Archer watches as the Olinski brothers casually offload the cabinets. One of them has a squat build with short cropped hair. The second is thinner and wears a beanie hat. She recognises him from the picture on Agata’s wall. Josef Olinski. He steps into the glow of the headlamps, removes something from his pocket and writes in it. The diary. He slips it back into his pocket.
‘Unless they’re utter brass-neck psychopaths, they don’t seem like people who are delivering corpses, if you know what I mean,’ observes Quinn.
Archer agrees. Judging by the lack of urgency and jocular banter from the two men, this seems to be just another job for them.
Archer sees Dimitri Novak emerge from the top of Trafalgar Square pushing his dust cart. He watches them for a few moments and then carries on with his job, exactly as he told her. The brothers wheel out the final cabinet, placing it into position just as a police car arrives. One of the officers steps out and speaks to the men. He is a broad man whose belly is a little on the hefty side and who they have since learned is a PC Kevin Simpson.
‘Any word from Simpson?’ asks Archer.
‘He’s on his way in,’ replies Quinn.
Simpson is talking to Josef Olinski and pointing at the cabinets. After a moment, the two men laugh. Olinski leads him to the driver’s door of the van, opens it, pulls out some papers and hands them to Simpson, who scans them briefly before handing them back. Simpson then peers behind the covers of Billy Perrin’s cabinet. Olinski says something and both men laugh again. They shake hands and Simpson leaves. Five minutes after that the brothers pack up and leave the scene. The cabinets sit alone on the street, awaiting their 9 a.m. reveal, their covers fluttering in the early morning breeze. It’s a sombre, chilling picture.
‘That’s it then. Fancy a tea?’ asks Quinn.
‘Yes, please.’
Archer’s phone rings.
Grandad.
‘Hi, Grandad. How are you?’
‘Grace, is that you?’ he asks, his voice sounding tired.
Archer squeezes the phone. ‘Yes, it’s me. I tried to call you this morning.’
‘Oh . . . I don’t remember it ringing.’
‘Maybe you had it on silent.’
‘Yes, perhaps that’s it.’
‘Did you go to mass?’
‘Yes, I was there at eight o’clock. I stayed to help with the candles and clearing up in time for the lunchtime service.’
‘You usually have it on silent when you are at St Patrick’s.’
‘Do I?’
‘Grandad, I’m coming to stay with you for a bit, remember?’
‘Oh yes, I have it marked on my calendar.’ His tone seems brighter. ‘When do you arrive?’
‘Probably later this evening. I started a new job today at Charing Cross Police Station.’
‘That’s a coincidence. My son works there.’
Archer closes her eyes and feels a lump in her throat. ‘Grandad, Dad is no longer with us.’
She hears a heavy sigh.
‘Oh God, Grace, I forget so much these days. I’m sorry.’
‘It’s OK, Grandad.’
‘I’ve not been right since your grandma . . . I’m sorry, Grace.’
‘Don’t be.’
‘That’s life, Grace . . . that’s life.’
‘Listen, Grandad, I have to go . . .’
‘By the way. I met the new neighbour again today. He’s a smashing lad.’
Archer laughs. ‘That’s good. A lad? How old is he?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. In his thirties, perhaps. Anyway, he’s moved into Eileen’s at number forty-three. You know Eileen passed away?’
‘Yes, last year, wasn’t it?’
‘Was it that long? Anyway, I can’t remember the lad’s name. Jim or Jimmy, I think. Very nice chap.’ He pauses for a moment. ‘I don’t like his missus much. She’s a bit snooty.’
‘I’d better go, Grandad. See you tonight, all being well.’
‘I’m looking forward to seeing you. I’ve made up your old room.’
She smiles. ‘Thank you. It’s been a hectic day. I’ll be there as soon as I can.’
‘Understood. Is . . . erm . . . what’s his name . . . coming too?’
‘Dom won’t be there. Just me and you.’
‘That’s nice. See you later, Grace.’
‘Bye, Grandad.’
Archer places her phone on the table top and after a moment lifts her hand from the device. Her grandad has had two small strokes in the past year that have left his memory functioning at seventy per cent efficiency, according to his doctor, who also diagnosed the early onset of dementia. The diagnosis floored Archer. He is her only family. She has begun to notice a sharp decline in his moods and awareness in recent months, which causes her no end of anxiety. He is becoming increasingly confused by everyday stuff, dates and other numbers, especially. He has already forgotten his PIN twice, forcing Archer to write it down for him to carry around in his wallet. Hardly secure, but what choice do they have? Archer lives with her boyfriend, Dominic, in his flat in Little Venice, but has decided to move in with Grandad part time to help look after him. Dominic is furious she made that decision without discussing it first. They argued and Dom laid into her about being consumed by her career and now she was bloody well moving out. That was a low point, however, she knows it’s the right decision for Grandad. She still feels guilty and has managed to smooth things over with Dom, but it’s been a revealing moment in their two-year relationship.
She returns her focus to the case and watches the cabinet delivery again to see if there is anything she has missed, but there is nothing.
She writes a list of the victims on the whiteboard.
Billy Perrin – confirmed
Stan Buxton – confirmed
TBD
Josef Olinski – ?
Herman Olinski – ?
Her phone pings with a text message from Klara.
Hi Grace, that number is an unregistered phone. I’ve run a few reports but can find no trace of it. I’ve set up a scan from my home hub to keep a twenty-four-hour watch. I’ll get an alert if the phone goes live again. K x
Archer types back a ‘thank you’ as Quinn shuffles through the glass doors clumsily, carrying two mugs of steaming tea that have been filled to the brim.
‘One milky, one not so milky.’
‘Thank you.’ Archer takes the hot wet mug from him, wipes the bottom with her palm and sets it on the table. ‘That was my contact at the NCA. The phone number is unregistered and has gone dark.’
‘Nice one.’
‘One day and we have five victims. That’s almost more than we have on the investigation team.’
‘Os just got confirmation from a relative, who recognised him from a photo posted this morning on social media. The third victim is a Noel Tipping. Thirty-four years old. Homeless.’
Archer updates the list on the board with the new name.
‘I was also just talking to Mark Beattie in the kitchen. Pierce is going to work on getting us some more officers.’
‘That would be a help, but we need more than boots on the ground. I’m going to request Klara be seconded to the team.’
‘Klara?’
‘Klara Clark. NCA analyst and general tech wizard.’
‘No such thing as a female wizard. Klara would be a witch. A tech witch.’
‘Does it matter?’
‘Doesn’t quite have the same ring to it. Guru would be better. A tech guru.’
Archer rolls her eyes and Quinn smiles.
‘As analysts go, Os is good, but we could certainly do with a more seasoned pro,’ he says.
‘He seems inexperienced.’
‘Aye, he’s been with us for a year. He’s still a wee bit green.’
‘Klara will be good for us. She can do the work of three analysts.’
Their conversation is interrupted by Pierce’s voice. ‘DI Archer. A word, please. Harry, give us a mom
ent.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
Pierce closes the door behind Quinn, folds her arms and levels her gaze at Archer.
The air crackles between them.
After a moment she speaks. ‘Charlie Bates has spoken with the Chief Constable.’
‘Has he?’ Archer tries to sound surprised.
‘Don’t play the innocent with me.’
Archer bristles, but is in no mood to stand down. Not after today’s unusual body count. ‘With all due respect, ma’am, this investigation is beyond DI Hicks’s capabilities.’ Her tone is firm, perhaps too firm, and she stops herself saying any more.
Pierce’s eyes blaze, her jaw tightens. ‘You have been a DI for five minutes and yet you stand in judgement against those with several years’ more experience than you!’
‘I don’t mean any disrespect.’
‘I hope you can prove yourself, DI Archer.’
Archer holds her tongue. She knows she has already overstepped the mark.
‘You will report to me daily for the duration of this investigation. Is that understood?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘I want to hear of every lead, every movement, every bit of progress. Or lack of. Is that understood?’
‘Of course, ma’am.’
‘I will be watching you, DI Archer.’
Pierce leaves and Archer lets out a breath that she hasn’t realised she’s been holding. Outside the incident room, the DCI stops to talk with Quinn. They both turn to look at Archer. Archer wonders if she can really trust the Irishman. They finish their conversation and Quinn approaches the incident room.
‘That looked tense,’ he says.
Archer shrugs. ‘We haven’t quite bonded yet.’
‘That much is evident. She’s asked me to show you to your office.’
The room in question is a ten-by-ten space next to Hicks’s office. Quinn opens the door and Archer’s nose wrinkles at the unaired musty odour inside. A blokey smell, like sweat, old meat and stale coffee, the footprint of hours fuelled by machine coffee and burritos from the local Chipotle.
‘Ugh . . . That’s rank!’ says Quinn.
A leather-topped desk inside littered with crumpled papers and tissues dominates the room. Underneath it she can see the source of the stench, a full wastepaper basket that the previous occupant didn’t bother to empty.
Sergeant Beattie appears. ‘Ma’am, PC Simpson is here.’
Archer looks beyond the sergeant and sees the large frame of the constable looking pale and terrified.
‘Thank you, Sergeant Beattie.’ She turns to Quinn. ‘Let’s talk to him in the incident room.’
Quinn escorts the constable inside.
‘PC Simpson, I am DI Grace Archer and I assume you know DS Quinn.’
Simpson flushes and nods.
‘Please sit down.’
The constable sits opposite Archer and starts talking before they can begin. ‘I should have checked, I know. I screwed up. I can’t believe it. It had been a long day and night. I had done a double shift and I was tired and just wanted to knock off. I’m really sorry. Shit! I can’t believe this happened to me. I’ve never screwed up like this . . .’
‘PC Simpson, take a breath,’ says Archer.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Tell us what happened yesterday.’
‘I was driving around Trafalgar Square at the end of my shift and saw the van parked up on Charing Cross Road. I pulled over to see what they were up to. I thought it was harmless enough. They told me it was an exhibition for the Lord Mayor’s Show. I asked the bloke for the paperwork and he showed me a council approval letter.’
‘Josef Olinski.’
‘Yes, that’s him.’
‘Was there a name on the letter, a signature?’ asks Quinn.
‘Yes, but I don’t remember what it was. It all just seemed so harmless. I mean, there’s always artsy stuff appearing on the streets. Cow statues and stuff like that. These cabinet things were covered in some fancy material and I just assumed they were legit. I never imagined what was inside.’ Simpson’s eyes dart from Archer to Quinn. ‘Jesus Christ, I’m going to lose my job over this, aren’t I?’
‘I doubt that, PC Simpson. What did you talk about?’ asks Archer.
‘General stuff. He was married with a kid. He seemed friendly and willing to help. I asked him what was in the cabinets and he told me it was some sort of art exhibit. We laughed, thinking it was just a load of old rubbish.’
‘The CCTV footage shows you looking under the covers.’
‘I did, but I didn’t really see much. It was dark and the covers didn’t help. Honestly, I couldn’t have imagined anyone would have the nerve to put dead bodies inside containers and leave them on Charing Cross Road.’
‘OK, Kevin. Thank you,’ says Quinn.
‘There is something else . . .’ Simpson leaves the statement hanging as if waiting for permission to speak.
‘You’re keeping us on tenterhooks, Constable. Please break the suspense,’ says Quinn.
‘Josef Olinski said these three were the first of many. He told me they had already delivered six more cabinets to two other locations.’
7
I
T’S LATE AND THE WINDOWS are dark in Roupell Street, near Waterloo, where Grandad lives and where Archer lived as a teenager after everything went to hell. The echo of her boots shatters the night-time calm as she makes her way toward number fifty-two under the warm amber glow of the Victorian lamppost that lights up the sleepy two-storey brown-brick terraces. This quiet, unspoilt nineteenth-century village preserved in the heart of London is like stepping into another time. For Archer, there is something special about this hidden enclave that makes it feel like a weight shifts off her shoulders each time she returns.
Grandad’s house is recognisable from a distance because of the star jasmine that grows from a small hole in the pavement outside. It’s been there for as long as she can remember, growing and clinging to the brown bricks between his front door and living-room window. Over the years she and Grandad have tended it, trimming its bony branches, watering its squashed roots and enjoying its sweet jasmine scent in the spring and summer times. They admire its tenacity for thriving against the odds, growing from the smallest of holes in the pavement of a Central London street. Grandad told her that if this little plant could bloom and survive with so much to hold it back, then so could she.
She hears voices and glances across to see a well-dressed man and a willowy woman in heels exiting and locking number forty-three. Archer wonders if they are the new owners Grandad mentioned.
‘Good evening,’ says the man.
‘Good evening,’ replies Archer.
Their footsteps fade into the night as Archer searches for her keys outside number fifty-two. She unlocks the front door, steps inside and listens for the sound of the television, or a hello, but all she hears is the peaceful snoring of Grandad coming from his bedroom at the top of the stairs.
She removes her backpack and peels off her coat in the warm narrow hallway with the familiar smell of sandalwood and the eternally lit battery candle with an image of the Virgin flickering on the wall between two photographs. One is of her grandma, a dignified, handsome woman of Algerian Jewish descent, and the other is of Archer’s father, DCI Samuel David Archer. Her heart swells with love and loss and she whispers goodnight to them before turning in.
She is tired, her eyes sore from staring at computers and the overwearing of contact lenses. She sets the alarm of the digital clock on the bedside table. In this small bedroom that was her father’s, and later hers, she climbs into the bed and tries to sleep but the events of her first day and this artist-cum-killer turn over in her mind like a storm of jigsaw pieces.
Sleep isn’t an option yet.
She reaches across for her glasses on the bedside table, takes out her laptop and googles the suspect. His website is a single page of streaming video links from YouTube containing
short movies shot in Super 8 film format, just like the short of Billy Perrin in Flanders Art Gallery. One video, titled Hanged Man, depicts a man hanging from a tree upside down by one leg. He is wearing a mask, which has an ‘@’ symbol daubed in red over the right eye. His hands and other leg seem to be tied together. There is a pit bull tugging angrily at his mask and he is shaking as if trying to break free from the dog and his bonds. There are other films like recorded CCTV footage from inside people’s homes. She clicks on one called Last Supper, which shows a broad man with short hair sitting alone in his kitchen, eating his dinner. The same mask as before appears like a ghost in the window behind him and watches him before disappearing. In another titled The Reader, a woman is sitting on a sofa reading a book under the dim light of a lamp. She startles suddenly and looks across the room. Closing her book, she slowly stands and then seems to speak as if asking who is there. In the shadowy room behind her, Archer sees a figure moving forward and switching off the lamp.
Archer feels her skin crawling.
All of the films, including Billy Perrin’s, have similar themes: voyeurism with implied violence. Or in Billy’s case, and the two other men in glass cabinets, murder. There is no doubt in Archer’s mind that these were not staged or acted videos. These people were victims and she wonders if any are still alive.
She opens her email and quickly composes a message to Os asking him to start working on identifying the people in the videos.
*
After a fitful night she wakes to the 7 a.m. news broadcasting through her digital clock, yawns and stretches as the events of yesterday begin to flood her groggy head. Billy Perrin’s shrivelled corpse and Josef Olinski’s burning body flash in her mind. She shivers, swings out of bed and hears Grandad humming to himself as he fills a kettle in the kitchen downstairs.
The radio news steals her attention as the reporter announces he is broadcasting live from the scene of ‘yesterday’s bizarre murder exhibition’.
‘. . . As yet the victims have not been named and there has been no statement from the police, but we expect that to change sometime today. I have to say the scene before me is chilling. There is an overwhelming sense of the macabre that is quite extraordinary! Yesterday, the Forensic team in their white overalls huddled in conversation as the last of the bodies was extracted and wheeled into a waiting ambulance. Although not confirmed, police will no doubt wish to speak to the artist who calls himself @nonymous. Our sources from the Lord Mayor’s Show tell us this was the start of a new collection the artist has called “The Forsaken”. No details yet on what is to come with the next instalment of that collection. More of that story as and when it comes in.
The Art of Death Page 5