Archer stands at the kitchen window where the mask appeared, looks back into the room and on a corner bookshelf, sees it.
‘There,’ she says.
Quinn follows her gaze.
Secreted among a row of paperback novels is a home security camera.
‘This is the sort of camera that records motion and sends it to your phone,’ says Quinn.
He slides away the books from either side and lifts the camera out. ‘It’s disconnected from the mains, which means there may not be a video archive. Those films will be stored in the cloud anyway, not on this device, which makes it next to useless.’
‘Bag it anyway. We’ll take it in for quick fingerprint turnaround.’
‘Do you think our killer has Ben Peters?’
‘I hope not.’
Archer flicks a switch by the kitchen door, lighting up a small yard at the rear. She unlocks the back door and steps outside. The space is around ten-by-ten with a small patio table, two rickety chairs, a rubbish bin and steps leading up to a wooden gate. There is a sliding bolt lock on the gate, but no padlock. Archer takes her torch, leans in for a closer look and shines the beam on the bolt, which is easily accessible from the other side for someone who is tall enough. She notices dent marks on the steel.
‘There was a padlock and it’s been forced,’ says Quinn.
‘It would seem so.’
‘I’ll get Forensics in to comb this place.’
He takes out his smartphone and photographs the damaged bolt.
A notification, containing a Tinder dating app banner notification, pops up on his screen.
Quinn slides the banner away. ‘Excuse me,’ he says.
‘Mr Popular,’ says Archer, with a wry smile.
‘To date, ma’am, all it does is provide a shallow promise of a better life.’
‘I see.’
‘Nothing more.’
She retreats down the steps.
‘Probably best not to tell Lucy Robinson about our assumptions on her brother.’
‘Of course.’
*
Back at the station, Archer is finishing up a call with Grandad, who has just eaten an awful hospital dinner of gristly meat and mashed potatoes. The conversation turns to Jamie, and to her amusement he keeps asking after him as if he is a long-lost friend. She hears a nurse interrupt their conversation.
‘Got to go. Time to sleep apparently. It’s barely seven o’clock!’
Archer smiles. ‘Bye, Grandad. Sleep tight.’
‘Bye, my girl.’
Relieved that he seems to be doing better, she turns to her computer screen and watches the short Last Supper video featuring Ben Peters over and over again. He is wearing a blue checked shirt and is seemingly unaware of the frankly terrifying faceless mask that appears at his kitchen window. She searches through the other videos and finds Hanged Man. It’s uncomfortable viewing, the dog tears viciously at the mask of the man bound and hanging upside down.
She wonders if the masked man at Peters’ kitchen window and the man in Hanged Man could be the same person, but instantly realises they are not.
‘You fool!’ she whispers to herself. How has she not seen it before?
‘Quinn. Look at this,’ she calls, displaying both videos alongside each other.
His eyes dart between the films and after a few moments sees it.
‘I guess now we know what happened to Ben Peters.’
Archer watches with a grim feeling as the dog gnaws and pulls at the bloody mask of the hanged man who is wearing a blue checked shirt, the same shirt that Ben Peters wears in the Last Supper video.
19
M
EGAN BURCHILL QUIVERS WITH EXCITEMENT at the thought of her date with Max in less than one hour’s time. She stands in the brightly lit bathroom of her small Ealing flat applying a dangerous shade of cherry red lipstick, appropriately called Desire.
She pouts and bats her lashes at her reflection.
‘Oh, Max, you flatter me,’ she says, with a girlish giggle.
She glances at her phone sitting on top of the avocado sink.
Still no message from him.
Patience. He’ll call.
She thinks about the last time she went on a date and reckons it was fifteen or twenty years ago. She mulls it over.
Definitely fifteen.
Has it really been that long?
He had been an uncouth bricklayer with crooked teeth who, to her absolute mortification, told her that he loved ‘big girls’. The date had ended as quickly as it had started.
She feels a flush of embarrassment and looks herself up and down in the full-length mirror. In her wardrobe she’s found an old sheath dress with a zip up the front.
It fitted her once.
She sighs heavily and feels like weeping. Max will take one look at her and run. What on earth was she thinking? She stifles a sob. She can’t go through with it. She just can’t.
The dress is black and obviously slimming and if it wasn’t for her new Spanx, which squeeze her like a fist, she would not be standing in it now. To her exasperation it seems to creep above her thighs when she moves. She pulls at the hem and tugs it into place and thinks of Cassandra. Cassandra is fierce, fearless and unflappable in any situation. Megan stands upright and sniffs. Max has seen her photo. To him, she is his Cassandra. To her, he is her Max.
Her phone pings.
It’s a message from Tinder.
She opens it.
Hotchkiss!
Megan giggles.
My darling Max.
The table is booked. So looking forward to seeing you.
Oh, do let me know where we are meeting and I will book a cab.
Certainly not! I will send my driver.
His driver!
That’s very kind.
She adds three heart kiss emojis to her message.
He’s on his way to Ealing now.
I’m in Acton Lane. Number 3.
I’ll let him know.
Two minutes pass.
He’ll be there in 5 minutes. Listen for his horn.
Megan hurries to her bedroom and sprays Elizabeth Arden’s Red Door liberally over her neck and arms. She slips on a set of silver bangles and around her neck fixes a gold locket with a picture of her and her cat, Buster, inside.
A horn blares outside and she jumps.
Shuffling to the window she peers through the curtains at the street below. It’s dark, however she can see the glow of a mobile phone on the lap of a driver sitting inside an unfamiliar large black and expensive car.
She closes the curtains and types a message to Max.
He’s here. He’s on his phone, I think.
Max sends a smiley emoji.
He’s always on his phone. Your carriage awaits you, madam. By the way. Don’t mind him. He’s not a big talker.
She gives herself a final check in the mirror, grabs her coat and bag and hurries out of the little flat.
Down on the pavement she notices the side windows of the car are tinted. Very fancy. She hears her phone ping in her bag. She bends over to passenger window and taps the glass. The window opens.
‘Hello. I do believe you are here for me. I’m Megan.’
He is wearing a dark suit and has straw-like blond hair. His face is hidden behind large mirrored sunglasses, which is odd for this time of the evening. He nods curtly and gestures to the rear of the car.
Megan sniffs. How rude.
She opens the rear door. The interior is plush with comfortable leather seats. There is a glass panel between the driver and the rear, which she is pleased about. No need to make small talk. She notices a built-in chiller with a single frosted champagne glass and a bottle of Cassandra’s favourite champagne, Veuve Clicquot, chilling inside a bucket of ice.
She suddenly feels very thirsty.
Should she help herself? She reaches forward but catches the driver watching her in the rear-view mirror, feels a flush of embarrassment and sits back
looking outside to avoid his gaze. She remembers she has a new message and pulls the phone from her bag.
Help yourself to champagne. M X
Megan claps her hands together. Don’t mind if I do.
The car starts up and pulls away at a steady speed. Megan feels like a celeb and wonders if any of her neighbours can see her. She hopes so. Smiling, she leans across, pours herself a glass of champagne and takes a generous sip.
‘This is the life.’
Through the tinted windows she watches the city lights fly past. She feels very relaxed and seems to sink into the soft leather seat. The lights outside blur. Her eyes feel heavy and begin to close. Perhaps a little nap would be nice. She feels the glass slip from her fingers as darkness beckons and sleep overcomes her.
20
I
T’S ALMOST 10 P.M. WHEN Archer finishes writing up her report for the day. She leaves to get a few hours’ sleep and thinks of Dom, who she hasn’t seen in more than four days. She realises how much she misses him and decides to surprise him, knowing he’ll like that.
She catches an Uber to his flat, a stylish complex of compact but snazzy modern apartments. She stops at a nearby off-licence and picks up a bottle of his favourite red wine, Pomerol.
She lets herself in through the front entrance, climbs the stairs and wonders how she should approach their recent lack of communication. She knows she is as much to blame as he is but feels it’s time they both made a more concerted effort.
Archer opens the door, steps into the hallway. There is an industrial-style console table with what looks like a new purchase on top. When the mood grabs him, Dom sometimes splashes out on antiques, providing the price is negotiable. Displayed on the console is a stuffed white dove contained within a glass dome. The dove’s wings are spread as if it’s waiting to fly away, but cannot because it’s trapped. She feels her skin tingle. When was this ever Dom’s kind of thing? On the walls are limited-edition prints that she has never taken much notice of. She looks at them now with a keener focus newly stoked by her current investigation.
The prints depict faceless profiles of famous people: Marilyn Monroe, Winston Churchill, Jimi Hendrix and others. Instead of features their faces contain what looks like crude street graffiti. Archer isn’t sure what to make of them, or the stuffed dove. Strange. You think you know someone.
She hears music, coming from the bedroom.
A rock song. ‘Sweet Child of Mine’.
Archer rolls her eyes. Dom has shit taste in music. She has grown to detest this song as Dom always wants to play it when they have sex, which she flat out refuses, claiming her dignity is more important than some weird sixth-form sex fantasy.
Dom is sweet but he has some strange ideas.
From the living room she can also hear the television. She peers within and sees the enormous flatscreen broadcasting the BBC News channel which is running more speculation on the @nonymous killings.
She almost gets drawn into the report but is distracted by the remains of a meal on the dining table.
She frowns.
Two plates.
Two knives.
Two forks.
Two wine glasses.
Dom clearly has company.
She hears a grunt from the bedroom as the guitar riff reaches its crescendo.
She hears a woman’s rapid, melodramatic shrieking.
Archer’s heart sinks.
She has faked her orgasms sometimes, but not with the same dramatic flourish as the woman receiving Dom at this very moment.
Archer bites her lip and wonders if she should leave and deal with him another time, but thinks, fuck that.
The woman shrieks again.
Archer walks into the bedroom.
‘Don’t mind me,’ she says.
The woman gasps.
Archer holds up the bottle and smiles. ‘I brought wine for you. Pomerol. Your favourite.’ She slams it on the chest of drawers.
‘What the fuck!’ Dom shouts.
‘Calm down. I’m not staying.’
Archer opens the wardrobe, crouches down and takes out a holdall she keeps there. She stuffs a dress and some shirts into it.
‘What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be . . . bloody . . . not here!’
‘That much is obvious,’ snaps Archer. She can’t help but look at the woman. She is blonde, pretty with a priceless mortified expression.
Tara Hildick-Smith.
‘Your secretary, Dom . . . really? You’re such a fucking cliché.’
Dom jumps from the bed, his face glowing scarlet red.
‘Get out, Grace . . . just get out!’
She feels an enormous lump in her throat but would never give him the satisfaction of knowing how hurt she feels. She meets his gaze and in that moment wonders what on earth she ever saw in him? It doesn’t matter now. She turns to Tara and waves sweetly. ‘Bye, Tara. By the way, you might want to inject some subtlety into faking your orgasms. Check YouTube. You’re bound to find a tutorial.’
Tara’s eyes widen.
Dom looks crestfallen.
Tragic.
Archer sweeps out of the bedroom, carrying the hold-all. As she exits the flat she hears Dom berating Tara, who speaks back in soothing tones.
Archer feels a small measure of satisfaction. She has planted a bomb. Dom’s sex life might never be the same again.
Very tragic.
21
T
HOMAS BUTLER IS SITTING AT the wobbly pine desk in the bedroom of his student digs in Kensington, catching up with reading that he is way behind on. He is in his second year at Imperial College studying Medicine and has come back early from an extended break at his parents’ after the suicide of his cousin. Thomas tried to grieve but found it hard to forgive his cousin for ending his life without at least trying to talk to him first. So Thomas found himself alone in rural Oxfordshire, avoiding his parents, hating his cousin and all the time trying to suppress his raging horn. It all became too much and he couldn’t stay there any longer.
In the living room down the hallway he hears his bestie and flatmate, Spencer, arguing on the phone to Binks. Again! He is drunk and has barely stopped drinking since the night before when Thomas returned and they went on a bender.
There is a knock on the door and Spence’s wavy blond head appears with the team’s rugby tie wrapped like a bandana around it. His thick lips widen to a grin revealing his flawless white teeth.
‘Tommo, my boy! Don’t tell me you are working. Say it isn’t so.’ His voice is hoarse from too much booze and cigarettes.
‘I’m busy, Spence. Running behind, as always.’
Spence stumbles through the doorway holding a half-empty bottle of Grey Goose. He is wearing his blue Derek Rose check print bathrobe. It’s untied and loose and Thomas can see the crevice of his pecs and below them the line of blond hair that runs from the base of his six pack down into his neatly trimmed golden pubic hair that crowns his long and fat, perfect cock. Thomas wishes Spence would not walk around the flat like that without a care. His feelings for Spence run deeper than just being his best mate and this kind of shit is fucking torture. His mouth waters and he shifts in his tight jeans as the blood rushes to swell his own cock.
‘You’re drunk, Spence.’
Spence drapes himself over Thomas, burying his face in his neck. ‘I fucking love you, mate. I fucking do.’
A warm funk wafts from underneath Spencer’s bathrobe. He has clearly not bathed in days.
‘Spence, you stink.’ Thomas grimaces and frees his hand to push him away, but accidentally brushes his cock causing Spencer to jump back.
‘Hey, Tommo, wait just a minute!’ he hollers.
Thomas feels his face flushing. Horrified, he turns and looks back into his book.
‘Tommo, you touched my old man! Tommooooo,’ laughs Spencer.
‘Who hasn’t touched that old man, Spence? It’s been everywhere.’
‘True. But when
you got so much love to give . . .’
Spencer bangs the bottle on Thomas’s desk. ‘Look at me, Tommo.’
‘I’m busy, Spence.’ Thomas tries to focus on his book, ignoring the surge of arousal that threatens to break his defences.
‘Look at me, Tommo.’
Thomas sighs and looks up at Spence’s pool blue eyes. ‘What is it?’
‘I love you, mate.’
Thomas chuckles and suddenly Spence grabs his face and kisses him full on the lips. His breath is stale, a mixture of cigarettes, vodka, olives and garlic. Thomas wrestles himself free and pushes Spencer away. ‘What the fuck, Spence!’
Spencer howls with laughter, grabs the Grey Goose and stumbles backwards onto Thomas’s bed. He balances himself on the edge and takes a large swig of vodka.
‘Binks thinks you’re gay,’ says Spencer, matter-of-factly.
‘Binks can go fuck herself.’
Spencer falls back on the bed laughing and scratches his balls. ‘Mate, I tell her that all the time.’
The thought of Binks and Spence discussing his sexuality rattles Thomas and makes him feel horribly exposed. His semi shrinks like a retreating mouse. What the fuck? Hasn’t he done enough to hide who he is?
He closes his book, knowing he won’t be able to concentrate and starts tidying his desk, nervously stacking books and binning old notes.
After a moment Spence asks, ‘Is she right?’
Thomas shrivels inside. ‘About what?’
‘Come on, Tommo! Is she right about you? Do you play the pink oboe?’
‘Play the what?’
‘Are you a fucking poof, mate?’
‘No, I’m fucking not!’
Spencer sits up and waves the vodka bottle. ‘That’s what I said to her. He’s the reigning fucking captain and champ of the first fifteen. He is a super stud. He isn’t a fucking queer, Binks. Jesus, what a bitch!’
Thomas tries to think. He needs to get out of here. Knowing Spence, this topic will not be over just yet.
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