Risk of Harm

by Lucie Whitehouse

  ‘Is this him?’ Harper said. ‘Who did it?’

  ‘Again, we don’t know. We’re in the very early stages of that enquiry, too. This was taken close to where this woman was found so we need to eliminate him from our enquiries – at this stage, that’s all.’

  ‘Did he …? Was Lara …?’ Deborah said.

  ‘Sexually assaulted?’ Robin finished for her. ‘We won’t know for sure until the post mortem, but at this stage, there’s nothing to suggest that.’

  ‘The other girl …?’

  ‘No.’

  Lara’s mother closed her eyes.

  ‘Mrs Harper, it can’t change anything, I know that, nothing can bring Lara back, but we will find whoever did this. I’m in charge of the investigation, and I promise you we will find your daughter’s killer.’

  Back in the car, she checked her messages. In the thirty-two minutes she’d been inside, phone on silent, she’d missed thirteen calls, forty-seven emails and ten texts. She skimmed them all, gave herself a bodily shake as if to get rid of the memory of the scene inside, then rang Malia. She hadn’t expected the Harpers to have David Pearce’s father’s details but, hands fumbling the pages of the old address book, Mike had given them both his phone number and address. ‘Apparently they’ve got to know him quite well,’ she told her. ‘Family occasions, etc. I think they’re those kind of people – hyper-sociable.’ The address book had been stuffed – outside of work, Robin doubted she’d ever even met as many people. ‘Could you get in touch with Plymouth and ask them to send people round there ASAP? If he’s not there – David – ask them to try the hospital. Her best friend’s a woman called Cat Rainsford; I’ll ping you over her number.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Any news your end?’

  ‘A couple of people who saw our Twitter appeal – a woman in the same block as the one who called it in. She heard a scream at about twenty past twelve which she’d thought was kids messing around but now she’s not so sure. The other one’s a bloke who saw a woman matching Lara’s description walking along Gooch Road ten minutes or so after midnight.’

  ‘Alone?’

  ‘Yes, so he said.’

  ‘Okay.’ So two hours in, they were already doing much better than they were with the first girl at the same point. And perhaps even now.

  ‘We need to look at her social media right away,’ she said. ‘Obviously anything untoward but also anything that might connect her to our first girl – did they follow each other? Is she in any of the pictures? Did Lara mention the case?’

  ‘Already on it.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  She hung up as another text message arrived. Kath Legge.

  What time for dinner tonight? Pete really looking forward to seeing you both!

  Oh God, she’d completely forgotten. And there was no way she could go.

  Pete was her godson. Corinna’s son. Thirteen now, he’d been eleven when Corinna had died and the police had launched a search for his father, Josh, on suspicion of murder. To escape the fire that destroyed their house, Pete had jumped from a skylight, breaking multiple bones including his ribs, one of which had punctured his lung and then became infected. It had been touch-and-go for days; he’d stayed in the children’s hospital for five weeks. When he was finally fit enough to leave, he’d moved in with Josh’s sister, Kath, and her family in Edgbaston.

  The old Pete had been a comedian before he was two – if he discovered a funny face or a noise that made people laugh, he’d repeated it again and again – but that side of him was gone or at least buried deep. Robin had seen him smile in the past year – Kath, Gareth and their boys, Al’n’Ed, were busting a gut to make his life as happy as possible – but he was a different child. It wasn’t just losing his mother; she and Kath had had to tell him the truth about what had happened and why. They’d done it together. To her surprise, after years of thinking Kath was stern and holier-than-thou, Robin was becoming quite fond of her. They’d been out for drinks together three times now independent of anything to do with the children.

  She texted her back and explained.

  Can Lennie still come? Kath replied at once. I could drop her home afterwards?

  She’d like that. Will text her now. Robin paused, embarrassed, then added, If you’re sure about lift home, wd be great. Thank you!

  On the drive back, she rang the people who’d left messages that needed answers and then, between incoming calls, she let her brain idle. She’d always found the car conducive to thought and by the time she arrived in Harborne, she’d answered her own question.

  Why had she come? We will find your daughter’s killer – she hadn’t been able to say it to their first victim’s family yet and she wanted to. She’d needed to make the promise out loud, to look someone in the eye and make it binding.

  Chapter Thirteen

  When her desk phone rang, it was Niall. Through the glass Robin made eye contact with him. ‘It’s Martin Engel on the line, guv. He says you’ll know what it’s regarding.’

  ‘Thanks, but could you tell …’ A click – he’d put the bloody phone down. For God’s sake.

  ‘DCI Lyons,’ she said, trying not to sound too resigned.

  ‘Thanks for taking my call.’ Engel, by contrast, sounded hyper. ‘I didn’t think you would. Look, I’ve heard about the new girl.’

  ‘Yes. Mr Engel, it’s not Victoria. We’ve got an ID this time and she’s—’

  ‘I know. Her name’s Lara Meikle.’

  Robin frowned: they hadn’t released it yet. ‘How did you know that?’

  ‘Social media. So, yes, I know it’s not Vee but I was thinking: what if it’s the same guy? Two girls, four streets apart. I’ve done a lot of research in the past five years and if there’s a serial killer at work, it’d be really unusual for him to kill so quickly at the beginning of his career so there’d be other, earlier victims. What if Victoria’s one of them?’

  ‘Martin,’ she said, choosing her words carefully, ‘it’s very early days in the case – in both these cases – and we’ve got no evidence at all they’re connected.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘If it turns out they are, and if there’s any reason to suspect a connection to Victoria, we’ll investigate it to the full extent of our power. We will.’

  ‘I’m just …’

  ‘The other day, outside, you told me you follow me. You knew about my case in London; do you also know what happened to my daughter?’

  ‘Yes,’ he admitted.

  ‘Then you’ll know that I have at least some fraction of understanding of how you must feel. I know it’s incredibly hard but can I ask you to sit tight and let us handle it? Victoria isn’t forgotten here, I promise you.’

  By seven o’clock, the light outside the windows had started to soften. There were hours of it left yet – well, at least two – and in a different life she’d text Kev and suggest they drive out into the country to a beer garden and a pub supper. But this was this life, she’d be here until well after dark, and that was fine by her. More than fine. And she’d had quite enough of the country today.

  The extra people Samir had given her brought the team to nearly fifty. Ranged on desks and chairs, they were waiting, all eyes front. She stepped aside so everyone could see the whiteboards. Over the course of the day, now that she needed to be differentiated from Lara Meikle, their first victim had been referred to more and more frequently as the Gisborne Girl, and eventually, to avoid confusion, she’d written it at the top of the wall-mounted board in inverted commas.

  Even now, there’d be plenty of space to draw a line down the middle and dedicate the other half of the board to Lara but to reinforce the point that, until further notice, these were two separate cases, she’d had a free-standing board set up alongside.

  ‘Do you want to transfer the Gisborne Girl to the smaller board?’ Varan had asked. ‘Put Lara up on the wall instead, given that we’ve got a lot more detail for her?’

  Robin had felt a
surge of resistance, as if he’d suggested something more than a practical idea. ‘No,’ she said neutrally. ‘Let’s keep her where she is.’ As she’d walked into her office minutes later, she’d identified the feeling as indignation: no, she wasn’t going to let her be moved off the top spot. Lara Meikle had photographs in which she was alive and smiling, magenta-haired; she had multiple witness sightings and a rapidly filling timeline of her final hours. More than that, though, she had her people, the Harpers and her own father, who worked on an oil rig in the North Sea and was making his way home to Birmingham from the north just as David Pearce was coming from Plymouth in the south. Lara’s brother, Graeme, had done the formal identification. Give the Gisborne Girl the wall board at least.

  Two hours later – yes, she knew she was being over-sensitive, no one was saying the Gisborne Girl was less important – she’d felt vindicated.

  ‘Right,’ she said. ‘Let’s get started. For those of you who’ve been elsewhere this afternoon, the good news is, we’ve got a major lead on this guy.’ With her pen, she tapped the CCTV still of the man crouched in the window of the works next door to Gisborne’s. ‘One of the stockists of the Sohna foods is a small shop-cum-newsagent in Sparkbrook, about twenty minutes’ walk from Gisborne’s. The owner recognized our man, says he’s been in there four or five times in the past couple of weeks. He’s positive it’s him – beyond a doubt.’ She looked at Malia, who nodded.

  ‘The shop opens at five, and our man comes in almost straight away. They’ve spoken. He’s Indian, they spoke in Hindi. He always pays in cash so there’s no chance of tracing him by bank details but,’ she held up a finger, ‘the owner says that after he leaves the shop, he’s picked up by a white Ford Transit across the street at five fifteen. He’s seen it happen several times, and one of them was yesterday morning.’

  A murmur went round.

  ‘So, tomorrow morning, we’ve got a team lined up and we’ll be waiting for him. Let’s keep our fingers crossed he hasn’t changed his routine as a result of Lara last night. As we know from our surveillance there, he hasn’t been back to Bradford Street since Sunday.

  ‘That’s the day’s progress so far in terms of the Gisborne Girl. We’ve got no further witness sightings and still nothing on CCTV.’ She glanced left, to the prime spot at the front of the circle into which Tark had whirled his chair like something out of Starlight Express.

  ‘Afraid not,’ he said.

  ‘But,’ Robin addressed the room again, indicating the free-standing board, ‘as you see, we’re doing much better on Lara Meikle. Unsurprisingly, having an ID makes a massive difference. For starters, we know Lara was out last night with her best friend, Cat Rainsford. They met after work at the Shakespeare on Summer Row, close to both their offices, where they both had sausages and mash. They settled up there at 10.32 – Cat had her copy of the receipt; they split the bill – then walked to Southside for a nightcap at the Sunflower Lounge which, she says, they left just before midnight.

  ‘In response to our social media appeals, we have witnesses who saw Lara walking alone on Sherlock Street then Gooch Street between twelve ten and twelve fifteen. Cat is understandably distraught,’ she nodded at Jo Kowalska, the young DC who’d talked to her. ‘Cat lives in Aston so she got a taxi and she tried to make Lara take one as well but Angelina Street’s only a ten or fifteen-minute walk, so Lara said she’d be fine. Especially after being out for dinner and drinks – she was trying to save up a bit for when she started studying.’

  It would haunt Cat for years to come, Robin knew. If only she’d put her foot down, insisted on dropping her off or paying for a separate cab herself, her best friend might still be alive. If only, if only – so many tipping points in life, so many choices that should be minor, forgettable from one day to the next, but that turn out to be monumental.

  ‘With an ID, we’ve also been able to request her bank records and search her social media. That work’s still ongoing, she was an enthusiastic connecter, four hundred and odd Facebook friends, five hundred Twitter followers, but no red flags so far, no visible nutters and – again, so far – no indication that she and the Gisborne Girl knew each other. Which brings us to the obvious question: are they connected?’

  She looked around, deliberately meeting certain pairs of eyes.

  ‘The simple answer is, despite all the similarities: we don’t know. It certainly looks like they are but for now we proceed as if they’re unrelated. We can’t afford to import conclusions from one case to the other and muddy the waters. So be careful.

  ‘On which note – the media. I’ve had calls this afternoon from two of the tabloids. As we’re all aware, they love a good-looking young female victim …’

  ‘Good-looking young white female victim,’ Malia corrected her.

  ‘Yes,’ Robin nodded, ‘unfortunately that’s still true. And we’ve got two of them. So, be on your guard. Beware the honey-trap, the woman clearly out of your league who’s suddenly keen to buy your drinks and …’

  ‘That’s you she’s talking about, Niall,’ said a voice at the back, getting a laugh.

  Phil Howell, doubtless – Robin looked: yep. ‘And those of you with obliging dispositions – not talking about you here, Phil – please resist the pressure to be helpful. Anyone calls you, refer them to me or the press office. If the media gets involved in a big way, slapping the s-word on homepages and front covers, it’ll be a whole new world of pain.’

  ‘Still here?’

  ‘Barely,’ said Rhona, retrieving her handbag from her desk drawer. She stood and glanced at the clock over the door. ‘Past eight – I’ll be in trouble at home.’ She laughed, as if, then narrowed her eyes. ‘You’ll be here late, no doubt. Get some sleep tonight, you look tired.’

  ‘Yes, Mum.’ Rhona was old enough to be her mum – Samir had ordered in a big cake for her sixtieth in March – but she’d probably been looking after people at twelve. Physically, she went against stereotype – skinny, she had no bosom to which to gather anyone – but she exuded calm, and stepping into her little anteroom always knocked a couple of points off Robin’s blood pressure. The slight Eighties vibe in here played a part, too, the dated coffee machine with its smoked-glass pot and the vitreous china cups, the rubber plant. Occasionally, when he and Liz, who was a property lawyer, had a childcare shortfall, Samir’s daughter, Leila, came and spent the afternoon joining all Rhona’s paperclips together. It reminded Robin of visits to her father’s office, back through the mists of time.

  ‘Go on in,’ Rhona said. ‘He’s off the phone now.’

  ‘Thanks. Have a good evening.’

  ‘And you. Sleep!’

  Robin gave her a salute then rapped a knuckle on Samir’s door. He was standing at the window and turned when he heard her. ‘Hi.’

  ‘Everything all right?’ She felt her heart rate accelerate again.

  Have you got a minute? his email had said, and the memory of Luke’s threat had come roaring back. He’d be long awake by now – what if their mother had told him what she’d said on the phone? She thought she’d been subtle, and of course she hadn’t mentioned the bridge, but what if Christine had told him she’d said he was depressed and that was enough? Would there have been time for him to send Kilmartin a poisonous email and then for Kilmartin to contact Samir? Yes. Easily.

  ‘Look at this.’ Samir went behind his desk and gestured for her to join him.

  When she did, she saw he had Facebook open again. She breathed a silent out-breath. ‘Our friends at For Queen and Country?’

  ‘The very same.’

  They’d attracted another twelve followers/bottom feeders, she saw, since the first time he’d shown her. Credit where credit was due, though, it looked like whoever ran the page put the effort in, providing their audience with a steady stream of fresh bullshit. She didn’t recognize any of the photos, and all the videos in the box at the top looked new, too.

  ‘Can’t fault them on that score,’ Samir said. ‘They work at
it. This morning, they linked to stories on the Daily Mail and English Defence League sites, and to a band of fellow travellers based on Merseyside. Then I looked a few minutes ago, and saw this.’

  The most recent video. It had been posted less than an hour before and under the ‘Play’ arrow, she could see Ben Tyrell again. The slats of his Venetian blind were open slightly wider today, the sun stronger, allowing a less shadowy view of him. It was a tough face, Robin thought, with its large, misshapen nose and mean lips, but the eyes and the eyebrows with their ironic lift in the outer corners suggested the same knowing intelligence she’d recognized last time. He was no brainless thug. The idea that she’d even fleetingly thought he was attractive made her shudder. She bet he was hot stuff among the local lady-Nazis, though.

  Samir clicked and Tyrell came to life, stretching his neck as if limbering up. He joined his hands together on the table and looked directly at the camera, seeking eye contact. ‘Friends,’ he said, ‘thanks for joining me again. If you’re one of our growing number of regular visitors, then you know that For Queen and Country is a place you can come to hear straight talk about what’s actually going on in this city – no sugar-coating, no liberal crap, just real talk. I set up this page as a place where those of us who know what’s what can communicate – a place where we don’t need to pussyfoot round the snowflakes and the limp-dick lefties and their PC bollocks. There’s been too much pandering by half – it’s the reason we’re in this bloody mess.

  ‘And when I say bloody, I do mean literally. Never mind the government, never mind Theresa May and her failure to get the Brexit we voted for fair and square three years ago, I’m not talking about that today. Today, I’m talking about real blood – blood being spilled on the streets of Birmingham right now. Shout out to Enoch – you weren’t wrong, mate.

  ‘On Monday, I mentioned the two murders that happened in our city on Saturday night. Now, I know you lot know your news, you’re switched on, but a quick recap for those of you who’ve been busy the past couple of days. The two killed on Saturday – separate crimes – were a black kid and a white girl. One of those cases was solved almost straight away, and even if you’ve been under a rock lately – and frankly who’d blame you? – I bet you’ll know which. Yep, that’s right, top marks, it was the black kid. Well done, West Midlands Police, good one – yet again you’ve prioritized the son of immigrants over the daughter of a British native. Nice.’