by Andy Maslen
What are you trying to tell me, Lucifer? You’re going to reveal yourself soon, I know it. And when you do, I’ll be there waiting for you. You hate them. But they’re just stand-ins, aren’t they? Is it your mother? Is she the one you’re killing? Or did you already do her?
Garry returned a few minutes later, shaking his head.
‘What is it?’ Stella asked.
‘I really hope we catch him before he does another one, boss.’
‘Chapter five?’
He nodded.
‘Saint Lawrence. Roasted alive over an open fire.’
‘Shit!’
‘Indeed.’
Once they’d finished at the crime scene, they drove into the centre of Shaftesbury to find a pub. Over pints and sandwiches – no lingering nausea for this pair of experienced murder detectives – Stella and Garry hashed out a series of actions.
POLSA: look for bell rope.
FORENSICS: blood/skin/hair/other phys. ev. NOT from Amy Burnside? Get phone unlocked ASAP.
WITNESSES: bloodied man leaving cottage?
FLO: check re relatives/friends. Did Amy have appt. with MJ Fox?
CCTV/ANPR: Look for dark-blue Ford Focus, registration AG24 LKF.
Stella called the school and left a message on the answering machine informing the listener that she wanted to interview the head. Next she called Callie.
‘Hi, Stella, what can you tell me?’
‘It’s definitely him, boss. Amy Burnside was Head of RE at a local C of E boarding school. Now she’s dead, with her own skin draped over her arm like a cape. Karlsson was right on the money. He predicted it. Just like Saint Bartholomew in his book. The only good news is Lucifer’s getting careless, or cocky. He didn’t bother taking the rope with him this time. I spoke to one of the CSIs. He reckons there’s a good chance there’ll be blood traces from Lucifer as well as Amy. You know, with all the cutting he did. We’ll know for sure once we get Lucian’s lab report.’
‘Oh, that poor wee girl,’ Callie said. ‘OK, well, I’ll do my duties at a press conference this evening. Anything you need?’
‘Not at this point. The thing that’s bugging me is: why her? I checked against Cam’s list and she wasn’t on it. I was sure that was how Lucifer was choosing his victims.’
‘No possibility it’s a copycat?’
‘No. Even despite our Dear Deputy Leader’s best efforts to leak every last detail of the case, we’ve managed to keep enough back that only Lucifer would be able to follow the pattern.’
‘Then I’ll have to leave it to you, Stel. Now, this will sound cold, but I have a meeting to go to. You coming back today, eh?’
‘Yes, as soon as Garry and I have checked in with the locals.’
‘Good. Take tomorrow off, d’ye hear? That’s an order.’
Stella smiled.
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘You cheeky mare! Away with you!’
79
SATURDAY 8TH SEPTEMBER 5.10 P.M.
SCOTLAND YARD
Callie made her way to Scotland Yard, arriving at 5.10 p.m.
Knowing she had to announce that yet another woman had been murdered, in all probability by Lucifer, was playing havoc with her insides. She had twenty minutes spare and headed for the Ladies along the corridor from the media centre.
She emerged from the cubicle and stood in front of the mirror. Washing her hands, she glared at her reflection.
‘Calpurnia Leonora McDonald, you need to get a grip, my girl. Now, get your face straight then go in there and do your job.’ She smiled at herself. ‘At least you’ll be able to have some fun before it kicks off.’
She strode into the media centre with her spine straight and her shoulders back, looking first at the journalists slowly filling the seats, and then across at the podium and its sole occupant.
Yes, there you are, my slimy little friend. All ready for the ladies and gentlemen of the press to listen to your inane outpourings about how much you support the police. Well, my laddie, wouldn’t they just love to hear what I found out about you, eh?
Morgan stood to greet her as she took her seat. He held out his hand.
‘Callie. How goes the investigation?’
She gripped his hand and leaned towards him.
‘Apart from the fact that some ambitious little shit’s been leaking details to the press, you mean?’ she said, masking her lips with a loose left fist as she’d grown used to seeing doubles tennis players do on court.
‘What?’ he hissed, though he was a practised enough operator to keep his PR smile glued to his face.
‘You heard me. And that same ambitious little shit has been interfering with my officers and their murder investigation to further his political ambitions.’
‘I don’t know anything about a leak. But I’ll have your badge for this, McDonald,’ he murmured, still smiling.
‘I rather think not,’ she said. ‘In fact, here’s what I think. I think you’re going to announce that you have total confidence in the police and their ability to close this case, and then you’re going to plead Assembly business and leave. And not come back.’
‘Oh, really? And what if I decide not to?’
Callie smiled sweetly, letting go of his hand and picking an imaginary speck of dust off his right shoulder. She dropped her voice still further.
‘Then I will leak the fact that you, Mister Morgan, have been paying a seventeen-year-old prostitute in Stoke Newington named Arianna to bugger you with an oversized strap-on. After which I will send a team of officers to arrest you at City Hall in connection with a clean-up campaign in the area. I can’t promise you there won’t be a swarm of media people there to record the whole thing. After all, you know how leaky the Met is.’
Morgan’s eyes bulged out of his head. He looked as if he were about to be sick. Callie moved back a few inches.
‘She told me she was twenty,’ he hissed.
‘I don’t care if she told you she was ninety,’ she whispered back. ‘You have your lines, now bloody deliver them.’
Then she sat down, looking out at the roomful of journalists, and nodded grimly. Show time.
After Tim Llewelyn had performed his customary emcee duties, Morgan, looking paler than usual, pulled his table mic a little closer.
‘Ladies and gentlemen. Assembly business means I will have to leave before the briefing begins, but I want to reinforce my earlier comments that I have complete confidence in Detective Chief Superintendent McDonald and her team’s ability to investigate this case and bring it to a successful conclusion.’
Then he simply stood, picked up his briefcase and left the stage, favouring Callie with a final, tight-lipped smile.
After reading out the agreed statement, outlining the depressing news of yet another woman’s sadistic murder, Callie added a few extra words.
‘We are working on the theory that the killer may have a female accomplice and that it is she who is arranging the meetings with his victims. We strongly advise women with well-known religious views not to agree to meet anybody they do not already know, especially if that stranger is a woman. Instead, they should call the police or the Crimestoppers number.’
From his home office later that evening, Morgan called the editor of the Evening Standard, proposing an exclusive: an interview on the Lucifer case.
Despite their coming from polar opposites on the political spectrum, the former cabinet minister agreed at once and, over dinner, Morgan outlined the story he hoped would put Remi Fewings on the back foot again. The editor said he would run the story on Monday across all editions.
80
SATURDAY 8TH SEPTEMBER 9.10 P.M.
LISSON GROVE
Stella opened the door to her flat and there stood her best friend, Vicky Riley, a wrapped bottle in her right hand.
‘Hi!’ Stella said, stepping forward to hug Vicky. ‘Come in. I’ve got some prosecco in an ice bucket on the balcony.’
They stopped in the kitchen, so Stella co
uld take Vicky’s bottle of Alvariñho, the spicy, fruity white they’d discovered on a holiday to Portugal together, and put it in the fridge.
Stella sized up her friend.
‘Looking good,’ she said.
Vicky was wearing a loose midnight-blue silk shirt, tight white jeans that showed off her bottom, a source of envy to Stella, and navy suede high heels. Her blonde hair was caught back in a clasp that revealed a long, elegant neck.
There had been a time when Stella had been mildly jealous of Vicky, and all the time Richard spent with her. She’d wondered whether Richard had had the hots for her, but it had all been their project, long-discarded, to investigate Pro Patria Mori.
‘Thank you. So are you. Although,’ she stretched out her hands and ran her thumbs under Stella’s blue-green eyes, ‘if these get any bigger you’ll be able to carry your stuff in them!’
‘Thanks, bestie! That makes me feel so much better.’
‘Oh, you can take it. But seriously, Stella, you look like a week under the covers wouldn’t be enough. With or without a man.’
Stella couldn’t help the smile that stole across her face.
‘Come on, let’s go and get a drink.’
Vicky followed Stella through the flat and out onto the balcony.
‘Sorry, did I just see you smirk back there?’ Her hand went to her mouth and she widened her eyes theatrically. ‘Ohhh. You’ve got a boyfriend, haven’t you? I can see it in your eyes.’
Pouring the sparkling wine into tall glasses, Stella answered.
‘What, despite the suitcases you mean?’
‘Don’t try to distract me. Cheers!’ she said, clinking glasses with Stella then selecting an olive from a bowl on the glass-topped table between them. ‘Tell me everything.’
Stella took a sip of her own wine and popped an olive into her mouth.
‘His name is Jamie Hooke. With an “e”.’
‘Nice. Hooke. Stella Hooke. Mrs Stella Hooke. I like it.’
Stella grinned. One of the many things she liked about Vicky was her point-blank refusal either to ignore Richard’s memory or to let it get in the way of the possibility that Stella still had a life worth living.
‘Well, good. You can be my chief bridesmaid.’
She saw a flicker of a different sort of expression cross Vicky’s face. Not the lightly mocking grin of a moment ago. Something different.
‘So, what’s he like?’ Vicky asked. ‘Obviously intelligent or you wouldn’t be seeing him. Is he tall? Short? Divorced? What?’
‘He’s tall. He’s got a nice bum. Not as nice as yours.’
‘Obvs.’
‘Obvs. And a good body.’
‘Age?’
‘He’s forty. Divorced. Amicably. He has lots of curly brown hair.’
‘That’s a plus. Most blokes I know over thirty-five are either losing theirs or shave it all off to disguise the fact.’
‘And he’s really, really fun to be with. Great sense of humour and, yes, he is bright, but he’s modest, too, you know? Doesn’t ever assume I won’t know what he’s talking about, even when we’re discussing his work.’
‘Oh yes! And what line of work is the future Mr Stella Cole in? No. Let me guess.’ Vicky put a finger to her chin and frowned. ‘Hmm. Not a copper, I’d bet my house on that.’ Stella shook her head. She snapped her fingers. ‘No! I’ve got it!’
‘What?’ Stella said, enjoying having facts about Jamie winkled out of her.
‘He’s a medic. Everyone says cops and doctors go together. Irregular hours, though I can’t see why that would work. I mean, you’d never see each other.’
‘You’re half-right,’ Stella said, refilling their flutes. ‘He’s a psychiatrist. A forensic psychiatrist, as a matter of fact.’
‘Wow! OK. So did you meet him on the Lucifer case?’
Stella shook her head.
‘He’s helped me out on a couple of cases but, this time, I don’t know, something just clicked. We had a pub lunch, then I invited him out for a Chinese meal with Lucian and Gareth, then, one thing led to another and…’
Vicky placed her glass down on the table with a clink.
‘Sooo?’ she said, drawing out the single syllable.
Stella grinned.
‘So, what?’
‘What’s he like?’
‘I just told you!’
‘In bed, minx. What’s he like?’
Stella grinned.
‘To be honest, we were both a bit pissed. The first time.’
‘Oh, so he stayed the night! And in the morning?’
‘It was very nice, actually. Yes. Very nice indeed.’
‘And did you?’
‘I did!’ A beat. ‘Twice.’
Vicky laughed.
‘Oh, well, in that case you definitely have to keep him.’
Stella took a sip of her prosecco. Life, for the first time in a long while, felt as though someone, somewhere, had tilted the odds in her favour. A breeze had sprung up, rustling the leaves of the London planes in the street below, and dispelling some of the ferocious heat that had plagued the country for what felt like months.
She looked back at Vicky.
‘You’ve got news, haven’t you?’
Vicky’s face split into a huge grin.
‘Yes, I have.’
‘I knew it! You smirked when I said you could be my chief bridesmaid. Oh my God! You’re not?’
‘I am! Damian asked me to marry him!’
Stella jumped to her feet, clonking her knee against the table and making the glasses wobble. She came round and embraced Vicky, hugging her tightly and kissing her on the cheek, hard.
‘Vicky, that is such good news. Where did he propose?’
‘Oh god, it was so embarrassing. We were at an awards dinner last night. I’d won one of the prizes and they’d roped Damian in to present it. So I went up onto the stage to collect it and he was holding the mic and he literally said, to the whole room, “And the winner of my heart is Vicky Riley. Will you marry me?” Then he went down on one knee and held out the box.’
Stella shook her head. Vicky and Damian Fairbrass had been going out for a few years, but she’d never suspected the Guardian journalist was the romantic kind. You never know, Stel.
‘Where is it, then?’
‘Too small. It’s gone back to the jeweller.’
They carried on talking and drinking prosecco, only stopping at eleven to go out for some chips.
Much later, when they were sprawled on the couch, half-watching a film, Stella turned her head to Vicky.
‘There’s a mole inside the investigation. Some sod’s been leaking details to the press.’
‘Yeah. Some of the stuff the others’ve been reporting, I knew you would never have released it.’
‘Have you heard anything?’
‘Oh, you know that us journalists, no, wait, we journalists, never reveal our sources.’
‘I know that. But, you know, have you heard if it’s true? For sure, I mean?’
Vicky levered herself up on her elbows from her almost supine position and twisted round to look at Stella.
‘Yes. I have. It is.’
‘Good. Is it that twat Craig Morgan?’
‘I just said, we never reveal our sources.’
‘OK then, is it not that twat Craig Morgan?’
Vicky laughed.
‘Nice try. No comment.’
Stella sat up straighter and finished her drink.
‘If I say “It’s Craig Morgan”, and you just look back at the telly, and I take that to mean you’re telling me it isn’t him, you wouldn’t be saying anything, would you?’
Vicky furrowed her brow.
‘No,’ she said, finally.
‘Vicky?’
‘Yes?’
‘It’s Craig Morgan, isn’t it?’
Stella waited.
Vicky turned back to the TV and pointed.
‘George Clooney’s looking old, isn’t he?
’
81
MONDAY 10TH SEPTEMBER 8.15. A.M.
WATERLOO STATION
Lucifer picked up a copy of the Evening Standard on the way out of the station. The morning edition of the paper carried the interview with Morgan on the front and third pages, accompanied by a library shot of Morgan looking every bit the serious mayor-in-waiting.
The thrust of his remarks was that the mayor had presided over a real-terms cut in the budget for the Met, resulting in falling numbers and morale among rank and file cops.
As Deputy Mayor for Policing and Crime, his hands were tied but the paper’s readers should be in no doubt. Come the next mayoral election, should they elect him, he would fully address the Met’s concerns over budgets in a way that would reveal his predecessor’s contempt for the Service.
The quote from Morgan that Lucifer read with growing anger struck deep at the heart of the malevolent emotions that had led to the four murders so far.
‘This sick killer has claimed to be setting the record straight about religion. I can tell him that, as a church-going man myself, I believe God wants me to see him brought to justice. And I will stop at nothing to achieve His wishes. We are working closely with a highly respected psychological profiler – Dr Adrian Trimmets of Westminster University – and I am confident we will bring the man calling himself “Lucifer” to justice.’
Lucifer scowled. And I will stop at nothing to achieve my wishes. So you’re not a woman. Who cares! Maybe it will throw the cops off my scent for a while.
82
MONDAY 10TH SEPTEMBER 11.30 A.M.
SHAFTESBURY
Stella and Garry pulled up in a visitor parking space outside the Elizabethan manor house that now served as the main building for Monksfield School, gravel popping and grinding under the car’s fat tyres.
They emerged from the air-conditioned interior of the BMW into the scorch of yet another blazing day. Both detectives were wearing suits, Garry a navy two-piece, Stella, a steel-grey trouser suit. She rolled her neck and pulled the back of her jacket away from her shoulder blades, where it had stuck. Above them, a cloudless sky stretched away on all sides.