Mimic

by Daniel Cole

  ‘Got a Detective Sergeant Chambers on the radio for you.’

  ‘Thanks.’ She turned to Winter: ‘You coming?’

  ‘Nah,’ he yawned. ‘I’ll look after the dog.’

  Following the officer back to his car, she climbed in and took the handset, the man and his colleague going off for a smoke to give her some privacy.

  ‘Chambers?’

  A click: ‘Just checking in … Over.’

  ‘Still waiting on the armed response unit, but we’ve got people watching the house. Over.’

  ‘They’ve granted the arrest warrant … Over.’

  ‘Just in time. You should be here for this. Over.’

  ‘I’ve got my hands full here. Over.’

  ‘I take it no human remains yet? Over.’

  ‘Negative. I still suspect Dolan was his first. Over.’

  Marshall had to shield her eyes as a set of headlight beams swung around the corner:

  ‘Looks like they’re here. I’d better get going. Over.’

  ‘Be careful. Over.’

  ‘Copy that … Out.’

  ‘Go! Go! Go!’

  Winter felt a little redundant as he watched the team of armed police storm Robert Coates’s property, the first officer in claiming credit for the broken lock he’d kicked open earlier in the day, dark shapes moving across net curtains as they diffused through the little house; a shadow puppet police raid.

  Marshall was the last through the door and had argued solidly just for that honour. Shouts of ‘Clear!’ started coming from all directions as she walked the bare hallway in confusion; the furniture remained, but the stacks of paperwork had disappeared. Glancing into the lounge on her way past, it looked similarly sparse.

  ‘Someone’s had a bonfire,’ an officer commented as she entered the kitchen, a cluster of four metal rubbish bins still smouldering out on the patio.

  She frowned on seeing her sketchbook waiting ominously on the table and made her way over as frustrated officers began filing back out of the house. Coates appeared to have burned everything he owned, and yet, he’d left this – an act of kindness she considered him incapable of, which could only mean he’d left it for another purpose.

  Tentatively, she opened it up, flicking past her sketch of The Thinker … and then Pietà … her unfinished drawing of Perseus with the Head of Medusa. Holding her breath, she turned the page, feeling her heart sink as Winter came bundling into the room behind her.

  ‘They said he’s gone?’ he asked, out of breath. ‘Marshall? What is it?’ He joined her beside the table, peering over her shoulder as she flicked to the next new picture … then the next … and the next. ‘What are those?’ he asked, but she didn’t seem to hear. ‘… Marshall?’

  Slowly, she turned to look at him:

  ‘Jesus, Winter,’ she said vacantly. ‘What have we done?’

  Thursday

  CHAPTER 21

  Eve got up five minutes before her alarm was due to go off. She tended to on these early starts when she had an entire day in court ahead of her. Fumbling around in the dark so as not to disturb Chambers, she successfully switched off the alarm clock, retrieved her clothes from the back of the chair, and made it out of the bedroom, only stubbing her toe twice in the process – a new personal record.

  She pulled the door to and relaxed a little, switching on the countertop television in the kitchen, its volume set to a constant murmur. Filling up the coffee maker, she was surprised to find it still warm from the previous morning – yet another thing that needed replacing. As she took the milk out of the fridge, the morning news came on in the background:

  ‘… residents of this sleepy riverside development have awoken to the aftermath of a horrific crime this morning …’

  Yawning, she added two heaped teaspoons of sugar to her favourite mug … and then a third.

  ‘… the body of a young woman. Reports coming out of the cordoned area suggest that at least one of her limbs appears to be missing. As yet, we don’t know if this was a prior injury or whether it was sustained during an attack …’

  Ears pricking as details of the horrible story continued to buzz from the speakers, Eve picked up the remote control:

  ‘… Again, these reports are, as yet, unconfirmed. But we have been told by several sources now that the positioning of the body bears an uncanny resemblance to that particular work of art …’

  With a foreboding sense of déjà vu, Eve muted the television, as if not hearing any more would somehow make it go away. Desperately not wanting to tell her husband, she stood there deliberating for a few moments, resigning herself to the fact that he needed to know. Ignoring the click of the coffee maker getting up to temperature, she headed back to the bedroom door, a sliver of light dissecting the darkness as she crept over to the bed.

  ‘Ben,’ she whispered. ‘… Ben.’ Sitting beside him, she reached out … her hand sinking down to the mattress before pulling back the duvet to discover the bed empty. Leaping to her feet, she switched the bedside lamp on, calling into the quiet house: ‘… Ben?!’

  Thermos of coffee in hand, Chambers ducked underneath the police tape and showed his ID card to the first officer to come running over:

  ‘Chambers. Homicide,’ he announced.

  ‘Christ!’ the young man sighed in relief.

  ‘… Chambers,’ he reiterated, concerned that in his sleep-starved delirium he might have somewhat oversold himself.

  The officer smiled:

  ‘I mean, Christ, am I glad to see you! Come on. It’s this way.’ He led Chambers down the hill towards the river, where a grubby blanket had been draped over a human-sized shape, making it look like a half-arsed Halloween costume against the cold dawn sky. ‘It’s the only thing I had in the car,’ he explained, picking up on the detective’s expression.

  ‘Take it off.’

  ‘But … the press—’

  ‘Are for people paid a lot more than us to worry about,’ Chambers told him, ‘and are a distant concern compared to preserving the evidence.’

  ‘Yeah, but—’

  ‘Look!’ Chambers barked at him. It was way too early. ‘If you’re that bothered, you have my blessing to stand there holding your manky blanket up until we get a screen down here. But, take … it … off.’

  As the scolded young man went to uncover their victim, Chambers walked to the water’s edge, bracing himself as always before laying eyes on any dead body: a soul ripped from existence against its will, a ripple effect of sorrow, loss and anger touching an untold number of other lives – those who knew them … those who now never would …

  Snapping out of his musings, he shook his head, Eve’s philosophies really starting to hinder him in his chosen career.

  He watched the reflection in the water lapping at the bank as the blanket fell away to reveal the disfigured masterpiece he had been fearing. Feeling his heart sink, he finally forced himself to look at it.

  Hair plaited around her crown, leaves woven into the intricate design, the beautiful woman stood topless, only a sheer cloth, brought to life by the breeze, hanging loosely around her waist. Somehow, she looked peaceful, happy even, the hint of a smile curling at the corner of her mouth all the more haunting for the fresh dismemberments just below either shoulder. With both arms missing, the figure cast an uneven shadow, the skin ending abruptly, unnaturally, like broken marble – the Venus de Milo reborn in mutilated flesh.

  Having seen enough, Chambers started trudging back up the grassy bank, the inexperienced officer still gallantly holding up his holey blanket:

  ‘Hey!’ he called after Chambers. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘To get someone out of bed who can help you.’

  ‘So … not you?!’

  Without looking back, Chambers shook his head: ‘Not me.’

  ‘OK,’ started Detective Chief Inspector Wainwright, ‘who wants to tell me what a trainee Narcotics officer …’ Marshall self-

  consciously avoided the others’ ey
es, having almost forgotten herself that she was still only a trainee, ‘… an experienced Homicide detective, and a …’ the stern woman double-checked the sheet of paper in front of her, ‘… Sainsbury’s security guard, are doing conducting an unsanctioned investigation into a seven-year-old case?’

  Wainwright was the Homicide department’s third DCI since Hamm, who had punched out of the force, in a move no one had seen coming, for ‘Personal reasons’ – a reason Chambers personally didn’t feel captured the force with which he’d punched out one of his constables … who, likewise, had not seen it coming. That had all been swept under the carpet, of course, an old acquaintance ensuring that the underqualified, unsuitable and unhinged Hamm left with his head held high, a full pension and a send-off worthy of a hero.

  Wainwright was a welcome breath of fresh air in comparison, a little by-the-book at times but generally fair and approachable. A position she’d earned through hard graft, the years of night shifts, junk food and employer-issued alcohol dependence had taken its toll on her, as it had them all, the deep creases running through her skin like dried-up riverbeds making her look ten years older than she actually was.

  ‘… Well?’ she prompted them when nobody answered.

  Winter cleared his throat:

  ‘It all started right after I got back from a high-speed pursuit … Well, medium-speed would be more accurate; we were both still pretty tired following his first attempt to nick Jurassic Park on video, which I …’ Sensing he was losing his audience, and actually hearing Chambers’ hand slap against his forehead, he trailed off. ‘Yeah, you probably want to hear it from one of them,’ he concluded, sitting back in his chair awkwardly.

  Wainwright turned to Chambers:

  ‘Explain to me why you were even looking into a man who had already been cleared of suspicion?’

  Chambers frowned: ‘But who actually did do it.’

  ‘But who you shouldn’t have been investigating in the first place,’ argued the DCI, the other two watching the debate bounce back and forth across the desk.

  ‘But who, if we hadn’t, would’ve gone undetected because no other bastard was going to look into him,’ Chambers pointed out, getting irate.

  ‘You should’ve asked permission first.’

  ‘Would you have given it?’

  ‘No.’

  Looking about to blow, he raised his arms in exasperation.

  ‘Look,’ said Wainwright calmly. ‘I’m not saying I’m not glad you did what you did, only that I’m going to have to punish you for doing it. Does that make sense?’

  ‘Literally, none at all.’

  Winter tentatively raised a hand.

  ‘Yes?’ asked Wainwright, turning to him.

  ‘Could my punishment be dished out by the overlords of Sainsbury’s plc.? ’Cos I’m late for work again and my manager, Dan, is going to shit a brick.’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Great. So, I can go?’

  ‘No.’ Wainwright looked exhausted already. ‘You,’ she said, addressing Marshall. ‘You haven’t annoyed me yet. Why don’t you bring me up to date?’

  ‘… and he added five new pictures?’ asked Wainwright, looking ill, speaking for the first time in over fifteen minutes. ‘So, still four more murders?’

  ‘I think we have to assume that’s his intention,’ nodded Marshall, the same ball of nausea twisting inside her that she’d been experiencing all day.

  ‘Jesus,’ she groaned, slumping in her chair. ‘Why would he tell us this? Why leave the sketches at all?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ shrugged Marshall. ‘To taunt us? To test us? Either way, after our reunion party in his kitchen he knew we were coming for him and that he had nothing left to lose,’ she finished guiltily.

  ‘OK,’ said Wainwright decisively, turning back to Chambers. ‘I’m making you lead on the case.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ he asked in surprise.

  ‘It’s your case.’

  ‘No. No. No,’ he said. ‘Give it to someone else.’

  ‘You worked the original investigation,’ she reasoned. ‘And you were right about everything all the way through, which makes you the most qualified to catch this man. Can you give me one good reason why you’re not up to this?’

  Shifting uncomfortably, Winter glanced over at his colleague, while on the other side of him, Marshall’s eyes flicked down to his leg …

  ‘… No,’ he replied, shaking his head in frustration.

  ‘Then it’s settled,’ said Wainwright. ‘Do you want me to request that Marshall be transferred over to assist? … If that’s all right with you, of course?’ she asked the Narcotics officer, who nodded eagerly.

  ‘Sure,’ grunted Chambers. ‘The more, the merrier.’

  ‘And Winter …’ the detective chief inspector started. He sat up excitedly. ‘… you should probably get back to work before “Dan” passes that brick you mentioned.’

  ‘Oh,’ he said, looking a little disappointed.

  ‘So, what’s next?’ Wainwright asked.

  ‘Eloise Brown,’ replied Marshall. ‘We believe she was in a relationship with Coates at some point. We need to speak to her.’

  ‘And, now that we’re official,’ started Chambers bitterly, ‘I want to search his office at the university.’

  ‘They’re jobs number two and three,’ Wainwright told them. ‘First: we need every set of eyes in the country looking for this man. I’ll need you to supply me with a selection of photos to circulate to the media.’

  ‘Sure you want to go to the press with this?’ Chambers asked her.

  ‘“Want” has nothing to do with it. But I don’t really see what choice we have. As Marshall so eloquently put it: the man’s a chameleon. We’re not going to find him alone.’

  ‘And how much are you going to tell them?’ he asked, wondering what his chances were of keeping any of it from Eve.

  ‘Enough,’ said Wainwright thoughtfully. ‘… The truth. That today, after seven years undetected, Robert Coates officially became a serial killer.’

  CHAPTER 22

  Chambers had offered to drop Winter off at work en route to their meeting with Eloise Brown, the relentless London traffic predictably turning the gesture into a massive inconvenience.

  ‘Hey, guys?’ Winter piped up from the back seat.

  Marshall turned round but instantly regretted it:

  ‘Jesus, Winter! Put some trousers on!’

  ‘I wasn’t expecting you to look!’

  ‘You said “hey, guys” – of course I’m going to look!’ she snapped, eyes fixed firmly on the car in front while he planted his feet against the window to wriggle into his uniform.

  They sat quietly for a few moments.

  ‘… Hey, guys?’

  ‘What?!’

  ‘I was wondering … well, more thinking that maybe you could … you know, wait until I finish work to go see Eloise Brown.’

  ‘You’re joking, right?’ asked Chambers.

  ‘I just thought—’

  ‘This is a murder investigation. Coates has already told us he’s going to kill again. Every second counts. And you want us to wait for you?’

  ‘Now that I hear it out loud …’ said Winter awkwardly. ‘Yeah, you’re right. Ignore me.’

  ‘Go easy on him,’ Marshall told Chambers. ‘We wouldn’t even know Eloise Brown existed if it wasn’t for Winter.’ She turned to give him an encouraging smile: ‘For Christ’s sake! Where’s your top?!’

  ‘It’s trapped in your door,’ he replied, belly hanging over his waistband.

  Marshall quickly opened and closed the passenger door before tossing the polo shirt into the back:

  ‘How about, with Chambers’ permission, of course,’ she looked over at him, ‘I stop by later and catch you up on everything? … OK?’

  ‘You would?’ Winter smiled hopefully.

  Chambers gave a reluctant nod as he pulled up outside the doors to the supermarket.

  ‘See you later then,
’ said Winter, jumping out onto the pavement.

  ‘Bag!’ she reminded him.

  ‘Thanks. Bye!’ he called after clambering back in to retrieve it, Chambers and Marshall waving him off like proud parents as he practically skipped into work.

  ‘Sure this is the place?’ asked Chambers, unenthusiastically regarding the entrance to the set of underground toilets.

  ‘Pretty sure,’ replied Marshall, gesturing to the brand-new signage:

  Gallery.sw7

  Pushing the metal gate open, they made their way down the stone staircase towards the sound of building work, the smell of stale urine intensifying, literally stinging their eyes by the time they reached the crowded subterranean space.

  ‘Oh! Hey!’ smiled an attractive woman, her light-brown hair tied up in playful bunches, oversized shirt covered in dried paint. ‘Are you the toilet guy?’

  Glaring at Marshall when she sniggered, Chambers took out his ID, feeling a little self-conscious – those were his smartest trousers:

  ‘No. I’m the homicide detective.’

  ‘Was that today?’ she laughed dizzily before frowning: ‘So, when’s the toilet guy coming?’

  The three of them stood in silence for a moment, as though she actually expected Chambers to know.

  ‘… I really can’t help you. Are you Eloise Brown?’ he double-checked, feeling it necessary with the scatter-brained woman.

  ‘Yeah. That’s me. I’d shake your hand but …’ she looked down at her own, ‘I’m not entirely sure what this is.’ Wiping whatever it had been on her shirt, both detectives looked a little repulsed. ‘Sorry. Am I being gross again? I can’t even tell any more. I know it doesn’t look much now, but a few coats of paint and this’ll be the edgiest gallery in the city.’

  The expression you can’t polish a turd sprung a little too easily to mind, but Chambers decided to keep it to himself.

  ‘Above ground, I wouldn’t be able to afford this much space in a million years,’ she told them cheerfully, surveying her well-plumbed empire. ‘But this place … It’s like striking oil in central London.’

  ‘I’m not so sure that’s oil,’ muttered Chambers as he stepped over an unpleasant-looking puddle. ‘Do you think we might be able to talk somewhere a little … else?’