Detective Amanda Lacey Box Set

by Linda Coles

  And on the comments went. As more and more friends saw the image, the conversation started to take a turn for the worse as they realised perhaps it wasn’t a fake, that Fiona Gable really was in trouble.

  A bit more than trouble, I’d say from that picture.

  “I bet this goes viral before the day is out. Heck, it could even make the evening news, then we’d both be famous, though they won’t know it’s me,” she said out loud in the car. “Now, do I ditch the phone or keep it? I’d love to see how this pans out but it’s a bit risky.” Deep down she knew the answer.

  “Just to be extra safe...” She went back into settings and disabled ‘find my phone’ then she popped the little tray along the side of the phone and took the SIM card out.

  “That should take care of things, but just to make doubly sure….” Taking the bottom of her shirt, she wiped the device clean of any prints. Double-checking her surroundings that there was no one around, she opened the car door and dropped the phone onto the tarmac—hard. The screen shattered into a crazy paving pattern instantly, with some sharp shards coming loose. She swung her leg out of the car and dug the heel of her right foot into it, making the whole thing split open. Glancing down at her handiwork, she was satisfied that the pieces that were left were damaged beyond recognition or repair. The phone was useless. Job done. Any pinging towers would be close enough to think the photos had been uploaded from Cedar Road, from Fiona's home, as you’d expect.

  Now the whole world would know what might happen when you go big game hunting for sport and a person takes offence—you could end up being someone’s trophy yourself.

  Getting back into the car, she pressed the ignition button and pulled out of the station car park headed south, towards home. About two miles further down the road, she let the SIM card blow away through her open window. The last of the deadly deed was finally done. While she hadn’t spent any time pondering what might happen next, the thought was hovering somewhere in the back of her head. She was almost afraid to go there, to think properly about her future. Had she just ruined it? Perhaps she needed another distraction for the afternoon, or a night out, even, keep her from thinking about it too much, but the overwhelming exhaustion that had started to kick in after the adrenaline rush had subsided was shaking its head no. Breathing deeply as she drove, fighting the tiredness that had suddenly come over her, she headed home to a hot bath and sleep. Perhaps she’d feel better after that.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “So what you doing about it, then? You can’t just leave it.” Jack was talking to Amanda as she drove them both back from interviewing a witness in a hit and run.

  “I don't know. We seem to have reached a bit of a stalemate. I want to get married, and she’s happy as we are, doesn't see the need to change anything.” Jack twiddled the left side of his moustache, something that annoyed the hell out of Amanda, but she also knew it signified he was deep in thought. She'd yet to see him twiddle both sides at once—could he think that deeply? She smiled at the idea of both hands twiddling away thoughtfully in the coarse hair, his lips twitching a little as he did so.

  “What’s so funny? What are you smiling at now?”

  “Oh, I was just thinking about you, actually, you and your little foibles.”

  “Eh? I don’t have any foibles. Do I?”

  Smiling more, Amanda filled him in. “Oh yes, you do. But they could be worse, like picking your nose or something gross.” She flicked her indicator to turn right off Purley Way and into McDonald’s for lunch, laughing lightly at his screwed-up face.

  “So what are they then, these foibles?” He was intrigued.

  “Well, your moustache-twiddling for one, when you're deep in thought, and you speak with your mouth full quite often too.” She pulled into the drive-through lane and placed her order through the open window. Turning to Jack, who was still thinking about what she'd just said, she asked, “What are you ordering, Jack?”

  “Big Mac meal, Diet Coke, please,” he yelled from the passenger seat into the intercom, leaning over Amanda as he did so. “And an apple pie,” he added in afterthought. Amanda pulled forward to the next window and paid, collected their food and pulled into one of the nearby parking spaces to eat. Unwrapping the paper bag, Amanda sniffed in the enticing aroma of hot burgers and chips.

  “Hell, I’m starved.” She took her burger out of its wrapper and sank her teeth into it, melting cheese and half a slice of pickle dropping onto the napkin on her lap. She picked it up and stuffed it into her mouth before the grease soaked through. Jack took the opportunity.

  “Talk about me and my food, can you get any more in while you're at it?”

  Amanda was tempted to smile or say something, but after accusing Jack of talking with his mouth full, she wasn't going to be a hypocrite. And her mouth really was full. She shook her head ‘no' in reply. When she'd finally chewed the first full mouthful and swallowed it down, she said, “I got too hungry.” She grinned. “I'm not usually such a messy eater. Sorry.” She took a smaller bite and chewed it, a bit more ladylike and a little less navvy-like. “Haven't even had a biscuit with my coffee this morning, so I'm running on empty.” She took a fry and concertinaed it into her mouth, followed straight after by another one.

  Jack watched in amazement but didn't say anything further, taking a bite from his own burger and chewing thoughtfully while he watched her. “I reckon time will tell.” He went back to the conversation they’d been having before they had pulled in to order lunch. “You two are strong and steady. You'll not let this bother you. And personally, knowing Ruth as much as I do, and knowing how much she loves you, she'll cave.” Amanda turned to him and stopped mid-chew. He was smiling knowingly at her, his kind eyes sparkling in mischief then serious and wise like her grandfather’s. Their eyes connected and she carried on eating. When her mouth was empty, she said quietly, “You’re a wise owl, aren’t you? And there's another of your foibles: using surnames rather than first names.”

  “I didn’t call her by her surname. I called her Ruth.”

  “You did then, but not at work you don’t.”

  “I only do it at work, to colleagues. I’d never call Ruth ‘McGregor.’ That would be rude. But what’s wrong with using surnames at work?”

  Amanda shook her head in mild exasperation at him. She knew Ruth would probably cave too, hoped in fact, but not because of pressure: because she wanted to, really, really wanted to. Amanda slipped another fry in between her partly opened lips and nibbled it in. The radio crackled with news of an incident nearby, and they both looked at each other.

  “Shit!” Amanda said.

  Jack got on the radio and replied back to the controller that they were both on their way. Amanda thrust her half-eaten lunch onto his lap, started the engine and pulled back out onto Purley Way, heading towards an address on Cedar Road.

  “That doesn’t sound good.”

  “No, it doesn't.”

  Less than ten minutes later they pulled up outside the address, the exact house marked easily by the flashing blue and reds of other squad cars. Crime scene tape was already in place around the front of the property, a uniformed man at the front door. Jack was out of the car and up the short front path first, Amanda on his heels.

  “Straight down the hall and through to the lounge, sir,” said the uniformed officer. Amanda nodded their thanks, and they made their way inside. The house was quite large for a mid-terraced house in this area of London. Houses like this were more commonly known as ‘two up and two down,’ and many had built extensions on the back to make way for a proper kitchen and inside toilet, though there were probably a few left that still had the loo down the bottom of the garden. This one was different, though, one of the bigger ones, and from the furnishings and the deco, it was obvious the owner had a little money. Jack was immediately quiet and deep in thought, taking in his surroundings, sights as well as smells. Lying on the floor was a young woman. Her throat had been slit. Nobody spoke for a couple of minute
s. It was Jack who eventually broke the silence.

  “What you thinking then, Lacey?”

  “Well, it's obvious her throat has been cut, but where's all the blood? Yes, there’s a couple of towels, but they're hardly drenched in it, are they? It doesn't look like she's been moved—no drag marks—and there is blood here, so she was killed here rather than, say, in another room or off the premises. But it's all very tidy too. No sign of a struggle.” She stepped over the woman's body and looked out of the window and on to the road out front. “And no forced entry, so she let the perpetrator in voluntarily. Maybe knew them?”

  Jack turned to another uniformed officer who had stepped into the room. “Who found her, Sergeant?”

  “We got a call from a friend who said she'd seen a picture of her in this state, posted in her social newsfeed. So we came out to check on things, and this is what we found. Reported by Teresa Smith, an old school friend she kept in touch with,” he said, consulting his notepad. “The victim's name is Fiona Gable, thirty years old, works as a bookkeeper at a local hotel. Single, though not long out of a relationship according to Ms. Smith—a Martin York. Seems they split up just a few days ago.”

  Jack took it all in. “Thank you, Sergeant.”

  “It's odd to have posted the picture online, though. A bit risky, I'd have thought,” Amanda said to Jack. “Any sign of her mobile, Sergeant? I would assume it was posted by mobile, but you never know.”

  “No place obvious, no. The scene is just as we found it—nothing touched, and the crime scene techs are on their way, along with Dr. Mitchell.” He was referring to the local pathologist, Faye Mitchell.

  “I guess forensics will know more when they’ve done their thing,” she said, scanning the room again. There were photos in frames of what an onlooker would assume were her family in various poses, a few knick-knacks dotted about, but in general, the room was quite sparse other than a few nice furnishings in neutral colours. While it looked stylish, the room didn't strike Amanda as particularly feminine for a woman living on her own. She wandered off through the rest of the property, looking in at each room as she went. When she got to the bathroom and poked her head around the door, she could tell this was where the victim had liked to spend time. The bathroom was decked out with beautiful and expensive-looking white fixtures and fittings, with an array of luxury lotions and potions on gleaming glass shelving. In the far corner, a pile of large white fluffy towels stood on a small wooden bench surface. As Amanda flicked the light switch on with her latex-covered finger, little relaxing swirls drifted from the light fitting, almost like a disco ball from the 80s but far nicer and more soothing.

  “Wow,” she said to herself as she watched the dots of light float around the wall and ceiling. “Never seen one of those before. How therapeutic.” The whole room shouted luxury, someone’s little paradise, a place they spent time in and spent money on. She switched the light off and headed back to the lounge and Jack. It was when she looked at the body again, laid on the floor, that she realised something.

  “Jack? If someone was coming here to commit murder in such a grisly fashion, why would they a) use a towel to soak up the blood and b) not use one from the bathroom? Surely they wouldn’t bring their own, would they? Too bulky.”

  “How do you know these aren’t from the bathroom, Lacey?”

  “Because that’s one of the nicest bathrooms I’ve ever seen and contains the whitest, fluffiest towels money could buy.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “Well, I see what you mean about not been killed by her throat being slit, Jack. There’s not enough blood on the floor.” Dr. Faye Mitchell bent down closer to look at the body in more detail. “Rigor has set in, so she's been here a while, but I'll know more when I've done her core temperature. It's pretty warm in here anyway, and from my first impressions only, I'd say she died sometime earlier today—though don't quote me on that until I can confirm it. The puzzling thing, though, is the lack of blood. I can only assume she died some other way and her throat was slit after the fact. We'll see later.” Faye stood up to talk to her team and give instructions. The photographer snapped the scene in short, crisp clicks as other technicians milled around observing.

  “Right,” said Jack. “In the meantime, I'll leave you in peace and speak to the woman who called it in. If you find a mobile on her, I'd love to know ASAP because we are assuming the photo was posted from her phone but I've no evidence to that as yet. Just let me know if you find it.”

  “Will do, Jack. I should be here a while, then we’ll get her body moved to the morgue for a more thorough exam. I’ll be able to tell you more about how she died then, I suspect, and the toxicology report may show something.”

  Jack glanced at his wristwatch, an antique from his father or his father before him; he didn't know for sure. “Right, I'll be off then. Speak to you later. I'll be on my mobile.”

  Faye nodded at him without turning away from the body in front of her. She had noticed the smooth edge of the slit, and it puzzled her. Most slit throats were the handiwork of a very sharp domestic knife blade, but this wound was created by something more akin to a hunting knife, something extremely sharp: it was too neat. She called to Jack as he was going through the lounge door. “Jack, I suspect it's not a regular bladed household knife. It’s something far sharper. Let me know if it turns up during your enquiries, would you?”

  “Will do,” he hollered back, and went back outside to Amanda who was talking to someone on her mobile phone further down the path. He waited for her to hang up before he spoke.

  “Where are we up to, Lacey?”

  “Door-to-door has started, and I've requested CCTV footage of this street and the surrounding ones, though by looking at the street lamps, there are only a couple evident—if they're even working.” She pointed to the two that were visible. “I've got teams going through bins looking for a possible murder weapon, and as the rubbish collection isn't due for a couple of days, there's a fair bit to go through, though we might get lucky. What about you?”

  “I’m off to talk to the woman who called after seeing the photo online, then I’ll get the computer forensics team to find out more about where the image was posted from. See if we can tell where it was loaded up exactly. I’m still favouring her phone at this point. Most folks don’t have a passcode so it would have been pretty easy to snap it and load it from here. And we’ll see activity from the cell towers if there was any.”

  “Slitting a throat and posting the picture like that is a very personal thing to do. I’m wondering what the reason is. There has to be a reason. I can’t see this being a home invasion gone wrong. It’s too tidy. There’s something else behind this.”

  Jack mumbled ‘Perhaps’ as he made his way past her and opened his car door to get in. “You’ll get a lift back with uniform?” he enquired.

  “Yes, will do. See you later.” Amanda watched as he fastened his seatbelt over his double-breasted suit jacket, wondering why he didn't take it off. It was a warm, sunny early summer's day, but Jack was a creature of habit. She smiled as she turned to go back inside, an officer lifting the crime scene tape for her to slip under. Back inside, she took another scout around to see if she'd missed anything the first time, maybe something out of place or something the killer may have dropped, even the smallest fragment. But there was nothing of note to her eyes. It seemed like the killer had struck and left, leaving no obvious clues in their wake. Her phone rang.

  “Amanda Lacey here.”

  “Amanda, it’s Sergeant Phillip Reynolds, one of the team checking the nearby rubbish bins.”

  “Yes? Have you found something?”

  “No, not exactly, but we have found something a little out of the usual. A bag of vomit in the bin outside the chippy. Should we leave it or bring it in? Only the reason I ask is that if you were puking in the street, you wouldn't bag it, so it seems a little odd to me.”

  “Yes, I suppose it is, though on the surface I can't see how it might fit
in. Bring it in anyway, and I'll give it to the forensic team to take back with the victim. Though I do know there's no DNA in stomach contents, funnily enough: stomach acid destroys it. Don't ask me how I know.”

  “Eh? Right you are. On my way.”

  Amanda finished the call and slipped her phone back into her trouser pocket, thinking about why someone would put a bag of vomit into a rubbish bin. Nothing sprang to mind.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The hot, steamy bath had felt wonderful, and she felt her shoulders relax as she sat down on the soft sofa in her robe, curling her legs up underneath herself. The clock on the wall in the lounge said she'd been soaking for over an hour. An hour well spent, and it had given her the time to think in peace, something she had initially been afraid of doing. But she felt surprisingly calm, the task complete, and felt no remorse at all. Being on a mission was different than being a stone-cold killer: it was something she must do, not something of choice and certainly not for pleasure like the real psychos in the world, the likes of Fred and Rosemary West or Peter Sutcliffe. In the hours since her first kill, she'd not looked at her own newsfeeds or the television or turned on the radio, choosing to find out what was happening only when she'd fully downloaded her actions of the day to herself, in the sanctuary of her hot bath, the enormity of her downright irregular activities settled.

  She got up to pour herself a third glass of red, grabbed another small packet of her endless supply of cashews from the kitchen cupboard and took them both back into the lounge. She sat up straight on the sofa, pulled her laptop towards her, rested it on her thighs and went straight to her newsfeed. Surely the police would have been notified by now, and techs in white paper suits would be buzzing around the crime scene like bluebottle flies round rotten eggs. The first post she saw of the incident was from a news channel. The headline read, “Death selfie in own newsfeed.” She clicked the link and read the short article, tearing into the individual packet of nuts and popping cashews into her mouth one after the other as she read.