‘Billy Perrin left Sharon on the Strand two weeks back. He told her he had somewhere to be. If Billy had found a way to get cash he would grab it. It was the same night that Stephen witnessed the abduction from Alaska Street. I’m sure of it. Os will have the date shortly when he gets hold of the CCTV.’
Quinn scrunches his face.
‘Why are you pulling that expression?’
‘You’re not going to like this. Os left for the evening half an hour back.’
‘Shit! Why did you let him go?’
‘I assumed he had spoken to you.’
‘He hadn’t!’
Quinn raises his hands. ‘Sorry.’
‘Shit!’ Archer repeats. Standing, she looks across the third floor at DCI Pierce who is in her office and packing up for the evening.
‘I need to talk with Pierce,’ she says, leaving the incident room.
She knocks on Pierce’s door and enters. The DCI looks up with an expression that combines both surprise and boredom. Archer wonders how she does that.
‘Ma’am, a quick word, please.’
Pierce picks up a laptop bag and a large handbag. ‘I’m about to leave for the evening, Archer. What is it?’
‘I’d like to request the secondment of an NCA analyst to come and help us.’
‘We have Os Pike. He is our analyst.’ Pierce heads for the door.
‘But ma’am . . .’
‘I don’t have time for this.’
‘Ma’am, Os isn’t up to the task.’
Pierce stops and rounds on Archer, eyes wide, jaw tight. ‘Like DI Hicks isn’t up to the task, DI Archer. Who else on my team doesn’t measure up to your high standards? Would you suggest I sack everyone and replace them with your NCA colleagues?’
‘Ma’am, I’m sorry . . .’
‘You are a Met officer under my supervision. For the time being you are my SIO. Do your job, DI Archer, stop criticising others and get me some results. Understood?’
Archer feels her neck burning. ‘Yes, ma’am.’
She says nothing more and watches Pierce leave. She sighs and folds her arms.
Perhaps Pierce is right.
Perhaps Archer is the problem.
Quinn approaches. ‘What was that about?’
‘I wanted to convince Pierce to bring Klara on to the team. I didn’t handle it as well as I could have.’
Quinn looks around as if to ensure no one else is listening.
‘Listen, for what it’s worth, since the Rees scandal things have been raw for Pierce. Her reputation faltered and questions were raised about her fitness for the role. She was banging her DI, for Chrissake. What did she expect? Anyway, she survived the inquisition and didn’t lose her job, but she did lose respect and I hate to say this but . . .’
‘She blames me.’
Quinn shrugs. ‘I’m not sure blame is right. You were the architect of her fall from grace.’
‘She blames me, DI Quinn, let’s not beat around the bush.’
‘Yeah . . . she blames you.’
‘She needs to get over it. We have five murders and who knows how many more to come.’
‘Very true. I’m going to make another coffee. Can I get you one?’
‘I’d rather you didn’t, thanks.’
‘That bad, was it?’
‘Words cannot describe . . .’
Quinn chuckles and heads to the kitchen. It occurs to Archer that she hasn’t heard from Dom. She was supposed to contact him last night – and didn’t. She bites her lip, takes out her phone and calls him. After a few rings it goes straight to voicemail.
She sighs.
‘Hey. It’s me. Listen, I’m so sorry about last night. It was my first day and I got caught up in this new case. I lost track . . . I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you, I promise . . . call me . . . bye.’
She thinks it odd that Dom didn’t call to wish her luck on her first day. Perhaps he was busy, although she can’t but help feel irritated by his lack of consideration.
11
H
E SITS IN HIS CAR parked in the shadows close to the monolithic Aylesbury Estate in South East London. The architecture is bleak yet it has a hypnotic beauty, a glorious disrepair and sense of abandonment that only he can appreciate. For a moment it makes him forget his hands are squeezing the steering wheel, his nails digging deep into the leather piercing its soft skin.
He wishes he was far away right now, in a better place, where he could be appreciated.
Where his art could be appreciated.
And adored.
Approximately thirty hours have passed since the reveal of his first exhibition and a minuscule part of him is pleased because all has gone as he expected – yet he cannot help but feel pitifully unsatisfied. He knows it’s early days and his best work is still to come but he cannot shift this sense of despair that comes with the misinterpretation that is being generated through the press.
Lies and more lies.
Fake news written by barbarians and philistines. What do they know? What could they possibly understand about great art? He feels a tightening in his chest and takes a deep breath.
Calm. Calm. Calm.
It isn’t his fault. If anything, it was that fool Derek Manly and his incompetent buffoons destroying the central cabinet in his exhibition. A third of it gone and the full impact of the piece lost. He had watched in dismay as his beautiful creation toppled to the ground and smashed to pieces. His heart had leapt into his mouth and he had felt a burning rage like none he has felt in a long time.
But in that same moment he saw her again, this time swooping in on the dead like a Valkyrie.
Grace Archer.
Detective Inspector Grace Archer, no less.
The same detective assigned to orchestrate his demise. He isn’t sure how exactly he feels about this serendipitous event, however, he is excited to begin this new cat-and-mouse game with her.
Beyond excited.
He has plans for Detective Inspector Grace Archer.
Since he first set eyes on her yesterday morning in the Lumberyard Café, he knew it was meant to be.
Serendipity.
He smiles to himself and relaxes as the frustrations of his failed first exhibit begin to fritter away.
The alarm on his phone pings on the passenger seat, lighting up the interior of the car.
It is time.
He looks up at the fourth-floor bedroom window where he can just about see Elaine Kelly combing her blonde hair. A surge of excitement rushes through him. The night is just about to start.
12
E
LAINE KELLY SITS CAREFULLY AT the little table, leans toward the small round mirror and applies an extra layer of foundation around her bruised, tender eye. She flinches at the pain, swallows and tries to steady her hand. Just a few more gentle applications.
She is relieved the swelling has decreased and oddly thankful Frank’s fist didn’t bust her lip again. Lord knows what her date would think if he saw her in that state, especially after all these years. Mascara next and then a generous coating of ruby lip gloss.
She sits up quickly, forgetting the pain in her bruised ribs, and gasps. She steadies herself against the desk and rummages in the drawers for painkillers, which she regrets not taking earlier. She finds two paracetamol and dry swallows them quickly. Holding her ribs, she steps gingerly into the hallway and looks in on Jordan, who is lying on the sofa watching The One Show.
‘You all right, Jord?’ she asks as she crosses back to the bedroom.
He doesn’t respond.
She slips off her dressing gown and glances at the digital bedside clock. It’s 7.19. Jackie should be here by now to pick up Jordan. She feels a swirl of anxiety as she unhooks the little black dress from the hanger in the wardrobe. It takes her a few minutes to step into it. There’s no way she can manage the zip so she goes to the living room and sits with her back to her son on the sofa.
‘Zip
me up, Jord.’
Jordan sighs, climbs to his knees, struggles with the zip for a moment, before pulling it gently over her back.
Elaine turns round to face him. His eyes scan the area around her bruised eye.
‘The wonders of foundation,’ she says brightly.
He meets her gaze with an uneasy expression that worries her. Poor bugger. He has been through so much with her and Frank fighting, watching his dad beating her senseless with his fists.
‘I don’t want you to go out tonight,’ he says.
‘But we’ve been through this, baby.’
‘Just stay in with me, Mum. Just this once. Please.’
‘Oh baby, I haven’t been out in ages and since your father left . . .’
‘Is he coming back?’
‘Not bloody likely!’
‘Why not?’
‘You know why, Jord. You’ve seen what he does. Besides, he’s with that tramp Lauren now and she’s welcome to him.’
Jordan hugs his knees and stares blankly at the television. Elaine strokes his hair and notices some dry chocolate on his chin.
‘It’s not about Dad,’ says Jordan.
‘What’s it about then, darlin’?’
‘I don’t want you seeing that man tonight.’
Elaine gives a nervous laugh. ‘Oh baby, I don’t know what’s got into you. I’m only going to dinner with an old friend.’
Jordan’s face darkens.
‘You don’t even know him!’ he says, his voice rising suddenly. ‘You won’t even tell me his name! You know nothing about him!’
‘That’s not true.’
‘Yes, it is!’
‘We knew each other at school.’
‘No, you didn’t. You told him you didn’t remember him.’
Elaine flushes. ‘How’d you know that?’
Jordan folds his arms and looks away, his face like thunder.
‘You’ve been on my phone, again, Jordan Kelly. What have I told you about that?’
Like his father, Jordan begins mimicking her voice. ‘Ben Peters . . . oh you’re so handsome. Oh, I think I do remember you . . .’
‘Stop it, Jordan!’
‘And what about those pictures? They are so fake. I bet he’s a fat old man with smelly armpits and horrible breath and he’s just going to use you for sex.’
‘Jordan Kelly! Stop it right now!’
She hears her phone ping from the kitchen.
‘That’ll be Jackie. Get your bag ready, mister. We will talk about this later!’
She swipes open the message.
Babes, I’m so sorry.
I’ve come down with something horrible. Had a sleep and thought I might feel better but feel worse. The girls are unwell too. So sorry to let you down. Is there someone else you could leave Jord with?
‘Shit!’ says Elaine, biting down on a blue painted thumbnail. What can she do? She doesn’t have much to do with her neighbours – because of Frank they have always kept their distance. There is just no way she can dump Jordan on them. She tries to think and comes to realise she is short on options. In fact, she has no options. There is only one thing she can do. She’ll have to cancel. At least that will placate Jordan.
Her phone pings a second time. It’s a message from her date, Ben.
She sighs.
Hi, gorgeous. The Uber is on its way. Should be with you in five minutes.
She types a return message.
I’m so sorry, Ben. My babysitter has let me down. There is no one else to look after Jordan.
The longest five minutes ever pass with no reply. She wonders if he is angry or disappointed with her; and then she sees him typing a response.
Bring him along.
Elaine blinks and smiles.
Really? Are you sure?
Of course. I’d love to meet him. I’ll ask the restaurant to set up an extra seat.
That’s so sweet. Thank you. X
The driver just messaged me. He’s pulling up outside. He’s in a silver Toyota Prius.
Great! See you soon. XXXXXXXXXXX
‘Jordan, get your coat. We’re going out to dinner.’
The paracetamol starts to kick in and to her relief the pain has become a manageable dull throb. Elaine feels a bounce in her mood. What a lovely gesture inviting Jordan along. She has a good feeling about this date. Ben has always liked her, apparently. He told her she’d been a year above him and she was always way too cool to notice him. She didn’t know what to say to that but the truth was she really couldn’t remember him. Who remembers kids younger than you at school anyway? But that doesn’t matter anymore. It makes her feel special to think that she had a secret admirer all those years ago. Especially one who’s grown into a handsome prince and has never forgotten her. It is like a story from a romcom. She almost giggles at the silliness of it, but she can’t help but be excited. She knows in her heart that tonight will be the start of something new. Not just for her, but for Jordan too.
She moistens a hanky with her tongue and wipes the chocolate from Jordan’s cheek. He pulls a face and backs away, but years of practice ensure she hits the target. She helps him with his hoodie, grabs her green puffer jacket and ushers Jordan out of the flat. He doesn’t seem to mind, as long as he is with her, or so she likes to think.
The silver Uber is parked in the shadows near the entrance of the estate. The driver flashes his lights at them as they hurry down the steps.
‘Where are we going?’ asks Jordan.
‘I don’t know darlin’. It’s a surprise.’
‘What sort of food is it?’
‘I don’t know, baby.’
She stands by the driver’s window and waves at him. He is wearing a cap and dark glasses, which is odd for this time of evening. Perhaps he thinks he looks cool. He doesn’t. ‘It’s Elaine for Ben. Ben Peters?’
The driver nods and beckons them to get into the back.
Ten minutes into the drive Elaine’s curiosity get the better of her. ‘Where are we going?’ she asks the driver.
He ignores her and she looks at Jordan and shrugs.
Jordan turns to look out the window on the other side.
She notices they are driving through dark backstreets that she doesn’t recognise. After fifteen minutes, they turn onto a dual carriageway. Up ahead to her right she sees a desolate, dark waste ground. The driver indicates right and turns into it.
‘What is this place?’ asks Jordan.
‘I don’t know.’
The surface is littered with rubbish and rocky debris from buildings long ago abandoned. One is still standing and the driver is heading toward it. The outside is lit up with strings of garden lights draped across the front to make it somehow more appealing.
‘I think it’s one of them pop-up restaurants,’ she tells Jordan.
The driver pulls up outside.
‘This is it, then?’ asks Elaine.
The driver nods.
Elaine looks across at the building. There are three concrete steps up to an old door with peeling varnish. The entire building looks like the remains of an old seventies two-storey office or storage unit. The windows are covered, but she can see a trace of light stealing through a crack in the curtains.
‘All right, Jord. This is us.’ She tries to sound convincing, but this isn’t quite the fancy restaurant she was anticipating.
They get out, stand at the steps and watch as the taxi drives off.
She hears soothing classical music coming from inside the building, and feels a sense of relief.
‘Hear that?’ she says.
Jordan’s hood is up and she cannot see his face in the gloom. She pulls his hood down and fixes his hair.
‘It’s a bit weird, Mum.’
‘It’ll be fine, baby. Let’s go up. It’s a pop-up restaurant. London’s very pricey, you know, for rents and all that.’
‘Why’s no one else here?’
Elaine is thinking the same thing. ‘They must al
l be inside.’
She climbs the steps and pushes the door open. It creaks and a bright white beam of light shines in her eyes. From his correspondence Elaine has come to understand Ben has a sense of humour of sorts, but this is something else.
‘Wait here a moment, Jordan,’ she says.
She hesitates, unsure if she should go inside, but the throb of the concealed bruise on her right eye chides her. She is done with the likes of Frank. It’s time to move on.
Her eyes adjust to the light. She has no idea what to expect. But it certainly isn’t this. There are no people: no diners; no waiters or waitresses. The light is coming from what looks like a floor-standing studio lamp. There is an old kitchen table with a video camera on top. The floor is covered in a plastic tarpaulin that leads all the way to a stainless-steel freezer in the shadows beyond.
It is all so random.
‘Over here,’ says a reassuring voice.
‘What you playing at, you silly bugger?’
‘Come see. Smile at the camera.’
It’s cold inside. Elaine’s breath forms a cloud of mist before her eyes and she shivers.
Something is wrong.
She’s been a fool.
She turns to Jordan, but her heart sinks at his little face contorted in terror. He points behind her and screams, ‘Mum!’
She senses someone and turns to look but something rough like a thick cord slips over her face, pulling down her lip, scraping her chin and looping quickly around her neck, tightening against her soft white skin.
Confusion clouds her mind.
She can’t breathe.
She tries to scream for help but cannot find her voice. Terror washes through her like a tsunami. Pulling her hands from her jacket she tries to tug at the cord but her fingers can’t get purchase. She hears heavy breathing, close to her ear. She screams, but her cry is silent. She feels warmth between her legs and tries to claw at the man behind her, but he is too strong. He turns her around and pushes her forward, her face inches from the camera. Tears flood her eyes. Reflected in the lens is the silhouette of Jordan, standing at the front door. Grief swamps through her and she wants to tell him she is sorry, so, so sorry, but the cord cuts deeper into her neck and then everything goes dark.
The Art of Death Page 8