‘And he’s too young,’ said Henley. ‘Cheung was twenty-four when he went missing. There’s a reason why Olivier went for him. To pick some random? It doesn’t fit his pattern.’
Pellacia forehead crinkled with concentration. Henley didn’t need to ask him what he was thinking. She knew.
‘You’re worried that this case is getting out of hand?’ she said.
‘We’re running this copycat murder investigation; Olivier is on the run and we’re effectively looking at reopening a murder case.’
‘We’re not reopening a murder case. All we need to do is find out how Olivier is connected to this Elliot Cheung.’
‘And why he arranged for Cheung’s head to be delivered to your house.’
‘I already know the answer to that,’ said Henley. ‘It’s because he’s a sick fuck.’
Chapter 54
Despite his best efforts, in the end, Blaine had pissed himself. Olivier smirked at the memory. Blaine had whimpered while Olivier held a kitchen knife to his throat, telling him where his body parts would wash up if he called the police. The whimpering failed to cover up the sound of Blaine’s piss running down his bare legs. He thought that Blaine would have shown a bit more appreciation for leaving him alive, but thinking about it now, maybe he should have put Blaine out of his misery.
Olivier leaned over the wrought iron railings and looked down into the dirty waters. He watched as two swans navigated their way around floating plastic bottles. The tide was high. He felt fine drops of river water splash up towards his hands as the Thames broke against the river wall. Scraps of blue-and-white police tape were wrapped around the railings, fluttering against his knees. A nearby yellow sign appealed for witnesses to a murder.
Olivier looked across the river at Docklands. There were new buildings now and an abundance of cranes, with bright red lights on them, stretching into the sky.
He should have kept running. He could have jumped on the back of a truck, heading the other way, towards Calais. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a folded piece of newspaper that he found on the floor of the car he had stolen. Page seven of the Evening Standard from the other day. He ran a calloused thumb across the story on the top of the page. Victim identified. Daniel Kennedy. The first one.
‘Fucking amateur,’ Olivier muttered as he reread how Daniel Kennedy’s body was found at the bottom of the Watergate Steps; a mere four feet from where he now stood.
It had all started here. In some way, he should have been grateful for the copycat. The murder of Kennedy had acted as a catalyst. The ignition for Olivier to finally put his escape plan into action.
Olivier breathed in the scent of the river and wondered briefly if the copycat had stood in this same spot and if he had smelt the blood of murder on his skin. Olivier smiled to himself, but there was no humour in it. Henley had been right. This person, this copycat, was a poor imitation of him. Olivier had no intention of sitting back while the copycat took liberties. He ripped up the article and watched the wind carry away the shreds. He would not be reading in a paper that Henley had caught the copycat. No. The paper was going to report that Henley had found the pieces of the copycat that Olivier was going to leave behind.
Chapter 55
‘Is this a wind-up? It has to be a wind-up?’ Jessica Talbot stood in the middle of her messy living room with her 8-month-old son on her hip and her 2-year-old son on the floor surrounded by puzzle pieces and toy cars.
‘I’m afraid this isn’t a wind-up,’ said Henley. The 2-year-old waddled over to Ramouter and handed him a Lego.
Jessica Talbot’s face grew ashen. She stumbled backwards and fell onto the sofa. Her son giggled in her arms as though it was just another game his mum was playing with him.
‘I don’t even remember them. The others. Why would anyone kill them?’
‘That’s what we’re trying to find out. We’ve already arranged for police protection for you. The two officers who are going to be looking after you will be here to introduce themselves in a few minutes.’
‘Protection? I’ve got three kids. My mum’s gone and broken her bloody leg… I’ve got… I can’t. My husband won’t like this one bit. This is too much.’
‘I’m really sorry, but the safety of you and your family is paramount,’ Henley said firmly.
‘What about my daughter? She’s eight, she’s in school. What are we supposed to do? How can you protect us? You couldn’t protect those three other jurors.’ Jessica’s voice grew more frantic.
‘Jessica, please calm down.’
‘How am I supposed to calm down when there’s a serial killer after me?’
‘We’re not going to let anything happen to you. You have my word.’
‘You can promise me that, can you?’ Jessica tried to stop her son from grabbing handfuls of her hair. Her voice dropped to a violent whisper. ‘You can promise my kids that their mum isn’t going to be cut up into pieces and dumped in the middle of a petrol station?’
The reaction from Michael Kirkpatrick, juror number ten, wasn’t much different.
‘I never wanted to do jury service in the bloody first place.’ Michael closed the door to the conference room on the twenty-fourth floor of TL Global Banking in the City. His heavy arrogance matched the thick dark rain clouds that had obscured the top of the Gherkin and the Shard. He seemed like the sort of man who advocated anti-homeless spikes outside his office building.
‘Do you know how much it cost me to sit on that jury for two weeks? I would have been better off paying the court for me not to be there. As if a fiver a day, for lunch, and paying for my Oyster card would cover it.’
‘You do understand what we’re telling you?’ Ramouter asked.
Michael made himself an espresso and grabbed a Danish from a stack of baked goods.
‘I doubt very much that anyone would be coming after me,’ he said with a full mouth.
Henley couldn’t suppress a fit of sardonic laughter.
‘Michael, I’m not standing here wasting your time. This is serious.’
‘How am I supposed to work? I’ve got meetings with some very important people and I’ve got to be in New York next month. Are the Old Bill going to be following me to every meeting?’
‘If it means that you don’t end up cut into – how many pieces was it, Detective Ramouter? Five?’ Henley asked, her head cocked to one side.
‘Six,’ Ramouter answered, his face impassive.
‘That’s right. He cut off their heads,’ Henley continued. For the first time since they had been talking, Michael looked concerned.
‘You may not see New York if we don’t catch this killer but if you’re happy to take the risk, then I’m sure I can redirect the resources elsewhere,’ Henley said, knowing full well that Michael would now be taking as much protection as possible.
Dominic Pine looked unimpressed when he opened the front door and Henley held up her warrant card. ‘Is this about last night?’ he asked.
‘What happened last night?’ asked Henley.
‘My neighbours upstairs kicking off.’
‘No, it’s not about that. You spoke to my colleague this morning.’ She stepped aside so that Dominic could see Ramouter.
‘Afternoon. TDC Ramouter,’ he said.
‘Oh, sorry,’ said Dominic. ‘It completely slipped my mind. Long shift last night.’
The door pushed back against Henley’s face and there was the sound of metal against metal as the security chain was pulled back.
‘Thank you,’ Henley said, stepping into the hallway. Ramouter closed the door behind them.
Henley sniffed. The flat smelt as though the windows had never been opened and the hallway was in a desperate need of a makeover. The pattern in the carpet was obscured by caked-in dirt and the wallpaper was faded and peeling, but there was something else about the flat that she couldn’t identify.
‘Do you mind if I put something on? I feel a bit funny standing her talking to you in my boxers?’
Dominic Pine came back in tracksuit bottoms and a blue T-shirt that was inside out. He invited them to sit in the living room.
‘So, if you’re not here about those nutcases upstairs, what is this about?’
‘As I said, Detective Ramouter and I are from the Serial Crime Unit.’
‘Why does that ring a bell?’
‘In 2017, you were a juror on the Peter Olivier murder trial.’
‘I heard that he’s escaped. It’s all over the news. Have they caught him yet?’
Henley ignored the question. ‘We’re investigating a series of murders that are linked to the original trial.’
‘What’s that got to do with me? You know that I was kicked off that trial, don’t you? I spent three months in prison because of it. Am I at risk? Is that why you’re both here?’
Dominic laughed. Henley glanced at his bookshelves, filled with DVDs and an ancient set of red bound encyclopaedias. She let the silence linger as the faint voices of the arguing couple trickled in from upstairs.
‘It’s possible that you may be a target,’ said Henley. ‘Three of the jurors that you sat with on the original Jigsaw Murder trials have been murdered. Last week the bodies of the jurors Daniel Kennedy, Zoe Dar—’
‘Jesus Christ. I think that I’m going to be sick,’ Dominic said as he got up and walked out of the living room.
Henley followed him to the small galley kitchen where he was throwing up into the sink. She rubbed his back. The countertop was covered with grains of brown sugar and coffee granules. The neglect and the sense of abandonment reminded Henley of her dad’s house. Henley looked out of the kitchen window and felt a pang of guilt as a marked police car made its way into the estate. How much protection could they actually give Dominic Pine and the others?
‘Does it have to be a marked police car?’ Alessandro Naylor had told Henley and Ramouter that he lived with his aunt and uncle and had refused to let them inside the house. ‘You may be in plain clothes, but you have the look of feds. They’re not too keen on you lot round here, so the last thing I need is for the neighbours to see me inviting you in.’
‘It’s a marked car for a reason,’ said Henley.
‘So, this is all legit. I saw that Olivier had done a runner, but I didn’t think that had anything to do with me.’
‘But you saw the news about the others?’
‘Two months ago, the geezer across the road was found with a bullet in his head in the middle of his kitchen. Last Tuesday, two gangs of kids decided to have themselves a little knife fight in the park. So, to be quite honest, those three people you mentioned wouldn’t have been a blip on my radar.’
‘Fair enough.’ Henley didn’t have the energy to push the matter any further. ‘I wanted to meet you to see if you could think of any reason why anyone would be targeting you and the others?’
Alessandro shook his head as he flicked the cigarette butt into the gutter. ‘None. I told you. After that trial, my life went to shit for a while. I made a mistake. I just got carried away I suppose, and I paid for it. I came out of prison and I’ve kept my head down. I took a job with my uncle’s plumbing company, not that I like cleaning up people’s shit, but it is what it is.’
‘Did you ever keep in touch with the other jurors?’
‘What for? Like, I said, I’ve tried not to think about it. We were just twelve people randomly thrown together. I didn’t really know them and to be honest I forgot about them as soon as I got carted off to Pentonville prison.’
‘Over the last couple of weeks has there been anything to cause you concern? Suspicious behaviour? Nuisance calls?’
‘Other than the usual “do you want to change your energy supplier?” calls, nothing at all. Do you think Olivier killed the others?’
‘No. They died before Olivier escaped.’
‘Can’t you put me in witness protection or something? You already know that I’m not keen on you lot being parked up outside, and if I’m honest, I wouldn’t mind a bit of a holiday.’
Chapter 56
A police officer was standing guard outside Karen Bajarami’s room. Henley recognised him from Plumstead police station. He was efficient enough as an officer, but it was times like this that Henley wished that the Met had never got rid of the minimum height requirements for new recruits.
‘Has she had any visitors?’ Henley asked.
The officer stood up a little bit straighter. ‘Not since I took over, ma’am. She was last seen by the nurse about forty minutes ago, but that’s been it. There’s been no personal visitors. I’m not sure if she’s awake, though.’
‘Thanks,’ replied Henley before turning to Ramouter. ‘How about you take the lead? I honestly don’t have the brain capacity to deal with this.’
Ramouter looked knackered after spending most of the day driving around London but he was able to find some enthusiasm. Still keen to impress.
‘Really? That would be great,’ Ramouter pulled out his notebook and pen.
The officer stepped aside and opened the door. Karen had been moved to a room that was usually reserved for patients who were able to pay privately. The curtains were a warm sunshine yellow and a painting of the Embankment at night hung on the wall above an actual armchair. The TV was on but Karen wasn’t watching. She was facing the window.
Ramouter cleared his throat. ‘Excuse me, Ms Bajarami.’
Karen turned and Henley stifled a gasp. Her left eye was bandaged and the bruises on her face had turned various shades of purple. Her jaw was swollen and a cannula in her left arm connected to a pump on the side of the bed. Henley wondered what state Ade Nzibe and the security guard were in if Olivier had done this much damage to Karen.
‘Oh God. Is it that bad?’ Karen gingerly raised a hand to her forehead. ‘I haven’t looked. You know what, don’t tell me.’
Ramouter glanced at Henley before he answered. ‘We’ve met before. At the prison.’
Karen nodded as she eased herself up. ‘They took away my morphine first thing this morning. Kermit the frog was sitting in that chair last night and it all seemed perfectly normal.’
‘Morphine will do that to you,’ said Ramouter. ‘We’re not going to keep you long. We just want to get a better picture about what happened here yesterday.’
Karen closed her one good eye for a moment, before she began talking. ‘The doctors had said that they were happy with Olivier’s progress. He would have gone straight to the health wing once we got back to Belmarsh. We told the doctors that Olivier should be restrained but they didn’t listen. Anyway, I was sitting outside his room and all of sudden I heard a crash and Ade—’ Karen winced and took a breath. ‘Could I get some water please?’
‘I’ll get it.’ Henley walked to the bedside cabinet, poured a glass of tepid water into the plastic cup and handed it to her. ‘That will be the morphine. It makes you thirsty.’
Karen took a couple of painful sips before handing it back. She leaned her head back on the pillow.
‘Thank you,’ said Karen. ‘The bastard might have blinded me. I didn’t sign up for this crap. Sorry.’
‘You don’t have to apologise,’ said Ramouter. ‘So, you heard Ade?’
‘Yeah. When I came in. Ade was… He was on the floor by the bed. There was blood coming from his head. I’m not sure what Olivier hit him with. Next thing I knew he’d grabbed me and pushed me to the ground… and… I didn’t see the fork in his hand.’ Karen started to cry.
‘Here.’ Henley pulled out the tissues from the box on top of the cabinet and handed it to Karen.
‘Thank you. It was… The pain.’ Karen dabbed at her right eye. ‘I’m not sure what happened next. I must have passed out because the next thing I remember is waking up here. I don’t understand how Peter could… How’s Ade? Every time I close my eyes I can see him lying there.’
‘He’s in surgery right now. He suffered blunt-force trauma to the head and has a clot on his brain.’
Tears started to leak from
Karen’s eye. ‘And the security guard? They told me that Peter attacked him.’
‘Fractured collarbone, cheekbone and jaw. Broken nose and cuts to his face. It was more than an attack. Olivier looked like he enjoyed it.’
‘Jesus, I’m starting to think that I got off lightly. God, I’m so tired and my head is killing me.’
‘Is there anything else that you can think of? Did Olivier say anything once he came out of his coma?’
‘He said something about finally having a view but that was—’ Bajarami’s head fell forward and she screamed out in pain.
‘Ramouter, get a nurse. Now.’
Henley put her arms around Bajarami and tried to comfort her as Ramouter ran out of the room.
‘Don’t worry. Help is coming,’ Henley said. Bajarami screamed out again and buried herself against Henley’s chest. ‘We’ve got you.’
‘Olivier could have killed her,’ Ramouter said.
‘I don’t think that was his intention. She was just in his way.’
‘We should go,’ said Henley. ‘Let’s hope that Ezra has found out where Olivier’s been hiding.’
Mark would call this the ‘cooling-off period’, Henley thought to herself, as she walked down Greenwich High Road. He had explained to Henley more than once that it was something that all serial killers would do. Taking a moment to enjoy the silence as they went back, temporarily, to their normal life. Henley wondered how long her killer’s cooling-off period would be. Days, weeks, months.
Henley’s stomach growled as she approached the chicken shop. She had been drinking overpriced coffee for most of the day, but hadn’t eaten a thing. As she placed a hand on the shop door her phone began to vibrate.
UNKNOWN CALLER flashed across the phone screen. Henley pressed the green button.
‘Hello, Anjelica.’
A shiver ran down Henley’s back as Olivier’s voice rang in her ears.
The Jigsaw Man Page 22