Catholic church. Most times that’d be a pretty safe bet.’
‘True,’ Ferguson admits. ‘In which case maybe all this background work we’ve been doing on Mary Cowper has been wasted effort. Maybe all that was wanted was a Protestant – any Protestant. Same goes for today. In fact, maybe all that matters is that they’re religious. Our killer, if there is just one killer involved, could have reasons for wanting to murder people who have a strong belief in God.’
Blunt nods. ‘It’s possible, but I hope it’s not true. It’s going to make our job a hell of a lot harder if it’s as random and ill-considered as that. For now, let’s work on the assumption that there are deeper reasons for these homicides. Any other thoughts?’
DS Cody speaks up next: ‘You emphasised the differences between the two women, ma’am, but there are also similarities.’ He turns and faces Grace again. ‘Grace, could you put the two photos up side by side, please?’
He asks so nicely, she thinks. Such boyish charm. How could I turn him down?
A couple of key presses later, and his request is satisfied.
Says Cody, ‘Okay, so they’d hardly pass as twins. But they’re not a million miles apart, either. Similar height, weight and build. Shoulder-length fair hair in both cases. I know that Cassie was only twenty-eight, but she had a hard life. She looks close to Mary’s age in these photos.’
‘You’re saying our killer has a preference? A type?’ Blunt asks.
Cody shrugs. ‘Maybe. I just think we should be aware of it.’
‘Agreed,’ says Blunt. ‘Another similarity is the method of killing, of course. Which is another reason to suspect that this is the work of one man. We haven’t released details of Mary Cowper’s injuries, so how would anyone know to kill Cassie that way? Taking a lump hammer to the head and face of both victims can’t be coincidence.’
Webley joins in again: ‘While we’re on the subject of similarities, there’s something else we should consider.’
‘Go on.’
‘Time of death. Both women were killed late on a Saturday afternoon. Maybe that tells us something about the killer. Maybe he works during the week, and Saturday is his day off. Or maybe he has a Saturday job in the Hope Street area.’
‘Good thinking,’ says Blunt. ‘Go with that. See if you can come up with anything else that might put a person in that area at exactly the same time each week.’
Blunt points up at the screen. ‘We need to look for connections between these two. Did they ever meet? Was one of the teachers at Mary’s school also a client of Cassie? There’s got to be something there.’
Says Cody, ‘We can’t ignore the religious angle, either. That’s got to be key to this. Cassie was a prostitute. She was used to getting in cars and being alone with strange men. Our killer could have chosen a
ny one of a thousand places to bump her off without any risk of being seen. But he chose the cathedral. Why was that? Did he even know how easy it would have been to meet up with her elsewhere, and in complete privacy?’
‘I can answer that.’
She says it quietly, but it’s picked up by the others. As the heads turn, Grace feels the familiar churning in her stomach.
‘I, er, I’ve been doing some research,’ she says. ‘It wasn’t hard to find this . . .’
She presses some more keys. The monitor at the front changes to show an online version of a newspaper article. It makes use of a stock photograph of a woman standing on a street corner at night. Next to that is the headline, ‘Our job is in the sex trade, but we’re people too.’
‘This appeared in the Clarion several months ago,’ Grace explains. ‘It was written by a reporter called Martin Dobson. Some of you may have heard of him.’
She sees the reaction on everyone’s face, especially Cody’s. They won’t forget ‘Dobby’ in a hurry.
‘But that’s by the by,’ says Grace. ‘The article contains interviews with several prostitutes, and tries to show that, once you get past the nature of their work, they’re normal people just like everyone else. Some have kids. Some have other jobs. And then there’s this bit . . .’
Another key press. The screen zooms in on a small section of the article. Grace reads it out:
‘Cassie, 28, has plans to get out of this life, and has turned to God for help. Although not a Catholic, she turns up at the Metropolitan cathedral most Saturday afternoons in the hope that her prayers will be answered.
‘ “I’m not expecting miracles,” says Cassie. “I know I have to do the hard work myself to make changes in my life. But all of us can do with a little help now and again to put us on the straight and narrow. In my case, that help comes from God.”
‘As it does for many women in her position, drug addiction complicates the situation for Cassie. But it’s a vicious circle, as Cassie explains:
‘ “What I do on the streets is a quick and easy way to get money for the drugs, but it also means the money is gone in the blink of an eye. I can’t save up for anything else. I can’t buy nice things. Sometimes I don’t have enough left over to pay the rent. What I’ve realised is that I can’t keep going on like this for ever, and with God’s help, I won’t have to.” ’
Grace looks around at all the faces staring at her, attentive to her every word.
‘Her photograph isn’t in the paper,’ she says, ‘but I imagine it wouldn’t be that difficult to single her out from the people who turn up and pray at the cathedral every Saturday afternoon. The killer may even have followed her previously, just to check.’
‘So,’ says Blunt, ‘the question is – was Cassie Harris singled out? Was she targeted by someone who may have read this article? If our killer needed a religious sinner, then Cassie certainly fitted the bill. Or was she just in the wrong place at the wrong time? Find me some answers, folks.’
22
It was useful information, but not the breakthrough Grace was hoping for. She hasn’t exactly cracked the case. She knows that anybody with a smattering of computer know-how could have found that newspaper article.
And what has it told them, other than that it may have aided the killer in finding a suitable prey?
No, not good enough. I have to do better than this, she thinks. I can do better than this.
But she observes the proceedings of the next couple of days with growing dismay. Sees, too, how the MIT detectives become increasingly frustrated.
They talk to a seemingly endless array of prostitutes, clients of prostitutes, and known drug dealers. Some of those brought into the station for questioning are characters whom Grace would definitely not like to encounter in a dark alley. They look as though they’d cut your throat for a couple of quid.
And after all the questioning, all the footwork, all the paperwork, they seem no further forward in the case. Nobody knows why Mary Cowper or Cassie Harris were murdered, let alone who did it.
This would be an ideal time, thinks Grace. These detectives are hungry, desperate for information. If I could give them something – anything to help them . . .
And then she finds it.
Again it’s not huge. It doesn’t crack the case wide open. But it’s important. Boy, is it important.
She has her recognition programs to thank for this. With many of the buildings around the cathedral closed on Sundays, it’s Monday before images from CCTV cameras in the area start coming in. Without delay, Grace puts her software slaves to work.
When she presents her findings in the incident room, she feels her confidence flooding back. It goes like this sometimes. Waves of depression and self-loathing interspersed with bouts of euphoria.
This is one of the peaks. Hardly Everest, but still a moment to remember, to savour. She can feel the electricity in the room as all heads focus on the single image she has displayed on the monitor.
It shows a figure on the steps of the Metropolitan cathedral. A man wearing a dark padded coat with pale grey contrast stitching over the pocket zips.
They finally have their confirmation that the same person is responsible for both homicides.
*
Webley wonders how to broach this.
It’s a tricky subject, and so she is distracted. Most of what Parker is saying to her goes unheard. She just nods and smiles.
She has made him a shepherd’s pie. At least, she thinks she has. She can never remember the difference between shepherd’s pie and cottage pie. If it’s lamb, it must be shepherd’s pie, she reasons. Because shepherds look after sheep, right? Whereas beef would have made it a cottage pie, because . . . because what? Cows live in cottages?
Whatever, it’s his favourite. He always says so. This man who is so used to wonderful hotel restaurant dining really enjoys this meal. Couple it with an expensive red wine, and he’ll be putty in her hands. That’s her thinking.
She’s not convinced it’s going to work.
She’s not even sure she should mention it.
More wine. For both of them. Soften some of those sharp edges the situation seems to have.
‘Lovely,’ he says.
She’s not sure whether he’s referring to the food or the wine or her or this opportunity for blissful relaxation. But ‘lovely’ is a good word. Shows he’s in a contented frame of mind. Receptive to unusual propositions, even.
So here goes . . .
‘You mind if I ask you something?’ she says.
He waves his wine glass in the air. ‘Anything,’ he answers.
‘Anything’ is also a good word. Invites her to open the door.
‘Okay, so you know I was talking to you about Cody the other day?’
Parker looks up at the ceiling, as though casting his mind back.
‘Arsehole.’
‘What?’
‘I think you called him an arsehole, if I remember correctly.’
‘Yes, yes, I did, but, well, I’ve been thinking.’
‘And you’ve thought of a better word than arsehole?’
‘No, that’s not what I’ve been thinking about.’
‘Okay. So what’s on your mind?’
‘Cody . . . he’s got problems.’
‘Yes, I know.’
‘And he’s been acting really strange lately. Stranger than usual, I mean.’
‘Right.’
‘And I have to work with him. I mean, I have to get on with him. And, deep down, he’s a really good bloke.’
‘Megan, can you get to the point?’
She takes a breath. ‘All right. I want to ask Cody to come round for dinner.’
Silence, of course. She expected the silence. Expects a bit of a fight now, too. She knows she’s asking a lot.
‘You want to invite Cody to come to dinner?’
‘Yes.’
‘You don’t mean Christmas dinner?’
&
nbsp; ‘No. Just dinner. Ordinary dinner. Some time in the next few days.’
‘Here? At your house?’
‘Yes.’
‘Just you and him?’
She reaches out and grasps his hand. ‘God, no. This isn’t meant to be anything weird. I want you there. The three of us.’
Another pause.
‘Why?’
‘Why what?’
‘You just said it’s not meant to be anything weird, but don’t you think it is weird, just a bit?’
‘Well . . .’
‘You want me, your fiancé, to sit down and have a meal and make polite conversation with your former boyfriend. Right?’
‘Yes, but . . . but please stop thinking of him as my ex. He’s a friend. And he’s having problems. I want to help him. I want us both to try to help him.’
‘You were furious at him the other day. What’s changed?’
‘Nothing. He’s still being a knob. If it was anyone else, I wouldn’t have anything to do with them. But I started thinking to myself, what if it’s not his fault? What if there are things going on inside his head that are making him act that way? I can’t just stand by and watch him suffer like that.’
‘If he’s that bad, should he really be working on high-profile murder cases?’
It’s a good question. One she has asked herself many times. Is she merely compounding the problem by keeping quiet about Cody?
‘I don’t know. I don’t think it’s my call to make. Cody is still a good copper. He’s doing a good job, and that’s all that matters.’
‘Until he freaks out again. He’s got away with it so far, but what if he does something that puts one of his colleagues in jeopardy?’
She doesn’t want to answer that too directly. Doesn’t want to tell Parker that she has already experienced one or two close calls of that nature.
‘All the more reason for helping him. Please, Parker. He’s a good guy. Give him a chance. I think you could get to like him.’
Parker sighs. ‘It means that much to you, does it?’
‘Yes. Yes, it does. But only if you’ll be a part of it.’
Parker drains his glass. Places it carefully on the table.
Hope to Die: A gripping new serial killer thriller (The DS Nathan Cody series) Page 13