‘Who’s that?’ Karen said, pointing to the photograph.
‘That’s the woman who also thought that she was in a relationship with Olivier.’
‘You’re lying.’
‘And once he escaped, after he tried to kill you, he went straight to her.’
‘No. That’s not true. He loved me.’
‘You knew about Lauren Varma, didn’t you?’
‘I have no idea who she is.’
‘That’s not true, is it? You and Lauren met online. You were both members of a support group for women who are in relationships with prisoners.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘And you both realised that you had something in common. You were both in love with Peter Olivier and she later told you that she was in a relationship with Olivier.’
‘No, no.’ Karen shook her head.
‘You were jealous and that angered you. You thought you were the only one.’
‘How could I be jealous? I didn’t know anything about her. This is all rubbish.’
‘Right.’ Henley produced two exhibit bags filled with letters. ‘This is exhibit RE/3. Letters from Lauren Varma to Peter Olivier and exhibit SR/4. Letters from Peter Olivier to Lauren Varma. Your fingerprints are on all these letters.’
Karen’s face turned pale.
‘Love letters,’ said Henley.
‘She was obsessed,’ Karen said quietly.
‘You’re going to have to speak up for the mic.’
Karen shook her head vigorously. ‘Nothing. I didn’t say anything. No comment.’
‘Karen, part of your job as a prison officer is to check all of the outgoing and incoming letters, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you checked all of Olivier’s mail. Your prints are all over these exhibits.’
Karen didn’t reply.
‘Do you know what I’m thinking, Karen?’ Henley took a sip of water. ‘I think that there was another woman vying for Olivier’s attention and you didn’t like it. You read the letters and that made you angry. It was fine when it was just Lauren Varma talking to you online about her feelings for Olivier, but when you found out that she had been writing to him and that he had been writing back—’
‘Stop it. Stop it. You have no idea.’
‘You were checking his letters and you read what he had said to Lauren in those letters. Stanford?’
Stanford cleared his throat and began to read. ‘“I touch myself when I’m looking at your picture. I’ve imagined your sweet mouth around my…” He’s very explicit. “There is no other woman that can make me feel the way you do.” Ouch, that must have hurt. Finding out that you were no more than a – what do they call it on the streets, Inspector?’
‘Side chick,’ said Henley. Tyler turned her head and pursed her lips.
‘That’s it. A side chick. That would hurt. A lot,’ said Stanford, placing the letter back on the table.
‘You told Olivier to get rid of her,’ said Henley. ‘Karen, we have copies of the text messages that you sent to Olivier three days before he escaped.’
‘“If you truly love me then you will get rid.”’ Stanford read from the print-out in front of him. ‘“You said that I was the only one. I want L gone.” And he did what he was told.’
Karen put a hand to her mouth, but Henley had already seen it. A smile.
‘And because you helped him to escape, Lauren Varma is now lying in six pieces in Greenwich Mortuary,’ said Stanford.
Karen dropped her hand. ‘What are you talking about?’ she asked.
‘You provided him with insulin which put him into hypoglycaemic shock and gave him the symptoms of a heart attack,’ continued Henley. ‘Once he was in hospital, you made sure that you would be with him and then you helped him escape.’
‘That’s not true.’
‘The only thing you didn’t plan for was that Olivier would kill Ade.’
‘He didn’t kill him.’ Karen began to cry. ‘It was an accident.’
‘He slammed Ade’s head so hard against the floor that he fractured his skull and he stabbed you in the eye with a fork. Somehow, I seriously doubt that losing your eye was part of the plan.’
‘No, no, that was… He loves me.’
‘Karen, you’ve lost your eye. Is that love?’ Henley leaned across the table. ‘What was the plan? For you to leave your job and run off into the sunset with him? Start a new life together?’
Karen didn’t answer, sniffing noisily instead.
‘We searched your flat and we found the tickets to Malaga. Money and a bag filled with men’s clothes. Passports. One of those passports is fake. That’s another charge, on top of conspiracy to commit murder.’
‘Would you like a break? Another consultation?’ Tyler asked. She pulled out a packet of tissues from her bag and handed it to Karen.
‘No, no, I’m OK,’ Karen answered.
‘He’s killed another woman. She wrote to him and he wrote back. He seduced her, slept with her and then he butchered her,’ said Henley.
‘He wouldn’t do that. He promised me that he…’
‘What did he promise you?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Where is he?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
Karen laughed. ‘You would say that. He used to talk about you a lot. Said that you were responsible for ruining his life. He was obsessed with you.’
‘Where is he, Karen?’
‘When you came to see him at the prison his face… lit up. The way that he looked at you. He never looked at me that way. He wanted to get you back. You and that other officer who put him in that hell hole. Ruined his life.’
Stanford and Henley exchanged a look.
‘What other officer?’ Stanford asked.
‘Your boss. The one who was sitting with you at the press conference.’
Henley’s heart dropped to her stomach. Stephen.
‘How would he get him back?’ Henley asked, trying to keep her voice steady.
‘I don’t know. I didn’t really pay attention.’
‘Karen, you’re in love with him. You listen to every single word that he says. You’ve risked your life for him—’
‘Inspector, I suggest that you ask Ms Bajarami a question instead of making grandiose speeches,’ said Tyler, sitting up straighter.
‘What did Olivier say to you?’
‘That he wanted to get him back. That he wanted to make you pay. To scare him a bit. I told him that it wouldn’t work, but Peter said that he was just as guilty as you were. That you were responsible for the bodies on the street. Not him.’
Stanford whispered into Henley’s ear.
‘For the benefit of the tape, DS Stanford is leaving the interview room at 21:28 hours.’
‘Where is Peter Olivier?’
‘I don’t know,’ Karen replied stubbornly.
‘Karen, I know that he visited you while you were in hospital. A witness positively identified him on the street where you live. You’ve been in contact with him. Where is he?’
‘No comment.’
‘Karen, the longer that Olivier is out on the street the more chance there is of someone else being murdered. You’ve already got the deaths of two innocent people on your hands. Do you really want another?’
‘That’s not what—’
‘Where is he?’
‘I can’t tell you,’ Karen cried out. ‘He made me promise.’
‘I’m going to ask you again. Where is Peter Olivier?’
Karen started crying.
‘I can’t,’ she wept.
‘Karen. Please. Where is Olivier?’
‘What if he finds out that I told you? He killed Lauren… What if—’
‘Where is he?’
Karen heaved as though she’d been punched in the stomach. ‘Convoys Wharf. In Deptford,’ she said.
Henley knew Convoys Wharf. She had grown up
a stone’s throw away from the forty-acre industrial estate. It had been a bustling hub for air freight and transporter lorries. Searching for Olivier among the countless disused warehouses would be like looking for a needle in a haystack.
‘Where in Convoys Wharf?’ Henley asked.
Karen bent her head and whispered softly. ‘No. I can’t.’
‘What do you mean that you can’t? You need to tell me where he is, Karen.’
Karen kept her head bowed and remained silent as she twisted the edge of her T-shirt.
‘For fuck’s sake,’ Henley said, not caring that it would be picked up by the microphones and would soon be scrutinised by lawyers and judges as they read the transcript. ‘You do realise what you’re doing, right? You’re protecting a murderer. A man who will kill you in an instant and have no regrets about doing so. Have you been there?’
‘No comment,’ Karen replied.
‘Convoys Wharf is a very big place. Did you arrange to meet Olivier somewhere specific after he escaped from the hospital?’
It was subtle, but Karen nodded.
‘For the benefit of the tape, Karen Bajarami is nodding her head. Does that mean yes, Karen?’
‘Yes, it does. But I’m not going to tell you where. I can’t answer any more of your questions. I’m not doing it. I’m done.’
‘Karen. This is—’
‘I said that I’m done,’ Karen shouted. ‘No comment. No comment—’
Henley resisted the overwhelming temptation to slap her across the face. Instead she said, ‘I’m going to suspend the interview at 21:43 hours. Don’t for one second think that—’
Henley stopped as Stanford opened the door, but he didn’t enter the room. He beckoned for her to come with him.
‘What’s wrong?’ Henley asked as Stanford pulled her into another interview room.
‘I can’t get hold of Pellacia,’ said Stanford. ‘We’ve called his mobile, the office and even his landline at home. No one has seen him since he left the hospital. He was supposed to be at a meeting at the Yard six hours ago. He never arrived.’
Chapter 100
Units had been sent to Pellacia’s home and reported that he was not there, and neither was his car. Ezra and Joanna confirmed that he hadn’t returned to the SCU and that there was no point asking for any CCTV footage because the security cameras bolted to the wall of the Greenwich police station were disconnected eight months ago. Another Met police cost-saving measure. All attempts to contact Pellacia by police radio were met with dead noise. The last person to see him was Henley and that had been when he’d left the hospital.
‘I don’t understand,’ said Henley as she and Stanford drove to the Convoys Wharf industrial estate. A police van, carrying the few available officers that Lewisham police station had to spare had already been dispatched from the station. Henley took a deep breath and checked that her stab vest was securely fastened. ‘Why has he taken him. Why bother? Olivier hasn’t shown any interest in Pellacia. According to Karen it’s all about me. I mean, the fact that he’s been staying at Convoys Wharf. I grew up across the road from there. It’s as if everything he’s doing is to—’
‘Rub your nose in it?’ Stanford finished Henley’s sentence. ‘To show you how much he knows you? Or maybe he wants revenge. Sorry to be blunt, but if it wasn’t for Pellacia stopping him, Olivier would have killed you.’
‘Take the next right. The other road is no entry,’ Henley said as Stanford drove through the red traffic lights. ‘Who really knows what’s going through Olivier’s mind?’
‘You.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You’re on Olivier’s mind. Getting to Pine first and killing him. Hurts you. Almost killing Ramouter. Hurts you. Taking the man who loves you. Hurts you.’
Henley could feel her eyes burning with tears. Everything that Stanford had said was right.
‘So, what’s his plan then?’ She asked. ‘Take him, torture him and leave him in bits across the river?’
‘Not that I’ve ever considered myself to be any kind of optimist, but we don’t know that he’s got him yet. For the first time in my life, I’m hoping that he’s just got knocked over by a bus.’
Stanford pulled the car up to the front gates of the Convoys Wharf. Over two weeks ago Henley had driven past the same spot after Pellacia called her with news that a body had been found on the Watergate Steps. She shivered and heard her mother telling her, ‘Someone’s walked over your grave.’
It was nearly 10.30 p.m. and the locals who had been drinking in The Admiral pub were standing outside, pints in hand, gawking but unsurprised about the police activity on the doorstep. The wharf had stood abandoned for ten years. The surrounding walls were covered with graffiti and posters protesting against further development. The security guard’s box stood empty and weeds had pushed through cracks in the ground. For all Henley knew, this could have just been a fool’s errand.
It was pitch black. The only light came from the high-rise buildings of the Docklands and the sweeping torches of the officers who had already arrived and were searching for Pellacia and Olivier. Henley and Stanford walked to the side where part of the fencing had been pulled apart. They both squeezed through. The open channel on their radios reported that more units were finally on their way to assist with the search.
‘What if Pellacia isn’t here?’ Henley turned her back to Stanford. She didn’t want him to see that she was scared. Scared for herself, Pellacia and Stanford. ‘It could be Olivier is screwing with us. Screwing with me.’
‘We don’t have to go any further. We can wait for the rest of the units to turn up with the search dogs,’ said Stanford as the sound of police chatter escaped from his radio. ‘We can wait.’
Henley looked out across the wharf. The few officers that were in there – looking for Pellacia – didn’t know the area like she did. They were searching blindly.
‘You could be right,’ said Stanford hesitantly. ‘Olivier and Pellacia may not even be here.’
‘No,’ Henley said as she double-checked the battery level on her own radio.
‘OK. I’ve got your back. So where shall we start?’ Stanford asked. ‘This is your manor.’
‘He could be anywhere,’ Henley replied. She ran her torch against the black wall that bordered the right side of the wharf. ‘There used to be some old houses at the back, towards the river.’
‘Do you want to head there?’
Henley nodded.
The sounds of the river crashing against the wall grew louder as Henley and Stanford walked. There were six residential buildings that were still standing but all in various states of dilapidation. Henley and Stanford entered the first house. Used needles, heroin-stained spoons, abandoned condoms and homemade crack pipes were scattered over the ground but there were no other signs of life. Their radios crackled. No sign of Pellacia or Olivier. Henley and Stanford continued their search through each building.
‘This is just a waste of time,’ Henley said as they left the last building.
‘What about that one?’ asked Stanford, shining his torch up against the Master Shipwright’s House on the other side of the wall. It wasn’t technically part of the Convoys Wharf, but Henley could clearly remember climbing over the large gate with Simon and their friends and playing on the grounds when she’d been a teenager.
For a second, Henley prayed for a panic attack. It would just be her and Stanford if they went to the other side of that wall. She would be placing them both in danger. But if Pellacia was there, they could save him.
‘How do you feel about climbing a wall?’ Henley asked Stanford.
‘You’re joking, aren’t you?’
‘Yeah, I am. Come on. I know a way.’
Henley had led Stanford back onto Watergate Street and down the alleyway that led towards the steps where Daniel Kennedy’s torso had been found. In the end she had made him scale the wall at the top the steps. Stanford swore as he landed on the ground and tripped over
a discarded bike.
Henley heard the sound of crunching glass and froze. She looked at Stanford and held a finger to her lips. They walked around the house. The windows and most of the doors had been boarded up, except for the door at the back of the house. The security screen that had once covered it had been prised away and was hanging off the edge.
‘Maybe they’re not here,’ whispered Stanford as they walked towards the door. There was no fencing or wall at the back of the house. There was a raised platform that dangerously overlooked the river, where someone had left some old deckchairs. Henley entered the house, leaving Stanford outside.
‘Stephen, are you here?’ Henley said as the light from her torch bounced off empty beer bottles and takeaway boxes. The rest of the room was vacant. Henley stepped back outside.
‘Anjelica!’ Stanford’s voice rang out from the darkness. Henley spun around but she couldn’t see him.
‘Where are you?’
‘Over here. Under the awning. He’s over—’
Henley ran past the deckchairs, towards the awning, and called out for Stanford after his words cut off abruptly. She tripped and hit the ground. She tried to ignore the hot shooting pain that was spreading across her left shoulder.
‘Oh my God,’ Henley gasped when she saw Stanford’s body in front of her. There were broken bricks and parts of a rusted wheelbarrow set on the ground. She prayed that Stanford had simply lost his footing and banged his head. He lay on his side, his mouth slightly open. Blood was trickling down his forehead. Henley crawled over towards him and checked for a pulse. He was out cold but she released a breath when she felt the strong rhythmic pulsating flow of blood under her fingertips. She reached for her radio and pressed the emergency button.
And then she looked up.
Pellacia had been stripped naked and was hanging by his arms from the roof beams of the awning. His bruised skin stretched taut across his chest and a crescent and double cross had been cut into his stomach. A plastic bag had been placed over his head. It softly fluttered in the breeze.
‘You’re too late. Olivier’s won,’ screamed the voice in Henley’s head. She looked around surprised that Olivier was not standing in front of her, gloating and applauding her failure, but there was no one. Stanford remained motionless on the ground and Pellacia’s body hung like a sacrifice in front of her.
The Jigsaw Man Page 38