‘In other news the family of Tory MP Lewis Faulkner, have spoken to the police about their concerns for his whereabouts . . .’
She switches off the radio and hears Grandad’s voice calling up the stairs, ‘Morning, Grace.’
Archer feels a bounce in her mood. He has remembered that she has come to stay.
She peers down at him from the top of the stairs. ‘Morning, Grandad.’ But her heart sinks. He has lost more weight and his face is verging on gaunt.
He smiles warmly at her. ‘Would you like some breakfast?’
She isn’t especially hungry but doesn’t want to disappoint him. ‘Yes, please.’
‘I’ll get the tea ready and make some toast, shall I?’
‘Thanks, Grandad.’
She showers, inserts her contact lenses and blinks in the mirror, waiting for the soft plastic to find their place over her pupils. At school Archer was teased about her eyes; one blue, one green. The difference is subtle and only noticeable if you look closely. However, a well-meaning supply teacher had caught on and pointed it out to the class as a way of educating them on what heterochromia was. As if it wasn’t bad enough having a mixed heritage spanning different religions, now she was even more different than everyone else. She was even given the nickname ‘mongrel’ by one particular twelve-year-old nemesis.
The teasing became intolerable and made it hard for little Grace Archer to fit in with the other kids. Their parents thought her unfriendly, odd-looking, not quite ‘white’ enough, and these sentiments had quietly rippled through school before exploding from the mouths of Grace’s classmates.
Her father had been her world and his murder had cast a bleak shadow over Grace’s life, a life that she thought couldn’t get any worse. How wrong she was. On leaving school one dark winter afternoon, she navigated her way through the relentless harassment and rather than return to her grandparents’ house in Roupell Street, she took a detour to the graveyard. She tended her father’s grave and spoke to him as if he were right there. Her voice drew the attention of a strange man, not much taller than her, who introduced himself as Bernard.
Archer swallows at the memory and without realising it, caresses the scar on her hand.
Bernard Morrice. Child killer.
What monsters move amongst us.
Morrice abducted her that day and took her away from all she knew, and all she had lost.
Archer pushes Morrice from her head where he already occupies too much space.
Unlike Morrice’s other victims, Grace survived, and returned to school. In what seemed like oddly superstitious behaviour, her classmates, and even some teachers, gave her a wide berth and avoided any kind of eye contact. In time, however, the school settled down and it seemed to Grace that her experience with Morrice was viewed as just a ‘phase’.
It was then that the teasing and harassment started again.
By then, Grace had changed.
On the surface she appeared the same normal, quiet and remote girl, but she was anything but. Thanks to Grandad, an ex-boxer, she became handy with her fists. Grace felt like a loaded powder keg rolling through a forest fire. She hid it well, but inside she burned so much that at times she thought her skin was smoking.
She was ready to detonate.
She knew it.
It was only a matter of time.
Little Grace was different. Not just a ‘mongrel’ anymore.
A wild mongrel.
When the teasing and harassment returned with a renewed ferocity, Grace was having none of it.
She had bloodied the lips and blackened the eyes of several tedious bullies: four older boys and three girls from her year. She soon gained a fearsome reputation and respect that she didn’t care for.
She just wanted to be left alone.
They were different times.
Archer turns away from the mirror.
*
The Coroner’s Court on Horseferry Road in Westminster is a sombre late-Victorian three-storey block. A central stone arch houses two heavy panelled doors coated in years of deep red gloss. Archer presses the intercom buzzer and waits.
Quinn cannot stop talking about the killer. ‘So I read another article from an online magazine that had touted him as the new enfant terrible of the art world with his risqué online videos and graffiti art appearing in random public areas across London. He has a devoted following who share his posts widely and openly across social media. The article also went on to say that not many people seem to understand his work.’
‘No shit,’ says Archer.
‘Quite. There are some who consider his work profound, albeit cryptic. His political beliefs are anyone’s guess. Until yesterday the right-wingers claimed him as their own, as did the left-wingers, who sought to make him the poster boy for their causes. Now they’re all washing their hands of him.’
Archer presses the buzzer again.
‘His ambiguity and anonymity have been part of his growing appeal and genius, apparently. He is more than a wannabe Banksy, they say. He is something new.’
‘Nothing new about serial killers.’
‘How many like to display their victims as pieces of art in public?’
‘Point taken.’
A voice crackles through the intercom. ‘Yes?’
‘DI Grace Archer and DS Harry Quinn. We have an appointment,’ replies Archer.
Downstairs in the mortuary, Doctor Kapur, a dour man dressed in grey scrubs, greets Archer and Quinn with a handshake that is firm yet cold to the touch. His face is long and his complexion matches his work clothes making Archer wonder if he has a chameleon-like ability to blend in with the corpses he spends his working days with.
‘Are you ready?’ he asks.
Archer nods. She is no stranger to dead bodies. As a constable, and later a DS, she has seen her fair share of dead people from road accidents to natural causes to murders. As a child she had seen . . .
She pushes the thought from her mind and follows Kapur as he leads them through the large swinging doors to the theatre where the four bodies lie under sheets on top of stainless-steel tables. The doctor pulls on a pair of rubber gloves and peels back the sheet from the first table to reveal the blackened corpse of Herman Olinski. Kapur extends his arm and with a rubbered index finger points to the dead man’s temple.
‘This gentleman had been shot once in the head before the van was set on fire. Mercifully, he was dead before he burned.’
The doctor pulls the sheet gently back over the cadaver before unfolding the sheets covering the three homeless men and exposing their bruised necks.
‘Asphyxiation by choking. Hands, judging by the bruises.’
‘Would it be possible to measure the length of the handprints to get an estimate of the killer’s height?’ asks Archer.
‘I have done just that. The killer’s hands are approximately 8.5 inches long. He could therefore be anywhere around six feet.’
‘What is the likelihood of finding any DNA on the bodies, considering they have been pickled?’ asks Quinn.
‘Unlikely. The formaldehyde in the cabinets would have killed any traces.’
‘Great. A killer that can effectively cover his tracks.’
Doctor Kapur arches his eyebrows and smiles. ‘Not necessarily.’
Archer regards him. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I did find something very interesting.’
Archer feels her pulse quickening.
Kapur slides his hand under Stan Buxton’s sheet and takes out his pale left arm. Pointing to the dead man’s dirty fingernails he says, ‘I found a strand of blond hair underneath.’ He places the arm back under the sheet and walks to Noel Tipping’s corpse, reveals his right hand and points to the fingernails. ‘I found a similar hair here.’ Kapur moves to the top of Billy Perrin’s table. ‘I found three strands of blond hair in this unfortunate’s mouth.’
‘I’d like them sent for analysis,’ says Archer.
‘It has already bee
n arranged, however, the formaldehyde may have compromised the quality of that evidence.’
‘We can but hope. Thank you, Doctor Kapur. You’ve been very helpful.’
8
M
EGAN BURCHILL IS LOST IN the world of her literary heroine, Cassandra Hotchkiss. Max, Cassandra’s impossibly rich lover, and captain of all things kinky, has just stripped her naked, blindfolded her with Chanel-scented vintage crushed velvet and tied her wrists and ankles to the antique oak bedposts with cherry-red rope made from the finest silk. He is just about to torture her ‘regions’ with a frozen peacock feather he has been storing in his Fisher & Paykel stainless-steel freezer.
Megan feels her neck flushing at the thought.
An arm stretches across her suddenly, nudging her e-reader closer to her chin.
‘Do excuse me,’ says the stranger sitting next to her.
She tuts a disapproval and frowns at the wide hand as it wipes the condensation from the bus window. The number 12 Routemaster edges its way slowly around the perimeter of Trafalgar Square, pulling over at the stop opposite The Connection at St Martin’s Place.
Megan doesn’t want to look but cannot help herself. She feels a chill shiver down her spine as she glances across at the spot where the corpses of the three homeless men were left in glass cabinets. The bodies and cabinets are no longer there, the forensics tents and men in white masks and overalls have gone and people walk by as if it never happened, yet for Megan that space has retained a spooky, desolate feel to it.
The man next to her leans across for a better look. She can feel the hard rectangular e-reader press into her chest and lets out a polite cough. The woody scent of his cologne fills her nostrils and she shoots a quick look at the man. He has blond hair with a rugged profile and for a moment she wonders if they have met but quickly decides it’s just her imagination.
She tries to relax and for a moment, she thinks she might need her inhaler, but the man’s weight eases off and he sits back on his side of the seat. She steals another glance, but still isn’t sure if she knows him.
Whether they have met before or not, she is irritated by the infringement on her space. Exhaling through her nose, she tries not to think of dead homeless people as she returns to Cassandra Hotchkiss and her ‘regions’.
She scans the grey digital page for where she left off, however, through her side vision she can feel the man next to her looking her way.
Is he looking through the window, or at her?
She can’t tell.
Whatever he is doing she wishes he would stop. Or does she?
‘Terrible ’bout those men. Murdered and preserved in formaldehyde. Who would do such a thing?’
Megan doesn’t really approve of speaking to strangers, especially men who encroach on her space, but she doesn’t want to be impolite. ‘Yes, indeed. Such a shame for the families.’
Megan is a suburban working-class girl but prefers to affect an educated middle-class voice, especially when talking to strangers on public transport.
‘Shame to be murdered,’ says the man.
‘Quite.’ She hasn’t quite thought about it like that. Megan’s rationale is when you’re gone you’re gone, despite how death occurs. At the end of the day, the living have to pick up the pieces, not the dead.
‘I heard the police can’t find anything that connects them.’
‘It’s awful.’ Megan meets his gaze. His eyes are a dark blue.
He grins.
Megan blushes and shifts in her seat, unsure what to say before turning her attention back to Cassandra’s world.
‘I heard on the news the police think one person is responsible. I don’t believe that. How can one person be responsible for all that? I bet they was immigrants like those delivery men that burned to death in Streatham.’
Megan knows she shouldn’t agree, but the man is probably right. This kind of thing is just not English.
The bus is approaching Megan’s stop. She switches off her e-reader, drops it into her handbag and thinks she’ll pop into the Lumberyard Café for a skinny latte before going into the office.
‘Did you finish your book?’ asks the man, his eyes scanning his phone as he swipes his finger across the screen.
‘Not yet,’ she replies.
‘What you reading?’
Megan feels mortified at revealing the title of her 99p bonkbuster. She tries to think of another book. Something highbrow. ‘I doubt you’ve heard of it,’ she says, buying herself some time.
‘Try me. Go on. I’m good with books. Let me guess. Is it . . .’
‘Pride and Prejudice, if you must know.’
‘Ooh. Who wrote that?’
Megan tries to think, and is about to say Jane Eyre, but stops herself because she isn’t sure that is correct. Her phone makes a pinging sound, distracting her, and she wonders who could be texting her at this time of the morning. Taking it from her handbag she sees it’s a notification from Tinder.
Her heart skips.
It’s from him. The one who calls himself Max084. She senses the man next to her reading her phone.
She turns the other way and opens the Tinder app with a mixture of excitement and apprehension. She knows her profile isn’t entirely truthful about her age. Her picture is from five years back when she was thirty. Two small little lies. Who could they hurt? Besides, her friend Lucy once told her she still looked thirty. So there. Megan has given herself the profile name CassandraH and typed her messages in the same way that Cassandra speaks in her books.
She opens Max084’s message.
Hello beautiful.
She feels a warm feeling stirring inside and turns away to face the window.
Hello, Max. Are you back in London?
I am. Flew in this morning. We have to meet. I’m aching for you.
Megan suppresses a gasp. No one has ever asked to meet her before.
Please say yes.
Megan’s mind goes into overdrive. What should she do?
That would be lovely. I’ll check my calendar.
He is typing a response.
I’ll bring the peacock feather.
Megan almost shrieks.
I’ve booked us a table for tomorrow night at one of London’s most exclusive restaurants.
Megan blinks.
Please tell me you’ll come. I have so much to tell you. Please say yes.
Megan has had such a run of rotten luck recently. Her cat died and her summer holiday was cancelled because the travel company went bust. She spent her holidays all by herself in her tiny flat. She drifts into the fantasy of how lovely it would be to have someone like Cassandra’s Max to look after and pamper her.
Megan?
She jumps from her fugue. What does she have to lose? Her fingers tap on the phone:
My darling Max. I would love to meet you for supper.
You’re my princess.
You’re my prince.
I’ll be in touch tomorrow with the details.
She selects an emoji face with a kiss and he replies with the same.
The bus slows and Megan realises it’s her stop. ‘Oh excuse me,’ she says, pushing past the man next to her and hurrying down the stairs. She makes a mental note to shop in the sales at lunchtime for brand new Spanx.
The morning is cold outside and her chest wheezes as she breathes in the dirty London air. As she heads to the café, she realises that Max used her real name. Odd. He has always called her Cassie, or Hotchkiss, if he was being playful. She can’t recall ever telling him her real name. Perhaps she did one night when she was a little tiddly after one too many Proseccos.
She shrugs and smiles to herself. What does it matter? Tomorrow her dreams will take on a new reality.
9
A
S ARCHER AND QUINN LEAVE the Coroner’s Court a call comes through from PC Sabal Parapurath, the police guard at St George’s Hospital. Josef Olinski has gone into cardiac arrest. Archer tells him they are on their w
ay.
Quinn navigates the busy Central London traffic and Archer feels her stomach knotting at the thought that Josef Olinski might not pull through. She hopes he does, for his family’s sake, and also because he is their only surviving witness.
The same Spanish nurse from yesterday is on reception talking with the uniformed PC, a tired-looking Indian man in his thirties. He sees Archer and Quinn approach and his expression becomes grave.
Archer’s heart sinks.
‘I am sorry but he didn’t make it,’ says the nurse.
‘Was he conscious at any time?’ asks Archer.
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘Apart from his burns did he have any other wounds?’
‘We found two bullet wounds. One in his back, the other in his hip.’
‘Anything else?’
The nurse shakes her head.
‘Thank you,’ says Archer. She turns to the police officer. ‘I don’t suppose you saw anything suspicious last night, Constable?’
‘Nothing, ma’am.’
‘You’d better get yourself home and to bed, Sabal,’ says Quinn.
‘Thank you, sir,’ he replies.
*
Archer sits in the passenger seat of the car deep in thought as Quinn makes a call updating DCI Pierce with the news about Olinski. He finishes the call and she can feel him looking at her.
‘Pierce says we’re not to return to the office until we have something worthwhile to follow up on.’
The Art of Death Page 6