‘We’ve also had word back from the Cyber Team. They’ve been through Lacey Greene’s laptop and her Facebook history.’ He pinned up a screenshot of the same photo taken from a Facebook profile: the name underneath it was ‘Nico Brownley’. ‘As you can see, our killer has been using Sonny Sarmiento’s profile picture. He also lifted off another sixteen photos, mainly of Sonny with friends on a trip to London. The Nico Brownley profile was created on the twenty-fourth of September last year. It looks like a lot of time was spent building up friends and a history to give the profile legitimacy.’
‘Can they access the Nico Brownley profile?’
‘No. It’s been deactivated. The IP address used was a VPN – a virtual private network – which makes it impossible to track where the profile was set up.’
The room was silent. A phone started to ring and Moss picked it up.
‘What about Lacey’s mobile phone records?’ asked Erika.
‘We should be getting those after lunch,’ said John.
‘Okay, this is a start. I want you to look through Lacey’s Facebook history and chat logs for anything that might lead us closer to whoever set up this fake profile of Nico Brownley. Find who else he had friended, get in contact with them.’
‘Boss,’ said Moss coming off the phone, ‘that was British Transport Police. They’ve found a coffee bike abandoned near London Bridge. Looks unusual, so they’re thinking it might be the one which belonged to Janelle.’
Chapter Thirty
An hour later, Erika and Moss arrived at London Bridge station. Alan Leonard, one of the project managers working on the redevelopment at London Bridge, met them on the paved concourse outside the station. He was a fresh-faced young man, rugged up for the cold with a hard hat hanging from his utility belt. It was now mid-morning and the concourse was fairly empty; only a few commuters were crossing in and out.
Erika introduced herself. ‘And what the does the redevelopment include?’
‘A new train station, development of the arches underneath, and of course, the Shard,’ said Alan.
They tipped their heads back. Above them towered the huge glass skyscraper, one of its giant wrought-iron legs sitting flat-footed on the edge of the concourse.
‘Ninety-five storeys,’ he shouted above a deep buzz of drilling which had started up. They couldn’t make out where it was coming from; it seemed to originate from both around and underneath them. ‘It’s 309.6 metres, 1,016 feet high,’ he finished.
‘And most of it’s still empty. And will remain so, bought up by foreign investors?’ shouted Moss.
‘Always nice to meet a socialist in the flesh,’ he said.
‘I’m Detective Inspector Kate Moss,’ she said, offering her hand. ‘And yes, my mother really called me that, and no I don’t ever get mistaken for her…’
He grinned. ‘Well, I’m still going to tell my mates I met Kate Moss… Would you ladies like to go up to the top?’
Erika felt he was about to give them a guided tour, so she steered the conversation back to why they were there.
‘Thank you, but we need to see this coffee cart.’
‘Let’s walk and talk,’ he said, leading them across the concourse and around the front of the station into Tooley Street. ‘Most of the businesses have vacated. The major structural work is now mostly being done underground… This is one of Europe’s biggest civil engineering projects.’
They passed under the low railway bridge next to Borough Market and then they had a clear view of Southwark Bridge, the traffic pouring across and around the lights. Southwark Cathedral towered up beside the bridge, seemingly squashed in as an afterthought.
‘We work under very strict conditions,’ he said. ‘When we demolish, clear or excavate, we have to catalogue everything we find, and dispose of it properly. Your coffee cart had been sitting there for the past few months…’
‘Where was it?’ asked Erika as they took a sloped diversion across where the road and pavement had been dug up, exposing a huge hole and an ancient network of rusting pipes.
‘The London Dungeon, the old site. It’s now moved to the South Bank,’ he said.
They continued along Tooley Street, weaving along ramps above the excavated pavement. The empty road was also closed off and filled with earth movers, electrical cables, and builders shouting above the noise. They passed one of the entrances to London Bridge station, and then reached a large boarded-up door, where above two stone columns could faintly still be read the words:
Enter at your peril.
‘This was the main entrance to the dungeon, but the only access is further down,’ shouted Alan.
They carried on walking, past a bar, and a bike shop, both abandoned and boarded up. They reached a junction road emerging from a tunnel, and the works finished. Alan opened the barrier for them, and they stepped onto the pavement.
‘It’s halfway down,’ he said.
They started down the tunnel, which was damp and bare, clad in stained concrete, with a line of swinging lights. Only one person passed them: a man togged in winter gear on a mountain bike.
Alan came to a stop by a rusty fire exit, and took a key from his utility belt. He opened it with a scrape and they went through into the dim gloom. Inside was a bizarre sight: a Victorian cobbled street ran the length of the space, about twelve metres in length, and there was a wrought-iron street lamp against a kerb. The lamp was on, and it cast a weak flickering light over the space. Next to the lamp was parked a coffee bike. A gleaming silver contraption with a wooden box mounted on the back. In front of it, in the centre of the cobbles, was a bundle of what looked like rubbish.
‘Hard hats, please,’ said Alan, handing them each one from a pile in the corner.
A large wooden door to the left was bolted shut. The temperature was freezing. He passed them each a torch too.
‘Jesus Christ!’ said Moss as the light from her torch played over the pile of what they had thought was rubbish.
It was the body of a woman, bundled up in filthy clothes, and her face was still in anguish. Moss instinctively reached for her radio to call for backup, but Erika put a hand on her shoulder, training her own torch onto the woman.
‘Moss. It’s not real. Look. It’s a wax figure.’
They moved closer.
‘She’s so realistic,’ said Moss, peering down at the woman’s anguished face and noting the detail: the stained teeth protruding from her mouth; the hair poking out from under a greying bonnet.
‘This was the Jack the Ripper section of the London Dungeon tour,’ said Alan. ‘An actor dressed as a policeman would usher the tour group inside, tell them all about the Ripper’s first victim. That’s the body of Mary Nichols, found in Buck’s Row, Whitechapel.’
Erika shone her torch onto the wall and they saw a road sign painted in black. Despite knowing this was all an illusion, Erika felt her heart beginning to pound.
‘She’s not real, but she is. She was a real person,’ said Moss. ‘As real as Lacey Greene and Janelle Robertson.’
‘Why is this all still here?’ asked Erika.
‘The site is being redeveloped, so the London Dungeon moved to the South Bank. This interior is due to be ripped out next week.’
Erika was feeling chilled; she forced herself to focus on the bike, leaning on its stand next to the lamp post.
Alan went on: ‘I’m in contact with the British Transport Police every day, because the tube and train stations have to remain open during all of this construction. I heard they were looking for a coffee bike and remembered this.’
Erika and Moss pulled on their latex gloves, and moved to look at the coffee bike. Alan trained his torch onto it. The wooden box at the back was padlocked.
‘Have you got a bolt cutter?’ asked Erika.
Alan went to the corner and found a pair. Erika took them and clipped open the padlock. Moss unhooked it, and they carefully opened the wooden box at the back. The top of the box tipped back onto the bike seat, and th
e two sides came apart in flaps and hung down over the back wheel. Printed on the inside was the price list. Inside the box was a small shelf with a metal coffee machine, a tiny fridge, paper cups, condiments and a small cash box.
‘Jeez,’ said Moss, opening the fridge and quickly closing it. ‘That milk has been in there a long time.’
The nasty smell of sour milk wafted over, and Erika felt her stomach lurch. She gulped and ran her hands along the sides of the coffee machine, and came into contact with something. She gently teased out an iPhone.
‘Janelle’s?’ said Moss, her eyes lighting up.
There was a compartment under the coffee machine where clothes were neatly stashed. A pair of jeans, some tops, bras and pants. There was also a small washbag.
‘Can we see a key for this cash box?’ asked Moss, lifting it up. ‘Jeez, this has to be Janelle’s.’
Alan watched from his spot by the fire exit.
‘And who has access here?’ asked Erika.
‘There’s a security team who patrol every twenty-four hours, but this is a very strange site. There’s all sorts of props still left over from when it was a working attraction. They just assumed that the bike was part of the tour, along with the body and the cobbled street.’
‘They thought that during Jack the Ripper’s era you could get a takeaway macchiato?’ asked Moss.
Alan nodded wearily. ‘We have a lot of foreign workers.’
‘Can you find out when the bike appeared here?’ asked Erika.
‘I don’t know. The staff turnover is huge; we use multiple agencies. I’ll try.’
‘Thank you.’
Erika looked around at the gloomy space and back to the wax body of Mary Nichols lying at the base of the stairs.
‘Let’s get this closed off. I want the whole area printed, and the bike going over with a fine-tooth comb.’
Chapter Thirty-One
Erika was back at West End Central, and had gone to see Melanie in her office. It was now dark outside.
‘The coffee bike belongs to Janelle Robinson,’ said Erika. ‘It’s been positively ID’d by a friend who worked at the Barbican YMCA where Janelle was living. We also found Janelle’s mobile phone with the bike, and her clothes and toiletries.’
Melanie sat back in her chair. She looked tired.
‘Hang on, hang on,’ she said, putting up a hand. ‘Why was she hocking her clothes and toiletries in a coffee bike?’
‘Well, according to the friend…’
‘Whose name is?’
‘Sada Pence; she tells us Janelle had a real thing about not leaving her belongings anywhere. It started when she was in the children’s home.’
‘Okay. Have you managed to get anything off Janelle’s phone?’
‘It’s being rushed through with the technical team… I’ve also just had word that we’ve found Lacey Greene’s mobile phone.’
‘Where?’
‘On a piece of scrubland five hundred yards down from the Blue Boar pub. Looks like it was thrown there. It was switched off. We’re running it for prints.’
‘You still think these cases are linked?’ asked Melanie.
‘Of course,’ said Erika. She was exhausted, both from the past few days and from Melanie’s belief that they still had to prove a link.
‘Do you have anything to back this theory up?’
‘We’re now working on the theory that Janelle was abducted near the Tooley Street tunnel,’ explained Erika.
‘But you have nothing concrete to suggest this? No CCTV images, no eye witnesses?’
‘Not yet.’
‘This coffee bike could have been stolen; she could have left it in the tunnel.’
‘It was her main source of income.’
‘Yes, but unless we have concrete evidence that she was abducted…’
‘She was abducted, Melanie. Janelle and Lacey died in exactly the same way. Their wounds indicate they were tortured for several days. They’d lost weight, and they both died from catastrophic blood loss from severing of the femoral artery… I need more officers on this. If I’d had more uniformed officers, Lacey Greene’s phone might have been found days ago. The only reason it was found was because uniform arrested a couple of kids this afternoon doing drugs on that piece of wasteland. I’ve had to sweet talk two other boroughs to do door-to-doors in Croydon and Southgate.’
‘Erika, you have six officers and four support staff working directly for you…’
‘It’s not enough.’
‘Do you have any idea what this job is like?’ said Melanie, unable to hide her anger. ‘There are finite resources. You think I’m against you, I’m not. I fought for you to keep John McGorry.’
‘John, why? What happened?’
‘I had a call from Superintendent Yale, wanting him back. It’s okay, he’s not going anywhere, but you will have to work with what you’ve got.’
‘What if this person abducts another young woman?’
‘If he does, then of course, Erika, I will throw every resource your way,’ she said, then went back to work at her computer. ‘We’re done here.’
Erika started to leave, then came back to the desk.
‘Melanie, I’ve worked on so many cases like this. I’m not saying we have a serial killer, but there is a pattern. Two murders, just over five months apart. Now there may be others we don’t know about…’
‘And we both know how these cases work. He might vanish; he might not kill again for a year… Yes, perhaps he does it again, but I can’t plan my budgets for might do and perhaps.’
‘That’s ridiculous. The whole counterterrorism unit works on that principle!’
‘Well, Erika, we can’t.’
Erika paced up and down in front of the window.
‘I’d like approval to do a media appeal.’
‘We’ve got the e-fit up on news outlets and Twitter.’
‘Who goes on bloody Twitter to help the police solve crimes!?’ shouted Erika.
‘Remember who you’re talking to. I’m your senior officer. I may be Acting Superintendent—’
‘Sorry, can you please consider that we do a full media appeal.’
‘For who?’ asked Melanie.
‘Janelle and Lacey. I’m not talking about a Crimewatch reconstruction, but a press conference. National news. If we haven’t got the resources, let’s get the public working for us. Put their disappearances in their minds, have them on the lookout.’
‘Which means we open ourselves up to having another serial killer for the media to pounce on.’
‘I don’t want to mention serial killer, and I think there’s enough other crap happening in the media right now. People are more concerned with who is President of the USA. Will another bogeyman faze them?’ Melanie sat forward in her chair and laughed. Erika went on: ‘I know you’re taking a lot of shit from all quarters, but remember that part of being a police officer is preventing crime. Help me prevent this bastard from doing it again.’
‘Okay, okay, I’ll see what I can do.’
‘Thank you.’
‘By the way, Erika. Sparks’s funeral is next Thursday at 2 p.m. Thought you might like to know. St Michael’s Church in Greenwich.’
‘He was religious? I take it it’s a burial?’
Melanie nodded. ‘Yeah, he was Catholic. It’s looking to be well attended; lots of people seem to be asking for time off. You going?’
‘I’ll think about it,’ said Erika, averting her eyes from the patch of carpet in front of the desk. ‘One more thing. You haven’t heard from Commander Marsh?’
‘No. I’ve been briefing Acting Commander Mason; he’s been put in place for now.’
‘What do you mean “put in place”?’
‘Since Marsh has been suspended… You didn’t know?’
‘No. I’ve been trying to call him. Why has he been suspended?’
Melanie’s phone rang. ‘Sorry, I don’t know. I have to take this. Can you close the door on your way out
?’
Erika came back out into the office, where, despite the late hour, it was still busy. So Marsh had been suspended; why hadn’t he told her? She pulled out her phone and tried him again, but the call went to voicemail.
Chapter Thirty-Two
It was Saturday night. Things had accelerated with Ella Wilkinson after Darryl spoke to her on the phone. Ella had believed she was talking to Harry Gordon, and had said she would loved for them to meet. He knew that her enthusiasm might be short-lived, and when she was enthusiastic, she would be easier to manipulate. He arranged to meet near where she lived, close to Angel in North London. It was a good location, packed with edgy bars and restaurants near a sprawl of residential houses. There were huge risks involved with being so central, but to Darryl it was all about perspective. He had manipulated the situation so that Ella believed she was the one in control; she’d friended him, she’d suggested they speak on the phone, and then she’d suggested that they meet… and meeting on her turf would make her even more relaxed.
At 7.40 p.m., Darryl turned into Weston Street, relieved to see it wasn’t busy. It was a quiet road, a few streets back from Angel tube station, and there was a cool indie bar at the end – just the kind of cool place someone sexy like Harry Gordon would take a first date. The snow was just starting to melt and he could hear the sound of the slush under the wheels of the car. He’d checked online where the major CCTV cameras were placed, and he had managed to avoid most of them. He hadn’t been able to avoid the Congestion Charge Zone cameras coming into London, but that only mattered if they were looking for him. Where he was due to meet Ella was clear of CCTV cameras for a few streets, and providing no one saw him grab her, he was home free.
He drove past the bar, which was on the corner of a main road and a quiet street of houses. Quite a few houses had their lights on, but this was a cold night, a cold Saturday night, and they had better things to do than peer out of their windows. He slowed when a taxi appeared in his rear-view mirror, and he pulled over to let it pass. The road was deserted again. He gripped the steering wheel with his leather-gloved hands, and took deep breaths.
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