He can see the discomfort in her face.
‘The doctor says they’ll be back to normal in a few days. I hope so, considering the amount of cleaning they’ve just gone through. They might as well have taken them out and plopped them in salt water.’ He smiles, weakly.
‘How are you?’
‘Been better. It’s not every day someone tries to kill you in such a theatrical fashion.’ He reaches for her hand. She allows him to take it. ‘You saved my life, Detective Inspector Grace Archer.’
‘What happened?’ she asks.
Jamie’s expression darkens and he looks away. ‘I thought I was meeting a client.’ He squeezes her hand softly. ‘I’m such a fool.’
‘Did you see him?’
Jamie shakes his head. ‘I woke in that room with the stench of formaldehyde. My hands were tied, I was cold and practically naked. He wore a mask with a bleeding “@” symbol on it. He held a knife to our throats one at a time and made us climb the ladder. He then put the rope around our necks and made us stand on top of the cabinets before he started filming.’
‘When did he leave?’
‘Some time before I saw the camera light come on and it started filming.’
‘How long?’
‘It’s hard to tell. Perhaps thirty or forty minutes.’
‘Did you get a sense of anything about him: how he spoke, his eye colour, his clothes, his build?’
‘It was difficult because he wore a rubber suit and the mask. He was certainly strong, athletic. Around my height. There wasn’t much light but I’m sure through his mask I could see dark hair.’
‘Did you see his face? Would you be able to recognise him?’
‘I’m afraid not but there was something—’
‘Tell me.’
‘I resisted and tried to push him away, but he threatened me.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He said, “Get up the fucking ladder!” I noticed an accent. I’m sure of it.’
‘What sort of accent?’
‘It was hard to tell as his voice was muffled but it could have been Scottish. Or Irish, perhaps.’
Archer is quiet for a moment, lost in her own thoughts.
‘What’s on your mind?’ asks Jamie.
Her brow furrows.
‘You look so cute when you do that.’
Archer doesn’t quite take the compliment in. ‘It’s just odd that he selected you.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I know you, this is my investigation and he chooses you for his exhibition.’
‘Could be a coincidence.’
‘Have you ever been to the Lumberyard Café?’
‘In Seven Dials?’
Archer nods.
‘I sometimes meet friends or clients there. Why do you ask?’
‘I think he uses that café as one of the places where he finds his victims. He sees them in the flesh and assesses their suitability. He then checks their Facebook, Instagram or dating accounts and uses their online content to understand them, connect with them and eventually hunt them down.’
Jamie’s blood-red eyes widen. ‘Wow. That’s quite a theory.’
‘Has someone connected with you recently that you don’t know?’ asks Archer.
Before he can answer, a thought occurs to Archer and she tenses.
Jamie can feel her stiffening. ‘What is it?’
‘Nothing,’ she replies.
‘Tell me,’ he urges.
‘The killer didn’t succeed in killing you.’
‘Thankfully . . .’
‘His work is incomplete.’
‘You think he’ll come after me again?’
Archer tries to sound reassuring. ‘I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe not. But we can’t discount it.’
‘You’re right.’
‘I’ll organise a police guard. Someone who will stay here all night.’
‘Can’t you stay?’
Despite herself, and Jamie’s brush with death, Archer smiles. ‘I’ve got work to do.’
‘No rest for the hero of the hour.’
The nurse enters the cubicle. ‘He needs to rest now.’
Archer nods. ‘I’ll come back in the morning.’
‘I’d like that.’
‘We’ll be moving you to the Urgent Care ward, Mr Blackwell. There is a private room there, which is free for now. Would you like that?’ she asks.
‘That would be wonderful, Denise. How are the views?’
‘If you like car parks you won’t be disappointed.’
‘I can’t wait. Thank you.’
‘You’re very welcome.’
Archer calls for a police guard and hovers outside the A&E department waiting for the guard to arrive. Ten minutes pass with no show and she exits the corridor relieved to be shot of the oppressive smell of disinfectant. In the cold dark car park she takes her phone and scrolls to Quinn’s number.
She hesitates for a moment and then calls him.
‘Hi,’ says Quinn.
‘Seems we were wrong about Faulkner.’
Quinn sighs. ‘Back to the drawing board.’
‘They were planted. The mask. The spray cans.’
‘Aye. Sneaky wee bastard. Whoever he is.’
‘How’s it going?’ she asks.
‘Fun times. We scoured the premises but found nothing yet. SOCO are there. The entire place is sealed off.’
‘That’s good . . .’
‘Hicks has already left.’
‘Oh . . .’
‘I know. Some shite excuse about his wife being ill. Complete bollocks. He was looking a bit peaky before he hurried off. No stomach for this sort of thing.’
‘No backbone,’ says Archer.
‘That too. Tozer and Phillips are back at Merrick’s house. He’s not there, which isn’t unexpected. How’s the patient?’
‘Doing well. He needs to rest.’
‘Did you talk to him?’
‘Not for very long.’
Archer sees a police car approach, with two uniformed officers inside. One is PC Simpson, the other is PC Neha Rei.
‘Did he have anything we can follow up on?’
‘He said the killer wore a rubber suit and a mask. He reckons @nonymous has an accent. Scottish or Irish.’
‘How sure is he?’
‘Hard to tell. He’s still in shock and just doesn’t realise it. There’ll be a lot going on in his head. Where’s Merrick from?’
‘Cornwall. He still has a Cornish accent.’
‘Perhaps Jamie got it wrong.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘Listen, Simpson is here to watch over him.’
‘OK.’
‘I have to go.’
‘Bye.’
PC Simpson is loitering nearby. Archer takes him inside to where Jamie is sleeping and instructs him to not leave his side.
‘I won’t let you down this time, ma’am. I promise.’
‘I’ll contact Sergeant Beattie and ensure someone takes over from you before dawn.’
‘Thank you.’
46
A
RCHER HAS A RESTLESS NIGHT’S SLEEP, stirring often throughout the night. She wakes the following morning to the sound of voices chattering on the street outside. She yawns, stretches and rises from her bed and peers through the curtains. Outside are two men; one is showing the other his phone screen. She knows what they will be looking at. One man is talking rapidly and gesticulating with his arms as if he has never seen anything like what his neighbour has just shown him.
She hopes he hasn’t and never does again.
She has no doubt the #FatherSonAndGhost video is still online and has propagated across the Internet. The whole world will have seen it. The families and friends of Lewis Faulkner and Thomas Butler will have seen their loved ones cruelly executed online. They will have seen Jamie’s narrow escape from death and Archer’s role in his rescue, too. There will be stills, gifs and memes spreading across
the Internet like pollen.
‘Good morning!’ calls Grandad.
She peeks out and sees him in his pyjamas, standing in the doorway of his bedroom.
‘Morning, Grandad. How are you?’
‘A bit rundown, but I’m OK. I’m going back to bed, Grace, if you don’t mind. I just needed to pop to the men’s room.’
‘Can I get you anything?’
He raises his hand and yawns. ‘No, no. I took two sleeping tablets and haven’t quite woken up. Are you off to work?’
‘Yes. You haven’t seen the news then?’
He shakes his head. ‘I’ve been sleeping. Besides, it’s all gloom and doom. Can’t be doing with it.’
Archer smiles. ‘Sleep tight, Grandad, and call me if you need anything.’
‘Will do.’
She showers and dresses in dark jeans and a plum-coloured woollen jumper. Switching on the television, she boils the kettle and pops a slice of granary bread into the toaster. Flicking through the channels, she lands on a news report covering the murders at Twyford Abbey. A helicopter is flying over the scene giving an aerial shot of the site below, which is ringed with police tape and guarded by five uniformed officers. The anchor has a smug look about him. His face has a weird sheen and his square jaw seems to move as if it has a life of his own. Next to him is a female anchor who watches the camera with a grave expression as he gives a stilted running commentary on the events broadcasting on the screen behind him.
‘We’re looking over the scene now where MP Lewis Faulkner and medical student Thomas Butler were murdered last night by the serial killer, the so-called @nonymous. The police have sealed off the area and are conducting their investigations as we speak. The killer live-streamed the murders. We have confirmation by the police that they have a suspect . . . and I think we might have a picture.’ The anchor looks beyond camera. ‘Do we have a picture?’
Oliver Merrick’s mugshot appears in the corner of the screen.
‘Yes, we have a photo.’ The anchor looks down, reading from his notes. ‘He is . . .’
The female anchor finishes his sentence. ‘Oliver Merrick, forty-one years old. An accountant based in North London and originally from Cornwall. Police advise that you do not approach him. The police contact number is on the screen too. Please call that number if you see him .’
Archer picks up a buttering knife and taps it on the worktop. She has read Merrick’s file. He is out of shape and five feet eight with no history of being athletic, fit or strong. Could he really be @nonymous?
The screen begins to flicker and then goes black.
‘Ah, the joys of live television,’ laughs the male anchor. ‘We should be back live at the scene in a moment. In the meantime, what do we have coming up on the show, Susan?’
Susan smiles and bares teeth that are unnaturally white. ‘Thank you, Pete. We have a fascinating segment on the decline of tea drinking in the nation’s capital and at 10.30 we ask, which of our new royals do you most admire, and why?’
Archer is about to switch off when the live feed flickers back to life.
‘We’re back live at Twyford Abbey,’ says Pete. ‘It’s an extraordinary story. There was a third victim last night. A survivor saved by the police. He is local businessman, Jamie Blackwell. Here in the studio I have a friend of Jamie’s, Victoria Dunmore-Watson.’
What the hell is she doing talking to the media?
Dunmore-Watson is a thin woman with a turkey neck and long glossy hair.
‘Hello, Victoria. You raised the alarm yesterday. Is that correct?’
‘Not yesterday, actually. I raised it two days ago, and would anyone listen to me? No! It was a total waste of time.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘They don’t give a damn.’
Pete laughs and turns to the camera. ‘Please accept our apologies for Miss Dunmore-Watson’s colourful language at this time of the morning.’
Victoria looks like she couldn’t care less.
‘Sorry,’ she says, half-heartedly.
‘So please tell us what happened.’
‘I was talking to Jamie around three or four. I can’t remember. Anyway, he was going to meet a client, so he said, but I thought it was probably a date with some sla— girl from Tinder.’
‘The dating app?’
Archer butters the still-warm bread.
‘Yes. His cab dropped him outside a building and then someone knocked him out. I heard him fall and then I heard the killer breathe down the phone, like really heavily.’
‘How did you feel?’
‘I was terrified. I didn’t know what to do.’
Archer chews her toast and takes a sip of the hot tea.
‘You called the police?’
‘Yes, I spoke to some woman, but she was really unhelpful.’
‘Was that Detective Inspector Archer?’
Archer stops chewing and sets down her mug.
‘Yeah. That’s her name. She and Jamie know each other, you see.’
‘So, what is their relationship – are they dating?’
‘Yes, but perhaps more than that.’
‘Did he meet her on Tinder?’
‘Wouldn’t be surprised.’
Archer grimaces, her mug hovering an inch from her mouth.
‘Jamie has a thing for her. He likes her.’
The screen behind the anchor changes to a photograph of Archer kneeling over Jamie’s body seconds after his fall from the vitrine.
‘That’s a special shot, isn’t it?’ says the anchor. ‘A reversal of the knight in shining armour.’
‘If you say so,’ Victoria replies with a nonchalant air.
Archer feels her stomach turning and presses hard on the remote control off switch. She knows there will be comeback for Dunmore-Watson suggesting that she and Jamie are in a relationship, regardless of how new and insignificant it is. She needs to get to work quickly and stamp out that fire before it spreads, if it hasn’t already.
Pulling on a khaki raincoat, she tightens the belt at her waist and pulls up the collar. It’s inadequate for the cold morning but she can’t face the whole day with the smell of formaldehyde on her winter coat. She bundles it into a bin liner and takes it with her as she leaves the house. She’ll drop it at the dry cleaner’s on Bedfordbury on the way to Charing Cross Station.
As she leaves the house on Roupell Street, her phone rings. It’s DCI Pierce.
Fuck.
‘Good morning, ma’am.’
Pierce doesn’t return the greeting, but sighs heavily before saying, ‘Like most of the country, DI Archer, I’m sure you have seen the news this morning.’
Archer swallows. ‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘We’ll discuss that later. In the meantime, I’m removing you as SIO for the @nonymous murders. DI Hicks will take over. Please show him the same support he has given you.’
Archer’s heart sinks. ‘But, ma’am . . .’
‘Briefing first thing. I expect to see you there.’
With that the DCI ends the call.
*
Quinn is sitting at his desk, fingers banging on the keyboard. He doesn’t look up when she walks in. Sergeant Beattie is talking on the phone and nods a ‘good morning’ as she hangs up her coat. She mouths a return ‘good morning’ and sits at her desk.
‘Morning,’ she says to Quinn.
Quinn stops typing. ‘Did you see the news?’
Archer sighs.
‘Good luck today.’
The rest of the team trickle in. Hicks, Felton, Pike, Tozer, Phillips and Klara. Klara’s face is pale, her eyes wide. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she mouths to Archer.
Archer feels her stomach knotting. Why is Klara sorry?
Pierce is last to arrive. She stands at the entrance with an air of grandness, playing with an enormous set of keys in one hand, her owl-like eyes watching, judging Archer.
‘Everyone, we’ll have an update in the incident room now,’ announces Pierce.
The team gather inside.
‘DI Hicks, please start,’ says Pierce.
Archer tenses and feels the eyes of the team looking in her direction, searching perhaps for a trace of anger or shame on her face, but her expression remains fixed and unemotional.
In his droning voice Hicks begins to summarise the events of yesterday evening, clinging on to his folder like it’s some sort of safety blanket. After the longest five minutes he stops talking and coughs, hesitating before continuing, ‘Might I just say thank you to DS Quinn and DI Archer for their quick thinking in rescuing Jamie Blackwell.’
He leaves it there and moves on to the next topic without leaving room for any applause or team appreciation. Not that Archer requires any.
‘Thanks to Klara, we know that each victim, dead and erm . . . alive, used dating apps. Megan Burchill used Tinder, Thomas Butler used Grindr, Jamie Blackwell used Tinder, we think. The killer used fake profiles and pictures and pretended to be someone else. To use the modern term, these victims were “catfished”.’
‘Are we able to identify the killer’s phone number from the app data?’ asks Pierce.
Klara answers. ‘I’m looking into it. I’m running a program that tries to unmask hidden phone numbers. Hard to say how successful it will be. The killer knows what he is doing and has expertly covered his tracks so far.’
‘Keep trying, Klara,’ says Pierce.
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘Pike and Tozer will be talking to the victims’ friends and families today. Phillips and Felton will review the CCTV. DI Archer . . .’
‘A moment please, Rodney,’ interrupts Pierce. ‘DI Archer, I understand you and Jamie Blackwell are acquainted. Could you please explain your connection?’
All eyes turn to Archer, but she keeps her cool.
‘I’ve met him a couple of times. We’re not friends.’
Pierce’s probing eyes penetrate Archer as if she’s searching beneath some lie. ‘Not friends, you say.’
‘We have met three times, possibly.’
‘I see.’
Archer holds her gaze with a calm expression. Inside, a fire rages.
‘Tell me, DI Archer. You are single?’
Silence in the room.
‘What relevance does my relationship status have to the investigation, ma’am?’
‘I was curious as to whether you have any experience with dating apps. Perhaps you could share it with us. It might help understand the killer a little more. Don’t you think?’
The Art of Death Page 26