‘Let’s go out tonight. You and me,’ says Spencer.
‘You are in no state to go anywhere.’
‘No, listen. Let’s go out for a few beers tonight. We’ll go to the Boars Head and pick up that tart who works there. The one that’s always flirting with us. Little Nancy from Oliver! You know her. All tits, makeup and “Alroight, boyz, wot can oi git ya?”’
‘Not tonight, mate,’ says Thomas, who feels affronted by Spencer’s description of the girl who has been nothing but polite and friendly to them.
‘We’ll bring her back here and spit roast that boar. You me, flankers in arms, bro. I’ll even let you touch my old man again.’ Spence howls with laughter.
‘Fuck off, Spence.’
Thomas needs to escape. He leaves the room, heads straight to the bathroom, unzips his jeans and pisses straight into the small pool of water. As he watches it turn yellow he feels a buzzing in his jeans pocket. He takes out his phone and sees a notification from Grindr. He glances behind him, checking he locked the door. He did.
He opens the message.
Hello, handsome. I can’t stop thinking about you. Playing with myself as I type! :-O
Thomas smiles and welcomes the flood of blood back to his cock.
22
A
RCHER MANAGES THREE HOURS OF erratic sleep, which isn’t bad considering Grandad’s stroke and ‘The Forsaken’ murders are crowding her headspace. Dom’s infidelity is lobbying for attention; however, as hurt as she is, she doesn’t have the capacity to dwell on his cheating. There are much more important matters to deal with and she needs all her energies focused on preventing more deaths and stopping a killer. As far as she is concerned, their relationship is over.
She showers, dresses and feels a sharp sense of emptiness inside Grandad’s house without him chatting and pottering about the place. She calls the hospital and is pleased to hear he’s snoozing and comfortable after an early breakfast.
Archer exits the cottage and double locks the front door. Pulling up the collar of her coat, she leaves Roupell Street and makes the journey past the station and across the Golden Jubilee Bridge with other early morning commuters.
Her thoughts turn to the case. She needs quicker results, so longer working hours and weekends are going to be necessary at this rate. But extra hours are not the only thing that will solve this case. She needs to approach it differently. Work in a way she isn’t used to doing. How she is going to do that isn’t clear to her right now.
Her phone starts to ring as she reaches the top of Villiers Street and the Strand.
Dominic.
‘Shit!’
She considers ignoring it, but decides to get it over with. He won’t give up until they’ve talked.
Fat chance!
She presses answer and says, ‘You’ve got a nerve!’
She hears his voice, but it’s drowned out by a passing moped rider who glances at her as he whizzes by.
‘I can’t hear you. Give me a moment.’ She edges into Charing Cross train station’s front car park. ‘What did you say?’ A bus passes on the other side of the road followed by a moped who is turning into the car park.
‘I said, can we meet and talk?’ says Dominic.
Archer’s muscles tighten at the thought. ‘I don’t think so . . .’
Dom says something but the moped’s engine is revving nearby making it difficult to hear.
‘What? I can’t hear you?’
‘I said . . .’
A gloved hand suddenly appears and snatches Archer’s phone from her ear and some strands of hair too.
‘What the hell?’
It’s the moped rider.
‘Hey!’ she calls, but he speeds off across the car park and onto the busy Strand. She sprints after him taking to the road because the pavement is crammed with people. She darts in between cars and sees the moped rider slow to a stop at the lights near Trafalgar Square.
The thief has raised his visor slightly and is looking down at her phone.
‘I don’t want this piece of crap!’ he shouts at her and throws the phone onto the other side of the road and the oncoming traffic. Her heart sinks when the glass smashes, and ends up in a puddle.
‘You shit!’ she shouts, committing his number plate to memory.
He gives her the finger and jumps the red light.
Archer crouches down and picks up the phone from the cold dirty water. She wipes it with her cuff and presses the touch button, but the screen is completely smashed and the phone looks beyond repair.
Looking on the bright side, at least her awkward exchange with Dom was cut short. She almost wants to laugh but once again has the sensation that someone is watching her.
She looks around scanning faces, but no one is looking her way.
Hello, paranoia, my old friend.
Archer slips the broken phone into her pocket. As she makes her way up Adelaide Street she hears a voice say, ‘Hello, again.’
She jumps and looks across to see a man with an untidy mop of grey hair and a jowly red face sitting on the Oscar Wilde memorial granite bench.
The reporter, Mike Hamilton.
‘Detective Inspector Archer, please may I have a moment of your time?’
‘I have nothing to say to the press, Mr Hamilton.’
He smiles at her, looks down at the inscription on the bench and reads it aloud. ‘We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars. Profound, don’t you agree?’
‘I would agree that “gutter” is certainly appropriate at this moment.’
Archer turns to leave.
‘Please wait,’ he says, getting up and touching her arm.
Archer looks down at the pudgy pale fingers on her sleeve.
‘DI Archer, I’d like to help you.’
Archer frowns. ‘And how could you do that?’
‘Let me tell your story.’
Archer’s hands ball in the pockets of her coat. ‘I don’t have a story, Mr Hamilton.’
‘Oh, but you do, Detective. May I call you Grace?’
‘No, you may not.’
‘What happened to you all those years ago?’
Archer feels like she’s been punched. She swallows and turns to leave, but Hamilton hurries ahead of her and blocks her way. ‘Perhaps we got off to a bad start. What I meant—’
‘Three people are dead, Mr Hamilton. Wouldn’t your time be better spent reporting the facts on their murders?’
‘I am very interested in that story, of course. But the fact that you are leading the investigation is of equal interest. You who have hands-on experience with a serial killer.’
Archer feels nauseous and picks up her pace.
Hamilton follows her. ‘Tell me your story. Tell me about young Grace Archer. The girl who survived.’
Archer crosses William IV Street. Hamilton is still on her tail.
‘Tell me about Daniel Jobson. What happened to little Daniel, Detective? You and Daniel were the last of Bernard Morrice’s victims. But you escaped . . .’
Archer’s heart is pounding, she feels dizzy and the walls of the surrounding buildings seem to close in around her. She hurries up Chandos Place, Hamilton’s voice following her like an echo from her past. She cannot think about any of that right now. It is over. It is history. The present and the future are what matter now.
She sprints up the steps to Charing Cross Police Station and crosses the office, enters the incident room and slams the door without thinking. She sees her team, including Hicks and Felton, looking across at her and then quickly turning away. Hicks is the only one whose gaze lingers longer than it should and she is sure his thin lips are curved into a smile. Ignoring him, she craves some time alone to think and sits by the window, staring out at the gunmetal clouds and breathing slowly through her nose. She closes her eyes for a few moments and when she opens them she sees Quinn looking in at her with a puzzled expression.
Archer has no choice but to push Ha
milton from her thoughts for the time being.
She beckons for Quinn to come in.
‘Everything OK?’
She removes her coat and drapes it over a chair. ‘I’m fine.’
‘As long as you’re fine.’
Archer rubs her palms together and recalls Quinn’s abrupt confession about his son and his emergence from the Corpus Christi Church afterward.
‘How about you? Are you OK?’
He shrugs. ‘I’m fine.’
‘Good. We’re both fine then.’
‘Fine as fine can be.’
‘Excuse me, Detective Inspector Archer?’ comes a voice.
Archer looks across to see a young Indian man carrying a briefcase standing at the doorway.
‘How can I help you?’
He smiles. ‘I’m Krish from Forensics. Is there somewhere we can talk?’
‘Come in and close the door, Krish from Forensics,’ says Archer. ‘This is DS Quinn.’
‘Nice to meet you . . . both.’ He smiles again and steps inside.
‘Take a seat,’ says Quinn.
‘I was hoping Sir Peter Davis would be here.’
Krish sits at the table, Archer and Quinn sit opposite him.
‘Why would the Home Office be here?’ asks Archer.
‘The Home Office?’ says Quinn.
‘I tried to call you, DI Archer, but your phone kept going to voicemail.’
‘My phone is broken.’
‘Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘What have you got for us, Krish, and what has it got to do with the Home Office?’
‘Just coming to that.’ He reaches into his case, takes out a manila folder and places it on the table with his hands resting firmly on top of it.
‘The contents of this folder are very sensitive.’
Krish’s eyes roll between Archer’s and Quinn’s.
Quinn sighs. ‘We’re in the middle of a murder investigation. Are you going to share what you have or do we have to wait on your chum?’
‘I’m sorry.’ He slides across the folder. ‘Dr Kapur sent us through several blond hairs from the victims in the glass cabinets. Unfortunately, the formaldehyde had an impact on our ability to find a match. However, the site Forensics team were able to find similar blond hairs on the material used to cover the glass cabinets. We tested the follicles and were able to find a match.’
Archer opens the file and looks at the profile and photograph inside.
‘Jesus Christ!’ says Quinn. ‘Are you kidding me?’
‘I wish I were. They belong to the missing MP, Lewis Faulkner.’
23
‘H
ANG ON A MINUTE,’ says Quinn. ‘How on earth were you able to match Lewis Faulkner’s DNA and why is he even listed on the database?’
‘It’s no secret he has a history of drug offences including one for domestic abuse. His past occasionally resurfaces in the tabloids,’ replies Archer.
Across the office, she notices DCI Pierce arrive with Sir Peter Davis, a tall, thin grim-faced man wearing an ill-fitting grey pinstripe suit. They make their way toward the incident room.
‘Davis is here,’ warns Archer.
They all stand as Pierce escorts Davis into the incident room. His thick dark eyebrows knit together at the sight of Faulkner’s file. He looks at Krish, his lips curling. ‘I instructed you to wait until I arrived.’
‘My apologies. It seemed to me this couldn’t wait,’ replies Krish.
‘Peter, this is DI Archer and DS Quinn, who are leading “The Forsaken” murders investigation.’
‘Hiya,’ says Quinn.
Davis frowns at the Irishman as Archer hands Pierce the file.
‘I didn’t know about Faulkner’s domestic abuse. This certainly puts a new perspective on the investigation,’ says Quinn.
‘I have known the Faulkner family for over three decades. His father and I are old colleagues. His son and my son are the very best of friends. Lewis Faulkner is innocent of any allegation past or present. Besides, that was a long time ago and the offence was thrown out of the courts!’ says Davis.
Archer holds her tongue, thinking it unwise to mention the costly settlement that was splashed across the papers all those years back.
Pierce closes the file. ‘Conclusions?’
‘It would seem that Lewis Faulkner has had physical contact with the cabinet covers.’
‘What does that prove exactly?’ asks Davis.
‘Well, the same hair was found on the victims,’ says Quinn.
‘That “same” hair cannot be matched to Faulkner!’ Davis looks to Krish. ‘Forensics will tell you that formaldehyde affects the accuracy of a DNA reading. True, Mr Anand?’
‘That is very true. It can make the DNA unreliable.’
‘A weird coincidence with those hairs being almost identical,’ says Quinn.
Archer interjects. ‘The hairs found on the hands of two of the victims, and in the mouth of the third victim suggests a struggle with Lewis Faulkner.’
‘That’s absurd! Lewis Faulkner isn’t a violent man.’
Archer thinks if she bites her tongue any harder it will bleed.
‘We don’t yet know the nature of the struggle, or if there even was one. We’re keeping all options on the table for now. Sir Peter, have you noticed anything unusual about Mr Faulkner recently? A change in his behaviour or moods?’
All eyes turn to Davis, waiting for his answer. After a pause he says, ‘He’s been drinking. More than usual.’
‘I see,’ says Quinn. ‘And, Mr Davis, would you say Lewis is the creative type? Does he enjoy viewing art, or perhaps making it?’
Archer hears Pierce sigh.
Davis glares at him. ‘Just do your bloody job and find him!’ he snaps.
DCI Pierce places her hand on Davis’s arm. ‘Thank you, Peter. I will call you later once we learn more.’
He nods curtly before adding, ‘Not a word of this to the press. This is a bloody bombshell waiting to explode.’
‘Of course,’ says Pierce.
‘A blond bombshell,’ adds Quinn.
Pierce and Davis shoot him withering looks.
Davis shakes his head and leaves.
As the door closes behind him, DCI Pierce asks, ‘Could Faulkner be our man?’
‘It’s possible,’ replies Archer. ‘He’s big and strong enough.’
‘He’s a big lad all right. He has what I like to call a clumsy waistline.’
Krish snorts.
‘Harry, please stop,’ says Pierce.
‘Sorry, ma’am. Stopping now.’
‘If Faulkner is our man, what’s his motive?’ asks Pierce.
‘What do we know about him?’ asks Archer. ‘He has a difficult past from what I can recall: the rebellious son of a blustering loud Conservative politician, Alexander Faulkner. Lewis Faulkner’s privilege, his drug use and his alleged abuse against girlfriends were all over the news almost twenty years back, I believe. He disappeared for a few years before returning to the limelight, following in his father’s footsteps as an MP and is now apparently a newly reformed character.’
‘That remains to be seen,’ says Pierce.
‘He writes toxic columns and tweets usually about groups he doesn’t much care for, like the homeless, Asians, Muslims, gays . . . you name it. He never has much to say about art, though,’ says Krish.
‘To look at that benign smile you’d think butter wouldn’t melt,’ says Quinn, peering down at the picture in the Forensics file.
‘He’s our only lead right now,’ says Archer.
‘Make finding Faulkner a priority. I’ll give you access to all I have on him, which includes his ANPR data. Ask Hicks and Felton to help you out with enquiries. Klara can look into the ANPR and his mobile phone records as a priority and have her report back to me as soon as she finds anything.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘He doesn’t have much to do with his estranged wife. She despises him
, but it’s worth talking to her and his current squeeze, Melanie Suskind.’
*
Archer logs into the police database, looks up the reports from the initial enquiry into Faulkner’s disappearance and finds a nugget within Melanie Suskind’s interview.
She gathers the team together for an update and asks Hicks to interview Faulkner’s ex-wife and focus on the alleged history of domestic violence and any other sort of violence. Klara takes on Faulkner’s ANPR, CCTV and mobile phone, while Os and Tozer examine the Last Supper and Hanged Man videos and look deeper into Ben Peters’ disappearance.
‘DS Quinn and I have an appointment this morning with Melanie Suskind. Before we finish does anyone have any questions?’
There are none.
‘I was using my personal mobile phone, but it’s out of action for the time being. Until I get a new work one, please contact me through DS Quinn’s phone.’
Archer is confident she has covered every base and ends the meeting, but asks Klara to stay. Quinn hangs around as the team disperse. Archer hands across a Post-it note to the analyst.
‘Klara, could you look into who owns this moped? Whoever he is snatched and smashed my mobile phone.’
‘Oh no. Sorry to hear that. Yes, of course I will.’
‘One other thing. How’s it going so far here in Charing Cross?’
Klara shrugs. ‘OK.’
Archer glances at Hicks who is chatting with DS Felton at Felton’s desk. ‘No problems . . . from anyone?’
‘Nothing I can’t handle. Thank you.’
‘Let me know, won’t you?’
‘Of course.’
*
In the car on the way to Westminster Quinn asks Archer how she knows Klara.
‘She was Keegan Clark when we first met. Keegan was a prodigy and what you might think of as a stereotypical nerd who could turn their hand to anything computer related. She was an awkward, gangly young man who wore 1970s brown and purple paisley shirts, sleeveless jumpers and belted overcoats from charity shops. It was geek chic but she knew how to wear that stuff with style, not that anyone else could see that. She was shy and quiet and found it hard to fit in with other police colleagues.’
‘I know the feeling.’
‘I wouldn’t say you were shy, quiet or geeky,’ replies Archer.
The Art of Death Page 13