by Ed James
‘This isn’t your living?’
‘Well, it’s our dream. My day job is in IT. I’m a coder.’
‘Might want to consider making it clearer what you sell. I’d expect a handful of roasted almonds and Brazils.’
Mantilas stared into space. ‘Never thought of that.’
‘Please continue.’
‘I usually get there early to grab a good pitch.’ Mantilas licked his lips, thin and pale. ‘As you probably saw, there weren’t a lot of good spots left by the time we got there. Had to make do with that one by the wall. And that’s when I saw her. I didn’t think it was a person at first.’ He chewed on a fingernail. ‘Thought it was a fox. Seen a few rummaging around the bins at these things.’
‘When was this?’
‘Just after seven. It was still dark.’ He caught a big chunk of nail. ‘I freaked out when I saw it was a woman.’
‘Did you touch her?’
‘I checked to see if she was okay. Tried to wake her up.’ Mantilas wiped a tear sliding down his cheek. ‘She was cold and wet. It’d been raining.’
Fenchurch made a note on his Pronto. Clooney: Mantilas prints/DNA on body. ‘What did you do next?’
‘I called the police. Felt like hours before they showed up. The rest’s a blur, I’m afraid. They locked the place down and brought me here.’
Fenchurch scribbled a timeline on a blank note. From the likely time of death at seven p.m. to the discovery twelve hours later. ‘I need your whereabouts for last night, Mr Mantilas.’
‘I need to get back to my van.’
‘I’ve got a team dusting it for prints. No harm’s going to come to it.’ Fenchurch smiled, eyes thin slits. ‘Now, where were you yesterday evening?’
‘Me and Andrew were making the batter for the doughnuts. It’s usually best to let it sit for a few days, but we’ve both been pretty busy.’
‘From when until when?’
‘I got back from work at five o’clock. We were at it until about midnight.’
‘Sounds like a lot of doughnuts.’
‘We make good money from these fairs.’
‘We will, of course, check with your brother.’
‘I gave his details to the officers I spoke to earlier. He’s doing the late shift today. This thing goes on till ten at night. Well, not today, I imagine.’
‘No, it won’t even start.’ Fenchurch made a note to check the brother. ‘Mr Mantilas, do you know anything about this girl’s death?’
‘I found her, that’s it.’ He closed his eyes. ‘I’ll never forget the way she felt. She was so cold.’
‘That’ll pass in time, believe me.’ Fenchurch gave another smile as he got up. ‘My colleagues will look after you. You’ll be allowed to go once we’ve finished searching your van and verified your story.’ He thumbed at the door, motioning for Nelson to leave first, and shut it behind them. ‘Poor kid.’
‘Don’t think he did it, guv.’ Nelson got out his vape stick and stared at it. He pocketed it without a puff. ‘There’s a Rough Trade record shop across from the crime scene and a few bars with late licenses round there. I’ll get someone out checking them.’
‘I really don’t want this to be connected.’ Fenchurch shook his head, like that’d change the chain of events. ‘I’ll get Kay man-marking Owen while you manage this.’
‘Guv.’
‘What’s that?’ Reed looked up from her desk, nostrils twitching. ‘Bit early for a burrito, isn’t it?’
‘Never too early, Kay. Trying that place on the Minories.’ Fenchurch took another bite. Gave it a couple of chews before swallowing it down. Not half bad. The Incident Room always seemed a bit too quiet when he was around. ‘Thanks for running the briefing this morning.’
‘Bit of a dead rubber without you.’
‘I’m sure that’s not true.’
‘Well, this bouncer from the club still hasn’t spoken. Even after we got him a lawyer. Clearly been trained, guv.’
‘Give him another pass, okay? Then we’ll need to think about letting him go.’ Fenchurch perched on a desk. ‘Anything on the press release?’
‘We’ve still got nothing on our Jane Doe.’
‘Right. Can you get the street teams to take the new info round the banks on Bishopsgate?’
‘We did that last night.’
‘Well, I don’t want to look like a prize plonker because we’ve not asked someone a second time. See if this Robert name rings any bells that the photo didn’t.’
‘Guv.’
‘Get back to Dirty Dick’s when they open. Speak to the girls again and all the other pubs in the area. If he’s been in one pub, he might’ve been in others. We’ve maybe got a name now. I want table bookings, bar tabs, credit card receipts.’
‘Let me get this straight.’ Reed raised her eyebrows as much as that morning’s ‘Croydon facelift’ would allow. Shiny hair pulled tight into a ponytail, stretching her forehead. ‘You want me to ask if anyone called Robert has bought a round in a pub in the whole of the City?’
‘It’s just a square mile.’
She chuckled, shaking her head. ‘Don’t suppose I can get any City of London officers to help?’
‘They’re still at arm’s reach, Kay. I haven’t spoken to them yet.’
‘Well, let me know when it’s clear.’
‘Get on with it now. I’ll call my contact soon.’ Fenchurch leaned back against the wall. ‘And speak to the local prostitutes, as well.’
‘Guv.’
‘How’re Owen and Kershaw doing?’
‘They weren’t at the briefing. I’ll see where they’ve got to.’
Cheeky bastards. Maybe Nelson was right. Fenchurch tore into his burrito.
‘Jon said there’s another body?’
‘Starting to stretch us thin. I’ve lost Nelson, Lad and a few others to it. No idea if it’s connected or what. I asked for the CCTV to be sent down here.’
‘Lisa’s watching it now.’ Reed got up and skipped over to Bridge’s desk. ‘Have you got anywhere with that footage?’
She tapped her laptop screen. ‘This is Dray Walk car park last night.’ She smiled at Fenchurch. ‘Guv.’
‘Lisa.’ Fenchurch sat next to her and tore the foil further down the burrito.
The crime scene was in darkness. Hard to make out whether it was paused or empty. A plastic bag danced across the car park. Wasn’t paused after all.
‘You got anything?’
‘Nothing yet. Pratt reckoned she was killed just after eight, right?’
‘Seven.’
‘Shit on it.’ Bridge screwed up her eyes. ‘Sorry, guv.’
Easy mistake to make . . . Fenchurch used his tongue to work a bit of chicken gristle from between his teeth. ‘Don’t mention it.’
‘Here we go.’ Bridge jockeyed the footage back, the bag undoing its dance. She stopped at 18.53. After a minute, a couple walked in from the Brick Lane end at double speed.
‘Pause it.’ He shifted forward and squinted. ‘That’s not him. Is it her?’
Reed shrugged. ‘Can’t really tell, guv.’
Bridge switched the display to a high-resolution photograph of their second victim, dead eyes staring through the camera. The wonders of modern technology. ‘Doesn’t look like her. Agreed?’
‘Keep going.’ Fenchurch chewed down another mouthful, leaving just the messy end of the tortilla.
Bridge tapped the screen. 19.10. ‘Almost caught up with myself. I started this after half past seven. Thought I was being—’
‘There.’ Fenchurch dropped the burrito carcass and stabbed a finger at the monitor.
A girl ghosted across from the far end, arms tight to her chest.
‘Is that her?’
‘I think so, sir.’ Bridge slowed it down.
The woman walked towards them, passing the front of the camera’s range. Just by the lion mural.
‘Lost her.’ Reed sighed. ‘Have we got any other cameras?’
�
�This is the only one live, Sarge. The others are fakes.’
‘Unbelievable.’ Fenchurch balled up his foil and tossed it into the brown paper bag. ‘Keep it playing.’ He finished the burrito, managing to avoid spilling any of it down his shirt.
Almost a minute later, the girl reappeared at 19.13. A man followed her at a discreet distance. It could’ve been their guy. Just too unclear from this angle. She pointed to the wall at the car park’s edge, almost looking at the camera. He followed her behind it, his head darting around.
Fenchurch stayed focused on the screen, again looking like it was frozen. The clock hit 19.19 and the man jerked up from behind the wall. He adjusted his flies and hurried off.
Bridge froze the playback and zoomed in. Blocky and grainy. She pointed at the screen. ‘That’s our guy. Definitely this Robert character.’
Reed got up and reached forward. ‘Can you enhance it?’
Fenchurch frowned. ‘I thought you only saw that on CSI?’
‘What they do on that show is bollocks, sir.’ Bridge was grinning as she clicked and typed. ‘They’re adding pixels, which you can’t do. Must’ve inspired our guys, though, as they’ve started taking hi-res photos with the video. Crystal-clear snapshots every five frames.’
The display shifted to a different shot, both figures just moved slightly.
‘Things you can zoom in on.’ Bridge dragged a rectangle round the man’s face and it filled the screen, sharp as a needle.
Definitely Robert.
Chapter Eighteen
That’s him?’ Reed sucked breath over her teeth. ‘He’s done both murders?’
‘Probably.’ Fenchurch couldn’t take his eyes off the frozen frame. ‘But we need some harder evidence than this, Kay.’
‘Come on, guv, he shagged her behind that wall just before she died. There’s nobody else there.’
‘Yeah, I get it, Kay.’ Fenchurch shifted his gaze to her. ‘The evidence is stacking up against him, and I’m liking him for the killer. I just want you to keep an open mind. I don’t want us to ignore a good lead because we’re obsessing about this Robert character. Might not even be his real name.’
‘If it is him, guv . . .’ Reed snapped off her scrunchie, letting her ponytail tumble down, frizzy and tangled. She struggled to get it behind her ears. ‘He’s killed two girls in less than twenty-four hours. Why?’
‘Wish I knew.’ Fenchurch stared at the image on the screen. He didn’t look like a hot-blooded killer, but then who did? What was going on in that head? Having sex with his victims then killing them.
The drums smashed into a thumping rhythm.
Assuming it was him, like Kay said, Robert or whoever he is is still out there. Two victims now. Could be more they hadn’t found.
And he could kill again.
Fenchurch clapped Bridge on the shoulder. ‘This is good work, Constable.’
‘Thanks, guv.’
‘Get a look at the CCTV on the streets around there.’ Reed was on her feet, twitching like that morning’s Red Bull had finally kicked in. ‘I want to see where he goes next.’
‘Warn all of the prostitutes in the East End.’ Fenchurch couldn’t take his eyes off the face on the monitor. Evil hiding in plain sight. ‘The last thing I want is someone thinking they’re Jack the bloody Ripper.’
‘Guv.’
Fenchurch’s phone buzzed in his pocket. Dr Pratt.
‘Simon, my morning schedule’s just cleared up. I can do this second girl’s PM now, if you’re available.’
‘Come on, William.’ Fenchurch leaned against the wall, clutching his Pronto. The fake wood panelling was the relic of some previous mortuary transplanted to the modern space. He glanced at Clooney, then at Pratt’s assistant. ‘You’ve been at this for two and a half hours. Much as Mick Clooney and I love watching you work, I need to stop this guy killing again. If it was him.’
‘Always the same story with you . . .’ Pratt smoothed his thick beard. ‘It’s incredibly difficult to work under these conditions.’ He stared into space for a few seconds. ‘Okay, let’s go through the time of death. Last night wasn’t warm. Luckily for us, the body hadn’t yet reached equilibrium with the surrounding environment by the time of my initial observation. Both livor mortis and rigor mortis confirm she expired at just after seven p.m.’
‘Consistent with our video footage.’
‘Quite.’ Pratt traced a line down the girl’s side, dusky blue lividity hovering above the pale flesh at the bottom. ‘The livor mortis additionally shows us she wasn’t moved. She was killed in situ.’
‘Was she a prostitute?’
‘I believe so. There are similar vaginal artefacts as with the other victim. No, erm, DNA trace on her abdomen this time.’
‘Is there anything?’
‘Not that I’ve noticed. Whoever did this had protected intercourse with her but didn’t leave any pubic hairs, I’m afraid. The spermicide is the same brand of condoms as our other victim. There’s a slight tear in her vulva, consistent with the time of death. And there are these little beauties.’ Pratt pointed at the girl’s throat, necklaced by six round bruises. ‘These contusions are a result of the pressure applied by the killer’s fingers.’ He pointed at a large purple circle in the middle of her throat, covering her windpipe. ‘His thumbs have pressed into the recesses containing the carotid artery.’ His gloved finger tapped a flap of skin, now resealed. ‘Her hyoid’s been fractured. That shows the force and intention of our killer.’ He caressed the neck where lighter blue bruises dotted the skin. ‘There is significant injury to her neck muscles, showing signs of struggle on her part.’
Fenchurch’s heart fluttered, something like hope swimming against the tide of disgust. ‘Any skin under her nails?’
Pratt held up the girl’s hand, struggling against the rigor mortis. The fingernails were clean. ‘Sadly not.’
Fenchurch exhaled. ‘I was pinning my hopes on that.’
‘There is something, though.’
‘Always save the best to last, don’t you?’
‘I’m nothing if not a showman.’ Pratt floated his pen in the air just above a bruise. He motioned at a semicircular mark not even a pencil width, easily missed by the untrained eye. ‘There are some minor cuts to her throat here.’ He moved his pen to the other side, furthest away. ‘And here. There’s a slight chance her assailant has some of her derma under his fingernails.’
‘Then we’d better find him quick smart.’ Fenchurch stared at him. ‘Anything to think it’s the same guy?’
‘Different killing method. But I’d say the general modus operandi’s similar. Find a prostitute, get his money’s worth, then kill her.’
‘Any idea who she is?’
‘I’ve got nothing.’ Pratt nodded at Clooney. ‘Mick was going to be a saint and run the usual battery of tests.’
‘I wouldn’t hold your breath, Si. It’s a long shot.’
‘What isn’t on this case.’ Fenchurch locked his Pronto and clipped the stylus to the side. ‘We done here?’
Pratt tore off his gloves and clasped a hand on his assistant’s arm. ‘We’ll start typing this up.’
‘Thanks for fast-tracking this, William. I might be a cock most of the time, but I do appreciate the help.’ Fenchurch groaned. ‘Now, I need to speak to someone downstairs.’
Fenchurch’s dad stared out of the open doorway, the strip light humming in the tiny room behind him. ‘What are you doing here, Simon?’
Fenchurch smiled. ‘I might need your help, Dad.’
‘It’s lamb stew on in the canteen today, I think. Better than—’
‘Mind if I come in?’
‘Sure, sure.’ Dad led into the room, stooping over slightly. He collapsed into an armchair. God knows where he’d got that from. There was a chaos of paperwork on the desk. Bookcases filled the room, rammed with case files. ‘Have a seat.’
Fenchurch leaned against the wall instead. ‘You alone?’
‘Bert’s at a funer
al today.’ Dad nudged some paperwork towards the desktop computer. ‘What can I help you with, son?’
‘There’s been another one. We believe she’s a prostitute. No ID on her. Strangled this time. Same killer. There are differing MOs, but there are a lot of similarities.’
‘Two makes a pattern.’ Dad whistled through his teeth. ‘And you want to see if they match any of mine?’
‘If that’s not too much trouble.’
‘Simon, this stuff I’m looking into . . .’ Dad scratched his neck. ‘It’s not easy to stomach.’
‘Dad, you take one look at a case and see a link to Chloe.’ Fenchurch swallowed down mucus. ‘Tell me what you’ve got isn’t just wishful thinking.’
‘Wishful thinking? Son, I’m trying to—’
‘Yeah, Dad, I know what you’re trying to do. I just need you to strip it down to the bare facts. No embellishments, yeah?’
‘Right.’ Dad rubbed his hands together, shivering. ‘I’ve found some disappearances going back to the eighties. Some girls’ bodies just turned up with nothing to trace them back to. Nobody’s reported them missing, nobody knows who they are.’
‘How many?’
‘Five so far. All girls. No identities. Completely unknown. Nothing in their purses, where there was one.’
‘Had any false positives?’
‘Twenty-seven. Mostly where their handbags have been nicked. Lost property is a gold mine. Five girls without IDs and no Missing Persons reports. Their post-mortems identified them as prostitutes.’
‘Have you got any leads?’
‘Well, we’ve got some geezer over in—’
‘So you don’t know.’
‘Well, no. But I think we’re on to something, son.’
‘Is there anything I can use in this case?’
‘Isn’t what I’ve found good enough?’
Fenchurch glared at his father. ‘This is another bloody wild goose chase, isn’t it?’
‘Don’t be like that, son. I’m trying to get you some closure. Get it for all of us.’
Fenchurch waved around the small room. ‘Have you taken this to anyone?’
‘I’ve tried proper channels and . . .’ Dad gave a chuckle. ‘Improper ones. Nobody’s biting.’