Then 25 March 1994:
At 9.38 this morning suspect Michael Farrow, forty-eight, was found dead in his cell at St Anne Street Police Station. It’s reported that he hanged himself with his belt while waiting to be questioned. Police are continuing their investigation into Amanda’s murder, but have stated that the evidence against Michael Farrow was overwhelming and believe his suicide is a strong indication of his guilt.
It took a moment for the information to sink in. Amanda was killed in February 1994, exactly twenty years ago. A flush of adrenaline swept through me, but I forced myself to take a step back. A model who resembled Natalia and Lydia was sexually abused and strangled two decades ago. Amanda’s killer committed suicide. It was a dead end. And yet, as I stared at Amanda’s heart-shaped face, something stirred inside me.
I dug out the contact details for Liverpool Prison and left a message on the press officer’s voicemail. Then I pulled up Facebook and searched for Melissa Wakefield Liverpool. Three accounts popped up, but only one was born before 1995. I fired off a message, pretending I was writing a tribute piece to long-forgotten murder victims. The naff angle made me wince, but it was the sort of thing that garnered a response.
I drummed my fingers on the desk. Then I clicked on the Merseyside Police website and pulled up the list of current police officers serving the area. DI Fred Weatherly wasn’t there, but I found a tiny news story stating he’d retired and now volunteered at Victim Support. I found his direct line and dialled.
‘Victim Support, Fred speaking.’ His voice was warm and friendly, but when I explained who I was, there was a frosty pause. ‘That was a long time ago.’
‘Do you remember the case?’
‘I remember all my cases.’
‘I’m working on a double-murder investigation in London. Two models have been –’
‘I read the papers.’
‘Look, this is a long shot, but I’ve noticed some similarities between the current murders and the murder of Amanda Barnes.’
‘What similarities?’
‘Amanda was killed February 1994. Natalia Kotov and Lydia Lawson were killed in the same month two decades later. All three women were sexually assaulted and strangled. They looked alike, I mean really alike.’ I tailed off, waiting for him to laugh, or make a sarcastic comment, but his voice was surprisingly kind.
‘I don’t think I need to point out that your theory is a bit thin.’
‘Can you humour me? I’ve only just started looking into it. And the press coverage is slight.’
‘You need to do your homework, love. There was a much bigger story coming out of Liverpool around then. The name James Bulger mean anything to you?’
Of course. The toddler who was tortured and left to die on a train track by two young boys. No wonder Amanda’s murder slipped through the cracks.
‘Can you give me any more details on the abuse angle?’
‘Trust me, you don’t want to know. It’s not a sight I’ll forget in a hurry. The marks on her body . . .’ Weatherly coughed wetly down the phone, ‘It had been going on for some time. Not just sexual abuse either. She was covered in cuts, bruises and cigarette burns. Poor kid. What we found in the garden shed . . .’
‘Shame he never got his day in court.’
‘Stringing him up from the rafters was too good for him.’ Weatherley’s voice took on a hard edge. ‘Farrow was a real piece of work. Blank eyes, like marbles. I only questioned him once before he died, but he told me Amanda was a prick tease and led him on. Had a real temper on him. Turns out he went through the foster system and was heavily abused as a kid. There was a string of sexual assault accusations littering his record, but he was never convicted. Victims were too scared to testify so he got away with it.’ Weatherly sounded disgusted.
‘Were there any other suspects?’
Weatherley paused. ‘It was an open-and-shut case with regards to evidence. Farrow’s semen was all over her; and the footprints we found on the scene matched his size nine boots –’
‘You remember his shoe size?’
‘As I said, I remember all my cases.’
‘So why did you hesitate? When I asked about another suspect.’
‘Look, you have to understand, we were under the microscope. The Bulger case was taking all of our resources. And Farrow was guilty, that I’m sure of.’ He sighed. ‘We found another trace. Semen, on the mattress in the shed. But the Forensic who collected the sample was wet behind the ears. It was contaminated before we could properly identify it. I was all for expanding the investigation, but then Farrow committed suicide and my SIO, well, you know . . .’
‘He needed support elsewhere, yeah, I get it.’ I pressed my forehead against the window as disappointment crashed over me.
‘Farrow wasn’t around to ask, and Amanda’s mum wasn’t much use.’ Weatherly paused. ‘This wasn’t in the newspapers because the guv didn’t want it known, but Amanda’s mum was there when it happened. He made her watch.’
‘She watched her own daughter being murdered?’
‘You can imagine the state she was in. She was so terrified of him, she could barely speak by the time we got to her. A shell of a woman. I imagine she spent the next decade in therapy. At least, I hope she did.’
‘I don’t suppose you kept any notes from Amanda’s case?’
‘The wife made me move the boxes up to the attic when we did the extension, but they’re up there somewhere.’
I crossed my fingers. ‘Fred, is there any way I can persuade you to dig them out? I can come and look at them in person if you don’t want to let them out of your sight.’
I heard the smile in his voice. ‘Even I’ve heard of a scanner. I’ll have a dig around. Give me an excuse to look over my past. But, I’m warning you, don’t get your hopes up.’
23
My phone woke me up. It was like surfacing through treacle. I forced my arm out from under the covers. The text was from Eva.
Can we meet? Bench on the Embankment, by Waterloo Bridge.
It had just gone 6 a.m. I yanked my covers off and dressed quickly, pulling on a thick sweater and fur-lined boots. I grabbed my coat, then closed the front door quietly, recoiling as the freezing air blasted my face.
Twenty minutes later I fled the stale warmth of the Tube and hurried along Embankment. The Thames slithered alongside like a fat grey snake and I could taste the salt on the wind. Up ahead a figure in a periwinkle hat sat huddled on a bench. Her face was hidden but I recognised the awkward posture and long golden hair. I sat down beside Eva and waited for her to speak.
‘You can see everything from this bench: The London Eye, Big Ben, Westminster. Even now I have to pinch myself that I’m here.’ She gave a shy pink smile. ‘I always dreamed of being a princess. Now I live near Prince Harry. What are my chances, do you think? It would make my mamma and pappa very happy. We could all live in a palace together.’
A jogger zipped past, steaming the air with his hot, wet breath.
When he was far enough away, Eva cleared her throat. ‘So, Alexei Bortnik didn’t kill Natalia.’
I stared down at the dirt. ‘Alexei is a killer, just not her killer.’
Eva yanked a silver pendant over the top of her black polo neck and began twisting it around her gloved finger. ‘I still hear her, you know. In our apartment. Every time a door slams, or someone laughs outside. Last night I heard her screaming through the walls.’
The frozen bench seeped through my coat. I couldn’t wait any longer. ‘Eva, did you know Lydia was being blackmailed?’ A flock of crows landed; their bright caws drowned me out. Eva picked up a smooth round stone and lobbed it at them. The flock exploded into the air.
‘I’m getting a new flatmate. Iman something. From Nairobi.’ She tilted her head up to the sky, and closed her eyes. ‘She’s moving in Monday.’
I reached out and squeezed her bony fingers. She whipped her eyes open and stared down at my hand.
‘Eva, I need y
our help. I think Lydia was caught up in –’
‘The Juliets.’
I frowned. ‘The –’
‘Juliets. The sex ring. That’s what you’re talking about, right?’
The cold air had numbed my face. I struggled to form the words. ‘Who told you about it?’
‘Who do you think?’
I pulled out my tape recorder. A risky move, but Rowley would kill me if I didn’t get our conversation on the record. ‘Do you mind? I won’t use your name. Just pretend it isn’t there.’
Eva’s eyes darted from the device to my face. Then she shrugged and wiped her nose with the back of her hand. ‘Natalia came home trashed. It was Bonfire Night. I remember because I watched the fireworks on Clapham Common. It wasn’t long after she started those NA meetings. I’d had enough of her mood swings, plus,’ she smiled sheepishly, ‘I’d eaten nothing but apple slices for two days. Told her if she wasn’t going to take it seriously, she should give someone else a chance.’
‘What did she say?’ The wind burned pink roses onto Eva’s cheeks and she stared straight ahead, seeing something behind her eyes.
‘I was so stupid.’
‘What do you mean?’
Eva shrugged. The friendliness of earlier had evaporated; it had happened in her flat the other day. The sudden change unsettled me. A surge of questions bubbled in my head, but I forced myself to order them.
‘Was Natalia being blackmailed by the sex . . . the Juliets?’ Eva gave a quick nod, without taking her eyes off the river. ‘What exactly did she tell you?’
Eva flicked her thigh with her finger. ‘It’s an exclusive club. Only the most beautiful models are chosen. It’s a way to clear your debt and meet influential men at the same time.’ Eva’s fingernail snapped hard against denim. ‘That’s how Natalia sold it to me, anyway. When she recruited me.’
I stared at her. ‘Natalia recruited you?’
Eva’s fingers stilled, then she tucked her legs beneath her and shook out her long hair. ‘I thought she was doing me a favour, letting me in on a secret. The agency had fronted me thousands of pounds and I wasn’t making enough to pay them back. I didn’t want to be sent back to Russia. Prince Harry, remember?’ She gave a pinched-lip smile. ‘I figured I’d do it a couple of times, then get out. But when I tried to leave . . .’
‘They blackmailed you?’ The bench dug into my back. ‘Why is it called the Juliets?’
Eva shrugged. ‘Who knows? I assumed it was after Shakespeare’s heroine. Beautiful, and underage,’ she added, with a wry smile.
‘But Natalia can’t have known how twisted the Juliets were before she recruited you.’
Eva gave a bitter laugh. ‘That little bitch knew everything. The blackmail, the fetishes, the beatings.’ She yanked her gloves off and pressed the skin on the back of her hand with slender fingers. ‘I was her escape route.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The Juliets have a rule. No one is allowed to leave until they’ve found a girl to replace them.’ A riverboat slid into view, pushing through the muddy water like a lazy worm. ‘The Juliets make you do things that . . . each time you’re forced to do something worse. Something you’d rather die than let the world see. Then they send a tape of you doing it. Eventually you start to feel worthless, as though you deserve it. I was desperate to tell someone, but I didn’t want the tape to go on the internet. And then Natalia was killed . . .’
‘That’s why you refused to call the police when you noticed Alexei Bortnik hanging around.’
Eva nodded, fumbling with a cigarette packet. ‘He showed up the day after you came to my flat. I thought the Juliets had found out and sent someone to scare me.’
A dull ache was spreading across my frozen fingertips and I curled my hands into fists. ‘Did you know Lydia was a Juliet too?’
Eva inhaled deeply and the tip of her cigarette burned coral. A gust of wind blew a heavy waft of sewage across the river towards us and I covered my nose with my glove.
‘When I was sent the tape, I was so mad. I confronted Natalia. At first she played dumb, but I could tell she was lying. Eventually she admitted she was in deep too.’
‘When was this?’
‘Late November, I think. She told me Lydia recruited her in August when she wanted to get out. It’s a perverted chain letter. The Juliets break you, then dangle a carrot and offer you a way out.’
‘Have you managed to get out?’
Eva ignored me, and exhaled a ribbon of smoke. ‘The Juliets don’t want you after a while anyway. Once you become too damaged, your innocence fades and you’re not as valuable to them.’
‘So if Natalia and Lydia both recruited someone, that means they no longer worked for the Juliets.’
A wisp of blonde hair blew across Eva’s face and she brushed it away. ‘Natalia told me that the Juliets never let Lydia go. She made too much money for them.’ She flashed a wry smile. ‘I know, shocking. Filthy pimps don’t keep their word.’
‘But why would the Juliets kill Natalia and Lydia? Why not just release their tapes?’
Eva tossed her cigarette onto the ground and squashed it with the heel of her boot. ‘I have no idea. Maybe it was warning signal to the rest of us. Maybe they were worried the tapes would lead police to them.’
Suddenly Eva folded over and burst into tears.
I laid my hand on her quivering shoulders. ‘I’m so sorry, Eva.’
‘I didn’t want to return to Russia a failure.’ The words punched through her sobs. ‘I figured this would buy me some time. But the clients, they’re not normal. One guy urinated in my mouth. Another could only orgasm if I cried out in pain, so he punched me over and over in the ribs during sex. It was as if they were competing with each other for a sick crown.’ Tears ran down Eva’s face, turning it black with mascara, like tiny lumps of coal. ‘By the time I became a Juliet, clients were no longer allowed to hit girls in the face. So they were asked to be discreet. One man had a fetish for the smell of burned skin. He used to stub cigarettes out on me.’ She thrust her hand in my face. The delicate skin between her fingers was puckered and red.
I looked away. An image of Lydia’s famous black eye flashed into my mind. Maybe Liam had told the truth, after all. ‘Didn’t anyone notice the marks on you?’
Eva dragged her fingers across her cheeks, wiping away the tears. ‘You get good at hiding them. Still,’ she shook another cigarette out of the packet, but didn’t light it, ‘I almost miss the days when my biggest fear was a leaked sex tape.’
‘Can we put this on the record? If so, I need details. How does the sex ring operate?’
Eva sucked on her unlit cigarette and slumped down lower on the bench. ‘When a client books you, you get sent a Burn Notice on your phone, telling you where to be and when.’ A Burn Notice was a self-destructing text app. ‘It also lists a number to call in case you get a last-minute job and can’t make the appointment. That number changes each time.’
‘Did you ever save any of those numbers?’
Eva shook her head. ‘They told me to destroy them.’
‘Who are the clients?’
‘Middle Eastern, Asian, Russian. I never knew their real names and I never recognised anyone.’
‘Where did these appointments take place?’
‘Hotel rooms, mainly. The key would be in an envelope half-tucked under the door. Once I discovered they were filming the sessions, I tried to hide my face but it’s not easy when you don’t know where the camera is.’
‘How much do clients pay?’
Eva bit down on the tip of her index finger. ‘Depends how long the client books you for, what he wants to do to you. The minimum is a grand. The most I’ve ever got is five grand.’ She dug her teeth in deeper. ‘Three guys with a suffocation fetish.’ I forced myself to move briskly past the incoming image. ‘That night, I called the number they gave me.’
‘Who answered?’
‘It went to voicemail. I left a me
ssage saying I wanted out. The following day I received a package with the USB stick.’
‘Was there a note?’
Eva stretched her arms out above her. Then she dropped them into her lap with a sigh. ‘I did whatever they told me after that.’
I cursed as I noticed the battery light flashing on my tape recorder. ‘Which hotels do they use?’
Eva bent forward to light her cigarette and took a long drag. ‘The Parker, The Chateau, The Palace –’
‘The Rose?’
Eva shrugged. ‘I never met a client there but it’s possible.’
I remembered Natalia’s odd behaviour the night she was killed. The drinking, the terrified glances over her shoulder, wanting to swap rooms. ‘Could Natalia have been meeting a client the night she was killed?’
Eva sighed. ‘As far as I knew, Natalia no longer worked for the Juliets. She’d recruited me, remember. Then again, we weren’t exactly speaking. Things were . . . difficult between us. I couldn’t forgive her for getting me involved.’
I chewed my bottom lip as another thought struck me. ‘Do you think Natalia’s rape is linked to the Juliets?’
Eva stared down at the ground. ‘Before you’re booked, the man in charge vets you. To check you’ll do as you’re told. I was blindfolded and taken somewhere cold and damp. I didn’t see his face. He drugged me, then . . .’ Eva paused, took a sharp breath. ‘He used things on me, whispered you’re nothing, over and over. There was someone else, helping, I think. It’s still hazy.’ Eva squeezed her cigarette between her thumb and forefinger, ‘Like I say, I wasn’t really conscious for most of it . . .’
I swallowed thickly. ‘You didn’t get a glimpse of his face?’ Eva’s eyes flittered once to mine, then dropped to the ground. ‘Come on, Eva. If you’re not going to give me his name, why did you ask to meet?’ She flicked her cigarette into the dirt, but didn’t answer. ‘You know, the last time I saw Natalia alive, she was about to tell me who raped her. But then she ducked out for a cigarette.’ I frowned. ‘The Juliets must have known she was meeting me that day. How did they . . .’
Breaking Dead: A stylish, edge-of-your-seat crime thriller (The Sophie Kent series) Page 20