My Little Eye

by Stephanie Marland

  Jackson’s assistant leaps into action, hurrying along the rows as fast as her five-inch heels allow, giving each person a copy of the handout.

  Dom waits for her to finish. Calling the two sheets of A4 a briefing pack is a bit crap, really, but that’s what Jackson likes to call the press notes. It’s all part of the spin, the partnership.

  ‘So, we’d appreciate your support in getting this crime, and our appeal for witnesses, into the public eye. The incident room number and the anonymous Crimestoppers number are printed in your pack.’

  Beside him, Jackson’s nodding. Dom forces a smile. ‘Thank you all for coming. We’ve time for a couple of questions if you’ve …’

  Several hands go up. Dom nods to the bearded guy in the back row.

  ‘You said early signs indicate this murder and the Crouch End and Camden murders are linked. When will you be able to give us confirmation?’

  ‘We’re waiting on forensics to confirm. As soon as we have it, we’ll make sure you’re updated through the usual channels.’

  The bearded guy puts his hand up again. ‘So if you don’t have forensics yet, why do you think it’s the same killer?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m not able to give you that information at this time.’

  The bearded guy shakes his head and scribbles something on his pad.

  Another journo with a pudding-basin cut asks, ‘Is it because of the rose petals?’

  Dom frowns. He recognises the bloke as a freelancer who covered the previous Lover murders, but the media shouldn’t know there were rose petals at the Kate Adams crime scene. ‘No comment.’

  The journo continues. ‘Or because there were two glasses of red wine found at the scene?’

  What the actual fuck? How has the media got the information about the red wine? Is there a leak in his team? ‘Like I said before, no comment.’

  His heart’s banging, but he tries to stay professional. He moves his gaze to a skinny chap with a receding hairline with his hand up. ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘Is this the work of a serial killer?’

  Given the note he’d read that morning, Dom’s gut response is yes. Instead he answers, ‘It’s too early to say.’

  Sandwiched in between a big bloke from one of the locals and the old boy from The Times is a woman. She’s scribbling in a notebook, head down, blonde hair falling across her face. Dom stares at her. From this angle she looks the spitting image of Therese. He bites his lip. Remembers how they’d laughed about the thing between them being their secret. How she’d tease him by sitting at the back whenever he gave the Operation Atlantis briefings. How she’d give him that look, all playful and enticing. How he couldn’t wait for them to get away from their colleagues and be alone.

  The blonde glances up and smiles. She doesn’t look a bit like Therese.

  Dom looks down at his notes. Tries to push away the pain, the regret, of how things ended. He should have played it cool; not told Therese he loved her. Not put pressure on her when she’d smiled and said, ‘Don’t spoil things, we’re having fun, aren’t we?’

  Casual is better than nothing. He knows that now.

  ‘Detective Inspector?’ A man’s voice cuts into his thoughts.

  Dom jerks his head up. Shit. Did the man ask something and Dom didn’t hear? The questioner is the journo with the pudding-basin haircut again. He’s staring at him expectantly; eyebrows raised, smug grin wide as a Cheshire fucking cat.

  Dom glances at Jackson. The DCI nods, like he’s giving Dom permission to speak, which is no help because he hasn’t got a fucking clue what the question was.

  The silence is getting more uncomfortable by the second. The blonde in the front row catches his eye then glances away like she’s embarrassed for him. He clenches his fists. He doesn’t want her pity.

  Speak. Say something.

  Dom looks at the guy. With his narrow tie and slim-cut suit he looks like he really fancies himself. In Dom’s experience, all that type want to do is to catch you out and make themselves look clever. He decides to gamble that that’s what’s going on now. ‘What’s your theory?’

  Jackson gives him a worried glance, but Dom ignores it, keeping his eyes on the freelancer. The bloke looks pretty chuffed.

  Twat.

  ‘Well, I think the killer is a local. The fella’s picked three local girls, and got into their homes without a fight. You’d need prior knowledge for that.’

  Dom tries to keep his expression neutral and act as though they’re talking professional to professional, like Jackson’s always reminding him to with the press. It’s hard, though. The bloke’s looking more punch-worthy by the second. ‘It’s possible, and it is a line of enquiry we’re pursuing, but at this stage there’s no evidence to confirm either way.’

  The freelancer cocks his head to one side. ‘Stands to reason, though, doesn’t it? It’s been a month since the first one. Long time for a tourist or whatever to stick around – means they’re more likely local than not.’

  Great. Everyone’s a sodding detective now.

  ‘No.’ Dom’s deliberately curt.

  Jackson inhales sharply.

  Dom gets the hint and gives a tight smile. Tries harder to play nice. ‘It could be they’re a regular visitor to this part of the city, or here on an extended stay, or any number of other scenarios but, as I said, there’s no conclusive evidence either way.’

  The guy glances at his iPad, frowns, then opens his mouth like he’s about to ask another question.

  Jackson shifts in his seat and opens his hands out wide, like he’s the Prime Minister giving some national address. ‘Well, I’m afraid that’s all the questions we have time for this evening. Thank you all for attending and for helping keep our partnership strong in the fight against crime.’

  Most of the journos start to file out through the door. The blonde in the front row is having her ear bent by the old boy from The Times. She’s nodding as he speaks, but her gaze is on Dom. She takes a business card from her bag and puts it onto the seat she’s just vacated, then glances back at Dom and smiles. The old boy beside her is still wittering on. As they pass Dom, she mouths the words, ‘Call me.’

  Dom knows that he won’t.

  His mobile buzzes in his pocket. The mouthy journo starts heading his way. Ignoring him and the business card left by the blonde, he hurries towards the door. Pulling the phone from his pocket, he checks the screen, expecting it to be one of the team. It isn’t. He halts, staring at the caller ID. Lindsay, it reads. DI Simon Lindsay. A good mate, or at least he used to be.

  ‘Bell?’

  Jackson is weaving through the crowd, coming his way. The journo is a few steps behind, closing fast. Shit. Dom declines the call and heads for the door.

  The DCI catches him, leans in close. ‘A word, Bell, now.’

  Jackson’s expression tells Dom there’s no point trying to bullshit his way out of this. The journo’s halted a few feet away, watching. Rock and hard place springs to mind, so Dom shoves his mobile in his pocket and follows Jackson back to his office.

  As they walk, Dom knows he should be preparing his story, but he isn’t. All he can think about is Simon Lindsay, and why he’d be calling now.

  The DCI’s office is a depressing place at the best of times. Its colour palette, inspired by twelve shades of shit, does nothing to liven up the laminate desk and metal filing cabinets.

  Jackson drops his briefing file onto the desk and glowers at Dom. ‘Shut the door and sit.’

  ‘I’d rather stand, thanks.’ Dom halts behind one of the visitor chairs, resting his hands on the faux-leather upholstery. An old newspaper, one of the tabloids, is lying in the in-tray. Met on the take? screams the headline. His grip on the chair back tightens.

  Deep breath. Play it cool.

  Jackson is sitting ramrod straight in his high-backed chair. It’s the only non-standard item in the room. The official line is it gives the best lumbar support for his sciatica, but Dom has always reckoned the DCI chose it t
o make himself look more imposing, like a modern-day Henry VIII on his throne. Today it’s working.

  Jackson stares at him stony-faced. ‘I said, sit down.’

  Dom decides he’d best do as he’s told. As soon as his arse hits the chair, Jackson lunges across the desk, slamming his fists hard on the laminate. The tumbler of water beside the computer wobbles. ‘What the hell are you playing at?’

  Dom doesn’t show any outward sign of surprise, but he feels his heart rate increase all the same. ‘I—’

  ‘Shut up! I’m the head of this unit, and you’re in the middle of an investigation.’ Jackson’s face is turning beetroot. ‘I need to be kept in the loop on everything going on, not having to chase you down at the sodding press briefing.’

  Dom points to the folder. ‘Paul, you’ve …’

  Jackson grabs the file and tosses it into his in-tray. ‘For God’s sake, man. I’m on your side here, but you’re making it bloody hard work.’

  Dom stays silent. However his boss feels personally about the IPCC stuff, he’s still got a job to do.

  ‘So why didn’t you attend the meeting like we agreed?’

  ‘Something came up with the case.’

  ‘Tell me, or you and I are going to have a problem.’

  Dom nods. He can’t afford to alienate the one member of the brass who’s on his side. If Holsworth lives up to his hatchet-man reputation, things aren’t going to be pretty. Dom’s going to need all the support he can get.

  ‘Holsworth was running late. I had a call from Abbott, the parents of the deceased, Kate Adams, wanted to speak with me personally. It was important so I prioritised the case.’

  Jackson sighs. ‘Look, I’ve done your job, Dom. I’m not some career desk jockey, I know what it’s like out there, working a case. So I get it, really, but Holsworth won’t go away by you shutting your eyes and pretending he’s not there. You’ve got to meet him halfway, answer his questions, let him fill out his forms and write his report. No matter how inconvenient you think it is.’

  Dom thinks about the last night of Operation Atlantis, when everything got fucked up and his job and family life collided in the worst possible way. He knows all about inconvenience, about doubt and guilt, but he can’t tell Jackson his fears; that someone in the team fed inside information to the criminal gang they were targeting, and that the three people he’d trusted most – Therese, Simon Lindsay and Darren Harris – are the most likely suspects. He can’t say that’s why he’s avoiding the interview; that he’s been waiting, hoping, for his memory to return. He needs his memories back to get answers, but it hasn’t happened yet. Now he’s run out of time.

  ‘They’ve rescheduled your meet for one o’clock tomorrow. Be there.’

  Shit.

  The post-mortem is scheduled for the morning. To be at Holsworth’s office for one, he’ll have to leave straight after, no time for following up anything, no time to brief the team. ‘But we’ve got the—’

  Jackson puts his hands up. ‘Don’t start. I don’t want to hear it. Just get to that meeting. Once you’ve played Holsworth’s game, you can put the thing behind you and move on.’

  ‘Paul, I—’

  ‘I mean it.’ Jackson holds his gaze. ‘Whatever comes up, you do that interview. Abbott can hold the fort for an hour or two.’

  Dom nods. He’ll have to make the timings work.

  ‘Good. And once you’ve finished with Holsworth, you find this Lover bastard and get us an arrest.’

  Dom flinches at the mention of the media’s name for the killer. He hates that shit.

  Jackson doesn’t notice. ‘The last quarter stats aren’t doing us any favours with that lot.’ He gestures in the direction of the press room. ‘Or with the big cheeses either.’

  Dom keeps his expression serious. ‘Yes, Paul.’

  Jackson cracks a smile. ‘All right, Dom. That’s enough. Sucking up doesn’t suit you.’

  Dom senses the conversation is over. He’s almost reached the door when he stops and looks back at his boss. Dom remembers what he’d said about not always being a desk jockey. ‘The media shouldn’t have known about the rose petals and red wine.’

  Jackson looks up. ‘Wouldn’t they have just put two and two together from the other crime scenes? You said they could be connected, it’s an easy leap.’

  ‘For the petals, yes. But we’ve never released any intel on the red wine.’

  Dom sees the gleam in his boss’s eye, like an old terrier that’s spotted a rabbit and is recalling the thrill of past chases. ‘You think you’ve got a sieve?’

  ‘I think there’s one somewhere.’

  ‘Any idea who?’

  ‘Not yet, but I’ll bloody find them.’

  Jackson’s expression is serious. ‘Find them, and find them fast. We can’t afford for things to leak. Is there anything else I should know?’

  Dom shakes his head.

  ‘Well, keep on it. And I meant what I said about an arrest. There are a lot of eyes on us right now – inside and outside. Your last job might have been set up by a bit of political posturing, but here we operate under the old rules, measurement by results, and you know how that goes. You’re only as good as the last case you worked.’

  Yeah, Dom thinks as he exits Jackson’s office. I know all about how that works.

  18

  CLEMENTINE

  The hooded figure stumbles into the flat, kicking the door shut behind them.

  From my hiding place behind the half-closed bedroom door, I peer through the gap between the door and frame, watching. My mouth is dry. My pulse pounds at my temples. Adrenaline courses through me, urging me to run. I can’t, though. It’s impossible to get out unseen.

  The lights come on and the man staggers across to the kitchenette. He trips and, swearing, grabs for the worktop to steady himself. His shoulders rise and fall, as if he’s taking deep breaths. Then he turns, yanking his hood down to reveal bloodshot eyes and blotchy skin on an otherwise attractive face. Whoever he is, he’s totally wasted.

  Leaning back against the worktop, he pulls his phone and wallet from his jeans and dumps them onto the granite top. More gently, he feels inside his other pocket and extracts something thin and red. He holds it up close to his face with a shaking hand. Stares at it.

  It looks like a small, narrow paintbrush.

  He keeps staring. There are tears in his eyes.

  I want to know what it is. Where it came from. But I’m too far away and my view through the gap is too limited to get a proper look.

  He keeps staring at it until his phone rings. We both jump.

  He answers. ‘This is Mart.’

  It’s Mart Stax; the victim’s boyfriend. I think about taking his photo, but decide against it. I can’t risk him spotting me.

  I listen to his side of the conversation. His words are slurred. ‘Got it here now … I know.’ He stares at the brush again. ‘I don’t know why I picked it up … may be I’ll call Detective Parekh … tomorrow … I might … don’t know … enough.’

  He flings the phone and the brush back onto the worktop and starts weaving across the room towards me. I freeze. Press myself tighter against the wall.

  Mart stops a few steps into the bedroom. He’s so close, just feet away. I’m terrified he’ll be able to hear me breathing. But he’s not interested in me. He’s staring towards the bed. His eyes look vacant, spaced out, like he’s on something.

  A strangled sob comes from his lips. He staggers to the en-suite and shuts the door.

  This is my chance. I need to run.

  I move out from my hiding place and across the living space. Mart’s words on the phone and the way he looked at the brush mean something, I’m sure of it. I think he found it here before the police came; it could be a clue to the killer.

  I want it.

  The brush is sitting on the worktop. It’s about five centimetres long, with silver letters embossed against the red. I try to read the letters, but they’re too faded. It’s
a brush, a broken brush, split from midway to the end, but not a paintbrush. It’s not soft enough for that. Instead it has five short, rigid bristles.

  Death Stalker’s post this morning said the victim’s appearance was altered, and I know from Ghost Avenger’s mortuary photos that the first two victims had their hair dyed. Chances are the killer made them up differently too. Perhaps this is one of his brushes; maybe it broke while he worked, maybe it got damaged as she struggled.

  A shiver of excitement tingles across my skin. I glance back towards the bedroom. The door to the en-suite is still shut. Quickly, I decant the groceries from one of my carrier bags into the other and scoop the broken brush into the empty bag. Stax didn’t seem convinced he’d take it to the police, but if it’s connected to the Lover it’s evidence; it needs to be analysed. I will make that happen.

  I wrap the plastic tight around the brush and push it deep into my pocket. With my photos from inside the crime scene and this brush, I must have done enough to be validated as a proper member of the team. Imagining the likes and positive comments I’ll get when I post them, I smile.

  The toilet in the en-suite flushes.

  I run.

  I’m halfway down the stairs when she sees me.

  She’s standing in the hallway, looking at the piles of post on a scuffed-looking table. She’s in her late fifties, and carrying a few extra pounds round her middle. She’s also carrying two paper grocery bags. She glances up at me. Frowns. ‘And you are?’

  Remembering my cover story, I try to sound normal even though I feel like I might be sick. ‘A friend of Mart’s,’ I say, holding up my carrier bag. ‘Brought him some things, but I don’t think he’s in.’

  She nods to the paper bag under her left arm. ‘Snap. He needs to keep his strength up. Damn police interviewed the poor love for hours.’