‘I should get going,’ says Jamie.
‘Jamie has his own business, Grace. I’d say he was worth a few bob.’
‘Grandad!’
Jamie laughs. ‘I do all right, thank you, Jake.’ He takes out a business card and hands it to her. ‘Here’s my number. I’ve enjoyed my time with your grandad. Do give me a call or text and let me know how he gets on.’
Archer hesitates but takes the card. ‘Thank you again.’
‘You’re welcome.’
‘Bye, Jake.’
‘Bye, Jamie and best of luck to you, lad.’
Archer pockets the card and sees a nurse at the ward desk. ‘I’ll be back in a moment.’
The nurse is male with a neatly trimmed beard. Archer introduces herself and asks for an update.
‘We did a scan on your grandad and found he’s had another stroke. A mini one.’
Archer can feel her pulse quickening. ‘Did he have it today?’
‘No, it could have been days or weeks back. It might have happened when he was sleeping or perhaps he had a turn or something. Did he mention anything?’
‘He sometimes gets dizzy spells and has to lie down. I thought that was just part of his early dementia.’
‘Likelihood is it caused one of his spells. We’d like to keep him in for the night, maybe two, to keep an eye on him.’
‘Of course.’
‘I explained everything to your husband.’
Archer blinks. ‘My husband?’
‘I beg your pardon. Your partner?’
‘I’ve never met him until now.’
The nurse frowns. ‘How funny. I looked at you both and thought, now there’s a good-looking couple.’
‘He helped my grandad when he fell over.’
‘A knight in shining armour, eh. I wouldn’t mind being rescued by him,’ he laughs.
Archer isn’t sure what to say to that. She looks back at Grandad who has dozed off.
‘You should let him sleep. Maybe come back later,’ says the nurse.
‘Please call me if something happens. You have my contact details.’
The nurse checks his system and reads out Archer’s number.
‘That’s it. Call me anytime of the day or night.’
Archer exits the hospital and looks for a cab on the busy Euston Road. There are none to be seen.
‘Hey!’ a man’s voice calls.
She sees Jamie peering out of the back of a black cab. ‘Can I give you a lift?’
Archer dithers for a moment before thinking ‘what the hell?’ and climbing inside.
‘Where are you going?’ he asks.
‘Charing Cross.’
‘Can we go to Charing Cross first, please,’ Jamie tells the driver.
They sit in silence for a moment before Jamie breaks it.
‘Back to work?’
‘Yes.’
Archer’s phone rings from the pocket of her coat. She pulls it out but it slips from her hand and falls at Jamie’s feet.
He reaches down for it and hands it across. Quinn’s name is on the screen, distorted through the cracked glass.
‘Apple will fix that for you at a nominal cost,’ says Jamie.
‘It’s on my to-do list.’
Archer swipes the phone and feels the top layer of skin on her finger peel. Fortunately, it’s not cut.
‘Archer.’
‘Just wanted to let you know we’ve been to the locations of Stan Buxton and Noel Tipping’s spray paintings. One in Islington, the other in Angel. There’s nothing that stands out; they are similar to Billy Perrin’s. Apart from their faces, the bodies look as if they have been sprayed on with a stencil.’
‘That would have made them quicker to do.’
‘Exactly. Also, both are in obscure backstreets hidden from CCTV.’
‘Any witnesses?’
‘None yet. Phillips and Tozer are doing a door-to-door.’
Archer sighs. ‘OK. Thanks for the update.’
‘Two other things. Os matched a close-up of the woman in the killer’s The Reader video to a missing person. Her name is Hilary Richards. Hicks and Felton are following up. Also we had a call from a Lucy Robinson who claims her brother is in one of @nonymous’s YouTube videos.’
Archer perks up. ‘Which one?’
‘The one of the bloke sitting in the kitchen when the weird mask with the “@” symbol appears in the window.’
‘I know the one.’
‘Anyway, apparently he’s been missing for three weeks.’
‘Shit!’
‘I’m going to talk to her. Do you want me to wait for you?’
‘Please.’
‘OK. Klara mentioned your grandad is in hospital. How’s he doing?’
‘He’s doing OK, thanks. Listen . . . I’m sorry about your son.’
‘It’s OK. I should have mentioned it this morning, but sometimes I just can’t acknowledge it out loud that he is gone. Forever.’
‘I understand.’
‘Thanks ma’am. See ya soon.’
‘Bye.’
Archer slips the phone into her pocket.
‘Jake mentioned you are a detective,’ says Jamie.
‘What else did he tell you?’
‘Ah, I would hate to betray a confidence.’
Archer feels irrationally irritated but says nothing.
‘I’m teasing. It was all good stuff. He’s very proud of you.’
Archer stares at the passing traffic and makes a silent prayer that Grandad will be OK.
‘If you don’t mind me saying . . .’
She turns to look at Jamie.
‘I don’t mean to be forward, but . . . Jake told me you have one blue eye like a sapphire, and one green eye like an emerald.’
Archer looks back at the traffic. ‘He has quite an imagination. It was more noticeable when I was younger, not so much now.’
‘I noticed them under the bright lights of the ward.’
Archer says nothing.
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be so familiar.’
Archer doesn’t want to be rude, especially considering he has been so kind to her Grandad. ‘What line of business are you in?’
‘Property. It’s very boring.’
‘How’re you finding life in Roupell Street?’
‘Actually, I’m not living there. I’m having it done up. My PA Victoria is helping me. She was with me when I saw you that night.’
‘You were both working late.’
Jamie laughs. ‘We’re not having an affair, if that’s what you’re implying.’
‘No, sorry, that’s not what I meant.’
‘Victoria is a mate. She’s my PA. Not a very an efficient one by any standards, but she is very good at interior design.’
An awkward silence hangs in the air for a moment, until Archer breaks it.
‘You made quite an impression on my grandad, and one of the nurses too.’
‘Oh really?’ he replies with an embarrassed smile.
Jamie is handsome and has a certain appeal. She figures he is around thirty, perhaps a year older than her and has the confidence that comes with being wealthy and privileged, which he clearly is, yet she wonders if he is a player. Someone who is used to wooing women and getting his own way.
The car approaches Charing Cross and Archer calls to the driver, ‘You can let me out anywhere here.’
The driver pulls over.
‘I appreciate the lift.’
‘Anytime. Remember, you have my number.’
‘Thank you for helping my grandad.’
‘It was my pleasure.’
Archer smiles at him, climbs out of the taxi and heads back to Charing Cross Police Station.
17
M
IKE HAMILTON TAKES A BREAK from writing his opinion piece on the artist-cum-killer who calls himself @nonymous. Zoning out from the ubiquitous pounding of plastic keys, never-ending telephone rings and newsroom banter he flicks
through his photographs of the cabinets containing the pickled tramps. He stops at the shot of the toppled cabinet containing the twisted corpse of Billy Perrin. Standing over it like some queen bee is the female detective.
He has since learned her name is Grace Archer and that she doesn’t have a presence on Facebook, Instagram or any other social media platform. Why is that? he wonders. Does she have something to hide? After digging around the electoral data on the Internet he was able to discover where she lives. It’s an address in Little Venice that is also occupied by a Mr Dominic Parker. He tracked Parker down on Facebook, where he also found pictures of Grace Archer. Parker’s mobile number was on his home page too.
The fool.
He called Parker and told him who he was. Parker seemed genuinely delighted to know that Mike Hamilton was on the phone. He was a fan of his blunt reporting style and willingly surrendered his girlfriend’s phone number to run an article on the murders.
Archer.
The name rings a bell somewhere in the recesses of his mind.
Archer.
His journalistic instincts tingle like a sixth sense. He knows that name but . . .
A shadow appears at his shoulder and coughs politely.
He rolls his eyes.
‘Hi, Mike,’ says Katy.
Newbie reporter Katy Michaels is young and frumpy and nerdy as her large round spectacles testify.
‘I’m busy.’
‘Ed needs your copy . . .’
‘Yes, I’m working on it!’ he snaps.
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to—’
‘Two sugars, please,’ he interrupts.
‘Erm . . . but I didn’t ask if you wanted coffee . . .’ she replies, timidly. Although he does wonder if there is a hint of rebellion in her tone.
Mike turns his neck slowly to meet her gaze and gives her ‘the look’. His tried and tested expression like a jaded priest looking at an altar boy who has just shat himself in the middle of mass.
Katy’s face drops.
‘Two sugars coming up.’
‘Idiot,’ he mutters.
He returns to the conclusion of his opinion piece.
Our thoughts and prayers remain with the friends and families of Noel Tipping, Stan Buxton and Billy Perrin at this most difficult of times. May their troubled souls rest in peace. It has been hard to watch the unfolding reaction on social media. Many of our readers believe the homeless have only themselves to blame. My response to that is the homeless are people too. Some are degenerates, but they are people and we must not forget that. Regardless of your opinions on these unfortunates let there be no doubt this @nonymous character is nothing more than a dangerous psychopath. No one can deny that. He has murdered and displayed the bodies of three vagrants in the most undignified manner. No one deserves that. Not even the homeless. So let’s not beat around the bush. @nonymous is a top-class loon and an attention-seeking crackpot with a failed GCSE in Art. He needs to be stopped! But who is going to stop him? The Met? I doubt that. I hear the senior investigating officer is a newly promoted detective inspector. It wouldn’t surprise me if she was a graduate employed through the fast-track system. How can we expect our homeless people to be safe with inexperienced officers like that in charge? Perhaps the Met should think about employing the Chuckle Brothers to take over. Now that’s something I could get behind.
He rubs his nose, folds his arms and considers his lines on DI Archer.
Too much?
Nah.
He is a serious journalist, who writes from the heart. His opinions matter. They matter to his readers and to his bosses, who are grateful for the sales.
‘Your coffee,’ says Katy as she places an overflowing bucket-sized mug of black instant on his desk.
He grumbles a thanks, takes a sip and grimaces. ‘Christ, Katy, how many sugars?’
‘You said two.’
‘Two teaspoons not tablespoons!’
‘But they are teaspoons.’
‘I’m already borderline diabetic.’
‘I can make a new one. I’m sorry.’
He tuts. ‘It will do.’
‘Let me make you a new one.’ Her voice trembles.
He rolls his eyes again. ‘Chill out! It was a joke.’
Her face scrunches at him with a look fusing hurt and puzzlement.
He resists the urge to laugh and turns back to his article.
Katy’s shadow is still present.
He sighs. ‘What now?’
‘Ed wants me to review your opinion piece.’
Mike’s face tightens.
Katy sniffs. ‘He thinks some of the language might be too strong. He thinks it’s stoking the fire on social media.’
‘Does he now?’
‘He thinks I could help give it a more human angle.’
Mike grits his teeth and gives Katy his most insincere smile. ‘I’ll just finish it off and send it to you.’
Katy’s round, bespectacled face brightens causing his mood to darken further.
‘Thanks Mike. I can’t wait to read it.’
He saves the copy and emails the finished article. In the body of the email he types:
Ed mate,
My opinion piece for tonight’s edition. Let’s go for that beer soon.
Cheers,
Mike.
PS Katy has reviewed and given the OK.
He presses the send button and takes in a mouthful of the coffee, which isn’t half bad. Aside from being annoying and a bit too clever for her own good, the girl can make a good cup of coffee. He would never tell her that, of course. That is beyond him. He reflects for a moment and recalls that he was once like her, although maybe not so green.
His attention turns back to Detective Inspector Archer. He googles her, digs deeper into the search results and stumbles across an article relating to a recent NCA drugs investigation that a certain DS Archer played a significant role in. He reads the article and stops at one line.
DS Grace Archer, the only daughter of deceased DI Sam Archer . . .
Mike feels his heart rate quicken.
He remembers DI Sam Archer.
But more importantly he remembers his daughter and what happened.
That was almost eighteen years ago. It was big news back then.
Hamilton rubs the patchy stubble on his soft grey chin.
It will be big news now considering Miss-Wet-Behind-the-Ears Detective Inspector Grace Archer is the senior investigating officer in charge of the @nonymous murders.
He smiles. It looks like he has his next story.
18
L
UCY ROBINSON IS A TEACHER in a primary school in Shepherd’s Bush. Archer and Quinn stand in the corridor outside her classroom waiting for the lunchtime bell to ring. It clangs and echoes throughout the draughty building and is followed by the scraping of chairs and excited chatter of hungry kids, who file out one by one and make their way to the lunch room under the guidance of a matronly school assistant.
‘Come in,’ says Lucy, a petite Scottish woman with mousey hair held back by a black Alice band with a bow. She closes the door behind them. ‘Thank you for coming. I couldn’t quite believe it when I saw the video.’
‘When did the video come to your attention?’ asks Quinn.
She wrings her hands together as she speaks. ‘A friend of mine sent me the link on Facebook. Since the murders of those homeless men, social media has gone bonkers. It’s everywhere.’
‘You reported your brother as being in one of the videos on YouTube,’ says Quinn.
‘Yes, horrible it was too. The person in that mask . . .’
‘When did you last speak to your brother?’ asks Archer.
‘I already told the police this three weeks ago when I reported him missing.’
‘We’re sorry to ask again, but this is important.’
She shakes her head. ‘It’s OK . . . I’m just worried about him. It was about a month back. We usually talk
every week, but I’m married and we have separate lives and different friends and sometimes you just lose track. I did this time and feel so guilty . . .’
‘Why do you feel guilty?’
‘He’s not been very well. He suffers from depression, has done since he was a teenager. I really hope he hasn’t done something silly.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
She shrugs. ‘Well, you hear of people taking their own lives, don’t you?’
‘Was your brother suicidal?’
‘I’d say no, but who knows? He’s my wee brother and I love him, but with depression it feels, sometimes, that I just don’t know him, or what he’s thinking. He’s been missing for weeks, you can’t help but think the worst. I always kept an eye on him when I could and would let myself into his flat if I never heard from him, just in case.’
‘Does he live in London?’
‘Yes, that video was taken in his flat in Clapham. It’s been up on the Internet for three weeks, I checked – since around about the same time he went missing.’
‘I apologise for asking this, but it may be important. Has he been in any trouble?’
Lucy frowns. ‘What do you mean trouble?’
‘Has he been involved with any suspicious people?’
‘No . . . Well, how would I know? He’s my brother, but he’s also a very private person. Anyway, everything is on the police report. What I want to know is why my brother is on that killer’s website?’
‘That’s what we intend to find out,’ says Quinn.
‘You mentioned you let yourself into your brother’s flat. Do you have the keys?’ asks Archer.
‘Yes.’
‘Could we borrow them?’
She looks at them both and shifts on her feet.
‘Just for an hour or two. It could really help us understand what happened to your brother.’
She nods her head. ‘Of course.’
‘One final question. Robinson is your married name? What is your brother’s name?’
‘Peters. His name is Ben Peters.’
*
The air is damp and cold and an eerie quiet resonates in Ben Peters’ basement flat in Clapham. Archer and Quinn pull on their blue disposable gloves and enter the living room-cum-kitchen. The interior is unfussy, tidy and modern with no signs of a struggle or a break-in.
The Art of Death Page 11