My Little Eye

by Stephanie Marland

  The survey responses were supposed to be anonymous. In truth, they’re simple enough to identify by running a basic algorithm. I make a quick scan of the data, looking for markers to help me identify the people in Case Files: The Lover.

  At first it’s easy. In the end of survey comments box, three of them left their contact details in case I wanted to chat further. This gives me Bob’s email address, and the real name and email of Justice League and Bloodhound.

  I like to see data visually. Getting up, I grab a dry marker and start to write on the whiteboard beside my desk. At the top of the board I write CASE FILES: THE LOVER. Above it, over to the left side, I write ROBERT ‘CHAINSAW’ JAMESON. I list all the details I have on him – mid-sixties, retired, bobjames69@hotmail.com. I write his weaknesses – flattery, ego, need to be right.

  Next up is BLOODHOUND. Real life name: Colin Blunt. A Google search finds nothing about him, but in the comments box of my survey he included his date of birth. I do the maths and make him thirty-one, a few years older than me. CrimeStop gives his location as Shepherd’s Bush. Opening the document where I’ve stored my observation notes on True Crime London, I see at the time of the survey he was a temp on a computer help desk, and that he has a fascination with Sherlock Holmes. From a post he made a couple of months back, it’s likely he’s in financial debt. I note this on the whiteboard.

  Moving on to JUSTICE LEAGUE, I write her real name: Jennifer Lenfield. I like the symmetry of the JL initials. In the survey she listed her occupation as student. In the comments she said she’s an undergrad in criminology at Birkbeck. That makes her harder to age, as that university has mainly part-time students – she could be studying alongside a job or family responsibilities, or she could be a recent school leaver. She left the age question on the survey blank, so I’ve no way to know for sure, but her leaving the question unanswered makes me think she’s more likely to be older.

  Online, she’s given few details about her personal life. Again, this lack of sharing makes me think she’s more mature. She’s located in Hounslow. Her writing style is considered, analytical, and she usually posts during the day, and not often at the weekends, suggesting a busy family life. At a guess I’d say she’s middle-aged and looking for a bit of excitement. I note down my thoughts; that’s the easy bit done.

  Four more remain – Crime Queen, Ghost Avenger, Witness Zero and Death Stalker. I start with Crime Queen, write her name in block capitals to the right of the whiteboard along with her blog that she linked to. Her location is Henley-on-Thames – Buckinghamshire, not London. It’s curious that Death Stalker allows her to be part of the group when his first rule said members must live in London. It makes me wonder about her London connection; does she work here? It makes me wonder about her relationship with Death Stalker, too.

  I scroll through the survey data and find her responses. She’s marked her age in the eighteen to twenty-four range, and states her interest in true crime as professional. That intrigues me. Maybe she’s an undercover police officer spying on True Crime London, hiding behind an online persona like me. It’s possible, but why also blog about crime? Surely the bigger the lie, the harder it is to maintain. I think about what other professions might fit and it strikes me that she could be a journalism student; she’s the right age, assuming her answers are true. Maybe she sees blogging as her way into a career. Or maybe she’s just a fanatic daydreaming about having a prison marriage with a serial killer. Maybe she fantasises about being a killer too.

  Whatever her plan, the answers she’s given aren’t very illuminating. She’s stuck to mid-scale responses, safe and conservative, unlike her often challenging comments on True Crime London. From her online behaviour I’ve seen she’s competitive and attention-seeking – both traits that could cause trouble in the investigation.

  Ghost Avenger is next. I note his location – Ealing. Now I know his job, his survey response is easy to identify. In the comments he’s put he works as a mortuary technician at the Cellular Pathology Service near Euston. What’s interesting is he’s stated his fascination with true crime as personal. He’s added he wants to understand more about those who kill, to make sense of how some people do the things they do that result in a person ending up on a slab in the mortuary. It’s deeper stuff than I’d have credited him for, from his jokey interactions on True Crime London, up until today anyway. There’s more to him than I’d previously thought.

  Witness Zero completed my survey but left all the personal data fields blank aside from first name; Steven. He said he enjoys being part of online groups and debating current affairs, hence his interest in crime. Compared to the others, his motivation seems weak. I refer back to my observations of True Crime London, search the file for his name. In real life he lives in Brent. Online, it seems he’s a transient member of the group, dipping into conversations for a few days then disappearing and resurfacing weeks later. It remains to be seen how much he contributes to our investigation.

  Last is Death Stalker. I write his name in the middle of the whiteboard and stare at the blank space below. I’ve no survey response that’s identified as his, and he’s not enabled the location finder on CrimeStop. I jot down the scant details I have – male, dominant, secretive. Death Stalker has the most knowledge of the case, and the power to let me continue within the group, but there’s something not right about him that I can’t put my finger on. He knows too much, finds out about the Lover kill sites before any of the media. Knows details no one else seems to, but is holding back on them, playing the team off against each other rather than sharing what he knows. How does he know these things? Why doesn’t he share?

  What secrets is he hiding?

  14

  DOM

  Abbott drives. As he eases his Golf out of the parking spot and into the slow-moving traffic, Dom taps the address for NHS 111 into the satnav. It finds the route; eighteen minutes to their destination.

  Dom fiddles with the seat, pulling the backrest more upright. He’s no idea why Abbott’s missus always sets the thing at half-mast, but it’s bloody annoying. Finally it clicks into place.

  Abbott nods, and asks, ‘So why the friend?’

  ‘Stax told Parekh that Kate seemed twitchy after their night out. The next evening she was killed. Girls talk. If Kate was worried about something or had a bit on the side, she’d have told her mate.’

  Abbott keeps driving. The top speed he’s managed so far is barely pushing twenty. ‘You still thinking Stax is suspicious?’

  ‘Maybe. I want a clear run at him next time, with as much info in my pocket as I can.’ Dom glances at his DS. Assumes that beneath his polite exterior he’s thinking the same shit about him as all the rest. ‘You don’t?’

  Abbott takes a left. Accelerates. ‘I didn’t say that, sir.’

  The phone buzzes in Dom’s pocket. He checks it: a text from Jackson.

  Holsworth says you didn’t show. Call me asap.

  Shit. The last thing he needs is another earbashing. The clock’s ticking; he has to have something of substance before the press briefing tonight. Has to. Deleting the text, he shoves his phone back into his pocket.

  Dom glances at Abbott then nods at the road. ‘Hurry it up, yeah.’

  Fifteen minutes later they arrive. At first glance it’s just another soulless call centre; banks of desks crammed in tight, magnolia walls and a few cheesy motivational posters. Only the NHS logo on the far wall, flanked by the call waiting and average call time screens, gives away this is part of a healthcare institution.

  ‘She worked down that end,’ the skinny team leader with the fuzzy curls says, pointing towards the desks at the farthest point of the office. ‘With the Ones.’

  ‘The Ones?’ Abbott asks.

  ‘Non-emergency calls – NHS 111. Our emergency call handlers, the Nines, sit closest to the entrance.’

  Abbott raises an eyebrow. ‘Why’s that?’

  The woman shrugs. ‘It’s a hierarchy thing.’

  Dom stays
silent. All the desks are occupied, people with headsets are talking, typing as they speak. On the big screen, twelve calls are flagged as queuing.

  The team leader continues chattering as she escorts them through the office. ‘… after you called and told us about Kate, well, we were all so shocked. I mean, you read about these things, don’t you, but to think it could happen to someone you know, that you actually work with … it’s horrific. Is there anything you can—’

  ‘How long did you know Kate Adams?’

  The woman looks taken aback by Dom’s interruption, but recovers fast. ‘Well, she’d not been working for us very long, only a month, but she was lovely, you know, really sweet, everybody liked her.’

  Dom nods. ‘Did she do fixed shifts?’

  ‘No, we work on a rota. She was great about that too, didn’t moan if she had to work a late or night shift. Always happy to do overtime.’ The team leader gives a sad smile. ‘That made us like her all the more.’

  ‘And did you notice anything strange about her mood recently? Had she called in sick or arrived late?’

  ‘No, nothing. She seemed the same as always. No sick days, no lateness.’

  ‘OK, thanks.’ Dom glances across the office; the banks of desks and partitioned workspaces make him think of a battery farm for humans. He looks back at the team leader. ‘You said Eva’s working today?’

  ‘Yes, yes. She’s been in since eight o’clock.’ They reach the end of the office and take a right round the last line of desks. The team leader points to the door a few feet ahead. ‘Been waiting in meeting room one since your call.’

  Abbott slows his pace, smiles. ‘Thanks for your help.’

  Letting his DS handle the pleasantries, Dom steps past him and opens the door. The meeting room has more of the same bland decor – pale walls, cream carpet, cheap table and blue chairs. A petite twenty-something woman with brown hair cropped into a pixie cut sits statue-still on the far side of the table.

  ‘Eva Finch?’ Dom says.

  She looks up. There’s a dark shadow of sadness beneath her eyes, and her cheeks are blotchy from tears. ‘Yes.’

  Dom steps towards her. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Bell.’ He gestures to Abbott who’s closing the door. ‘This is DS Abbott.’

  Eva nods. ‘What do you want to know?’

  He’s surprised at her directness, but senses the best approach is to match it. He sits down. ‘Kate Adams’s boyfriend, Mart Stax, told us she seemed upset after your girls’ night out two evenings ago. Can you tell us why?’

  Abbott winces. Dom figures he’d have come to the question more gently.

  Eva doesn’t seem to notice. ‘We had a fun night. She was fine.’

  ‘Are you sure? Her boyfriend said she seemed unusually twitchy.’

  Eva grimaces. ‘I bet he bloody did!’

  Abbott interjects. ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Eva sighs. ‘Look, it was a good night, generally. A few dodgy sorts, but nothing we couldn’t handle.’

  ‘Any problems between Kate and her boyfriend?’

  Eva looks away. ‘They were fine. She was happy.’

  Dom stares at her. She looks nervous, more than upset at the death of her friend. There’s something she’s holding back. ‘You sure?’

  She nods.

  ‘OK, tell me about the dodgy sorts in the bar then.’

  ‘They were nothing, really.’

  Dom waits. He glances at the clock on the wall opposite. It’s gone half past one. He can virtually hear the seconds ticking closer to the press briefing. He’s almost given up hope of getting anything when Eva speaks.

  ‘Mostly they were nothing, but there was this guy, in the pub.’

  Dom leans forward. ‘What did he do?’

  She shrugs. Doesn’t elaborate.

  Inside his pocket, Dom’s mobile starts vibrating. He takes no notice. ‘Where exactly was this?’

  ‘The Wetherspoons on Euston Road. We went there for Blue Lights Night.’

  Abbott glances at Dom.

  ‘Emergency Services night,’ Dom says. ‘Cheap drinks for police, fire and health workers.’

  Abbott shakes his head. Dom supposes that in between feeds and nappies, their new baby doesn’t give Abbott and his wife much time for partying.

  He looks back at Eva. ‘It would really help if you could tell us about the man. For Kate.’

  Fresh tears cascade down Eva’s cheeks. She gives a little sob. ‘There was this guy up on the mezzanine, leaning over the railing. I remember because he was alone, and every time I looked up he was watching us, staring, like a right perv.’

  Abbott pulls out his scratchpad. ‘Can you describe him?’

  ‘Shit, no.’ Eva pulls a face. ‘I’d run out of contacts, and I couldn’t go out wearing these.’ She gestures to her navy-rimmed glasses; the left arm has clear tape holding it together. ‘But without them I can’t see more than a couple of metres ahead. I didn’t get close to the guy. I remember he had dark hair, though, does that help?’

  Dom nods, trying to be encouraging even though the description is hopeless. He’s being too abrupt with Eva and he knows it. She’s just lost her friend. ‘Is there anything else you can tell us about him?’ Dom keeps his tone gentle, trying to soften the words. ‘Without a detailed description …’

  Eva looks gutted. Dom knows the feeling. He glances at the clock; it’s dead on two. There are four hours until the press briefing and he’s got nothing solid. He starts to stand.

  ‘Wait, hold on. When Kate went to the loo she said some guy came on to her really strong.’

  ‘The man you saw on the mezzanine?’ Abbott says.

  ‘I don’t know. But she was totally freaked out. That’s what made us move on to Fusion early.’

  Dom feels his phone going again. Ignoring it, he shifts forward in his chair, keeps his eyes on Eva. ‘The club near Paddington?’

  ‘That’s it.’

  ‘So how long were you at the Wetherspoons?’

  ‘From about eight until nine thirtyish.’

  ‘And Fusion?’

  ‘We got a cab from the bar, and stayed until about two. After the bar we didn’t see him again. There were plenty of guys trying to get close to Kate on the dance floor, but she wouldn’t have it. She was loyal, you know.’ Eva’s voice cracks with emotion. ‘A good person.’

  They’re halfway back to base. Dom stares through the windscreen, watching the rain pelt down. It’s mid-afternoon but seems much later. His headache is back, thumping at his temples in time with the rhythmic squeak of the Golf’s worn-out wiper blades.

  Pulling out his wallet, he pops another couple of codeine tablets. Tries not to fixate on the dull ache leeching across the right side of his skull, and wonders again if the doctors got it wrong in saying it wasn’t a fracture. He looks at Abbott. ‘What did you take from that?’

  ‘Two girls on a night out, a few drinks. A dark-haired guy, who may or may not have been watching them. Another guy, or possibly the same one, who came on to Kate strong enough to make her leave the pub. Maybe two suspects.’

  ‘Or none.’ The killer is well prepared, smart. Being so obvious as propositioning Kate in a public place with witnesses and cameras isn’t a mistake Dom would expect him to make.

  Abbott taps on the steering wheel. ‘Don’t you—’

  ‘I’m not convinced, but we need to follow up both. Can you talk to the bar, get any CCTV they’ve got for when Kate was there, and the club too. Cross-reference them, see if we’ve got men appearing in both places.’

  ‘Will do.’ The brakes lights flare on the car in front, Abbott slows in tandem. ‘So what’s your theory?’

  ‘Nothing much yet, but we didn’t have any reports of the first two victims – Malik and Bretton – getting hassled by a dark-haired bloke, did we?’

  ‘There was no mention of it in the interviews.’

  ‘Yeah. So I’m not seeing a pattern there.’

  Abbott inches the Golf forward in the t
raffic. ‘The friend said the victim was happy, that there were no problems between her and Stax. Are you buying that?’

  Dom’s quiet for a moment. ‘Eva Finch said that, but I’m not sure she believed it. Something’s not right there. We need to find out. Find someone who doesn’t just tell us how fucking happy she was.’

  I don’t think anyone’s ever that happy, Dom thinks. His phone vibrates again; the continuous rhythm of a call. As he pulls it from his pocket it stops. On the screen it says five missed calls. Two voicemails. One text.

  ‘Problem?’ Abbott asks.

  ‘Nothing to do with the case.’

  Abbott doesn’t pry. Dom likes that; he’s not a nosy bastard. He’s not freezing him out like the others, either; hasn’t branded him a rat just because Professional Standards, and now the IPCC, keep calling him in.

  He checks the text first. It’s from Chrissie, his sister, reminding him he’s due at hers for dinner at eight, and telling him to bring wine. Next he dials the voicemail service.

  The first message is from Holsworth’s assistant. She tells him they urgently need to reschedule the appointment he missed that morning. The second voicemail is from Jackson. His tone is pissed off, and his orders more direct. He makes it clear that if Dom isn’t in his office within the hour there’s going to be a massive shitstorm heading his way.

  Dom deletes the messages.

  Abbott’s fidgeting in his seat; trying to look like he’s not overheard the voicemails and making a poor job of it. Dom wonders if he should be worried, but decides no. His DS is a straight arrow. He won’t talk out of turn.

  He looks at Abbott. ‘Be a mate and drop me round the back.’

  Abbott nods.

  Dom doubts that containing the shitstorm will be as easy.