‘Is she dead?’
‘Yes.’
He didn’t want to believe it, but Jordan knew it was true. Didn’t he witness the man squeeze her neck and stand frozen as she dropped to the ground? He has played that scene over and over in his head. A small part of him couldn’t quite accept it, but when he heard it direct from the killer’s mouth, Jordan crumpled and sobbed, his shattered heart crushing into dust.
The man said nothing. He just watched.
Tears stung Jordan’s eyes and snot ran from his nose. His chest heaved as he wiped his face with his sleeves. ‘W-w-why?’
The man sighed. ‘Don’t be sad, Jordan. She’s in a better place.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means she’ll be preserved in the hearts and minds of generations to come.’
Jordan scratched his temples hard. He was terrified but deep down an anger was racing to the surface. ‘I don’t know what that means. You’re not making sense!’
‘Think of her like a modern Mona Lisa. That lady has been preserved for more than 500 years in the hearts and minds of people from all over the world. People are born, they live, they die. Wars rage, famines purge and plagues cull. But the Mona Lisa remains as she was created: enigmatic, dignified, beautiful. Your mother will be just like her.’
Jordan didn’t know what to say to that.
The man tossed a plastic carrier bag at his feet. ‘Don’t be frightened. This nightmare will end soon.’ He then shut the door and slid across the bolt.
Jordan felt his blood go cold. What did he mean by that?
He inched away from the bag half expecting rats or spiders to spill from it, but nothing came. Now, after thirty minutes his curiosity has gotten the better of him and he peers inside. There is a cheese and ham sandwich, a packet of bacon crisps and a can of warm Coca Cola. His stomach rumbles and despite his despair he tears open the wrappers and stuffs himself.
30
‘I
’LL JUST SEARCH FOR YOUR details,’ says Rachel, an eager young sales advisor at the Vodafone store in Long Acre, Covent Garden.
Archer’s attention flicks to the muted television broadcasting the news on the wall behind the advisor. The screen shows a shot of Lewis Faulkner’s face alongside another of the Range Rover she and Quinn found late last night. The shot of the Range Rover is replaced by a live interview of an older man resembling the missing MP, talking from the living room of a grand home. Faulkner senior, presumably. On the other side of the screen, Lewis Faulkner’s benign smiling face looks down at her like a fleshy male Madonna without child. Archer appraises him as if searching for a clue to his guilt, or innocence.
‘Sorry about this. System’s a bit slow today. Must be a busy time,’ says Rachel.
‘That’s OK.’
‘Ah, here we go. Found you. Archer. Grace.’ The sales advisor frowns at the computers. ‘It says here your sim card is still in use.’
‘That can’t be right. My phone was broken and I’ve not used it.’
‘Mmm . . . let me see what’s going on.’
Archer glances at the television. The news anchor has moved on to the murders of Billy Perrin, Noel Tipping, Stan Buxton and Herman and Josef Olinski.
‘No calls have been made,’ says Rachel. ‘Perhaps it’s just a problem with the system. I wouldn’t worry about it. Let me get you a new sim.’ She crouches down at the sales desk, opens a drawer, takes out a new sim and inserts it into Archer’s phone before handing it back.
‘Was your old phone backed up?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. Do you know how to restore your data from the Cloud?’
‘I do, thanks.’
‘Great. I’ll make the switch on the system now.’
‘Flippin’ hell, mate, have you seen this?’ comes a man’s voice from somewhere in the store.
‘What the . . .?’ replies his friend. ‘Are those real people?’
‘Yeah, it’s the same bloke what did those three homeless people in.’
Archer turns to look at the two men who are open-mouthed and staring down at a phone screen.
‘She’s fit,’ says one of the men. ‘Or was . . .’
Archer feels a chill run down her spine and notices other members of staff looking at the television behind Rachel.
‘Oh my God,’ says the sales advisor.
She is watching the television. Archer follows her gaze.
A BREAKING NEWS banner with the subtitle ‘Marshland Martyrs’ is rolling across the bottom of the screen and a live Facebook feed shows three tall vitrines filled with liquid. Each one has a body inside.
Archer moves closer.
The news anchor is talking but she cannot hear. ‘Please turn the volume up!’
Rachel unmutes the television.
‘. . . these pictures are just in from the Facebook page of the killer who calls himself @nonymous. They appear to show the bodies of three semi-naked women with their hands clasped together in prayer. Something is wrapped around their arms. I’m not sure what it is. The image is really quite extraordinary . . .’
‘Shit!’ says Archer. She phones Klara. ‘Have you seen the news?’
‘We’re watching it now. Where are you?’
‘Close by.’
‘I’m putting you on speaker . . .’
Archer hears the echo of Klara’s office and the low hum of voices.
Archer pays for the sim and hurries out of the store. ‘I’ll be there in five minutes. Can you get a trace on the Facebook feed?’
‘Yes, the geo location is on the feed . . . here it’s . . . it’s broadcasting from somewhere on the Greenwich Peninsula. I should have precise location in a few moments.’
Archer sprints past Covent Garden market dodging dawdling tourists.
‘Is DS Quinn there?’
‘I’m here,’ calls Quinn.
‘We need backup, medics, SOCOs.’
‘Already on it.’
‘Good. I’ll be there in a few minutes.’
*
Sirens scream and blue lights flash as Archer and Quinn race across London in a convoy of police vehicles. Archer watches the broadcast on her phone. The vitrines are lit from behind with a dim blue light. The victims’ hair floats like their long dark skirts that seem to move from side to side. They are naked from the waist up; their arms are tightly bound with barbed wire and their hands held up in prayer. Archer shudders.
There is only darkness around the cabinets and there is no sign of movement. Archer knows the killer is long gone.
Klara phones. ‘Calls are coming in from friends and family. I have IDs on the women. Elaine Kelly, Chau Ho and Megan Burchill. All three have a social media presence and none of them have been reported missing.’
‘They’re clearly not homeless then?’
‘Definitely not homeless. And Elaine Kelly is a mother.’
‘Thanks, Klara. Find out all you can about them,’ asks Archer.
‘Will do.’
Archer sees the towering blocks of Canary Wharf nearby.
‘We’re almost there!’ says Quinn.
They arrive at the peninsula.
‘There it is!’
Archer looks up to see an abandoned warehouse on the opposite side of a rubble-strewn waste ground. Broken glass and rubbish clatters and cracks under the tyres of the squad car as Quinn speeds towards the rundown building.
They skid to a stop outside the entrance. The large brown doors are cracked open revealing the gloom inside with a faint red glow. Archer looks back to see the other vehicles pull up including a van filled with armed police. She wonders if they will be needed but it is better to be safe than sorry.
Retrieving a torch from the boot of the car she makes her way to the entrance elbowing open the door and peering inside. The interior is vast with broken windows and gaps in the roof letting through a murky pale autumn light. The cabinets are in the middle of the space and are situated in a semi-
circle in front of a battered steel table with three devices broadcasting the scene.
Archer feels sick to her stomach.
She runs the beam around the interior of the warehouse but there is no sign of anyone.
She hears Quinn talking into the car radio.
‘SOCOs are on the way,’ he says.
‘Let’s go in,’ says Archer. She turns to the head of the armed police. ‘Sergeant Ward, DS Quinn and I will suit up and go in first. Perhaps you could follow and ask your men to wait for now.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
Archer opens the boot of the squad car and she and Quinn unpack disposable forensic suits. She hands Ward a pair of disposable shoe covers. ‘Keep your distance, but don’t stray too far. Just in case.’
‘Yes, ma’am. Understood.’
The sickly-sweet smell of formaldehyde permeates the air as Archer and Quinn walk side by side following the beam of her torch as it scours every dark, hidden corner.
As Quinn switches off the phone broadcasts, Archer stands as close to the cabinets as she can without the risk of contaminating the scene. The women’s eyes and mouths are closed, which gives them a look of serenity that seems at odds with the harsh bruises around their necks. The blonde woman has a bruise around her eye and a small scab on her lip. Archer feels a crushing sadness that burns and crackles as a surge of anger roars through her body. Who the hell does this maniac think he is?
She will find him and won’t give up until she does. She looks at the three women.
‘I promise, I will stop him,’ she whispers.
31
A
S THE SOCOs TAKE OVER the crime scene, Archer and Quinn return to Charing Cross and gather the team in the incident room. Klara has started building profiles of the three women and distributes A4 printouts with information on each.
‘Thanks, mate,’ says Hicks, snatching a sheet from her hand.
Archer feels her hackles rising, but Klara seems unfazed and carries on as if nothing has happened. Archer watches Hicks as he studies the sheet with his index finger lodged inside his left nostril.
She rolls her eyes.
Klara continues, ‘From her Facebook profile, Elaine Kelly is thirty-two and married to Frank Kelly, who looks almost twice her age. They have a son called Jordan and live on the Aylesbury Estate.’
‘And no one has reported her missing?’ asks Tozer.
‘There’s nothing on our records. Elaine’s best friend is Jackie Morris. The last time they communicated was via text last Thursday. Jackie was supposed to look after Jordan but cancelled because she was ill.’
‘What about the husband?’ asks Quinn.
‘He doesn’t have a social media presence. Jackie Morris says their relationship was on and off and he roughed her up from time to time. We have his details on file. Domestic violence and drunken bust-ups in bars.’
‘Sounds like a charmer,’ says Quinn.
‘We need to talk to him,’ says Archer, recalling the bruise on Elaine’s eye.
‘Their address is on the second sheet.’
‘Chau Ho was twenty-three, a dentistry student at Queen Mary University with a part-time job in the Lumberyard Café on Seven Dials. She was a live-in caretaker with some friends in an abandoned hospital in Shadwell. She was prolific on Instagram and has over a thousand followers.’
‘Hey, Keegan, how many followers have you got on Instagram?’ asks Hicks, veering off topic.
Klara frowns and the room goes quiet.
Archer kills the silence. ‘DI Hicks, what the hell has that got to do with anything?’ she snaps.
‘He . . . she has eighteen hundred followers on Instagram.’
‘And?’
‘Perhaps the killer has a kink for Instagram types. She might give us some insight.’
‘That is the shittest suggestion for insight I have heard in a long time,’ says Quinn.
Hicks looks back at the sheet and shrugs. ‘Just a thought.’
‘Rodders, for the record, mate, her name is Klara. K, L, A, R, A. Klara.’
‘My bad, Klara. Please accept my humblest apologies,’ says Hicks, with a wry grin.
‘Please carry on, Klara,’ says Archer.
Klara clears her throat and continues, ‘As I was saying, she was prolific on social media, especially Instagram.’
Archer studies her picture and is sure she recognises Chau, having frequented the café she worked at. ‘What about Megan Burchill?’ she asks.
‘Megan was thirty-five, single and lived alone in Ealing. She worked as a Higher Education Project Co-ordinator in Covent Garden. We don’t know much else. She liked books, cats and television soaps.’
‘Thank you, Klara.’
Archer addresses the room. ‘The victims all have friends and family so find out if anyone knows what might have happened. Os, get a court order together and get those images taken off social media.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘But ensure we get copies of everything.’
Os scribbles notes on his pad.
‘Klara, could you look into the CCTV from the Greenwich Peninsula over the past few days? Marian and Tozer, could you meet with Chau and Megan’s families and look after them? Give them what they need and find out what you can about them.’
‘What about this Frank Kelly?’ asks Quinn. ‘Strange that he hasn’t come forward, considering his wife is dead.’
‘Agreed. We’ll go talk to him after this meeting.’
Archer turns to Hicks and Felton. ‘DI Hicks and DS Felton, please follow up with the friends of Megan and Chau.’
Hicks curls his lips and nods once.
‘DS Quinn and I will follow up with Elaine Kelly’s family and friends.’
‘Ma’am,’ says Klara, ‘Jackie Morris mentioned Elaine’s son, Jordan. She has been asking around and no one has seen him or the father. Her address and contact details are on the third page. Oh, she also mentioned some pubs you could try if Frank Kelly isn’t at home.’
‘Thanks, Klara. Good work. That’s it, everyone. Good luck all and thank you.’
As the team disperses, Archer says, ‘DI Hicks, a word, please.’
She closes the incident-room door leaving only herself and Hicks inside.
‘Stop harassing Klara.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Klara is essential to this investigation.’
A half smile appears on Hicks’s thin lips. ‘I’m not sure what it is you’re implying.’
‘Better coppers than you have been fired for less. I’m warning you. Stop it now!’
The smile fades from Hicks’s face. ‘I don’t have a problem.’
Archer gathers her papers from the table. ‘You’ve been warned,’ she says as she leaves the incident room.
Dropping the papers on her desk she catches Quinn’s eye. ‘Shall we go?’
*
Archer drives an unmarked car through the evening rush-hour traffic as late-forecasted rain begins to pelt down across the city. Quinn has used Google maps to discover the location of Frank Kelly’s drinking holes. She drops him off at Thurlow Street. As he steps outside, cold November air floods the interior.
‘I’ll call you if I find anything,’ he says.
Archer nods, shifts gears and continues on her journey. With the wipers on full, she reaches the Aylesbury Estate in South East London just as the rain transforms into a full storm. Outside people scatter like mice running for shelter and a single umbrella floats twisted and broken on a small kerbside river. Archer spots a free parking space which is a loading bay outside a bathroom shop.
As she steps out of the car, the rain assaults her face and hair. She pulls up the collar of her pea coat, which thankfully keeps off the worst of the cold.
The Aylesbury Estate is known as Britain’s finest example of urban decay and after years of residents’ campaigning, the council has put money into regenerating the entire estate. It has been a slow process and some flats still remai
n unoccupied. Archer crosses the road and makes her way up the concrete stairs to the Kellys’ flat on the fifth floor. The walls are daubed with unimaginative white, yellow and orange graffiti comprising illegible names, profanities and various depictions of genitalia. Despite the evening cold, she can still make out the unmistakable stale stench of urine.
She hears footsteps approaching and stops to look up, but sees only shadows. Archer peers along the fourth-floor walkway but there is no one there. She moves on to the fifth floor and makes her way down the external corridor, hears the whine of a car alarm and wonders if it has been triggered by the storm or an opportunistic thief.
A pleasant and fragrant wave of garlic, cumin and coriander wafts under her nose as she passes a kitchen window, which is open an inch for ventilation. She hears the laughing voices of a happy family and envies them being together in the dry warmth ready to eat a delicious meal. Archer’s mouth waters and her stomach rumbles. When did she last eat?
She approaches Elaine Kelly’s flat at the end of the corridor, stepping from a haze of spice into an invisible curtain of bubble-gum sweetness.
Like spray paint.
Fresh spray paint.
She freezes.
A life-size figure of a semi-naked woman with floating blonde hair, her hands raised in prayer, has been painted on the wall at the end of the corridor. It’s Elaine Kelly looking back at her.
Archer feels her pulse quickening. She notices the door to the flat is ajar, the lock is broken where it has been forced open.
The footsteps on the stairs.
He has been here. Just now. She peers over the wall at the forecourt below, her eyes blinking at the rain. She scans the area but sees no one. Then something catches her eye by the cluster of communal bins. Archer squints and sees a man looking up at her. The hairs on her neck stand on end. The figure turns and hurries out of the estate.
‘Hey!’ cries Archer as she springs forward, sprinting toward the staircase.
An Indian man with a stern face appears. ‘Can I help you?’ he asks, but Archer dodges past him and runs down the steps, her phone pressed to ear, Quinn’s number ringing but he doesn’t answer. She takes the damp staircase two steps at a time, gripping the bannister to avoid a fall and a cracked skull or broken limb.
The Art of Death Page 17