Archer frowns. ‘Did she say that?’
Quinn smiles. ‘Not really.’
Archer snorts. ‘It wouldn’t surprise me if she did.’
‘So what are your thoughts so far?’
Archer takes a moment to respond. ‘I’m thinking about the hairs Doctor Kapur found on the bodies.’
‘It’s weird, isn’t it? It makes me think of a fight between the three victims and the killer that involved a lot of scratching and biting.’
‘Me too . . . but maybe that’s what he wants us to think.’
Archer becomes lost in her thoughts for a moment before laying them out. ‘What have we got? A killer posing as an artist. His art is murder. So far, he is doing a good job of covering his tracks killing witnesses, burning evidence or pickling it in formaldehyde. Nothing is random for him. His kills have been carefully planned and I suspect his victims have been selected long before they were abducted.’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘Taking people from the streets of London isn’t an easy task. There’s CCTV everywhere.’
‘We may yet find something on film.’
‘Possibly. However, I think he’s smarter than that.’
‘How so?’
Archer sighs. ‘I’m not sure. It’s all just hunches so far.’
‘He’s clearly targeting the homeless. They are vulnerable and easy victims. What’s his beef there, do you think?’
‘He calls his collection “The Forsaken”. His victims are outcasts, abandoned by society, neglected and destitute.’
‘Safe to assume his next victims will be homeless too.’
‘It would seem so. Down on the Strand there is a mobile soup kitchen today with Haircuts for the Homeless too. They usually have a big turn-out. Let’s head there and start asking questions. Somebody may have been approached and maybe someone knows what happened to Billy, Stan or Noel.’
Quinn starts up the car as Archer makes a call to Os at Charing Cross nick.
Os picks up. ‘Os Pike speaking.’
‘Os, it’s Archer. Quick request. Please email the police system photos of Billy Perrin, Noel Tipping and Stan Buxton to me and DS Quinn. We’ll pick them up on our phones.’
‘Will do.’
‘Did you get my email about the videos?’
‘I did and I’ll start on those later today.’
Archer frowns. ‘Make them a priority, please.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘Thanks.’
Archer came across the Haircuts for Homeless project operating on a street in Camden two years ago during a routine investigation of a missing person. Barbers and hairdressers gave up their free time to cut the hair of men and women who lived and slept rough on London’s streets. One homeless man was brought to tears, not just because of his smart new look, but because for those fifteen minutes he was no longer invisible and forgotten. Archer wasn’t only touched by the grateful man’s reaction, but by the philanthropic initiative made by the hair stylists. It was this selfless commitment that spurred her to contact Eula Higgins at The Connection and give up some of her time to help others.
At the bottom of Adelaide Street, where it meets the Strand, a large gazebo has been erected. Inside are four gas lamp heaters and four chairs around which the homeless clientele mingle like brothers- and sisters-in-arms drinking hot tea or soup from styrofoam mugs that are being handed out from the soup kitchen. An old retro-style radio plays pop music and there’s a cheerful vibe in the air.
‘Have your pictures come through yet?’ asks Archer.
Quinn checks his phone. ‘Nope.’
Archer swears under her breath and redials Os’s number. The call goes straight to voicemail.
Archer bristles. ‘No pictures and no Os. That is really helpful.’
‘Let me call Phillips.’
‘No, I’ll get them from Klara.’
Archer makes the call to Klara and moments later the mugshots are on her phone. She forwards them to Quinn.
‘Small things like this are why we need Klara.’
They spend the best part of two hours showing the pictures to the clientele. The three men were familiar faces on the streets yet few can remember when they last saw them. Almost all have learned of their fate and some don’t seem moved or even surprised. ‘When it’s your time to go it’s your time to go,’ offers one unhelpful individual.
Archer approaches a young man wearing a dirty parka with the hood pulled up.
‘Hello,’ she says.
‘All right,’ he replies, quietly, his head down.
‘What’s your name?’
He shrugs and remains silent.
‘Did you hear what happened to those three men on Charing Cross Road?’
His hood nods.
‘Did you know any of them?’
‘Some people get what’s coming to ’em.’
‘What do you mean by that?’ Archer keeps her tone soft.
He looks up.
Archer swallows.
He can’t be much older than sixteen. He has a wispy bum-fluff beard and a grubby face with hollow dark eyes. Underneath the grime, his face is almost angelic, or would have been if it weren’t for the marks of drug use and malnutrition.
‘Did you know him?’ she asks, holding up the shot of Noel Tipping.
He shakes his head.
She shows the picture of Stan Buxton.
He shakes his head.
She slides across the shot of Billy Perrin.
He stares coldly at the picture, shivers and chokes out a hacking cough. He looks down and thrusts his hands into the pockets of his parka. His nose is running and he wipes it with the sleeve of his coat.
Archer senses he knows more than he is letting on.
‘My name’s Grace Archer. Can I get you a coffee?’
He shrugs and shoots a hungry look at the mobile soup kitchen, which has closed up and is moving on.
‘Actually, I’m starving,’ says Archer. She glances across the road at Charing Cross train station. They could talk privately there. ‘There’s a Costa at the station. Why not join me for a spot of lunch?’
The boy hesitates and shifts awkwardly on his feet.
‘They do a pretty good tuna melt or a ham and cheese melt, if you prefer. My treat.’
After a moment he nods his agreement.
‘Stephen. My name is Stephen.’
‘It’s nice to meet you, Stephen,’ Archer says as she walks with him. Turning, she catches Quinn’s eye quickly. He nods at her as he watches them cross the road.
They sit on a blue steel bench on the station concourse. The boy dives into his tuna melt eating greedily and noisily. After he finishes, he gulps down a milky coffee as Archer pecks at a bland, limp egg sandwich and sips at a bottle of still water.
‘How long have you been on the streets?’
‘Two years.’
‘That’s a long time.’
‘Not as long as some. I wasn’t always. Sometimes I was in care. But I hated it.’
‘It can be tough.’
‘I moved from foster home to foster home, never knowing what to expect. Some were nice; others not. I ran away in the end. Couldn’t take no more. I had it in my head that I needed to be free and that I could live on the streets. I was used to nicking stuff and living off my wits.’
He begins to cough uncontrollably. Archer takes his coffee and holds it. When he is calm, she gives it back, he takes a sip and clears his throat.
‘I expect I’ll die here too.’
‘Don’t say that, Stephen. You can turn this around. It’s possible.’
He scoffs and stiffens. ‘Course I can. It’s easy as anything.’
Archer scolds herself for sounding patronising.
‘I’m sorry, Stephen. I didn’t mean it like that . . . it’s just that I was like you at that age.’
‘Were you in care too?’
A dark memory flickers in Archer’s mind. She feels nauseous
and the walls of the station seem to close in around her. She closes her legs and tightens her shoulders.
‘Are you OK?’ It’s the boy but his voice sounds like it’s far away.
Archer tries to steady her breathing, but the darkness engulfs her.
She feels a warm hand on hers and it jolts her out of the fugue. Blinking, she looks down at the grubby hand and then reaches for her water, taking a large swallow.
‘You didn’t look very well,’ says Stephen.
‘I’m OK, thanks.’
It has been months since she’s had a spell like that. She has lost her appetite and offers the remains of her sandwich to the boy, who gladly takes it off her hands.
‘How did you know Billy Perrin?’ she asks, changing the conversation.
The boy wraps his slender dirty hands around the cardboard coffee mug. ‘I didn’t know him. Not much really. He knew me is probably a better description.’
‘What do you mean?’
Stephen casts his gaze to the ground. ‘He wouldn’t leave me alone. I was someone he could push around. Someone he could use. He always wanted something, like I had anything to give. And now he’s dead. Not that I care.’
‘Did he hurt you?’
He nods his head. ‘The last time I saw him was at Waterloo, Alaska Street.’
‘When was that?’
‘Two weeks back, maybe. I don’t know the exact date. I saw him and hid behind a parked car. I watched him, though. He was standing and looking in through the side door of a van. He was talking to someone. But I couldn’t see who because it was dark inside the van. Like black dark. Do you know what I mean?’
Archer nods her head.
‘And then there was this light like a big camera flash or something. It took a few moments for my eyes to adjust but when they did, Billy was gone and the van door slid closed. I heard shouting from inside it and it began to shake. I didn’t know what to make of it and then it was still.’
‘What time was this, Stephen?’
‘It was around eleven o’clock at night, I think.’
‘How many voices did you hear?’
Stephen thinks this over a moment. ‘I’m sure it was only two.’
‘Both male?’
Stephen nods.
She knows it’s unlikely but has to ask, ‘Did you happen to spot the model or reg of the van?’
Stephen shakes his head. ‘It was a white van, a bit knackered-looking. That’s all I could see.’
‘Did you catch a glimpse of this man?’
‘I saw him the second time.’
‘The second time?’
‘Yes, he got out of the van and stood facing the wall opposite. He was wearing a black hoodie and had a scarf wrapped around his mouth and nose. There was a small torchlight on his head. When he switched it on I could see the painting on the wall then. It looked like Billy, but I thought that was just a coincidence. The whole thing was so weird. There was a voice behind me somewhere and he turned and looked my way. I ducked behind the car.’
‘Did he see you?’
‘I don’t think so and didn’t wait around to find out. I was freaked out and just scarpered after that.’
‘How tall was he?’
He shrugs. ‘Taller than me.’
‘His build?’
‘Broad, I suppose. Difficult to say ’cause his clothes were baggy.’
‘Was there anything else about him that stood out?’
Stephen thinks this over before shaking his head. ‘He was just a bloke.’
‘Thank you, Stephen.’
Archer takes out her wallet and gives him a twenty-pound note.
‘Will you promise me to buy something hot to eat with that money?’
He offers a wan smile. ‘I’ll do my best.’
‘Do you think you could show me and my colleague the painting of Billy?’
‘You never answered my question,’ he replies.
‘Which question?’
‘Were you in care?’
Archer hesitates before answering. ‘Not in the way you might think. I’ll tell you another time. I promise.’
10
A
RCHER FEELS A SENSE OF unease as they approach Alaska Street in Waterloo. This is encroaching on her neighbourhood and is just too uncomfortably close to the sanctuary of Roupell Street and Grandad’s house.
Quinn flicks the indicator and pulls the car over, parking half on half off the pavement so as not to stem the flow of traffic in this narrow artery.
‘Over there,’ says Stephen.
Archer sees a gathering of young people crowded under the bridge taking selfies and snapping shots of a painting on the wall.
‘Looks like his minions have beaten us to it,’ says Quinn.
They make their way toward the mêlée. Quinn shows his ID and barks at them to clear off.
A train rumbles past on the bridge above, shaking the ground below their feet.
Sprayed on the wall in shades of grey and black is a graffiti painting of a naked man dressed in a long scruffy coat. His hands are extended and cupped like a beggar, his beard wispy, his cheeks gaunt, his mouth open as if screaming in terror. On his chest are several skull tattoos.
Billy Perrin.
‘Jesus!’ says Quinn. ‘Our man certainly knew what he had in store for Billy.’
Using her phone, Archer takes three shots from different angles and turns to Stephen. His eyes are wide, his face seems paler than before.
‘Stephen, are you OK?’
He nods. ‘Who would do something like this? Billy was no saint, but he didn’t deserve to end up like he did.’
‘Show us where you saw the van.’
‘It was parked right here, on the side of the road.’
Archer looks up and sees CCTV cameras further down the street. She will get Os to check the footage.
‘Do you think you could come to Charing Cross Police Station with me and DS Quinn to make a statement on what you saw?’
Stephen hesitates and looks to the ground. ‘I don’t really want to.’
‘It would really help us, Stephen. You’ve seen the killer and he is going to kill again. You could help save lives.’
After a moment he replies, ‘OK.’
‘Thank you. I could look into getting you some accommodation for a bit, if you like.’
He smiles. ‘Can you do that?’
‘I’ll do my best.’
Back at the station, as Stephen make his statement, Archer calls Eula Higgins and arranges a place for him to stay at The Connection.
‘Luckily I have one room free and can squeeze him in there,’ says Eula. ‘How long for?’
Archer’s budget is tight this month but Stephen is a good kid and she will feel better if he’s off the street while this killer is still on the loose.
‘Five nights. Can you do me a deal?’
‘This isn’t the Hilton, Grace. We’re a charity.’
‘Understood.’
Eula sighs. ‘I assume this isn’t coming out of the police budget?’
‘I wish it was.’
‘He’ll have his meals and I’ll also add in free showers and laundry for the duration of his stay.’
‘Thank you, Eula. I owe you.’
‘No worries, Grace. Good luck finding this madman.’
*
It’s early evening and dark outside. Archer has just finished briefing the team and is riled that progress is running at a snail’s pace. Patience isn’t one of her strong points, but she remains focused, knowing from experience that investigations like this can sometimes take time.
She glances at the cover of the Evening Standard left behind by one of the team. The murders are all over the front page with the exception of a smaller column devoted to the missing Tory MP, Lewis Faulkner.
‘Faulkner won’t be happy about the minimal press coverage he’s getting,’ says Archer.
‘Especially as he has been trumped by homeless people, and dead homeless
people too. The indignity of it!’
Quinn has made Archer a coffee despite the fact she requested tea. She takes a sip anyway and grimaces at the bitter concoction that tastes more like liquid cigarette ash.
‘Not to your taste, then?’ asks Quinn.
She tries not to baulk and places the mug on top of the picture of smiling blond Faulkner.
Quinn sits opposite her and speaks. ‘I was thinking about this whole art thing our killer has going on and it made me think about another artist who made a name for himself a few years back. He’s a bombastic Danish man called Hornsleth or something like that who marketed himself a “conceptual artist”. Although if you replace conceptual with wanky I doubt anyone would bat an eyelid. He came to London offering cash to homeless people to take part in his project. It was a sort of human Pokémon Go.’
‘Isn’t that a computer game?’
‘Aye, it’s a Japanese game of augmented reality, so it is.’
Archer frowns. ‘What does that even mean?’
‘You’re not a gamer, then?’
Archer shakes her head.
Quinn’s face lights up for some puzzling reason. ‘OK, think of it like avatars, which are these cartoon creatures that you are able to see in the real world.’
‘OK.’
‘So Hornsleth comes to London with his photographer. Important to note that Hornsleth isn’t the photographer; he’s just an ideas man.’
‘So . . .’
‘So he scoots around London looking for homeless people that have a certain look.’
‘What sort of look?’
‘I don’t know . . . a homeless look.’
‘OK.’
‘He pays each of them a paltry sum . . .’
‘How much?’
‘I’m not sure. Two hundred quid maybe. For that money each of them has their portrait taken and he fits them with a tracking device. Hornsleth then sells his portraits online for up to £48,000 apiece. With each purchase his buyers get access to the homeless person’s tracking device so they can follow them online and track their whereabouts around London.’
‘Are you pulling my leg?’
Quinn salutes with three fingers. ‘Scout’s honour.’
‘Do you think there is a link between his art idea and our killer?’
‘Too early to say, but it’s worth keeping an eye open. My point is perhaps it was the same with Billy, Stan and Noel. Perhaps the killer offered them cash for their time.’
The Art of Death Page 7