‘Thank you.’
‘Yes. Oh, there’s one other thing. He gave her a brand-new phone and told her that they must communicate only using it. No one must ever know of it, he said to her. He paid for it too. He told her that it would be their private number. You know, just like the song.’
Elaine was given a private phone to communicate with the man who was to become her killer. Archer has heard enough for the time being. Elaine’s husband and her mysterious love interest are now suspects and she has to somehow track them down.
She stands at the doorway and shakes Jackie Morris’s hand. ‘You’ve been a great help. Thank you, Jackie.’
Jackie takes out the tissue from her pocket again and wipes her eyes. ‘Elaine had such a tough life because of Frank and her parents cutting her off. She was such a good person and deserved so much better. I hope you find whoever did this.’
‘I will do everything in my power, I promise.’
Over Jackie’s shoulder Archer sees Poppy sitting on the stairs, with a long strand of wool hanging from her hands.
‘Are you going to find the man who killed Jordan’s mum?’ she asks.
‘I will try,’ replies Archer.
Poppy disappears back upstairs.
Archer steps out into the grey morning and looks up at the stark sky. She hears a tapping sound from the bedroom window. Looking down at her is Poppy. Beside her is her identical sister and the sleepover friend. They have removed their tops and wrapped strands of dark wool around their arms. Their hands are pressed together in prayer.
Archer goes cold.
She takes out her phone and calls Quinn, who picks up after three rings. She tells him about the meeting with Jackie and concludes with, ‘We need to ramp up the search for Frank and Jordan Kelly. Both are missing. Finding them is a priority.’
Finishing the call, she turns and makes her way back to the train station with the grim realisation that the killer has them all in the palm of his hand.
33
I
N HIS DREAM JORDAN IS screaming at her over and over again.
‘Don’t go in there, Mum! He’s waiting. Please don’t go in!’
But she doesn’t hear him and carries on walking with a smile on her face.
Like a monster emerging from the shadows the man wraps his arms around her and moments later she falls to the ground.
Jordan jerks from his nightmare and screams until his voice cracks, then he sobs until there are no more tears. His neck hurts from where he has been lying so he pushes himself up to a seated position. His mouth is sticky and his throat is sore from shouting for help.
He badly needs to pee and crawls across to the bucket which is almost full. He retches at the stench and covers his nose with the crook of his elbow to stop from being sick. Climbing to his knees, he leans against the wall and pees there instead.
When he’s done, he slides the bucket as far away as he can and then sits back down at his spot on the floor in the corner near the steps. He tries to pull his hand free of the iron band. The blisters have become bleeding sores. He tugs harder. The skin tears and his wounds open further – the pain is too much despite his blood being a useful lubricant. His face is hot and sweaty and he stops for a moment with the intention of trying again later but a sudden furnace of anger lights inside him and all he wants to do is vent and scream, but there is no one to vent and scream at.
Only the thing in the tank.
Jordan trembles with rage and his fists curl as he stares back at its stupid mask and dumb eagle tattoo. He frowns. Something triggers inside him, a flicker of recognition that he cannot place. After a moment his shoulders slump, his hands unfurl and all he feels is pity for the thing.
He is distracted by his tummy as it begins to rumble with hunger. He reaches for the empty sandwich box, peers inside, searching for any crumbs he might have missed. There are several, snuggled in the corner, which he extracts with a grubby damp finger and sucks greedily. Tossing the box aside, he picks up the crisp packet, rips it open and runs his dry tongue over the plastic interior, savouring the salty residue. He reaches for the empty Coke can and squeezes it tight in the hope that something might magically pour from it and quench his bone-dry throat. Nothing comes and he tosses it hard at the green door. It bounces off the wooden panels and tumbles down the steps, echoing loudly inside his concrete cell.
The sound of a door slamming startles him and he holds his breath. Footsteps cross the floor upstairs and music begins to play.
Classical music.
Through the gap in the door he sees two feet. Jordan inches into the corner, his pulse racing. He hears the bolt sliding and the door creaking open.
The man appears and walks down the steps. He is wearing a beanie hat and dark glasses and is holding something in his hand.
A phone.
‘Take off your hoodie,’ he says. His voice is flat and unfriendly.
‘I can’t. It’s cold.’
‘Take off your hoodie.’ His voice lowers to a growl.
Jordan’s teeth begin to chatter. He tries to grit them, but they won’t stop. His body begins to tremble and he can’t seem to move.
‘Do it!’ shouts the man.
Jordan jumps and quickly pulls off his hoodie and lets it hang on the chain.
‘Take off your T-shirt.’
‘What . . . why?’
‘Would you prefer I rip it from you?’
Jordan shakes his head.
‘Then do what I say.’
He quickly pulls off his T-shirt and scrunches it beside his hoodie. Goose bumps erupt on his skin, he shivers in the cold and wraps his arms around himself.
The flash of a light blinds him for a moment. Jordan squints up at the man who is pointing the camera at him. ‘Drop your hands to your sides.’
Jordan trembles and can feel his anger surfacing.
‘I won’t ask you again.’
A cold hatred courses through Jordan’s body as he unfolds his arms and lets them hang by his side.
The camera flashes twice more; each feels like a stab in his heart.
‘Put your things back on,’ says the man.
As he gets dressed the man picks up the bucket and takes it upstairs.
‘I’m hungry and thirsty,’ Jordan calls.
He hears a toilet flushing. A few moments later the man returns with the empty bucket, a small bottle of water, a Mars bar and a packet of wet wipes. He hands them to Jordan. ‘You’re a mess. Clean yourself up.’
Jordan’s teeth begin to grind. He has never felt such hate.
The man leaves and bolts the door behind him.
The thing in the tank is watching him with its pale glassy eye. Jordan hadn’t noticed it before but the mask has a leering upside-down grin.
He clenches his fists.
‘Stop looking at me, you fucker! You filthy paedo! Stop it!’ he shouts.
But the man in the mask just looks back at him with that fixed sinister smile.
34
D
S TOZER CALLS ARCHER’S PHONE as she enters the Tube station.
‘Ma’am, I’m at the Steel’s Lane Health Centre, the abandoned maternity hospital in Shadwell where Chau Ho lived. Something happened here. I’m sure of it. I’ve got a bit of a problem, though. The search warrant hasn’t come through and there are builders here ready to move in and take the inside apart before we get a chance to examine it. It’s become a bit of a shit-fest. I think you should come down.’
‘I’m on my way.’
Archer hails a black cab and twenty minutes later arrives outside the front of the old health centre on Commercial Road where half a dozen burly builders crowd around a harassed-looking Tozer. Archer makes her way toward the mêlée and is spotted by Tozer, who takes her to one side.
‘I spoke with a friend of Chau’s who used to live here. He came by three nights back to drop off his keys but couldn’t get inside. He could see Chau’s bedroom light was on and he could hear her music
booming throughout the house. He tried to push the doors open but the handles were secured from the inside, which he said was weird. He called several times but she didn’t pick up and he also tried throwing small stones at the window to attract her attention.’
‘Couldn’t he have tried another door?’
‘He was drunk and couldn’t be bothered, apparently. He dropped his keys through the letterbox and sent a text to Chau.’
‘Excuse me? Just when are you going to let us do our job?’ comes a man’s voice.
One of the builders, a stocky bald man with a large round head, breaks away from his colleagues and steps towards Archer and the Detective Sergeant.
‘Ma’am, this Colin Hunt, the site supervisor. These men are here to clear out the building for the council.’
‘Not today, Mr Hunt. I’m sorry.’
‘On whose authority?’ he replies with a sharp tone.
Archer presents her ID. ‘Detective Inspector Grace Archer. This building is out of bounds until I say so.’
‘I don’t see a search warrant.’
‘Mr Hunt, the inside of this building could provide vital clues to a serious crime. No one other than the Crime Scene Investigations team will set foot in there today.’
Hunt’s lips thin and he turns to leave, muttering under his breath.
‘Did you check if any of the other doors are open?’ asks Archer.
‘No, I wanted to keep Hunt and his crew away from the front door. They were about to break it open.’
‘Good work, Toze. Let’s take a walk around the back.’
Steel’s Lane runs parallel with Commercial Road and contains a row of yellow brick cottages on either side of the hospital car park at the rear. Across the parking area is a steel blue door, the back entrance to the building. Archer tries the handle but it’s firmly locked. There are weathered concrete steps leading down to the basement, where she sees a large sash window.
‘Now, why do you think the front doors were secured from the inside?’ asks Archer.
‘She was keeping someone from getting in?’
Archer peers through the dirty glass and sees a broken hospital bed and below the window a battered gurney. She takes a pair of latex gloves from her coat pocket, puts them on and pushes open the sash window.
‘Or perhaps someone was stopping her from getting out,’ says Archer. She closes the window back down and examines the locking mechanism. ‘It’s been forced open. You can see the scratches from a screwdriver maybe. Get SOCO to comb the place and put a uniform front and back. We’ll need a door-to-door on these houses also.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘I need to head back to Charing Cross for now. Call me if you need anything.’
*
Something catches Archer’s eye before she enters the third-floor office. Pinned on a corkboard is a newspaper cutting. She feels her mouth drying as she reads the headline.
THE GIRL WHO SURVIVED REAPPEARS TO INVESTIGATE CREEPY CABINET KILLINGS
There are three photographs. One depicts the three cabinets outside The Connection. The second is a shot of Archer talking to Quinn and the third a mugshot picture of her at twelve years of age, her eyes wide, her hair wild and matted with blood. She looks feral. It has been a long time since she has seen that picture.
Jesus Christ!
For a second Archer feels like she is back down there, alone in the dark, in the earth. She doesn’t want to read on, but cannot help herself.
Abandoned by her mother at a young age and raised by her father and grandparents, twelve-year-old (ultimately Detective Inspector) Grace Archer disappeared from the streets of London. Her policeman father, murdered in the line of duty and still warm in his grave, couldn’t have foreseen the terrible fate that awaited his precious daughter. No one knew where she was. In their grief many had supposed she had run away. There was no trail, no clue, no indication whatsoever. She just disappeared. Weeks passed by and the conspiracy theories murmured through the nation’s minds like a flock of starlings . . .
Archer feels nauseous and cannot read any more. She snatches the article from the board, tears it up and takes it to the toilet where she flushes it away. She feels a heat rising inside of her and throws cold water from the tap on her face.
Fucking Hamilton.
She wonders who would have pinned the article up there for all to see and why. Is someone mocking her and getting their own back for their old corrupt colleague Andy Rees? She guesses it is Hicks. It has to be. Who else would have the nerve?
She gets a text alert on her phone from Quinn, who is running ten minutes late.
She dries her face with a paper towel that feels like sandpaper on her soft skin, composes herself and makes her way into the office. Several people look furtively across at her.
Archer ignores them.
‘Listen up, everyone,’ she calls, ‘in the incident room, now.’ Her voice has a snappiness to it, which is unlike her, but she doesn’t care. Someone has overstepped the line.
‘Klara, any luck with Elaine’s contacts?’
‘I’m afraid not. No one has seen or heard from Jordan. I contacted the school. He hasn’t attended since Thursday. They said they had contacted the mother and left a message, but haven’t heard back. Apparently, they called here yesterday to report Jordan’s lack of attendance, but that message wasn’t passed on.’
Archer’s expression hardens and she scans the faces of her team. ‘Did anyone take a call from Jordan Kelly’s school?’
The team look at each other, shrug and shake their heads. Archer’s gaze fixes on Hicks who slouches on his chair like a petulant teenage boy. He stares back at her, unblinking. She imagines he is daring her to throw the accusation at him, but she doesn’t. This isn’t the time for squabbling. She has to lead, and lead by example.
Tension quivers in the air and is broken by Klara. ‘I can get Jordan’s profile out today.’
‘Thank you, Klara.’ Archer addresses the room. ‘Earlier in November Elaine Kelly met a man at Infernos nightclub in Clapham. He might be the man we are looking for.’
‘Felton and I know that place,’ says Hicks. ‘We can take a trip down there and look over the CCTV.’
Hicks’s attitude scratches at Archer. Never mind she is still reeling from the article and the fact that he might be responsible but his offer to help throws her despite her suspicion that he has done so because he knows she suspects him.
‘Thank you, Hicks, but Toze needs help at the Steel’s Lane Maternity Hospital. Take Felton with you.’
‘As you wish,’ he replies with a smug look.
Archer grits her teeth.
‘That’s all for now.’
The team disperses and Archer returns to her desk and switches on her computer. She stares at it blankly and then switches it off again. She taps her fingers on the desktop and glances across at Hicks in his office, laughing on the phone.
‘Morning, all!’ hollers Quinn, a grateful interruption from her black mood.
‘Any news?’ asks Archer.
‘Nothing from the Kelly flat. Seems SOCO are running behind. Sorry.’
Archer updates Quinn on her meeting with Jackie Morris and her visit to the maternity hospital.
‘You’ve had a busy morning. What time did you get home last night?’
‘Late. I had a lot to do.’
‘Maybe try and get home early tonight, ma’am.’
‘We’ll see.’
Quinn plops himself down on his chair. ‘So why do you think our killer entered the Kelly flat last night?’
‘Maybe he wanted a souvenir. Something from her bedroom. Maybe there was something incriminating there. Who knows?’
‘He’s got some arrogant balls, so he has, showing up at her flat and painting that graffiti.’
Sergeant Beattie appears. ‘Excuse, ma’am. Thought this might be important.’
‘Yes, Sergeant.’
‘Frank Kelly is here. He’s downstairs.’
/> *
To Archer’s relief Kelly is in one of the large interview rooms. She and Quinn sit opposite him. He is dishevelled and barely recognisable from his photos. He looks even older in the flesh, his eyes are swollen and puffy, his face blotchy and red.
‘Mr Kelly, you are entitled to a solicitor,’ says Quinn.
‘I don’t want one. I haven’t done anything.’ His voice is harsh and dry, his breath stinks of cheap wine and cigarettes. ‘Where is my son?’
‘We were hoping you might tell us?’ replies Archer.
‘How would I know?’
‘Maybe because he’s your son!’ snaps Quinn.
Kelly looks downward. ‘I haven’t seen him since . . . since . . . that night.’
‘What night was that, Mr Kelly?’
He rubs his arms and begins to shake his head.
‘Mr Kelly, when was the last time you saw your wife, Elaine Kelly, and son, Jordan?’ asks Archer.
Kelly casts his eyes downward and speaks under his breath.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Kelly, could you repeat that?’
His nose begins to run and tears stream down his cheeks.
‘I don’t remember.’
He is clearly drunk. Archer should put a stop to the interview but she waits for a nugget of something.
‘Mr Kelly, please think back.’
There is a long silence as Kelly tries to hold himself together.
‘Drink some of this,’ says Quinn, sliding across a styrofoam cup of water.
‘Mr Kelly, can you confirm your son Jordan isn’t staying with you?’
Tentatively, he picks up the cup, takes a sip, but it seems to go down the wrong way and he coughs it back, spitting it onto the floor.
‘My Elaine. My boy. I’m so sorry,’ he weeps.
‘What are you sorry for, Mr Kelly?’
Kelly doesn’t respond.
‘Mr Kelly, when did you last see your wife and son?’ asks Quinn.
But Kelly drops his head into his hands and sobs.
Archer and Quinn exchange looks. They are both thinking the same thing.
‘Mr Kelly, why don’t you get some rest and we can talk later.’
Kelly weeps as Archer and Quinn stand to leave.
The Art of Death Page 19