Both men acknowledged her presence with casual nods.
“We managed to pull some strings to get access to Bon’s phone records overnight. His phone was found in his pants pocket underwater so it was deader than a doornail. Clara’s was in her bag, no password, so it was easy access,” Eli explained.
“Good work. Reuben should have downloaded the notes from our interviews with the Galliers last night. So check over those to bring yourselves up to speed.”
While they waited for Reuben and Quinn, she went through the phone records that had been downloaded from Clara and Bon’s cell phones. The transcripts revealed a pattern of Bon regularly calling or texting Clara five or six times a day. The bulk of the earlier texts were along the lines of: “Call me. I need to talk to you.” “I’ll meet you tonight.” “Who are you talking to? I can’t get through on the phone.”
There were other messages on Bon’s phone that included harsh ribbing about how his girlfriend was now dating women rather than men. Some of the comments verged on the obscene, most of them impugning his virility. As much as Bon had been harassing Clara, he had also taken a verbal beating. No doubt that had followed through his social media channels as well.
“Anything interesting crop up on social media about Bon and Clara’s bust up?”
“No big insights. A lot more of the same trolling about Clara switching teams, so to speak. Apparently the girl involved is one Jemma Winship,” Idris answered her. “I can link Clara and Jemma as social media friends from February this year.”
Reuben joined them, carrying two cups of coffee. He handed one to Bex. “Thought you might need this. According to urban myth, Americans can’t live without their morning jolt of jitter juice.”
“Yeah, right, we’re all on an intravenous caffeine drip.” Despite her sarcasm, she accepted the cup, gulping a large swallow and pulling a face. It tasted just as bad as yesterday’s. She was going to have to find a good coffeehouse around here somewhere.
Idris handed over a second copy of the phone transcripts to Reuben, while Bex checked her watch. Where in hell was Quinn? She dropped her eyes back to the paper she held.
Clara’s texts to Bon were less frequent, as she often neglected to respond to his messages. Sometimes they were just a couple of words. “Studying tonight.” “Going to bed early.” “Meet me same place.” “I’m going to be late.”
During the last two weeks the texts and calls from Bon to Clara had escalated to twenty or more a day, all along the lines of: “Where are you?” “Why won’t you talk to me?” “Answer the phone!” “I love you.” “Don’t leave me.”
Classic stalking behavior that had intensified in frequency and tone when Clara broke off the relationship, but it was still just circumstantial evidence. What she found interesting was that, since 29 June, Clara had received nearly a hundred threatening messages from an unknown number. “You’ve made a mistake.” “I’m watching you.” “I can see what you’re up to.” “You’ll pay for your mistakes.” And on 4 July, after a spate of similar messages, one had come through at 8:40 p.m. that said: “Go to the cops and you’ve drawn your last breath.”
“This last number doesn’t show up on her contact list. Any idea whose it is?”
“I believe I can answer that.” Quinn sauntered into their vicinity, tossing a bagged smart phone onto Eli’s desk. “I located this spare phone in Bon’s car. I had Forensics swipe it but it has no fingerprints. It’s been wiped clean. I suspect Bon handled it only when he was wearing his driving gloves. It’s a prepaid throwaway. No credit card link, unfortunately, but I managed to trace its purchase to a phone store on Kilburn High Road. I’ve requested CCTV footage to see if we can nail Bon for the purchase.”
Once more the faint dusting of stubble covering Quinn’s gaunt cheeks and the disheveled look of his loosened tie and crumpled shirt made Bex wonder if he had pulled another all-nighter.
“Good job locating the phone,” she said. Swallowing her annoyance that he was nearly fifteen minutes late was almost more bitter than the coffee.
In response he curled his lip. Refusing to take a seat, he lounged against a nearby pillar in a way that implied both his superiority and his indifference to the investigation. She caught Reuben’s glance flicking between the two of them, an expectant gleam in his eyes, his whippet-thin body almost vibrating at the prospect of more fireworks.
Bex refused to rise to the bait. Keeping her voice level, she said, “We’ll download the records and see if the number matches. If it does, then it looks like Bon was definitely threatening Clara. His phone behavior counts as stalking, it’s just a matter of us proving that he took it to the next level.”
“I’ll get IT onto unlocking the phone as a priority,” Idris confirmed.
“What did you find at the crash scene?” With her irritation on a tight rein, she fastened her eyes on Quinn as they listened to his brief rundown on his findings.
“The evidence is certainly staking up against the Hon. Bon,” Eli said. “That last threatening phone message to Clara was sent at 8:40 p.m. and his car was clocked on Richmond Bridge around 8:50 p.m. Anyone care to bet that phone doesn’t belong to Bon? I’d really appreciate the money.”
Bex turned to Idris. “What’s the victimology on Clara Butterworth?”
“Her father, Mark Butterworth, was an army Sergeant, killed in a bomb blast in Afghanistan in March 2012. Mother, Evelyn, has never remarried and has no known boyfriends. Mother and daughter live in Twickenham in the house the Butterworths bought shortly before Clara started school. Evelyn invested the compensation money from Mark’s death into the mortgage. She works as a nurse at West Middlesex University Hospital in Accident and Emergency. She’s currently on compassionate leave from work.
“Clara attended Merrywell Park School. It’s a mixed comprehensive. She was studying for her GCSEs. Her teachers say she was an average student. Quiet, introverted and a bit of a loner, she wasn’t known for her social finesse. The only dissident voice on that front was from her English teacher. She said that Clara’s grades had slipped over the past term, and hinted that this development correlated with her growing popularity.”
“Growing popularity? Was that because of her relationship with Bon?”
Idris shrugged. “The teacher just said that Clara started getting lots more text messages in class and she had to reprimand her several times. In the end she threatened to confiscate the phone. After that, she had no more problems with Clara’s phone in class.
“Clara’s also been a volunteer at Richmond Society for Homeless Animals for two years. The manager there says she has a real affinity with the animals, but reckons she’s dropped her attendance lately to no more than once a fortnight at best.”
“Since she started dating Bon?” Bex jumped in again.
Idris consulted his notes. “No, he reckons she was a regular on the roster throughout last year. He noticed her declining interest around March. He put it down to increasing study pressure with the exams approaching.”
“What about those items we dropped off last night, any more intel from them?” Reuben spoke over a mouthful of chocolate cookie. Bex noticed a discarded red wrapper on the desk and frowned in his direction. Unperturbed, he licked his fingertips clean.
“Instead of rubbing your breakfast in our faces, the least you could do is share it around, mate,” Eli growled before noisily slurping from his mug. “Especially for those of us who didn’t leave the office till eleven last night,” he continued to grumble.
“Don’t mind him. Eli’d sell his mother for a Hobnob,” Idris said with a straight face. Bex had no idea what a Hobnob was, but trusted that it was something tasty.
Reuben gave a bark of laughter. “Next time, mate, I’ll bring the whole bloody packet. Now, where do we stand on those items?”
“The IT guys are cracking his laptop password as we speak. The analysis of the contents of the locket confirms it’s Clara Butterworth’s blood.”
Reuben wrinkled his nose. “Did she have a vampire obsession? Keeping your blood in a vial around your neck sounds kind of creepy. I hope it’s a fashion that doesn’t catch on. I tend to faint at the sight of my own blood.”
Quinn gave a derisive snort. “Fine copper you’re going to make.”
Reuben gave a dismissive wave that fluttered the wrapper in front of him. “Makes me a better copper than if I fainted at the sight of your blood, Quinn.”
Eli guffawed and Idris cracked a smile.
“Wow, you’re a bundle of optimism, Reuben. A real ass-et to the team, as our esteemed leader would say.” Bex bristled as Quinn deadpanned a scathing swipe at both Reuben and herself.
“As much as I love a good comedy act, let’s can the jokes till later.” Her tone was abrupt. She really didn’t have the energy this morning to charm Quinn into line. “Right, we’ll need to determine if Clara gave the locket to Bon and whether or not he gave her one in exchange. Moving onto the third item, Eli, was there anything in Bon’s calendar?”
“I checked through but there’s not a great deal noted in it. His birthday, a few school engagements.” Eli paused to sip at his mug of tea. Bex noticed the slogan “Keep calm and call a policeman.”
“So, nothing interesting?” she prompted him.
“I didn’t say that. Check out these notations. On February 17 ‘Big box of Special K’, on May 22 ‘two bottles of mouthwash’ and on June 13 ‘Pick up Vit K pills.’ Could be a shopping list, but I seriously doubt it.”
Thoughts buzzed through Bex’s mind, setting off her internal alarms. She should have arranged a search warrant for Phillip Galliers’ last night, but she’d been so exhausted her muddled brain thought it would be okay to wait till the morning.
“Special K? Vitamin K? Isn’t that slang for ketamine?” Reuben asked. “If I remember my training, hasn’t ketamine been classified by Home Office from class C to a class B drug with stiffer penalties?”
“Good work, Buttercup.” Eli’s tone was almost jovial. “It’s the popular drug choice of students, which just goes to prove our education system is shot to pieces when the future of our country thinks it’s smart to snort horse tranquillizers. Currently worth about twenty quid a gram on the open market in powder and liquid.”
“We’ve still got the search warrant for the Galliers. Eli, draw one up for Phillip Galliers’ flat as well. Both places have got bottles of mouthwash, but I suspect it’s ketamine disguised with food coloring. If so, that’s at least three liters of the stuff. Eli, you and Idris go through both residences and bring in anything suspicious for analysis. Make sure you bag all the pills in Bon’s room, just in case.”
“So, that’s what your trip to the bathroom was about?” Reuben turned an admiring eye back to Bex.
At the same time, Quinn rounded on her, his eyes darkening with fury. “You can’t even execute a search warrant properly!” His voice was like an acid rinse over her self-flagellating condemnation. “If the Galliers have got any sense they’ll have disposed of the evidence before we get there this morning. I hope that’s the last mistake you make.”
Amid the ensuing tense silence, Bex knew her face was flaming red, both from mortification and shame. The smug son of a bitch was right and everyone else on the team knew it too! The thought was crucifying and left her with a bad taste in her mouth. She turned her rage against Quinn. Damned if I send him to interview Evelyn Butterworth!
“Reuben, contact the Medical Examiner, no I mean the Coroner’s office and ask them to test both Clara and Bon’s blood for ketamine use. Make sure you specify ketamine otherwise it won’t turn up in the drug report. If drugs are involved, we need to discover what role they played in Bon’s actions. And put some pressure on to get those autopsy results through by this afternoon. Idris, did you turn up any information about Bon’s former girlfriend Stacey?”
“I tracked down a Stacey Palmer. She works at a fast food outlet on Oxford Street.”
“Great. While you and Eli do the search warrants, Quinn, I want you to go and have a chat to her. After that you can check out Bon’s room at Harrow. Talk to his teachers and classmates. Then speak with Jemma Winship. Let’s see if we can pin down exactly what was going on between her and Clara.”
Quinn gave her a mock salute. “Thanks for putting my talents to best use,” he said and Bex wondered if he’d ever talk to her without a sneer in his voice.
Slinging her bag around her neck, she rose from the desk to look him straight in the eye. “No problem, Quinn. Make sure you put your charm to use with Jemma and Stacey.” She made sure she held his glance for another beat, watching his cheek twitch with displeasure, before she turned to Reuben. “Let’s go. We’ve got to interview Mrs Butterworth.”
Chapter 16
Thursday 6 July
Reuben drove them out to a small red-bricked Victorian, semi-detached house on Vine Street, little more than a laneway leaving the front of the houses facing the back of more houses. Normally a quiet, residential road, the Butterworths’ house was now staked out with reporters and camera crews, a television van crowded the verge ahead of them, and groups of curious bystanders bordered the outskirts of the media spectacle.
“Looks like the circus is in town,” Bex said with restraint.
Reuben flicked through his phone. “Not surprising. ‘Freakin’ Saint’ has notched nearly forty million views now with comments demanding Evelyn Butterworth receive a commendation from the Queen for bravery. Got to admit this story catches at people’s heartstrings. Mother sees her only daughter slaughtered, yet defies her own safety to try to save the life of her daughter’s murderer.” He shook his head in wonderment, but whether that was because of Evelyn Butterworth’s actions or the social media phenomenon, Bex was undecided. “I’ll bet it skyrockets to a hundred million views by tomorrow at this rate. Normally that sort of attention is reserved for celebs, especially big name singers shaking their booty at the camera.”
“Make that phone useful. Call the house and let Mrs Butterworth know we’re here. I don’t want to hang around at the front door while the cameras are rolling,” Bex snapped.
Her jittery nerves resurfaced. Letting anger railroad her decision-making by sidelining Quinn and setting herself up to interview Evie Butterworth was a huge mistake. Despite several deep, supposedly calming, breaths, she couldn’t shake a feeling of dread at facing Evie Butterworth.
There were just too many similarities between her and Evie for her peace of mind. They were both widows and they had both lost someone they loved in a horrific car crash.
To avoid the stirring memories and too vivid images, she peered through the window while Reuben spoke on the phone. A narrow paved path led the way to the side of the house. Reuben had called this a “semi-detached”. She could see two windows framed in elaborate white plasterwork on the ground floor and two above it, each set of windows separated by a very narrow opening between a shared brick wall. That made it basically two small houses sharing a wall, which was a duplex where she came from.
“All set,” Reuben said, slipping his phone into his pocket.
Bex’s hand automatically patted her own jacket, reaching for her Glock, only to come up empty. She sighed with frustration. It was hard getting used to going weaponless.
As they exited the car, reporters fell on them like rampaging lions on the South African veldt. She kept her head down, a hand in front of her face as she doggedly plowed ahead without uttering a word. Beside her Reuben seemed almost jaunty as he embraced the attention. Schooling his expression into a mask of solemn importance he snapped out a stream of “No comments.”
Bex silently counted her footsteps as they crossed the front yard. The aggregate concrete was broken by an overgrown evergreen bush wedged between the two houses and a hanging pot of flowering pansies beside the window.
They plunged down a path at the side of the house, separated by less than a yard from the following pair of semi-detach
ed houses, towards the front door. It was narrow enough to stem the tide of ravenous journalists to a trickle. The door opened and a burst of flashlights exploded. Whoever opened the door held well back out of sight. Reuben offered his ID and they piled through the opening.
On the other side of the door, the woman facing them was in her late forties, messy hair swept back in a knot at the back and a heavy pair of black-rimmed glasses giving her an owlish look. She introduced herself as Meredith Murphy, Evelyn’s sister who had come down from Yorkshire when she heard the news.
Reuben, Bex and Meredith were crammed together in a small foyer with stairs facing them. To her left Bex saw past a tiny dining room into an airy kitchen. Standing with her back towards them, looking out the window, was a slender woman in a bathrobe. She didn’t turn or acknowledge their presence in any way.
Meredith led them to the right into a living room decorated in cheerful hues of burnt umber and pale lemon. A floating wood floor supported a long wooden coffee table, a velour-covered sofa and an enormous tropical fish tank. A flat screen television hung on the opposite wall. This was the front room with the bay window overlooking the street. The drapes were closed in an attempt to maintain their privacy from prying reporters.
Meredith turned on a lamp.
“We’re very sorry for your loss, Mrs Murphy. But we need to have a few words with your sister,” Reuben said gently.
“Is this really necessary? She’s already spoken to the police at the hospital.”
“I can’t tell you how sorry we are to have to disturb her, but we’re trying to get a fuller picture of the circumstances surrounding the accident. Being able to ask questions about Clara would fill in some blanks.” Bex’s voice was apologetic but uncompromising. This was going to be a difficult conversation for both Evie and herself, she thought grimly. Best to get it over and done with as quickly as possible.
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