Quieter Than Killing

by Sarah Hilary

  ‘How?’ Ron asked. ‘You mean the killer was using the same app? The killer was the hook-up?’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ Colin said. ‘Any app that uses relative distance data carries the risk of your actual location being determined, but generally it’s by someone who knows how the tech works and can access the app from multiple locations while you’re standing still. I checked and this app has an option to turn off the “distance from” info. But even if Kyle had turned it off, his profile would still appear in the cascade of users.’

  ‘Well that’s clear as mud,’ Ron muttered. ‘He was using this app to pick up strangers for sex, that’s about the size of it, right?’ He looked across at Noah.

  Marnie said, ‘Is there any value in asking the app for a password to Kyle’s account?’

  ‘We could ask.’ Colin looked doubtful. ‘But if we think it’s kids then I don’t see them using an app like this. Or hacking his location for that matter. If you’re smart enough to do that then you’re smart enough not to attack him in the street. They could’ve waited until he got home.’

  Marnie looked at Debbie. ‘Any luck getting hold of Carole?’

  ‘Still not answering her phone. Same with Ollie and Lisa . . . I’ve been trying to find out where they might’ve bumped into one another. There’s a service station where Lisa worked late shifts, and Carole has a car. That’s as close as I’ve got. Sorry, boss.’

  Marnie’s wrists itched. Too many loose ends. Too many coincidences and not enough hard evidence. DCS Ferguson was going to walk all over the little they had.

  ‘Kyle’s tox screen came back,’ Ron offered. ‘His liver took a pounding from methamphetamine. That fits with what Mazi told us, but it doesn’t get us any closer to who killed him.’

  ‘The newspaper clippings,’ Noah said. ‘Not the ones from the last ten weeks. From seven and eleven years ago. How did our vigilantes get hold of those? Kids wouldn’t bother tracking down old newspapers. They might’ve told Val and Mazi that they’d paid a debt on their behalf, but clippings? I’m not sure kids even know newspapers exist, do they?’

  ‘Ollie’s vanished off the face of London,’ Ron reminded him. ‘And his mum too. Maybe Ollie doesn’t read papers, but Lisa does. In any case, we’ve got the bin bag from their flat. Why aren’t we talking about that? The baseball bat, the lighter. Porn mags, and not the sort sixteen-year-olds look at.’ Another glance at Noah. ‘Lonely housewives might like that stuff, though.’

  ‘We’re not talking about the evidence from the Tomlinsons’ flat,’ Marnie said, ‘because we’re waiting on Forensics. It’s too convenient that we’ve struck what looks like the evidence lottery right on the doorstep of two missing persons with a motive for attacking Carole Linton—’

  ‘Convenient?’ Ferguson was in the doorway. ‘I’m not sure I believe in evidence that’s too convenient. I believe in offenders who fuck up. We get plenty of those in Manchester, where we’ve an aversion to looking gift horses in the gob.’ She nodded at the evidence board. ‘Are you sure you’re not overcooking this? From where I’m stood, it looks more complicated than it needs to be. I’d like to establish a baseline going forward. Keep it simple.’

  ‘A fresh pair of eyes is always welcome.’ Marnie stood back from the board. ‘Please.’

  Ferguson crossed the room, picking up a marker pen as she passed Ron’s desk. ‘What’s this?’ Pointing at Noah’s replication of the letter C from the clippings. ‘DS Carling?’

  ‘It’s what our killer put on the newspaper stories, ma’am. The ones he sent to the victims.’

  ‘An ownership stamp?’

  ‘Or a gang sign.’ Ron nodded at Noah. ‘Trident gave us a list.’

  ‘How many gangs of two people – kids – do you have in Greater London right now?’

  ‘Might not be the same two kids every time,’ Ron said. ‘Different pairs, maybe.’

  ‘How many gangs send newspaper clippings? Or operate as vigilantes?’ Ferguson drew a line through Noah’s sketch. ‘If we’re barking up a tree, let’s at least pick one that’s indigenous.’

  She capped the pen, holding it between her hands, eyes on the room. ‘Kyle liked a lot of sex and he took drugs to speed things along. DS Jake, what’s your take on that?’

  ‘The sort of sex we’re talking about takes place behind closed doors.’ Noah used his neutral voice, with just a chip of ice in it. ‘If his death’s linked to the app he was using then there was no need to kill him in the street. That was noisy, and it was risky. Added to which we know the attack was connected to what happened eleven years ago because the killer sent a message to Mazi.’

  ‘Are we taking a full statement from Mr Yeboah?’ Ferguson swung her stare to Marnie. ‘Kyle’s parents seem to think it worthwhile.’

  ‘They brought him here in their car. I doubt they’d have taken that risk had they truly believed he was their son’s killer.’

  ‘Are we charging them—? They disposed of evidence. That’s obstruction. DC Pitcher, how long did you spend trying to piece together the love letters they were too embarrassed to let us read?’

  Colin blinked, but the question was rhetorical.

  ‘We could charge Kyle’s parents,’ Marnie said, ‘although the CPS might raise an objection. They’re victims, and they’ve lost their only child. I’d prefer to focus on finding Ollie and Lisa.’

  ‘How about finding and re-interviewing our other victim?’

  Ferguson pointed the pen at Carole’s face on the board.

  ‘Now that Mr Rawling has told us it was kids, and our eyewitness in Page Street corroborates that, maybe Carole can be ruled in or out of our conspiracy theory once and for all.’

  She nodded at Marnie. ‘It would be nice to cut some of this complexity down to size.’

  ‘At least she called it our conspiracy theory,’ Noah said, as he and Marnie headed out of the station. ‘We get joint ownership of whatever happens next.’ He checked his phone for Dan’s latest text.

  It was there, on time. Dan was fine. No new demands from whoever was after Sol. Noah let out the breath he’d been holding, rubbing his thumb at the phone’s screen.

  ‘What did DS Kennedy have to say about Sol?’ Marnie knew what was going through his head.

  ‘He’s calling me back once he’s asked around.’ He pocketed the phone. ‘I think I can forget about it for a bit. Concentrate on cutting our complexity down to size.’

  They were headed for Carole’s place. It couldn’t be coincidence that she’d been missing for the same three days as Ollie and Lisa. Whatever Ferguson said, this case was complicated. Pretending that it wasn’t wouldn’t get them any closer to the truth.

  Marnie was thawing the car’s frozen lock when her phone rang.

  She handed the lighter to Noah, and took the call. ‘DI Rome.’ Noah held the lighter to the lock, thinking of the burn to Kyle’s eye.

  Whoever did that had pretended they were paying tribute to Mazi. They couldn’t imagine a scenario in which Mazi had not only forgiven his tormentor but fallen in love with him. Life was complicated. Their vigilantes, like DCS Ferguson, were wrong.

  Marnie held out the car keys, listening to whoever was on the other end of the phone. The car crunched as it opened, reluctant to give up its new layer of ice. Noah held the door for her, swinging it shut before walking around to the passenger side.

  ‘Change of plan.’ Marnie had pocketed her phone and was shivering in the driver’s seat.

  Noah tried for optimism. ‘Carole’s turned up?’

  ‘Another assault.’ She started the engine, letting it idle while she cleared the inside of the windscreen. ‘Ferguson is going to think we’re making this up . . .’ She put the scraper away and set her hands on the wheel before turning to face Noah. ‘This one happened behind bars.’

  ‘In prison?’

  ‘HMP Cloverton.’ Her irises burned black, making the whites of her eyes very bright. ‘Ask me how I know it’s our vigilantes.’

  ‘How?�
��

  ‘The victim, Jacob Collins, has a skull fracture and five broken bones. That’s nothing this prison hasn’t seen before. It has one of the worst reputations in the country.’ She spoke as if she knew HMP Cloverton intimately. ‘But Mr Collins? Is asking for us.’

  ‘Us? You mean the police or—’

  ‘You and me. He reads the papers, watches the news. Other than that, he keeps his head down, working out his sentence. Sixteen months for using a dog as a weapon. His victim lost five fingers.’

  ‘Another of life’s charmers . . . And he’s asking for us. Why?’

  ‘It’s unclear, but the attacker . . .? Carved the letter C into his shoulder.’

  The windscreen had misted over again.

  Marnie cleared it, again.

  ‘You’re right,’ Noah said. ‘Ferguson’s going to think we’re making this up. We know our vigilantes aren’t inside. Which means whoever did this has contacts in prison. That might stack up if it’s a gang, but it can’t be kids. Even if Ollie is involved, it goes deeper than a couple of kids.’

  ‘I want you to stay here,’ Marnie said. ‘Pick up the search for Carole, and the others. Our latest victim isn’t going anywhere.’

  The thinness was back in her face.

  ‘Find Ollie, if you can. I’ll see what our dog handler has to say.’

  32

  Prison changes people. Some shrink, others bulk up. Jacob Collins had worked out. To fit in, or to stay safe. In the photo from his trial three years ago, he’d been narrow, made narrower by an ill-fitting suit. Now he filled the prison issue grey sweats, even without the added bulk of bandages and plaster casts. He shifted in his bed, acknowledging Marnie with a quiver of his battered, black-stitched face. One eye was swollen shut, his lips split, nose broken. Right hand in plaster, ditto his left leg. Under the pills and surgery, he smelt of prison soap, cheap and pungent.

  ‘You’re not her,’ he said. ‘DI Rome. You’re not old enough.’

  Marnie showed her badge. ‘You asked for me, by name. Why?’

  ‘You were in the papers, in charge of finding whoever killed that desk jockey in Westminster.’

  ‘Kyle Stratton.’

  ‘Yeah.’ He rubbed the heel of his hand at his chest. ‘Aidan said you were the one I needed.’

  ‘And Aidan is?’

  ‘Duffy. He’s the one making sure the trains run on time round here.’ Collins looked her over. ‘He said I should ask for DI Rome. I thought you’d be older.’

  ‘Aidan Duffy. He works here?’

  Humour pulled his face into a new shape. ‘Ow . . .’ He petted his stitches. ‘Don’t make me laugh.’ Smoothing his thin hair with the hand that wasn’t broken. ‘Aide’s an inmate, same as the rest of us. Well, not quite the same. Like I said – trains.’

  Deals, he meant. Wheels within wheels. All the small fires that kept a place like this burning with bargains and factions, envies and loyalties and grudges. Which meant Aidan Duffy was a bully with the clout to make those around him jump in any direction where a tall wall wasn’t in the way.

  ‘Aide never said you were a redhead.’ Collins itched the skin on his chest. ‘Think he might’ve mentioned that. He’s borrowed my porn enough times.’

  Six years ago, when she first became a prison visitor, Marnie had consulted a pamphlet written by an old lag for inmates and their loved ones. A survival guide to prison life. Advice on everything from diet and hygiene to the etiquette of visits. Inmates would be high on sweets and fizzy drinks, the pamphlet said. It warned that prisons used lip readers, so you should cover your mouth unless you wanted your conversation to be caught and recorded. If you ever cut a visit short you’d be searched, as the prison would assume your meeting was a dead drop. The pamphlet didn’t have any guidance for visiting your parents’ murderer, nor was it very strong on ways to question inmates with broken faces who thought they could wind you up with their porn preferences.

  ‘Was it Aidan who broke your fingers?’ she asked.

  ‘I said don’t make me laugh.’ He touched the dressing on his left shoulder. ‘Aide’s a mate. Straight up.’

  ‘In your statement you said you didn’t see who attacked you.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘So why am I here, exactly?’

  ‘Shit, love.’ He ran his eyes over her. ‘Your bedside manner needs some work.’

  ‘So I’m told.’ Marnie glanced at her watch. ‘If you’ve nothing for me, I have things to do.’

  ‘Hang on.’ He rolled his shoulders. ‘You’re looking for this nutter, right? The one who’s dishing out punishments on your patch.’

  The legacy of the prison was written all over him. He might like to pretend he was a hard man, but even his fingers looked defeated. He’d been someone on the outside, striding around with his pit bull on a short chain, threatening anyone who didn’t show respect. Prison had introduced him to a whole new hierarchy of bully. He was outclassed.

  ‘Aidan says you’re looking in the wrong places.’ He ran his thumb down the stitches in his face. ‘Says you need to be checking a bit closer to home.’

  Marnie moved her mouth, flatlining a smile. ‘Is he wasting my time, like you?’

  He scoped the space behind her then lifted his hand to his left shoulder, unpeeling the tape that held the dressing in place, to uncover the wound it was hiding.

  Carved black and bloody into the deltoid—

  The letter C, at an angle. Not like the clippings, and not like the version that Noah had drawn on the evidence board. Seen from this angle, it wasn’t the letter C at all. It was a horseshoe.

  Collins flexed his arm. ‘For luck.’

  The wound was drawn with the ragged tip of an improvised knife which’d flayed the skin as it carved out the shape, no wider than his thumbnail.

  A horseshoe. Like the one on her bracelet. She’d taken apart every room in the house, hunting for it. The day came back, savage in its detail. Searching until her fingers were full of splinters, her throat sandpapered by dust. Grit at the skin of her scalp, under the strap of her watch, in the toes of her boots. A thin abrasion every time she moved, rubbing, wearing her away.

  ‘A horseshoe.’ Collins scratched at his chest. ‘Yeah?’

  A dimension was missing, making a woodcut of his broken face.

  She blinked and he came into focus, behind the heated gleam of her tears.

  ‘For luck, Aidan says.’

  He taped the dressing over the wound.

  ‘You want to be looking closer to home.’

  33

  Carole Linton’s address was a basement flat in a cul-de-sac flanked by a main road to the east and a salvage yard on the west. The yard was packed with cars, burnt out or smashed up, stacked in pyres to be stripped down for parts before being crushed into disposable cubes. Noah could smell petrol and melted plastic. He went down the ungritted steps to Carole’s front door, knocking twice in the hope she’d answer quickly so he could get indoors. Ever since this cold snap started, all of London was icy windswept corners where litter froze like his feet.

  No answer to his knocking. No window in the brick wall running the length of the footwell. The flat was a cheap conversion, stopping south of planning regulations. Carole had been living here since she came out of prison. She’d dyed her hair, altered her appearance, moved into this basement next to a scrapyard of wrecked cars. Her own car was parked outside, had been for days judging by the windscreen’s triple coating of frost, beads of ice as big as garden peas.

  Noah checked his phone. Dan’s latest text was lyrics from their favourite song, signed off with a taco emoji and, I’m starving. He was on his way home, sticking to public transport and broad daylight. No word from Sol, but Noah hadn’t received any further demands for information as to his whereabouts. He was hopeful Trident would have a lead, if not on Sol then on the gang he’d been running with. He tried Carole’s door one last time before climbing back up the icy steps.

  Someone was waiting at str
eet level.

  Noah got a glimpse of grey, swinging—

  A baseball bat coming straight for his head.

  He swerved but not fast enough and the bat bounced— Hitting his shoulder hard, coming back round to its original target.

  An explosion of stars, red.

  His hand grabbing for the rail, feet out from under him thanks to the ice, falling too fast for it to end any way but— This. Hard.

  Three, four bruising blows to his ribs – not the bat but the steps as he fell, landing in the right angle by Carole’s door with a faceful of litter and his eyes full of blood.

  Booming in his head, or—

  No, that was boots coming down the steps. That was the bat being swung from a gloved hand so that it clattered against the railings coming down to where he was lying, trying to get up.

  Nothing would cooperate. Not his feet, not his hands. The ice made a worse joke of his struggle, sending him in every direction but up— Up, up and away. Away. His head was ringing, pitching his brain too close to his skull, blood bumping in his temples, red and wet in his eyes.

  Standing over him, bat swinging—

  He tried for a description but it kept sliding away. No colours, no details. Just monotones wrapped in layers, not tall but big with layers, spreading in all directions thanks to the concussion, a giant, no, a dwarf with giant’s hands and a face hidden by a balaclava— He lifted his left arm, thinking—

  This is how he broke them when they tried to stay alive.

  Impossible not to, though. He couldn’t see colours or details, couldn’t move his legs but his arm came up to protect his head by pure instinct. Survival— ‘Ollie?’ He tried to get words out, but his mouth was slack.

  Something stuck to the side of his face. A frozen crisp packet. He’d seen one when he was knocking at the door. He was getting a closer look now that he was down here with the litter.