by Nic Roberts
“What have you got for us?” she asked, leaning back in the small chair that took up a sizeable amount of the crammed office of their lead crime scene tech. Anthony ‘Ant’ Edwards led the unit, and he seemed well suited for small spaces.
“I’ve sent photos of the scene to your emails,” he began, passing two folders to both detectives. “We haven’t found much in the way of other evidence, but we’re searching. The car belonged to Rosie Whitford, so that lead is a dead end.”
Olivia shook her head. She knew it would have been too easy to find the name of their victim from the car, but a small part of her had still hoped it could have led to more definitive answers.
“Anything significant about his clothing?” Lawrence asked, flipping through the crime scene photos, maintaining an impressively steely face.
“Just your bog standard shirt and trousers,” Ant sighed. “One thing to note, however. It looks as if the beginning of an insignia was cut away by the killer when he was cutting open his chest.” He pointed to a subtle mark on one of the photos. It was difficult to make out due to the amount of blood that had soaked into the shirt, but nonetheless, the letter E was embroidered into the shirt, as well as the latter half of another letter. Could it be a V? Or a Y? There wasn’t enough of the diagonal line left to know definitively.
“That’s great, Anthony,” Olivia encouraged, “Thank you.” She studied the photo more closely. The shirt was a dark navy blue. Certainly, there couldn’t be that many businesses around that ended with an E and embroidered their garments.
“I think we should follow this lead,”she muttered, glancing over to Dean. “We can do some research, see if there are any organisations with uniforms like this.”
Lawrence nodded.
“Anything else of note before we leave, Ant?” he asked. “We’re always happy to swing by if anything else comes up.”
“Those are the big things so far,” the lead SOCO replied. “We’re swimming with how many crime scenes we have to process from this guy. We’d barely finished wrapping up paperwork on the hotel room before Rosie Whitford’s flat was discovered, and then with this man…” he trailed off. “Let’s just say we’re running low on numbers, which means everything’s going to take longer.”
“Just keep us in the loop if anything big happens,” Lawrence replied, rising from his rickety chair. Olivia joined. “Thanks again.”
“My pleasure, Detectives. Let Collins know I could use some extra help,” Ant called out as they exited the basement office. Lawrence raised his hand as if to say got it.
“Ready to go on a research spree?” he asked, glancing from the photo to Olivia and back.
“If it means catching our killer, absolutely.” She grinned in return.
“Do you think we should get the team to help us look?” Lawrence asked as the pair made their way up the stairs. It was a smart question. Overplay how much information they had and the killer might spook—assuming, of course, that the killer was involved with Newquay Station. But the extra manpower could drastically cut the time it took to find the flat.
“Let’s get PC Hershel to help us look,” Olivia suggested. “Plus your Beth. She’s good. That way, we can expand our search power without having to get any men involved.”
Lawrence’s ears tinged a bit brighter at the mention of Beth. They were lucky she was on the case, but he definitely had to straddle a fine line in an attempt to maintain a professional work relationship with the woman he’d had a ‘supposedly brief’ fling with.
“What do we tell the rest of the team to focus on?” Lawrence asked as they paused at the top of the stairs. “And just for the record, she's not my Beth.”
Liv held onto the rails and thought for a moment, ignoring his last comment.
“We’ll have them start by searching for any new missing person’s reports to cross reference with our male victim,” she answered. “From there, we can have them canvas Rosie Whitford’s building, see if there’s anything we missed.”
Lawrence nodded.
“I just hope Clara’s made progress on Collins,” Olivia muttered, which earned her a hum in agreement from her partner.
“Collins and Elliot both,” he agreed.
Liv readied herself to open the door but stopped and turned back.
“I want this son of a bitch behind bars,” she swore, shaking her head as she looked over to Lawrence.
His nose wrinkled, and for a moment Olivia thought he might punch something. Rage curdled inside of him; it was something she didn’t see frequently, but whenever she did, it frightened her. Not for her safety, but for his. She knew from experience how corrosive anger could be if bottled up inside and left to ferment.
“Olivia,” Dean exhaled after a moment.
“Yes?” She scanned her partner’s face for a hint as to what he wanted to address. His eyes met her own, like gravity pulling anyone and everyone closer and closer to the earth’s core.
“I have an idea,” he breathed. He was nervous; she could see it now, in the shallow breaths he was taking, in the way his fist clenched and unclenched.
“Well?” she demanded. “Spit it out.”
He pulled her away from the door and back down a couple of stairs to make sure they weren’t heard.
“I don’t know if you’re going to like it,” Lawrence started, earning him an exasperated eyebrow raise.
The plan didn’t take too long for her partner to explain in detail, and he was right, she didn’t like it one bit.
But it might just work.
19
The last thing Olivia expected when she and Dean had quietly made their way into Clara’s temporary office was to meet Detective Superintendent Collins’ gaze with her own.
It shouldn’t have come as much of a shock to her. This office, after all, belonged to him, and as her boss, it made a lot of sense that he would be following up with the tech analyst. Seeing his sturdy figure and inquisitive eyes nearly made her turn around, however. She felt like a child caught with her hand in the proverbial cookie jar. It almost made her forget the plan she and Dean had quickly pieced together on their way over.
“Inspectors,” Collins called out, voice gruff.
Olivia and Lawrence both started to stammer a response out before Clara popped around the desk to stand next to the detective superintendent.
“It’s okay. He knows,” she clarified, flashing a smile up at their boss.
“He… knows?” Lawrence trailed off, his gaze ping ponging between Clara and Collins.
Clara gave an over exaggerated nod as if she were explaining simple math to an audience of eight-year-olds, her braids swaying along with the movement of her head.
“So sorry to have kept you in the dark,” Olivia said cautiously, studying her boss’ face to gauge any reaction from the man. “We wanted to make sure we were running a clean operation, and you were the first person on our list we wanted to eliminate from being a suspect… So we could discuss things with you,” she added quickly.
The room quieted as Collins took his time to study each of them. And then his mouth broke out into a broad smile and the man let out a hearty laugh.
“There’s no need to fret,” he replied, a smile barely evident beneath his moustache.
Olivia did her best not to let her jaw hit the ground. She wasn’t sure she’d ever seen Collins so amused. She darted a glance over to Lawrence, who seemed equally stunned.
Clara simply grinned, watching the scene unfold in front of her. Though she was the shortest person in the room by far, her presence filled it almost as much as Collins’ did.
“I’m glad you did your job and realised that involved investigating me as well as every other officer at Newquay,” Collins elaborated, his smile slowly relaxing until his face again became the stony, resolute man that Olivia was so accustomed to greeting every morning. “I wouldn’t expect anything less from you two. I’m just glad Miss Fitzroy is as quick as she is and that we’re able to move on from that.”
“Now that we’ve established I’m not the killer, I’d appreciate taking the time to discuss the case,” he continued, gesturing in front of him to the two seats before the desk. Both Lawrence and Olivia quickly folded themselves into the chairs, again sharing nervous looks. Clara propped herself up against one of the walls, armed with a tablet and stylus.
“So, what are your theories?” Collins asked, leaning against the desk. He looked tired Olivia noted.
“We think there’s a fair chance that the killer is involved with the police in some way,” Lawrence started, leaning forward to rest his elbows against his knees, using his hands to lay out the facts. “He understands the necessity to cover his tracks forensically, plus, his crime scenes make it difficult to establish pathology with how different they are. He has a need to not only consume his victims, but also to erase who they were when they were alive, which suggests to me a feeling of inferiority or ridicule from his peers.” Lawrence was methodical in his logic, presenting the facts as if he were a lawyer before a grand jury.
“Plus, he knew to get out of Rosie Whitford’s flat incredibly quickly,” Olivia added on. “It would be extreme coincidence that he just happened to leave at the right time.”
“Or he heard it on a police radio,” Collins interjected.
“We didn’t—” The protest died in Olivia’s throat. They had radioed that they were going to the building, just not specifically Whitford’s apartment.
“I’m not saying you’re wrong,” their superintendent continued. “In fact, a feeling in my gut makes me think you’re correct. This killer is too clean to be a civilian. And even if he were ex-military…” He paused, giving his chin a pensive scratch. “Ex-Armed Forces usually don’t clean up this way if they experience a break. I’d expect more survival tactics if it was someone who had seen combat. Not this.”
Olivia had to hand it to him; Collins seemed to take the news that they thought it was one of his own men mercilessly butchering people surprisingly well. The feeling of dread she experienced when considering she may know the killer probably paled in comparison to his own guilt.
“I want you both to go about this part of the investigation quietly,” their boss explained. “I’m pulling a couple of other detectives to help you on the case.” He paused to glance out of his internal window. Before they had the chance to protest, he continued on. “They’ll be working it as a set of fresh eyes, but it’ll also free up time for you both to look at this as an inside job.”
Olivia slowly nodded.
“Who are you thinking?” Lawrence asked; Olivia could tell he was just as uncomfortable with the thought as she was. It wasn’t as if they worked poorly with other detectives. It just usually ran smoother just the two of them.
“Detective Constable Peter Epson and Detective Sergeant Wilson.” Collins shot the duo a look before either could speak. “Epson and Wilson are accounted for at both times the murders took place. They’re clean. And they’re sharp.”
Olivia glanced at Lawrence with a quirked eyebrow. He tilted his head as if to say all right then.
“There’s one other thing, sir,” Dean piped up, giving his partner a knowing look. She nodded.
“And what would that be, DI Lawrence?” Collins asked, leaning back in order to fold his arms over his chest.
“We want to do a press conference, go public with victim number two’s profile,” Lawrence explained. He had barely finished the sentence before the Superintendent’s eyes were wide with alarm.
“Why on earth—” he grumbled, standing up to his full height.
“Sir, I understand it’s against the plan,” Lawrence continued. “But this killer knows the playbook. He knows we’re doing our best to keep this out of the press. If we flip the script, we have the opportunity to surprise him and mess up his game.”
As Collins glanced between the two detectives, he pursed his lips in thought.
“I had the same reaction as you, sir,” Olivia interjected. “But the more I thought about it, the more I think it really could work. Our best bet is to catch him while he’s still trying to take his time with victim number two’s home. Based off Rosie Whitford’s flat, my guess is he at least likes a couple of days there to sit and plan. We can take that from him by speeding up the identification.”
Collins stroked his chin, almost comically deep in thought.
“If I may, sir,” Clara joined in. “Whoever our killer is, he definitely understands the order in which we go about all of this. If we take that away from him, it could make him slip up.”
Laughter from the main office filtered through into the momentary silence of the room.
“Or trigger a violent rampage,” Collins shot back. “That is one of the quickest ways to make a killer escalate, detectives. I just don’t know if that’s a responsible call. Plus, we risk putting the public in a panic.”
Clara nodded.
“What if we spin it?” she offered, a gleam all too familiar to Olivia in her eyes. She was onto something—a stroke of genius, no doubt.
“How so?” Lawrence asked, heel mindlessly tapping against the ground.
“We say we found him at the base of a cliff. We believe he fell while on a walk and would like the public’s assistance identifying him in order to inform his loved ones.” Olivia grinned despite herself; Clara always had a good trick up her sleeve.
“It could explain why we won’t show photos, and it will help us get closer to an ID without alerting the public to a potential serial killer,” Olivia agreed, looking to both Dean and Collins.
“It’s risky, and we could alienate the public once the case is over and they learn what really became of him,” Collins replied, giving the smallest shake of his head.
“This could be our best opportunity to get a jump on the killer and potentially save lives, sir,” Olivia countered, earning her a look from her boss.
“It’s a gamble, and I’m not sure I’m willing to make it,” Collins sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“A closed press conference; it’ll just be Liv and I and one or two uniformed officers and our most trusted reporters. We make sure it’s on our terms. No questions. Only an appeal to the public.” Lawrence laid out their cards; it was a good play, even if it was risky. Collins had to know that.
“I’ll be the one making the statement,” he replied after a pause.
“Thank you, sir,” Dean exhaled, giving Olivia a hopeful smile.
“I’m going to draft up a press release,” their superintendent informed them. “You two bring Epson and Wilson up to speed until I’m ready to call the conference, then you’ll join me. Understood?”
Lawrence nodded quickly, rising from his seats.
“Absolutely, sir,” he agreed, doing his best to hide his grin of excitement. It was still a grim play; he couldn’t deny that. But it maybe meant they could get somewhere at the end of it.
“I’ll speak with you shortly,” Collins huffed before making his exit with a nod towards Clara as he went.
She gave the two detectives an encouraging grin.
“We’re going to catch him,” she assured them. “And sorry I didn’t give you a heads up.”
Olivia’s eyes tracked their boss through the internal windows and watched as he made his way to the kitchen.
“I’m just glad he’s in the clear.” She sighed, rising to join her partner. “Call us if you find anything important? Thanks for your help.”
“Always.”
20
Though she might try and excuse it away as indifference or boredom, at her core, Olivia hated press conferences. She’d been at the podium too many times asking for help or information for it to not fill her with dread every time she saw the black microphones and expectant reporters.
It felt like just yesterday that she clutched onto Mills as her parents asked the public for help finding Alex.
She’d done her best to keep on a brave face as it happened, but in reality, her sister was the only thing keeping her from falling to her knees as her parents talked about their favourite memories of her brother and kept repeating, we just want him home again, over and over to the cameras. The press had felt rabid, desperate for the winning headline. It made Olivia vomit after they had stepped off the stage.
And then there had been all of the inquiries after the Oxford Street terror attacks. The press had come up with an acronym for it and everything. As if saying OSTA rather than terrorist attacks somehow made it easier to stomach.
She’d been able to avoid press for a while after that day; it wasn’t as though they were about to barge into her hospital room while she was still hooked up to dozens of machines and monitors. But eventually, she’d recovered enough that her City of London Police Chief had asked her to address the public. You’re a hero, he’d explained, every inch of Olivia wanting to scream back, no, I’m not.
That press conference had been a nightmare; the whole room had fallen silent when she’d entered on her crutches. It made her feel like a zoo animal, on display for everyone to gawk at in amazement. And the questions had started out tame, but it wasn’t too long before tabloid gossip reporters were asking about her relationship with Rhys and the whole world had started to spin. Were you engaged? a reporter had called out right before her chief at the time had shut it down. And a question that would haunt her for the rest of her days as she was led off site: Can you address the rumour that you were pregnant and you lost the baby?
The memories rushed to the front of Olivia’s mind like a pungent smell upon entering the station’s press briefing room. Collins had managed to call in half a dozen reporters on short notice, and he stood tall and firm at the front of the room. Olivia and Lawrence’s jobs were easy—stand in the back and demonstrate that the team were serious about finding out who their dead “hiker” was.