Archer feels the hairs on her back rising.
‘I’m not sure that I do “think”, ma’am. I don’t use dating apps. I’m not against using them. I just don’t see a dating app as a preferred avenue for me to be with someone. Also, I’m not sure my partner would appreciate it.’ Despite the fact that their relationship is over in her eyes, Archer feels no guilt at using Dom to support her statement.
‘Very well. Can we move on please, DI Hicks?’
Hicks turns to Archer.
‘DI Archer, did you manage to speak with Jamie Blackwell?’
‘Very briefly. He said the killer was dressed in rubber overalls and mask, so it was almost impossible to get a facial description. He did catch a glimpse of dark hair and described him as strong and athletic with an accent that was possibly Scottish or Irish.’
Quinn says, ‘Oliver Merrick has a Cornish accent, although I wouldn’t describe him as athletic. That said, it’s possible since I last saw him that he’s been on a diet and become a gym bunny.’
Hicks continues, ‘About Oliver Merrick: we know the car that took Elaine and Jordan Kelly was his. Also, Forensics worked through the night and are compiling their report this morning. They already told us that amongst the junk at Twyford Abbey was a discarded bottle of disinfectant with fingerprints that we have matched to Merrick. So, it looks like Merrick is our man. We have a watch on his house right now and are widening the search.’
Hicks takes out a copy of the same mugshot used on the news that morning and pins it on the board.
‘Do we know where he was last seen?’ asks Pierce.
‘North London, apparently. We’re looking into where that might be,’ says Hicks.
‘Very good. I want you to find Merrick. Do whatever it takes. He is our man.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘Use whoever you need to help you.’
Hicks opens his mouth to speak but Pierce raises a hand to silence him. ‘DS Quinn and DS Felton, please help DI Hicks.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ they reply in unison.
‘You and Felton can go together. I’ll check out some of Merrick’s old haunts,’ says Quinn to Hicks.
‘Suits us,’ replies Hicks.
‘We should not discount the fact that the killer failed to kill Jamie Blackwell,’ says Archer.
Pierce turns to Archer and blinks. ‘Then you must check in with your friend and get him into a safe house.’
Pierce’s emphasis on ‘friend’ silences the room and all heads turn to look at Archer who bites her tongue. ‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘OK, everyone. You know what you have to do. Get to it.’
As the team disperses Archer sees Quinn talking with Hicks and Felton. Moments later, Quinn pulls on his jacket and leaves.
She approaches Pierce. ‘Ma’am, what’s going on? Why have you demoted me from the investigation at this crucial stage?’
Pierce levels her gaze with Archer. ‘Something’s not quite right about you. You have been involved with two of the killer’s victims and I want to know why.’
‘Two? I only know Jamie.’
‘Really? I received the phone records from Mike Hamilton’s phone. It seems you and he were having quite the conversation. You were going to sell him your story. How much did he offer you?’
‘What? That’s impossible. I never offered him anything. He wanted it but and I rebuffed him.’
‘Of course you did.’ Pierce sighs and leaves the incident room.
In that moment the extra pieces of the puzzle begin to fall into place.
‘Shit!’
She needs to talk to someone immediately and hurries across to Klara’s office.
‘I’m so sorry, Grace. I know about Hamilton’s phone. Pierce insisted on seeing the records.’
‘Don’t worry about that. Listen, my phone was stolen and smashed by that moped rider and it wasn’t working for two days. Remember?’
‘Yes.’
‘When I took it to the Apple Store the sales guy told me the sim was missing.’
‘Perhaps it had fallen out.’
‘But then when my new sim was activated I started getting these messages from Mike Hamilton asking to follow up about a conversation I never had with him.’ Archer feels her skin crawl. ‘Oh God . . . My phone really wasn’t smashed. It must have been switched.’
‘By who?’
‘It was him. @nonymous. Perhaps he knew Hamilton was taking an interest in me and my phone was a way of getting closer to him for his revenge. Perhaps it was also a way of tracking progress with the investigation. He had my photos, my emails, my WhatsApp. That bloody device opened up a lot of opportunities for him.’
47
A
CALL COMES THROUGH WITH A sighting of Oliver Merrick near the grounds of a school in Holloway. Klara is on the case with the CCTV and locates him within ten minutes. There is a buzz in the office; a renewed vigour dispelling the dog-tiredness brought on by the long hours and sleepless nights. There is a palpable sense that they are within touching distance of the killer.
Oliver Merrick.
His name is on their lips and lasered on their brains, the letters smoking. His mugshot is a new addition to the photo library on all their mobile devices. The hunt has formed, the hounds are gathering. They can smell blood. Archer watches them with a mix of admiration, trepidation and doubt.
She has read Merrick’s file again and questions his ability to overpower any person, other than a child, of course. But then again, as Quinn suggested, perhaps Merrick has changed his physicality. In the interview tapes Quinn had gone to town on him describing him in the way only Quinn could:
‘You’re an overweight, pasty-faced, doughnut-eating bastard kiddy-fiddler.’
Merrick’s strength was his calmness in the face of the Irishman’s fury. He didn’t seem to care. If anything, he liked the attention and protested his innocence, claiming he loved children and could never harm one. Like Quinn, Archer has no doubt that Merrick’s definitions of loving a child and harming a child are on the wrong end of the morality scale, but is he really @nonymous? She isn’t entirely convinced he is the savvy killer they’re searching for, but knows better than to exclude him.
Archer takes a squad car and leaves the team to it, reaching Bloomsbury where the traffic has ground to halt with roadworks up ahead. She swears under her breath and takes a left, detouring past the Greek colonnades and grand portico of the British Museum where tourists swarm in and out of the great court. She pushes through the traffic, reining in her impatience. Her thoughts keep returning to Merrick.
He has never been convicted of anything. He has been caught loitering at schools, playgrounds and swimming pools and has offered sweets to children that he doesn’t know. As far as Archer is concerned, he is a ticking time bomb. It’s only a matter of time before he surrenders to his desires, if he hasn’t done so already.
The @nonymous case doesn’t fit his profile in any way, however, she is sure Merrick is involved in some capacity. Jordan Kelly is still missing and hopefully still alive. Merrick has a weak spot for pretty young boys and she is sure that Jordan is just what Merrick desires most. She feels her shoulders tensing at the thought and just hopes that the boy is safe and far from Merrick’s clutches.
Archer eases on the brakes as the lights turn red in Camden Town. She grips the steering wheel and considers the options. Does @nonymous have Jordan? Is he using him as a bargaining chip to get help from Merrick? If the team find him today then it will only be a matter of time before they know.
Archer has been demoted from the investigation and there is nothing more she can do than wait. For now, she needs to get Jamie to a safe house before the killer returns to finish his incomplete work.
Archer finds what seems to be the only available space at the hospital car park, a tight spot between a ludicrously bulky Land Rover and a white van, both of which leave her barely enough room to open the driver’s door and squeeze out.
Disgrun
tled, she makes her way to the ward reception where a male nurse with wire-framed glasses finishes talking on the phone. He scowls and slams the receiver down.
Archer presents her ID. ‘Hello. Detective Inspector Grace Archer. I’m here to see Jamie Blackwell.’
The nurse picks up a clipboard from the desk and pages through the attached paperwork.
‘He checked out,’ he says, without looking up.
‘What do you mean, he checked out?’
The nurse regards her coolly with a less than impressed attitude. ‘He was feeling much better and we needed the bed. So he left.’
‘Left when?’
The nurse sighs and consults his paperwork. ‘Six thirty this morning.’
‘Shit! He is unwell. You could have kept him here?’
‘This is a hospital. Not a prison.’
Archer bristles at the man’s sass.
‘He was checked over by the doctor who diagnosed him fit and well. He could leave as long as someone, a friend or relative, took him home.’
‘Did he leave with the officer who was protecting him?’
‘Oh, you mean PC Simpson, the officer who slept the entire night in the easy chair in Mr Blackwell’s room?’
Archer’s heart sinks. Simpson again.
‘I have no idea who he left with. I was busy with other patients.’
‘Can you ask your colleagues?’
‘I’m the last on the shift, Detective Inspector Archer. Please come back tonight.’
‘Do you have his home address on file?’
‘I’m not sure that is allowed.’
Archer’s eyes blaze. Her tone sharpens. ‘I’m sure you are aware of the circumstances which led to Mr Blackwell requiring hospital treatment. I’m sure you, like the rest of the world, witnessed him almost being executed live on the Internet.’
The nurse shrugs as if urging Archer to make her point.
‘The killer failed in his attempt to kill Mr Blackwell, which means he’ll try again. I need to ensure Mr Blackwell is safe from harm. I need your help to do that. So, please, do the right thing, log in to your hospital system and find me Mr Blackwell’s address. Now!’
Archer’s gaze doesn’t flinch.
The man shakes his head and relents. He searches his computer, writes the address on a Post-it note and hands it across without looking up.
‘Thank you,’ she says tersely, and leaves.
She feels a twinge of regret at her exchange with the nurse. He seemed tired and stressed and has no doubt worked long hours. Probably longer hours than she has. Like the police force, the NHS has suffered savage government cuts to their budgets, which impacts not only on the public but the staff who work so hard to do their best.
On the way back to her car she dials Jamie’s office number but the call goes straight to voicemail. She tries twice more with the same result.
Archer squeezes back into the car and thinks. There is no way of instantly contacting Jamie. His phone is in an evidence bag, having been used as one of the cameras to live stream his attempted murder.
Twenty-five minutes of painful London traffic pass slowly until Archer parks across the street from Jamie’s office, which is a converted Edwardian house in Farringdon. The blinds are closed on all the floors; however, she can see a light shining through the slits on the first floor.
She presses the office intercom button.
No response.
She presses it again holding it for longer this time.
The speaker fizzes and a haughty voice answers, ‘We’re closed for the day!’ It’s the unmistakable voice of Victoria Dunmore-Watson.
‘Miss Dunmore-Watson, it’s Detective Inspector Archer. I need to speak to Jamie. Please can you let me in.’
‘He’s not here. You of all people should know that.’
‘Please open the door.’
The door is buzzed open and Archer enters. There are two doors at the top of a grand staircase. One opens and Victoria Dunmore-Watson’s willowy frame appears briefly in the shadow, and then disappears. Archer climbs the stairs, glances at the other door and wonders what is behind it.
She enters the office.
Jamie’s assistant stands with her arms folded; she is wearing the same clothes she wore on television that morning.
Archer’s eyes scan the interior. There are two desks in the room facing each other in the bay window. The walls are lined with modern filing cabinets and bookshelves. There is a partitioned office that she assumes is Jamie’s.
Archer skips the pleasantries.
‘Have you spoken to him?’
‘What if I have?’
‘Miss Dunmore-Watson, please answer the question.’
‘Maybe.’
‘When did you talk to him?’
She hesitates before answering. ‘This morning.’
‘When this morning?’
‘A couple of hours ago.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He was checking out of the hospital. He sounded very tired and stressed and said he needed some time to himself, to rest and recharge.’
‘Is he upstairs?’
‘Upstairs?’ she replies, affecting a confused expression.
Archer fights the urge to swear and roll her eyes. What is wrong with people today? Why is everyone being so bloody obtuse?
‘In the flat upstairs, Miss Dunmore-Watson. Is Jamie in his flat upstairs?’ she snaps.
The woman flinches at Archer’s tone. ‘No . . . I don’t think so. If he was I’d have heard him walking about.’
‘Do you have access to the flat?’
Dunmore-Watson looks unsure.
‘Jamie left the hospital without a police escort. He could be in great danger. I’ll ask again. Do you have access to the flat?’
Her expression pales and she rubs her thin bony hands together. She walks to her desk, opens the top drawer, takes out a key and hands it to Archer.
‘Have you heard any noise up there today?’
She shakes her head.
‘Stay here, please.’
Archer leaves the office and climbs the stairs to Jamie’s flat.
The entrance is a heavy panelled door painted a glossy navy blue. Archer presses her ear to the surface and listens. There is no sound. She raps on the door and waits, but there is no answer.
She inserts the key and pushes the door open. The hallway is small with a kitchenette at one end, a door to a bathroom and another to a bedroom and living room.
The place smells clean. Citrus and soap scents drift from the bathroom. She glances inside. The tiles are in masculine blacks and greys, a monochrome finish. It’s small but contains a decent-sized shower, a basin and toilet.
She is on her guard, listening for any noise, but other than passing traffic outside there is no sound within.
She looks inside the bedroom. A sage green duvet covers the large double bed. It doesn’t look like it has been slept in for a few days. The living room is spacious with large windows overlooking the front garden. Aside from a sofa and a television, there isn’t much else to see. Jamie’s flat is compact, clean and tidy, yet there is nothing here to indicate that this is a permanent home.
She leaves, returns to the office and hands back the key to Victoria.
‘Where would Jamie go, if he didn’t come here?’
‘He’s probably gone home.’
‘So this isn’t his permanent residence?’
Victoria sighs. ‘No, upstairs is a cot. Somewhere to put his head down if he’s been working late, or somewhere to take one of his conquests.’ She levels her gaze with Archer at the last statement.
Archer ignores the jibe.
‘So where is his home?’
‘I hope he’s not in danger.’
‘Where does he live?’
‘I don’t know. Somewhere out of the city?’
‘Where out of the city?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve never been there!’
‘Why woul
d you not know that? You are colleagues and friends, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, he might have told me, but I don’t remember. I think it’s near a graveyard.’
‘Thanks. That really narrows it down.’
Archer is losing patience. She enters Jamie’s office and searches through his drawers and paperwork for any sign of his home address.
Her phone rings.
‘Grace, it’s Klara. I’ve been trying to get hold of Hicks and Quinn, but they’re not picking up.’
‘Perhaps they have Merrick. What is it?’
‘The mobile phone number from Olinski’s diary has just been reactivated. I sent it an auto message pretending to be from the provider.’
Archer feels her pulse quickening. ‘Can you locate it?’
‘It was in Holloway but not anymore. It’s on the move and going at a fair speed, which means whoever has the phone is probably driving.’
48
J
ORDAN LIES CURLED IN A ball on the hard concrete floor. It feels like he has lain in this position for days, but there are no days or nights now, just sleeping and not sleeping.
Everything hurts.
His head throbs. His back aches. His shackled arm is numb and his legs wobble when he stands. His lips are cracked and swollen. He tries to wet them but his tongue is thick and feels like a dry dirty sink sponge.
Closing his eyes, he tries to recall happier times.
He can almost feel his body float and drift back to the summer. It was his ninth birthday and he had gone for pizza with Mum and Dad. They weren’t fighting then. They were getting along and for the first time, for as long as he could remember, Jordan felt like he was part of a proper family. Everything was perfect. It was August and the sun was shining and there were balloons on the table and presents and a surprise birthday cake with nine candles that he extinguished with one single fierce blow.
Dad laughed and ruffed his hair. Mum told him, ‘Did you know your star sign is Leo, Jordan?’ He didn’t know that. ‘People who have the Leo star sign are lions, Jord, and you’re a lion, that’s what you are. My little lion man. You know, just like the song.’
The Art of Death Page 27