by Louise Voss
Patrick felt the low stirring of rage deep in his belly. He moved closer, Carmella at his side, and took in the worst of it: the bruising on her throat, showing that she’d been strangled, and the cuts. Hundreds of tiny cuts across her body. Just like Rose, except many of these cuts were deeper, longer, as if the killer had found it harder to maintain control. There were marks on her face too: her lower lip cut and puffy; a mark on her cheekbone. A clump of hair had been pulled out. And most sickening of all: the tips of several of her fingers were bloody and raw. He had pulled four of her fingernails out.
Patrick turned away, the white, cold anger pulsing inside him.
He forced himself to stand still on one of the metal stepping stones protecting the scene, taking it all in. Her left forearm was adorned with a huge, smudged tattoo of a person – Patrick couldn’t tell whether it was meant to be male or female until he read the name underneath it: Shawn. It looked nothing like the lead singer of the band, as far as he could tell, but it was clearly meant to represent him. Silly girl, he thought. How would that have looked when she was in her forties?
But now she would never even see her twenties.
Noticing something else, he stooped low and examined the underside of Jess’s other wrist. She had a small red tattoo there: a love heart with a pair of crosshairs through it – the OnTarget logo.
Patrick looked around. As with Rose, there was no sign of the clothes the killer had removed from Jess. None of her possessions were to be seen anywhere. He approached one of the SOCOs.
‘Her fingernails . . . Have you already picked them up?’
‘No, sir. We did a sweep of the floor, but there was no sign of them. They might turn up, but . . .’
Patrick clenched his teeth. The murderer had taken them. But why? Why leave the bodies where they were so easy to find, but remove everything else? Was it because he wanted souvenirs? Or did he have some other purpose for the girls’ belongings?
He took a final look at Jess’s body and thought, ‘We’re going to find him, sweetheart. And when we do, I’m going to make him wish he’d never been born.’
It was only when he saw the way Carmella was staring at him, mouth agape, that he realised he’d spoken his thoughts aloud.
Chapter 13
Day 4 – Patrick
Patrick paced the incident room, the rest of the team gathered nervously around the edges – all except Winkler, who was perched on the edge of a desk, arms folded, wearing his omnipresent smirk.
Patrick had asked Gareth to print a map of the area, on which they’d marked the murder scenes of the teenage girls in red, their homes in green. Jess and Rose lived less than a mile apart but went to different schools – Jess attending the grammar school, Rose the local comprehensive. Patrick paused by the map and drew a circle that encompassed the four points.
‘Two girls, both fifteen, living close to one another. White, middle-class, though Jess’s family appear to be better off than Rose’s – much bigger house, nicer car, et cetera. Rose’s parents are divorced; Jess’s are still together. We know that both girls were massive fans of OnTarget. According to Jess’s mother, she attended the vigil for Rose at Twickenham Stadium.’
This fact made him shiver. He and Carmella had been in the same small crowd as the second victim-fan. He had no recollection of seeing her. But it made him wonder – had the killer been there too?
And had the murderer’s next target – because he had no doubt this was not the end, the killer wasn’t going to stop now – been at the vigil as well?
‘Jessica was at the vigil with her best friend, one Chloe Hedges. Jess told her mum that she was going round to Chloe’s house, but she didn’t turn up. Gareth is going to interview Chloe later.’
Patrick went on to describe the similarities between the two murders: the cuts; the perfume; the fact that their clothes had been taken.
‘Was this one wearing lucky knickers too?’ Winkler asked.
Patrick looked at him with disgust. Trust Winkler to seize on the girls’ underwear. ‘What?’
Winkler shrugged. ‘I noticed on the info sheet about Rose – she was wearing knickers with “LUCKY” written on them, wasn’t she? Thought it was pretty ironic.’
‘Yes. Well, we have a full description of Jess’s clothes on your new sheets, but it appears she was wearing new, black underwear.’
Winkler nodded and made a note.
Patrick moved on. ‘We know from the mothers that both girls were extremely active on the band’s forums and talked about them endlessly on social media. We’ve looked at their Twitter accounts – Rose was tweeting about OnTarget up to a hundred times a day; Jess even more. Jess’s mum says that her daughter lived and breathed the band, that she became obsessed with them from the moment they were put together on that talent show. She got those tattoos last month despite being underage.’
‘Crazy,’ Winkler muttered.
Patrick counted to three, not wanting to lose his temper. But before he could speak, Wendy, the young-looking DC who had transferred from Wolverhampton and had admitted to being a fan of OnTarget, spoke up.
‘Why is it crazy? Ill-advised, yes, but this is what a lot of teenage girls do – they form an intense interest in a band, or a pop star, or an actor. It’s a normal part of growing up. It’s only because of social media and the Internet that it becomes more visible, more . . . amplified.’ Her confidence visibly grew as she went on. ‘Because now they have a channel, a way of broadcasting their love for these boys. When I was a teenager I was a massive Blue fan. But I didn’t go on Twitter to talk about it – I wrote endless declarations of love in my diary.’
‘You probably still do,’ Winkler said.
Patrick was amazed and impressed by Wendy’s outburst, partly because he too understood how it felt to be a huge fan of someone. When he was a teenager he had been . . . well, he hesitated to use the word ‘obsessed’, but he had spent a huge amount of time and energy thinking and talking about his favourite band, The Cure. He spent all his money on their records, collecting rare vinyl and posters, wearing their T-shirts, going to gigs and connecting with like-minded fans who spent many hours sitting around analysing Robert Smith’s lyrics.
‘Thank you—’ he began to say, but Wendy spoke over him.
‘The point I’m trying to make,’ she said, a pink flush creeping across her throat, ‘is that we shouldn’t dismiss or judge these young girls. We mustn’t call them crazy.’
The whole room, including Winkler, was silent in the aftermath of Wendy’s words, everybody following her gaze towards the photos of Rose and Jess that were pinned to the board beside the map.
‘Thank you, Wendy,’ Patrick said, finally, smiling at her. She looked at her feet.
Winkler said, ‘Yeah. Sorry.’
Patrick pointed at the map again, drawing a line with his finger between the two houses. ‘We need to find out every connection between these two, apart from their love of OnTarget. Did they know each other online? Had they met? Mutual friends and acquaintances – they must have some. Is there any connection between their families? Places they both frequented – somewhere the killer might have spotted them. I also want to know about boyfriends. Again, according to their mothers, neither girl had a boyfriend. Mrs Sharp says that, to her knowledge, Rose never had a boyfriend, though of course she might have had one her mum didn’t know about.’
‘Or she could have been gay,’ Carmella said.
Winkler rolled his eyes.
Patrick didn’t think that fitted with Rose’s boy-band obsession but said, ‘Of course we should keep an open mind. Jess’s mum says that her daughter was very popular, that boys were always asking her out, but – and I quote – “Jess was saving herself for Shawn”.’
‘Deluded,’ said Winkler.
‘A bit like you,’ Carmella said. ‘Thinking any woman would be interested in you . . .’<
br />
‘As a matter of fact—’ Winkler began.
Patrick cut him off. ‘All right. Let’s focus. Wendy, I want you to find out everything about these girls. And I mean everything.’
‘So are we assuming that my case isn’t connected to the girls now?’ Winkler asked, sounding hopeful. ‘Can I get on with my investigation without you interfering?’
Patrick stared at him. He didn’t want Winkler involved; he didn’t want the Nancy Marr murder tied to this one. Apart from wanting to jettison Winkler, the elderly woman’s murder didn’t fit. It confused things. But they couldn’t dismiss it, not after what Daniel Hamlet had said. And Suzanne wanted them to consider every possibility.
‘No,’ he said. ‘We have to do what the DCI asked, until we find evidence that Mrs Marr’s death isn’t connected to the other two.’
‘It’s a bloody joke.’
Patrick ignored him, biting his tongue again, and turned to the map, drawing a question mark on Nancy Marr’s home, which was also the scene of the crime.
‘I want to go over your case notes with you,’ Patrick said, and Winkler reacted as if Patrick had told him he wanted to have sex with his mother.
‘No fucking way.’
Patrick was aware of everyone else in the room watching them.
‘Let’s talk about this afterwards,’ he said.
Winkler gave him a Medusa-like stare and folded his arms, glowering at Patrick. Less Medusa, more feral cat, Patrick thought.
‘For fuck’s sake,’ Patrick said under his breath. He took a moment to gather himself and turned again to the photos of Rose and Jess, emotionally anchoring himself, reminding himself of what needed to be done and why. He needed to ignore Winkler, not let the little twat get to him – though he was going to get a look at those case notes if it killed him.
‘Any joy with the hotel key card?’ Patrick addressed Gareth, who shook his head apologetically.
‘But I’m talking to Cyber-Crime later, boss. Peter Bell reckons he could have some leads for us.’
‘OK, good.’ Again, Patrick pulled the lid off a marker pen and wrote a heading on the whiteboard beside the map.
SUSPECTS/TARGETS
‘All right. We don’t have any named suspects yet. But let’s think about our line of inquiry. Who is doing this, and why? Until we know more, let’s assume that the strongest things that connect Rose and Jessica are, first, their interest in OnTarget and, second, their consequent use of the band’s social media.’ He wrote these two points on the whiteboard. ‘Martin, can you share what you’ve found out about the girls’ Internet use so far?’
Martin Hale hauled himself to his feet, wincing slightly – Patrick wasn’t sure whether this was from an injury or at the thought of speaking to the assembled group.
Hale didn’t need to refer to his notepad – the details of this case were etched on his mind, Patrick knew. As he spoke, Patrick added notes to the board.
‘I haven’t had much time at all to look into Rose’s Internet history, but here’s what I’ve got so far. Both girls used the official OnTarget forum, which is hosted on the band’s website.’ He shook his head. ‘There are girls on there who write a hundred posts about Shawn every single day . . . Apart from that, they both used Twitter extensively and have unprotected accounts. They had Facebook accounts but barely used them. They were both on StoryPad, which is a site where teenagers write short stories and poems. Um . . . what else? Rose had a Tumblr account where she posted about the band, as well as numerous Pinterest boards where she pinned endless pictures of Shawn and his bandmates.’
Winkler muttered, ‘Give me strength.’
‘I’ve found something that could be useful regarding Rose’s phone,’ Martin said. ‘I’ve been through her phone records and there are no unknown numbers – just lots of calls to her mum and dad, texts between her and her friends. Between leaving her house and going to the hotel, she didn’t make any calls or send any texts. However, she did use a fair amount of 3G bandwidth during the hours before her death.’
‘You mean she was online?’ Patrick asked.
‘Exactly. She might have been on the Internet on her phone or using apps that connect online. Unfortunately, the mobile provider can’t tell us what she was doing. I’ve checked her social media and she didn’t tweet or update any of the other sites she uses regularly.’
‘But perhaps she was communicating with somebody?’
‘That’s what I think. She might have been using one of those messaging apps. From the amount of bandwidth she used, it’s possible she was sending or downloading photos, or even a video.’
‘Good stuff, Martin. See what else you can find out. We need to talk to her friends and her online, er, buddies and see if she shared anything with them.’
‘And I’ll see if there was similar activity on Jess’s phone.’
Patrick popped the lid back onto the marker pen and looked around at the, mostly, eager faces. The one bored face belonged to Winkler, which was hardly a surprise. Winkler’s attachment to Operation Urchin felt like a pebble in Patrick’s shoe.
Catching Patrick watching him, Winkler looked up and raised his eyebrows. ‘What are you staring at?’
It took all Patrick’s inner strength to stop himself from regressing to the primary school playground and saying, ‘I dunno – it hasn’t got a label on it.’
Most of the assembled officers filed out of the room, leaving Patrick gazing at the whiteboard. He sensed a presence behind him.
‘Boss?’
It was Wendy. She fidgeted, knotting her fingers together in front of her, shuffling one foot.
‘I hope you didn’t think I spoke out of turn,’ she said in her lilting Black Country accent.
‘No, not at all. I was impressed, Wendy. It’s refreshing to hear somebody speak up for these girls. To talk about them like they’re real people. You showed empathy. I like that.’
Two bright spots of pink glowed on her cheeks. ‘I’ve got an idea,’ she said, her eyes focusing on the photos of Rose and Jess.
‘Go on.’
‘You said you want me to find out everything I can about these girls.’
Patrick noticed that she didn’t refer to them as the victims.
‘Well, what if I were to, you know, covertly go on the OnT forums and social media and pose as a fan? Get to know members of that community and try to connect with other people who knew Rose and Jess?’
‘I don’t know. It’s not a bad idea, but it’s a specialist skill. Martin has had the training.’
She stopped fidgeting. ‘But, boss, with all due respect to Martin, he’s . . . well, he doesn’t know how to think like one of these girls.’ Before Patrick could interrupt she said, ‘I understand them. I know that world. I can chat about OnTarget without sounding fake. I really think I’m best placed to do this.’
‘I know what you’re saying, but—’
‘Please. Let me do this. Give me a day or two and if I don’t make any progress, I’ll hold my hands up and hand it over. At least let me set up the profiles, reach out. I’d only have to give Martin a crash course in OnTarget fandom anyway.’
She grinned and Patrick found the smile infectious.
‘I won’t let you down.’
He sighed. ‘All right. But keep me fully informed. And if it doesn’t seem like you’re making swift progress . . .’
‘Thanks, boss. I’ll get on it straight away.’
She strode from the room before he could change his mind. Why, he wondered, as he faced the pictures of Rose and Jess, a wave of tiredness crashing over him, did he feel like he’d just been steamrollered?
Chapter 14
Day 4 – Winkler
DI Adrian Winkler strolled out of the gym with his bag slung over his shoulder, catching sight of his reflection in the glass doors as he emerged into the cool ai
r. His black, shoulder-length hair was still damp and his veins snaked around his freshly pumped biceps. He felt good, calm, the endorphins from his workout blowing away all the negative energy that had been fucking with his flow since the meeting with DCI Laughland and her pet weirdo.
He’d already posted details of his workout on Facebook, which he knew his friends would find fascinating, and he felt proud. He might call Francesca later, ask her if she wanted to come round and worship at the Temple of Winkler. That woman, whom he’d met on a case, had a thing about detectives. She liked being handcuffed to the bed, told she was a bad girl and all that crap. She was a bit of a ming-troll, with a face like a pug with piles, but hey, you don’t look at the mantelpiece, as his dad used to say when asked why he’d married Winkler’s mum. Francesca thought Winkler was the best thing since Idris Elba, and he knew she’d ooh and aah later when he flexed his pecs and let her run her hands over his granite-hard glutes.
Yeah, he was in a good place, his chakras lined up as neatly as the martial art DVDs on his bookcase at home.
But then he felt a gurgle in his stomach and a noxious fart hissed from his body, just as a blonde hottie strolled by, giving him a look of disgust as the smell assaulted her nostrils. He scowled. Why had he glugged that kale and gooseberry smoothie in the gym café? He felt another one brewing and, clenching those rock-like glutes, walked away as naturally as he could, aware of the blonde’s contemptuous glare on his back.
Now his chakras were fucked again.
Two minutes later he got into his car and pressed play on his Rainforest Dawn CD. The sounds of the jungle waking up, the chattering monkeys and squawking parrots, usually made him feel like Tarzan, but it was too late: his good mood was ruined. All he could think about was Patrick motherfucking Lennon and the fact that he was the DCI’s darling, the golden boy of the MIT who got all the juiciest cases, despite being a wet ex-Goth weirdo with a baby-battering fruitcake for a missus. It was unjust, that’s what it was. It went against the laws of nature.