by Ernesto Lee
“Yes, ma’am,” Cheeseman confirms with a nod. “I think it could be the young woman that DI Marchetti was with last night. The dress is certainly the same and our victim is the same height and build.”
“Hair color?” Erin asks.
“She’s a brun— or, well, she was a brunette,” Cheeseman replies. She’s such a mess, though, it was difficult to tell at first.”
Recalling Tony Bolton’s comments to Terri about her links to Shelley Wilton and Johnny Murray, Erin trembles slightly as she dares to think the unthinkable. Holding those thoughts to herself, she asks, “Who else have you discussed this with?”
“Nobody else, boss. I wanted to wait until you got here.”
“Good,” Erin says. “For now, we need to keep it that way. Have we got a name for our victim?”
Nodding, Cheeseman hands over an evidence bag containing the young woman’s driving license. “Heather Jane Baxter. She just turned eighteen a couple of weeks back.”
Erin almost faints at the sight of the face staring back at her.
Her stunned expression is concern enough for Cheeseman to ask if she is okay.
“No, no, I’m not, Frank. Do you remember me asking you last night if you recognized the girl Terri was chatting with? Well, I’ve just remembered where I’ve seen her before.”
Shaking her head in frustration, Erin says, “She was coming out of Derek Bannister’s studio on the day that me and Tony Bolton paid him a visit.”
Furious with herself for not remembering sooner, Erin barks, “Have we brought him in yet? It has to be him.”
“Derek Bannister, ma’am?”
“Yes, Derek Bannister!” Erin barks again. “Didn’t Mike Potter pass you the message? We need to bring him in urgently. He’s killed at least twice and he’s getting more confident. We have to—”
“Ma’am, I don’t think Bannister is our target,” Cheeseman nervously cuts in.
“It has to be him,” Erin insists. “Bannister has a clear link to at least two of our three victims. And if we dig deeper, I’m sure we will also find a link to Wilton.”
Now walking on eggshells, Cheeseman quietly says, “Begging your pardon, ma’am, but Derek Bannister didn’t kill Heather Baxter. We can be quite certain of that.”
“What are you talking about?” Erin asks. “How can we be certain of anything in this fucked-up case?”
Taking a deep breath, Cheeseman confidently says, “Because, ma’am, we have twelve eyewitnesses, and they all describe seeing a tall, long-haired blonde in a dark-grey jogging suit smashing this poor girl’s head to smithereens.”
Perplexed, Erin asks, “It was a woman that did this?”
“Yes, ma’am. Our witnesses were all on the fourth floor, but the street lighting was good enough for them to get a clear enough view. Without exception, they all say it was a woman. Five-ten to five-eleven, long blonde hair, wearing a grey hoodie and jogging bottoms.”
Erin is lost for words, until shaking her head, she forces the fog to clear. “It’s Danica Shevchenko. It has to be. And she must have been the woman with Shreya in The Taverna. Christ all mighty, Frank. We need to bring both of them in now. From this point on, Derek Bannister and Danica Shevchenko are prime suspects one and two. I want priority arrest orders for both of them. Understood?”
“What charge?” Cheeseman asks.
“I don’t particularly give a shit,” Erin grunts. “Make something up if you have to. Just get them both into custody as a priority.”
Noting his continued nervousness, Erin asks, “Is that a problem for you?”
“No, not at all, boss. But you might also want to consider speaking to someone other than just Bannister and Shevchenko.”
Without further explanation, Cheeseman squats to peel back the plastic sheeting further to expose Heather’s body to just below her neck. The bloody daubs across her breasts are fresh and clear.
Already nauseous and suffering from the previous night’s tequila, Erin covers her mouth and nose with her mask before carefully leaning over to read the words for herself: “My Bitch.”
“No,” Erin mutters to herself in disbelief. “She wouldn’t be so stupid as to leave something so obvious. This can’t be—”
She abruptly stops herself from going further, and Cheeseman picks up the conversation. “I don’t know. But we were all pretty wasted last night. And she only lives a ten-minute walk from here. We need to bring her in, if only as a precaution. Ma’am?”
Refusing to believe Terri capable of such horrific violence, but faced with a series of irrefutable links, Erin reluctantly shakes her head. “Okay, but I want you to bring her in personally. Just tell her I need her to wait for me back at the station. No drama, Frank. This is her career and freedom we’re talking about. Understood?”
“Understood.” Cheeseman nods solemnly. “And for what it’s worth, I don’t believe it was her either, boss. It’s better to be safe than sorry, though.”
“Exactly,” Erin says quietly. Then turning towards the entrance to the tent, she shouts, “Potter! Get in here, please.”
With no response or sign of the young officer after thirty seconds, Erin shouts again, then asks Cheeseman to go and find him. The two detectives almost collide in the doorway and an out-of-breath Potter stumbles in. “Um, sorry, ma’am, I didn’t hear you. I was on a call.”
“Any luck getting hold of Bolton, Marchetti or Gladwell?” Erin asks, nodding toward the phone in his hand.
“Sorry, ma’am, nothing from any of them. I’ve left messages for DI Marchetti and DS Bolton, but I think DI Gladwell’s phone might be switched off, or his battery could be dead. I’m not getting any response at all from his phone.”
“Unbelievable,” Erin sighs. Then noting Potter’s dejected expression, she says, “Okay, Mike, good work. Keep at it. And if DI Marchetti calls you, tell her I need her to wait for me back at the station.”
Turning to Cheeseman, she says, “I need you to hold the fort here for a while longer, Frank. I’m sure you are onto it already, but if you’re not, get our new suspect’s description circulated to all agencies. It was three in the morning, but somebody out there must have seen her fleeing the scene. And if the amount of blood is anything to go by, she would have been drenched in the stuff. That’s not something that goes unnoticed.”
Lowering her voice, she adds, “Oh, and take care of those other things we spoke about, please.”
“Yes, of course, ma’am. Do you need a ride somewhere?”
Cheeseman’s question is a discrete way of asking where Erin is going without actually asking where she is going.
Shaking her head reassuringly, she replies, “That’s okay. You’re short-handed enough here as it is. I’m going to find Tony, but I can grab an Uber.” Smirking, she adds, “Asshole or not, I need DS Bolton here with us.”
“I can send one of the DCs to get him?” Cheeseman offers. “No need for you to—”
“No, it’s probably best that I go,” Erin interrupts. “Tony is a grumpy bastard at the best of times. With a thumping head, he would eat a DC alive. I shouldn’t be more than an hour. Call me if there is anything new.”
. . . . . . . .
The cab ride to the apartment building takes no more than a couple of minutes. While the driver waits for her, Erin scans the names on the intercom buttons until she finds the name Marchetti handwritten in Terri’s familiar feminine script.
After Erin impatiently presses the buzzer for a third time, the call is finally answered by a sleepy but unfamiliar female voice.
“Hi, I’m sorry to bother you, but I need to speak to Terri. Would you mind getting her, please, or buzzing me in?”
“Sorry, who is this?” the woman asks.
“Sorry, I should have said. This is Detective Chief Inspector Erin Blake. I’m a colleague of Terri’s. Has she ever mentioned me, and do you mind if I ask who you are, please?”
“I’m her flatmate. And, yeah, she told me about you.”
“
That’s great,” Erin says, masking her impatience. “Could you buzz me in, please?”
“No point. She’s not here. And I don’t think she came home last night.”
“Are you sure?” Erin asks.
“Well, her bed hasn’t been slept in. And unless she’s hiding in her wardrobe, then, yes, I’m sure.”
When Erin doesn’t speak for a few seconds, Terri’s flatmate offers, “Listen, you’re welcome to come up and search the place, but I can assure you she’s not here.”
“That’s okay,” Erin responds. “I’m sorry to have woken you.”
. . . . . . . .
Back in the cab, Erin’s thoughts return to a place she would rather not go to. Thinking the unthinkable again, she quietly mutters, “Where the hell are you, Terri, and what the hell have you done?”
“Sorry, what was that?” the cabbie asks.
“Nothing. Just talking shit to myself,” Erin replies, shaking her head. “I need to go somewhere else now, please. I’ll change the location in the app for you.”
The driver carefully noses the cab back out into the early morning traffic and says something he finds amusing, but Erin is already lost in the confusion of her thoughts.
Quite used to being ignored, the cabbie shrugs and says to himself, “Obviously I’m talking shit as well. Never mind. Only another eight hours until knocking-off time.”
. . . . . . . .
Still groggy, Terri fumbles blindly in the darkened room for her phone. Cursing herself for sleeping in her contact lenses again, she squints and rubs her eyes until the time comes into focus sufficiently well for her to see that it is just after eight-forty-five in the morning. Squinting again, her heart leaps when she registers the flurry of missed calls and messages from Erin, DC Potter and Frank Cheeseman.
Ignoring the messages, she taps on a missed call from Erin. When the call goes unanswered, her next port of call is Cheeseman. “Frank, what’s going on?”
“I’m not completely sure,” Cheeseman replies unconvincingly. “The boss wants you to head into the office to wait for her, though. I can come and get you if you li—”
“Did Erin say what it was about?” Terri asks.
“No, she didn’t. She just said it was important. Tell me where you are, and I’ll pick you up on my way in.”
Terri’s senses alert her that something is not quite right. She declines the offer and says, “I’ll be there in twenty minutes. Where are you now? It sounds like you’re outside somewhere.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m outside having a smoke. Judy hates me smoking inside the house.”
Then after an uncomfortable pause, he says, “So, you’ll be in the office in twenty minutes then?”
“Yeah,” Terri replies. “I’m just going to grab a shower and then I’ll be in. I’ll see you soon, Frank.”
Disturbed by the tone of the call, Terri considers trying Erin again. Instead, she opts to dial DC Potter. His phone is engaged, but the call is returned almost instantly. The young officer’s relief at reaching Terri is clear. “Oh thank God, ma’am. Where have you been? I’ve been trying to call you for over two hours. I even called your home number.”
“Yeah, sorry, Mike. I stayed in a hotel last night. What’s go—”
Momentarily forgetting himself, Potter cheekily interrupts and teases, “Oh yeah? Good night then, was it?”
“It was a good night, as a matter of fact. But I don’t think that’s any of your business. Do you, Detective Constable?”
Without waiting for a response and picturing his embarrassment, Terri asks, “So how about you tell me what the hell is going on?”
“Um, yes, of course, ma’am. There’s been another murder.”
“When?” Terri exclaims.
“Just after three this morning on DeVere Street, right next to The Soho Lounge.”
“What the fuck!” Terri curses. “I’m just around the corner. I’ll be there in ten min—”
“No, ma’am, you’re supposed to wait for DCI Blake in the office.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Terri demands.
Confused himself, Potter nervously responds, “I’m sorry, ma’am. I don’t know why. But the boss told me if I got hold of you, I was to tell you to wait for her at the station.”
“Is she there?” Terri asks.
“At the station?”
“No, is she there with you now, DC Potter? I tried calling her but she isn’t answering.”
Unsure of himself, Potter hesitates, and Terri barks, “Well, is she bloody well there or not? And if she’s not there, do you know where she is?”
Stuttering, Potter replies, “No, ma’am, she’s not here right now. I can ask DS Cheeseman to call you, thoug—”
“I’ll call him myself,” Terri interrupts as calmly as she can. “Just tell me if you know where the boss is, please?”
In an impossible situation, Potter takes a breath and politely says, “Ma’am, I’m sorry. I was just told to tell you to—”
“Do you want me to come down there and ask you in fucking person?” Terri explodes. “Just answer the bloody question, DC Potter. Where is DCI Blake?”
Trembling, the young DC relents and says, “She went to get DS Bolton, ma’am. But you need to go to—”
The call is ended before the young DC can finish what he is saying. He briefly considers reporting the exchange to DS Cheeseman, but at risk of pissing Terri off even more, he decides against it and instead gets back to the task of tracking down DI Gladwell.
. . . . . . . .
While the rest of the squad were knocking back the tequila shots the previous evening, DI Gladwell was hard at work in his home laboratory. Ever the perfectionist and unwilling to admit defeat, he had spent the evening wracking his brains in search of some overlooked clue, or some tweak to his experimental forensic techniques that might yield new or more impressive results.
After finally succumbing to sleep at just after two in the morning, the crows cawing on his windowsill rudely announce the new day. They also spark a lightbulb moment and a rare expletive to spew from the mouth of the eccentric forensic investigator. Leaping from his sofa, Gladwell exclaims, “You absolute fucking arsehole. How could you bloody forget that?”
Reaching for his laptop, he wipes away a smear of last night’s fried-egg sandwich from the corner of the screen. Cursing himself for not paying for a faster internet connection, he finally manages to access the database he is looking for.
He uploads the scan of the partial fingerprint taken from the glove found near the scene of Shreya Singh’s murder and watches with growing impatience as the results are analyzed. “C’mon, c’mon, ya—”
If he is surprised to get a positive hit on the screen, his expression does little to give that fact away.
Mistakes have been made before, and ever meticulous, Gladwell clears the search and uploads a second slightly less clear scan of the print. When the same result appears on the screen, his heart starts to race, but he needs more. “Now, don’t get ahead of yourself, Malcolm. This doesn’t necessarily mean anything.”
Clearing the search field again, he uploads the DNA profile taken from the glove. His disappointment at failing to find a match for the DNA is palpable. “Think, Malcolm, think. What else?”
A brainwave suddenly hits him and he shrieks, “Yes, yes, the cosmetics found on her body.”
Hands shaking in anticipation, Gladwell uploads the DNA profiles extracted from the lipstick and mascara traces recovered from Shreya’s body. Twenty agonizing seconds pass before the screen flashes green to alert him of the positive match.
Far from feeling ecstatic, however, Gladwell is left both confused and terrified in equal measure. “That… that’s not possible.”
But there is no denying the results. The DNA from the make-up and the partial fingerprint have both provided him with the same suspect name. Frantic, he fumbles around for his cell phone before giving up and deciding that he probably left it in his car. It wouldn�
��t be the first time, after all.
Pulling on his shoes and feeling somewhat paranoid, he cautiously peers outside, scouring the street for any sign of life or threat to his own. Satisfied that there is no one waiting in the shadows to bludgeon him to death, Gladwell dashes for his car and locks himself in. He locates his phone on the mat in front of the passenger seat. Hands still shaking and with no real idea what he is going to say, he nervously places a call to Erin.
The call goes unanswered, as it does also on the second and third time he tries her. The obvious next in line is Terri, but his discovery this morning has left Gladwell feeling torn. “What if?” he mumbles. “But on the other hand, she might know where the boss is.”
Convinced it’s the right thing to do, he calls Terri.
“Morning, Malcolm,” Terri chirps, trying to sound normal as the situation will allow.
“Oh, how did you know it was me?” Gladwell asks nervously.
“You’re saved in my address book,” Terri replies before adding sarcastically, “It’s amazing what you can do with phones these days.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” Gladwell blusters. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m trying to track down DCI Blake. She’s not—”
“Aren’t we all?” Terri interrupts. “In fact, I’m on my way to find her now. Apparently, she went to wake Tony Bo—”
Unaware that his phone battery has died, Gladwell frantically asks, “DI Marchetti, are you still there? Terri, are you there? I can’t hear you.”
The blinking battery icon becomes a cruel taunt, and for the second time today, this usually mild-mannered man curses before angrily hurling the phone to the floor. “Goddamn piece of shit!”
Chapter Sixteen
The taxi pulls away, and Erin is pleased to see a light on in the upstairs bedroom. The light is also on in the kitchen, and hopeful that Tony is up and around, she rings the doorbell.
The shouted response unmistakably comes from Tony. It is also remarkably chipper considering how much he drank last night. “I’m in the kitchen. The door’s not locked. Let yourself in.”