No Safe Home: the gripping new crime thriller everybody is talking about

by Tara Lyons

  “Can I get you gentlemen a drink?”

  “No thank you, Ms Taylor.”

  “Oh, please call me Karen,” she said, slowly lowering herself down into the beige armchair covered in a flowery design.

  Hamilton and Clarke sat on a miss-matched burgundy sofa on the other side of the room. His arse fell into the soft cushion a lot further than he was expecting, and he adjusted himself, sitting forward on the edge.

  “Karen, we wanted to ask you a few questions about your neighbour, Scarlett Mitchell.”

  “I told the young black girl, the one in the uniform who was here when they found the bodies… those two poor souls....” She made the sign of the cross over her chest and reached forward to grab a packet of cigarettes.

  Hamilton thought of the attending officer he had spoken to briefly when he had arrived at the scene. He understood, only too well, how she must have felt that day, but it didn’t excuse the lack of detail in the statement. He decided a quiet word with the officer, a friendly warning not to mess up in future, would suffice as a one-off.

  “We know you did, Karen, but we just need to clarify a few things,” he continued. She lit a cigarette and eased back into the chair, her body visibly relaxing with the nicotine fix it received. “You told our officer you saw a man entering Scarlett Mitchell’s home. Can you remember when it was you saw him?”

  “Not really, we’re talking weeks, dear. It was very early in the morning, and I only noticed because I had got up to use the toilet and heard something outside. I don’t usually like to pry, but as I was in the hallway anyway, I had a quick peek through the spy-hole.”

  “Did you manage to see what he looked like, or what he was wearing?”

  “No. My door is directly opposite so I only saw the back of him. He was tall and had the hood of his coat up. I did think it strange he was wearing gloves but then, who knows how cold it gets in the early hours of the morning? I hardly ever venture out and I’m not one to judge.”

  “And what about Miss Mitchell? Did you hear anything she said?”

  “She wasn’t there, dear. We might seem on top of each other in this block, but it’s a solid building. I can’t hear through walls.”

  “What do you mean she wasn’t there, Karen? Did Miss Mitchell open the door?” Hamilton shifted closer to her, listening intently as she exhaled another puff of smoke into the already misty room.

  “No, the man had a set of keys. It was the noise of them jangling together that made me look. I assumed she’d found herself a nice boyfriend.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The incident room was at its usual height of business as Hamilton joined his team. Rocky had comfortably taken over Wedlock’s workstation next to Fraser, and looked much smarter now he’d changed into a shirt. Hamilton thought of his old colleague and wondered how the sergeant’s mother was recovering; he vowed to call Les and check in when things were less hectic.

  Their evidence board conveyed more details than when he had left; images of Tony Jones and Fred Crawford had been added. Crawford looked younger here than in the photograph from Scarlett’s apartment, and the non-smiling pose signified a classic driving licence shot.

  “Looks like you have an update for us, Fraser,” Hamilton said purely out of habit, but immediately regretted ignoring Rocky. The lad may only be here as a pair of helping hands, but it was clear Rocky wanted to climb the ranks, otherwise why would he have volunteered for the role? “Let me bring you up to speed with what we’ve discovered from Audrey and our visit to Scarlett Mitchell’s house.”

  Clarke used the time to make a much needed round of teas and coffees, re-joining them at the exact moment Hamilton opened the floor for information from Fraser and Rocky.

  “I was looking into the two female victims, sir,” she explained. “Frustratingly, I’m still waiting for their financial information; I’ll chase that up as soon as we’re finished here. But, from what I’ve uncovered from their laptops, both women were users of online dating or friendship websites.”

  Hamilton leaned against the wall, his fingers wrapped around the hot mug as Clarke perched on the table between Fraser and Rocky. No one interrupted her.

  “From what I can ascertain, they were not members of the same website, and they did use their real names. I’m combing through the list of people they both interacted with to see if I can find an overlap. This information prompted me to look deeper into their social media activity and, in the last year, neither Scarlett or Emma communicated with anyone this way.”

  Clarke shook his head. “No way! They were both in their early thirties. You’re telling me they weren’t using Facebook, or Twitter, or even Instagram, never sharing pictures of their kids?”

  “Contrary to what you may believe, not everyone enjoys publicising every single detail about their lives,” Fraser retorted. “We’ve already established they were lonely women, and if someone truly wants to remain undetected, ignoring social media is a great start. However, they both had semi-active email accounts. Scarlett was in conversation with local schools about enrolment and Emma chatted with her friend, Lynn, and searched for part-time jobs; but, what I can’t find is anything to suggest she was invited for an interview.”

  “Okay, well the online websites are a good connection to start with,” Hamilton finally said. “Make that your top priority for now, but I want to know as soon as you have some financial information. What were these women doing for an income?”

  His team nodded in agreement, but added nothing further, obviously feeling as irritated as he did. Sometimes, sieving through the mud of insignificant details could be just as difficult as working on a case with no evidence at all. Hamilton felt they were all being pulled in different directions of thought and, for the time-being at least, he couldn’t envisage there being any resolve.

  “What about our mystery man?” he asked.

  “That’s my cue then,” Rocky replied.

  There was an air of confidence about the newest member of the team; a quiet cockiness that could also be construed as eagerness, and therefore a likeable quality in Hamilton’s book. He hoped it would stay at this level, and the secondment would not create a complete arsehole of Rocky – he’d worked with plenty enough of those in his time.

  “Okay, Rocky, what do we know?”

  “Fred Crawford was murdered nine months ago, in Luton, stabbed in the abdomen and died before arriving at the hospital. He disturbed a teenager mugging an elderly lady and received the fatal blow for his efforts.”

  “You see, this is why members of the public are so reluctant to get involved and help the community,” Clarke exclaimed. “You never know when it’s a sad case of wrong place, wrong time.”

  Hamilton straightened up and placed his empty mug on the desk. “How does this connect to our victim?”

  “Crawford was Scarlett Mitchell’s fiancé and Kyle’s father, sir,” Rocky continued. “I rang around and managed to have a quick chat with one of the officers involved with Crawford’s murder case. He told me the man died in Scarlett’s arms in the middle of the road; she was obviously distraught. The robbing teenager was arrested soon after and convicted. I was also able to get a previous address for Scarlett Mitchell.”

  “Well done, Rocky,” Hamilton said, and turned to examine the evidence board. “I like the headway we’re making with the victims, but it’s the killer…”

  His eyes roamed over the crime scene photographs, taking in the physical positioning of the half-naked victims, and the lack of obvious disruption to the homes.

  “Both Scarlett and Emma were assaulted and attacked on their beds. It’s personal and intimate,” Fraser called over his shoulder.

  Clarke stood and walked closer to the board, then turned to face them. “They’re also lying on their backs, which could suggest our attacker wanted the women to watch what he was doing to them.”

  “So perhaps the fibre isn’t from a balaclava,” Fraser replied.

  Rocky grumbled. “It still could
be… he wore it so they wouldn’t recognise him, but my guess is, it’s more about him having power over them, and watching the fear he generates.”

  “Unfortunately, it doesn’t matter if they recognised him or not,” Hamilton said. “But I agree with Rocky about the attacker’s controlling trait. Look at the photos, there’s no gags or bindings restricting the women. He could be physically overpowering them and didn’t need restraints, or he’s used the women’s desire to protect their children against them. Perhaps he promised not to harm their sons if they didn’t struggle.”

  “I think we’d be crazy to ignore the mysterious man entering Scarlett’s house… he had keys,” Clarke said. “And we could say the same for Emma’s apartment, as there was no forced entry.”

  “So, our attacker either knew the women, or was at least close enough to them to steal their keys?” Fraser’s question hung in the air.

  Hamilton contemplated whether the connection was purely the fact these women were lonely, single mothers. He finally pulled his eyes away from the evidence and addressed his team.

  “We’ve uncovered nothing to make us think the sons were the targets, so it’s vital we find a stronger link between these female victims. Fraser and Rocky, I want you to head over to the previous address we have for Scarlett Mitchell. Speak to the neighbours and find any friends she might have had. Let’s see if we can build up a picture of this woman, and why she fell under the radar six months ago.”

  Rocky glanced at his watch. “Sir, do you mind if I go straight home from there? It’s not a bad drive from Luton to Welwyn, but to detour back through London would be a mission.”

  “That’s where you live, mate, Welwyn?” Clarke asked.

  “At the moment, I do. I’m in the middle of a messy divorce. A friend of mine has been putting me up for a few weeks, but the ex wants all my stuff out of the house by tonight. It’s just another reason why I want to find a place in London.”

  Hamilton smiled at Rocky, surprised by the lad’s revelation. He really hadn’t pegged Rocky as the married type, and wondered whether his judgement skills might be on the decline.

  “How old are you, Rocky?” he enquired.

  “Twenty-eight, sir.” He grinned, and casually rubbed his fingers over his neatly trimmed stubble. “I know, my youthful looks probably fooled you. They do everyone.”

  Hamilton rolled his eyes, but grunted a laugh. He couldn’t help it, the lad brought a freshness with him. Banter existed in the team, it needed to with the horrors they saw on a daily basis, but there was something about Rocky. Something Hamilton found engaging.

  The office phone shrilled and they waited in silence while Clarke took the call, grunting and raising his eyebrows to gain their interest.

  “That was one of the officers who attended the crime scene with us,” Clarke informed them after he’d ended the call. “You’ll never guess who’s downstairs in custody for aggravated assault… Tony Jones. They’ve asked if you want to go down and have a chat with the arresting officer.”

  Hamilton frowned. “Yeah, I bloody well do. I want to know what’s going on. Okay, Rocky and Fraser head home after your interview – I want a full investigation on the neighbourhood, noting absolutely anything of interest. I’ll check this out and we’ll reconvene for a briefing at eight in the morning.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Sleep evaded Katy as it always did. Her mind crammed with images of Brad and Matthew and then Alexina; overwhelming anxieties of how quickly her life had changed again in just a few months. Resigned to the fact she couldn’t relax, Katy got up, and ensured the keys were still hanging in the lock, and the door was secure. In the bathroom, she shed her clothes, keeping the light switched off so the noise of the extractor fan wouldn’t wake her son. Led by the moonlight shining through the frosted-glass window, she stood in the bath and turned the shower on.

  The hot water poured over Katy’s porcelain skin. She closed her eyes, and rolled her head from side to side, the neck muscles clicking in protest of the stretch. A gentle touch caressed the back of her thigh. She jumped, clinging frantically to the window ledge for support and spun around. The fallen sponge sat innocently in the bath soaking up the water, and her quickening heartbeat returned to a steady pace. Katy routinely washed, turned the water off and climbed back out of the bath. The apartment was cloaked in stillness again.

  Katy wrapped herself in a towel and hurried along the hallway to her bedroom. Pulling a fresh T-shirt over her head, she froze mid-action at the unmistakable sound of a glass bottle connecting with the kitchen tiles. Her feet refused to move. Her hands trembled as she lowered the material over her body, standing rigid while silently listening. The squeak of the floorboard echoed through her silent home. The crunch of leather deafening.

  She tip-toed to the side of her bed and retrieved the baseball bat from its usual position behind the headboard. With a blank mind, her robotic and automatic actions urged her forward. Katy crept towards her bedroom door with the weapon clutched in her clammy hands. Another squeak. Deep breathing, so alien from her own, came from somewhere nearby. Katy desperately wanted to switch a light on, to convince herself she was over-reacting. But she knew that was a lie.

  Her heartbeat raged in protest as she slid along the wall into the hallway, catching the whiff of a familiar aftershave. Katy took a small step, glided out into the middle of the landing and turned the corner. There he stood, towering over her and staring into her eyes. She shrieked, dropping the bat as she tried to get away. His hand reached for her bare neck.

  He tightened his grip and she struggled for air. Katy thought of her son. She thrust her knee into his groin with such force, he released his hold and tumbled to the floor. She grabbed the baseball bat and sprinted past the intruder into her son’s room.

  “Frankie! Frankie!” she screamed, tearing the duvet from his tiny body. “Get up, we have to leave.”

  As much as she didn’t want to scare him, panic gripped her. The aggressive moans from the other side of the door increased in their intensity. Frankie mumbled as Katy grabbed his shoulders and shook him.

  “Frankie, follow me. If mummy tells you to run just do it, and don’t look back.”

  Her son blinked and opened his eyes at the urgency in her voice. He opened his mouth, but Katy sealed it with her finger and shook her head.

  She reached out her left hand and took Frankie’s, keeping him tucked behind her as they walked out of his bedroom. The intruder was knelt on one knee, and pulled himself up with the support of the wall. Instinctively, she dropped her son’s hand, wrapped both of hers around the bat handle and swung it into the side of the man’s head. Frankie screamed.

  The intruder slumped back and Katy threw the weapon down. Sweeping Frankie up into her arms, they jumped over the body. She unlocked the front door, yanked it closed behind her and locked it again from the outside. Halfway up the stairs she remembered Alexina wasn’t home, and raced down the three flights of stairs. Wrapped around her hip, Frankie sobbed as Katy ran out into the shadowy street barefoot and frightened.

  Scanning the deserted street, she frantically tried to formulate a plan. It was after midnight when she’d had a shower, and they’d escaped the apartment without a penny. Her eyes darted to the three-storey house across the road. Samantha. Katy took flight again. With her hand shielding Frankie’s head, she pressed him further into her shoulder. She banged on the front door, shouting the babysitter’s name, while desperately looking over her shoulder to watch the entrance of her own apartment.

  A light shone behind the glass panels of the front door and a silhouette grew closer to open it. Jolene, Samantha’s mother, peered out wearing a fluffy, cerise dressing gown and a large, pink hair roller in her fringe. Katy tore past the woman, pushing through her into the house and slammed the door shut.

  “Call the police,” she demanded.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Jolene replied, wrapping the thick cotton material closer around her chest. “You can�
�t just –”

  “I’m sorry,” Katy panted. “I’ve just been attacked in my home. Please call the police.”

  Jolene studied her and then Frankie. She couldn’t be sure if Jolene recognised them, but Katy didn’t have the strength to explain. Tears furiously rushed to meet her eyelashes as her body crumpled. Jolene managed to catch her arm and whisked them both into the nearby kitchen.

  “Stay here,” the woman said. “I’ll call the police immediately.” As Jolene walked out of the room, she stopped and turned to face them. Frankie sat on Katy’s lap in a foetal position, his head buried into her chest. “Then I’ll get you some blankets and make a hot drink.”

  Jolene left the room and Katy cradled her son, made nervous by the unfamiliar surroundings. She couldn’t concentrate; the masked face and her husband’s wild eyes were all that filled her mind. Thirty minutes later, Samantha had joined them and taken a reluctant Frankie into the living room. PC Lakhani arrived and sat opposite Katy with a female officer whose introduction she’d immediately forgotten. He asked her to relive the last hour, explaining what had happened.

  “It’s him! It’s Brad,” Katy screamed. “I told you he had found me. I told you he would hurt me again.”

  “Mrs Royal, we were unable to find your husband,” PC Lakhani said.

  “What?” Katy threw her hands in the air.

  “At the station, after you gave me your statement, I made initial enquiries. Your husband wasn’t at his home or work address.”

  “And that’s it? You didn’t think to warn me? He’s obviously been stalking me this entire time and you’ve done nothing!”

  Katy’s rage bubbled through her veins. She jumped down from the breakfast bar and paced the enormous kitchen, running her hands through her hair.

  “Mrs Royal,” PC Lakhani continued, “we have officers and forensics in your apartment at this very moment.”