Archer is unsure what to say to that and decides no response is the best option, for now.
Quinn demolishes his breakfast and scoops up the grease with the last of the fried bread. With a paper napkin he dabs his mouth gently as if he has just eaten a fine gourmet meal. ‘Ready to go?’
‘I need to make a quick stop at my grandad’s before heading back.’
‘No worries.’
Quinn waits outside in the car as Archer lets herself in. Grandad is pottering around the kitchen making breakfast and listening to Radio 4.
‘Morning, Grandad.’
‘Good morning, Grace. Have you been working an all-nighter?’
‘I have. How are you feeling?’
‘Your father was always doing them. Not good for your health,’ he replies not having heard or taken in her question. He smiles at her. ‘Would you like some tea?’
‘I’m afraid I have to go out again.’
‘OK, dear. I understand.’
Archer hurries upstairs and takes off her sweater. She washes her armpits, face, neck and brushes her teeth. From her wardrobe she finds a pale blue shirt. After brushing her hair, she hurries back downstairs.
‘Do you need anything, Grandad?’
He shakes his head. ‘No I don’t think so.’
‘Call me if you do, won’t you?’
‘Of course, dear.’
Archer pulls on her coat.
‘Say hello to your dad, if you see him today.’
Archer feels a lump in her throat. She wraps her arms around the old man. ‘I love you, Grandad.’
He chuckles under her embrace and pats her back. ‘I’m lucky to have you, Grace.’
Archer’s eyes begin to well. She is reluctant to leave him alone, but what else can she do?
*
Quinn drops Archer at the station and tells her he needs to sort out some personal business with a leak in his flat and will be back shortly. Archer says goodbye and heads straight into the office.
Later that morning, Klara’s contact with Megan Burchill’s dating app owners pays off. They are cooperating and send across the transcripts of Megan’s conversations with four different men. Three of them are from way back, but one is recent and stands out from the others.
‘Max084. It’s him. It has to be,’ says Archer.
Klara scrolls through the conversation. ‘He sent a car to pick her up the same night she disappeared. He must have driven that car himself.’
‘He pretended to be someone he wasn’t.’
‘It’s called catfishing,’ Klara tells her.
As they are speaking, Quinn walks into the room. ‘Morning! Sorry that took longer than expected. What’s the scoop?’
‘He’s using apps and technology to find his victims,’ says Archer.
‘Billy Perrin, Noel Tipping and Stan Buxton had phones but they were basic old-school devices used for calls only,’ says Klara.
‘Was there anything on their phone records?’ asks Quinn.
‘A few calls in and out to unregistered phones within Central London. That was it.’
Archer folds her arms. ‘I think you’re onto something. The killer used an app to catfish Megan. Jackie Morris said Elaine’s mysterious man had given her a phone to contact him. The killer uses the World Wide Web to showcase his victims. He knows what he is doing, he is savvy with technology.’
‘Oh God,’ says Klara as she turns to a different monitor, ‘I think you’re right. Look at this picture. I came across it this morning when I searched through Elaine Kelly and her friend’s Facebook pages. This is a picture of Jackie, Elaine and Jordan taken at the Lumberyard Café where Chau worked. Jackie tagged Elaine in it but Elaine’s security settings are set to not accept tagged photos on her timeline from other people. That’s why we missed it the first time.’
Archer feels her spine go cold. ‘When was that picture taken?’
Klara brings up the date of the posting. ‘It’s the same morning that “The Forsaken” cabinets were revealed.’
Archer’s eyes widen. ‘I was in the Lumberyard Café that morning. Chau was there. Elaine was there. He was there. The bastard.’ She tries to think. ‘Who else was there?’ she says out loud. Her mind scrolls back to that morning. She went there for a tea before the start of her new job. She tries to pick out faces from the clientele in her memory, but the truth is she didn’t take much notice having been so anxious about her first day at Charing Cross.
‘Klara, can you look at finding the public CCTV for that morning?’
‘I’ll get on it straightaway.’
‘We need to go back there and talk to the staff and see if they recall anyone suspicious on that day.’
DC Phillips appears at Klara’s doorway. ‘Ma’am, do you know a Victoria Dunmore-Watson?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘She’s on the phone and is in a right state. She said she’s been passed from pillar to post since yesterday.’
‘What does she want with me?’
‘She says she is Jamie Blackwell’s PA. She says you and Jamie know each other and that I was to tell you immediately that Jamie has been mugged and kidnapped.’
‘Why does she think that?’
‘Mr Blackwell was on his way to meet a client, apparently, somewhere near Ealing, when his phone went dead after what sounded like a struggle.’
‘Did uniform not respond?’
‘Yes, but Miss Dunmore-Watson doesn’t know where in Ealing this alleged attack took place. She says he’s been missing for a day and insists he’s been kidnapped. Please could you talk with her, ma’am? She’s doing my head in.’
‘Of course.’
A wave of relief passes over Phillips’ face and Archer wonders what she has let herself in for. She follows Phillips back to her desk and picks up the phone.
‘Miss Dunmore-Watson, this is Detective Inspector Archer.’
‘God, you took your time. Jamie is probably lying dead in some horrid ditch or being held to ransom by terrorists, or something.’ Dunmore-Watson’s voice is trembling with agitation.
‘I’m sure Jamie is just fine.’
‘How can you know that? I heard it.’
‘What did you hear?’
‘There was someone else there. Jamie fell and dropped his phone. I called his name but he didn’t respond. Then someone picked up the phone. I could hear them breathing. It wasn’t Jamie. I’m sure of it.’
‘Perhaps he’s home now. Why not try calling him there?’
‘He’s not home! Something’s happened to him. What is it you’re not understanding!’
Archer hears voices shouting across the office and sees Quinn and the rest of the team in Klara’s hub huddled around her computers. Quinn is beckoning to her with an urgent expression.
She mouths ‘one second’ at him.
‘Oh my God!’ cries Victoria Dunmore-Watson.
Something in her tone chills Archer.
‘Miss Dunmore-Watson . . .’
‘Facebook,’ she replies. ‘He’s streaming live on Facebook.’
Archer feels her stomach twisting. She watches the grave expressions on her colleagues’ faces as they watch the screens in front of them. Quinn looks up from the screen and meets her gaze, his eyes wide.
‘I’ll call you back, Victoria.’
‘Wait! Don’t you hang up on me!’
Archer drops the phone and hurries to the hub. On the screens are three different Facebook feeds, each broadcasting the same scene but from different angles. There are three tall and broad vitrines filled with liquid.
There are no bodies yet inside.
Balanced precariously on top of each one is a bound semi-naked man with a crown of thorns and a noose around his neck.
Archer feels her heart start pounding. Her hand caresses her throat.
In the centre is Lewis Faulkner.
To his right is a young man she doesn’t recognise but to Faulkner’s left is Jamie Blackwell.
4
4
‘H
E’S BROADCASTING FROM A RECENTLY created Facebook page,’ says Klara.
Archer can see the title on the page: Father, Son and Ghost.
‘The #FatherSonAndGhost hashtag is trending everywhere,’ says Quinn, as he looks at his phone.
Archer swallows as she takes in the scene. ‘Where is it?’
‘Just tracking it now,’ says Klara.
Jamie and the two other men are wobbling with bloody bare feet on the sharp edges of the glass vitrines. Their hands are secured behind their backs and around each neck is a tightly fixed noose looped to the rafters above. Faulkner’s eyes roll back in his head and he throws up. The vomit spills onto his chest, some of it drips and sinks slowly into the formaldehyde below. The young man is shivering and crying. He turns his head slowly to Faulkner and Jamie and with a distressed expression appears to cry out loud.
It all happens so quickly.
He loses his balance; his feet slip and he drops like a pebble into the liquid. He kicks and struggles as he sinks deeper into the formaldehyde, his toes inches from the bottom. He scrunches up his face, obviously trying to hold his breath, but the noose tightens and his face darkens. In seconds his eyes open, bulging, and his mouth opens as panic for breath sets in. He shakes hopelessly in an effort to break free but within moments he is still and he begins to float in the hazy yellow solution.
‘Jesus Christ,’ says Quinn.
‘It’s coming from Ealing!’ says Klara.
‘Are you sure?’ asks Archer.
‘According to this broadcast, yes. He wants us to find them.’
Within minutes Archer and Quinn are racing across London. Archer continues to watch the broadcast on her phone. Lewis Faulkner is wobbling again, but Jamie is holding steady.
‘Stay calm,’ she whispers.
She stares in horror at the young man in the vitrine. His mouth is open, his lungs and stomach full of formaldehyde. His eyes are wide, in an expression of disbelief. There is no sound from the broadcast. Archer tries to turn up the volume, but it remains mute.
Klara calls Quinn, who passes his phone to Grace.
‘I have entered the location on Google Maps and opened an aerial shot,’ says Klara. ‘It looks like an old gothic building . . . just a moment.’ Archer hears Klara typing furiously. ‘Yes, it’s called . . . Twyford Abbey. Just off the North Circular.’
‘Thanks!’ says Archer disconnecting the call. ‘Harry, can you go any faster?’
‘I’m doing my best,’ he replies.
Faulkner’s right foot slips and splashes on the surface of the chemical liquid.
‘No!’ cries Archer.
As the car races through the traffic Archer watches in despair as Faulkner’s trembling increases. His face turns red and contorts with terror. He begins to sob as he stares down at the liquid below. His mouth opens. She cannot hear but can sees that he is calling for help. His eyes widen and panic fills his expression. She feels a shudder sweep through her own body as Faulkner’s knees buckle and his body plunges into the liquid below. His eyes snap open at the shock and he screams a silent scream as he kicks his legs to stay afloat. But his hands are bound, he is weak. After a few more seconds, Faulkner sinks lower into the vitrine as the rope slowly squeezes the life from him.
‘Faulkner’s gone,’ says Archer.
‘What the fuck! He was our number one suspect.’
‘Shit!’
At the North Circular, Archer sees the crumbling grey façade of an old gothic-style house peeking out from the stark bare trees beyond. She points toward it. ‘There it is.’
Klara calls and Archer puts her on speaker. ‘Where are you?’
‘Almost there!’ replies Archer.
‘Backup is en route. Oh and by the way, we have identification on the third man. He’s a student reported missing by his flatmate. The victim’s name is Thomas Butler.’
Quinn turns onto Twyford Abbey Road and passes rows of semi-detached brick houses.
‘Where the flying fuck are we?’
‘Look for a gate buried in amongst bushes,’ shouts Klara. ‘It’s an old manor house so the gate should be big.’
Archer sees it and points ahead. ‘There. Look.’
Quinn speeds up what looks like a secluded road and skids to a halt at the tall, rusted double gate. Signs in vivid reds, blues and yellows hang from the iron rails.
BEWARE OF THE DOGS
KEEP OUT
PRIVATE PROPERTY
DANGEROUS
Archer jumps out and hauls the gates with all her strength, opening them wide before running back to the car. In the distance she can hear sirens approaching. They arrive outside the derelict gothic mansion and run up to the entrance, but the door is locked.
A voice calls from inside. She looks at her phone and sees Jamie calling out.
Quinn tries to force the door open but it won’t budge.
Lying on the ground is a rusty old golf club. Archer grabs it and hits the door with it, causing little more than chips of wood to fly from the surface.
‘Help. Please help me!’ calls Jamie.
‘Jamie. It’s Grace Archer. Is he there with you now?’
‘No!’ His voice is faint and weak.
‘Please hang on!’ calls Archer.
Quinn kicks the door as Archer batters it with the club. Two uniforms arrive with a battering ram and smash open the door with one hit. They crash through and Archer rushes inside to the three cabinets. Two have claimed their victims and the third waits to swallow Jamie. A makeshift studio with cameras and lights film the scene. There is no sign of anyone else. No indication the killer is here.
Archer drops the golf club. ‘Stay calm, Jamie. Don’t give up.’
She sees a stepladder lying on the floor behind the cabinets. Quinn has already spotted it. He grabs it and sets it up behind Jamie.
‘I need a knife,’ he calls. One of the officers gives him a small utility blade.
Quinn climbs up and begins to cut through the rope but Jamie is pale and weak and seems to be losing consciousness from the fumes of formaldehyde.
‘Stay awake, Jamie!’ cries Archer. To her relief Quinn cuts through the rope but he is unable to hold onto Jamie and he starts to slip into the vitrine.
‘No!’ cries Archer. Quinn struggles to grab him, but it’s too late.
Jamie’s eyes open and he peers at her through the yellow glow of the liquid.
With her heart in her mouth, Archer grabs the golf club and runs at the vitrine, swinging with all her strength. The glass cabinet shudders at the blow. She swings again and again and again, crying out in frustration until the toughened glass shatters and collapses. Jamie tumbles out, choking and coughing as he falls at her feet in a river of chemical fluid and shattered glass.
She crouches down beside him, easing him off the tiny shards that have cut into his skin. In the distance she hears the sound of a siren. She has never felt such relief.
45
A
RCHER TRAVELS TO THE HOSPITAL in the ambulance as the siren shrieks at the London traffic to move aside. Jamie is lying on the cot, trembling, eyes closed.
‘Where are we going?’ Archer asks the medic, a pot-bellied Welshman with thin mousy hair.
‘The Queen Elizabeth. We should be there in under ten minutes. Did you swallow any of the liquid?’ he asks Jamie.
Jamie shakes his head but begins to gag. The quick-thinking medic grabs a yellow plastic bin from under the cot and places it beside Jamie’s head.
‘Puke in here,’ he says, gently.
Jamie throws up into the bin. The sour reek of vomit and formaldehyde fills the small space.
Archer prays this journey will be over soon.
The medic wipes Jamie’s mouth. Jamie looks toward Archer. The whites of his eyes are blood red, giving him an unsettling demonic gaze.
A weak smile creases his face.
‘Rest your head back,’ says the medic. ‘I’m going po
ur some solution into your eyes so please just relax.’
They arrive at the hospital. Jamie is rushed straight into A&E where he is given emergency treatment for formaldehyde exposure to his skin and eyes.
In the hospital bathroom Archer is standing at a sink in her jeans and bra, having just scrubbed the foul sickly chemical from her hands, clothes and boots with hand soap. An elderly woman with thin lips enters the bathroom and frowns at her.
‘Disgraceful,’ she hisses.
Archer ignores her and pulls on her shirt, which has damp spots where she’s tried to clean away the formaldehyde. Everything about the smell just reminds her of death and she wonders if it will ever leave her clothes.
Combing her damp dark hair with her fingers, she puts on her boots and coat, leaves the bathroom and heads to A&E.
She is troubled, something niggles at her like an itch from a phantom limb.
She sees a nurse sitting at the reception desk writing on a paper form.
‘Excuse me. I’m here for Jamie Blackwell.’
The nurse peers up from her work and regards Archer. She looks her up and down, taking in her dark hair and pea coat.
‘You’re her,’ she says in a thick West Indian accent.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘You’re the police officer in the video. The one that rescued him.’
In the rush Archer has forgotten about the broadcast of the murders and the fact the world is still watching.
‘How is he?’ she asks.
‘He’ll be OK,’ replies the nurse. ‘We’ve cleaned him up and there is no damage to his skin or eyes. Luckily, exposure to the chemical was minimal. You broke him out just in time. I can’t imagine what must be going through his mind right now, what with watching those other two poor men die like that. It gives me the shivers just thinking about it.’
‘May I talk to him?’ asks Archer.
The nurse smiles kindly. ‘Of course you can. He has been asking for you.’
Jamie is lying on a bed behind a curtain in a tucked-away, dimly lit corner of the Casualty department. His head is turned to the side, his eyes are closed. She enters quietly and touches his forearm. His eyes flicker open. The whites glow red under the bedside lamp.
The Art of Death Page 25