My Little Eye

by Stephanie Marland

  Emily smiles. ‘Excellent memory, Dom. And you’re right, DS Abbott, in that both drugs are anaesthetics, but they are quite different.’

  Dom fixes Emily with his gaze. ‘Different how?’

  ‘As we discussed last time, Levorphanol is an effective anaesthetic, but slow-acting. Alfentanil is different. It causes respiratory depression. The effect is accelerated when taken with alcohol, and in this volume the drug would have stopped the victim’s breathing within minutes.’

  Emily’s still talking, but Dom’s tuned her out, thinking instead about this change, this clue. The killer is refining his method. He interrupts, ‘The killer’s skill at altering the victims’ appearance made me think he’d done this before our three victims. But if he’s still refining his method, experimenting, I’m thinking the murder part could be new.’

  Emily shakes her head. ‘I can’t comment on that, but the change in anaesthetic is interesting. Your killer could research the different types online, but getting access to them wouldn’t be as easy.’

  Abbott stops scribbling. He looks at Emily. ‘So you’re saying they’re in the medical profession?’

  ‘Could be.’

  ‘Any way to trace which hospital the drugs came from?’

  ‘No; each batch would be identical, and they start to be absorbed by the body pretty fast. We’re lucky there were enough markers left for us to identify them. That’s only due to the massive dose he gives them. Anyway, it’s not just hospitals that carry these drugs. All this tells us is that the killer can access controlled drugs.’

  Shit.

  ‘There is something else that’s interesting.’ Emily steps over to the gurney, gesturing for Dom and Abbott to follow. Stopping on Kate’s left, she points out a minuscule mark just behind her ear and another under the armpit. ‘These are needle sites. They’re not the easiest positions to inject someone, especially if they’re struggling. Yet your killer found a vein and made both injections first time. That’s quite a skill.’

  Abbott’s flicking back through his notes, looking for something. ‘Jenna Malik and Zara Bretton were injected in the neck and in the vein above the index finger on their right hand. That’s an easier place. Why the change?’

  Good question, Dom thinks.

  He looks down at Kate’s arm. Her skin is so pale. Tiny purple veins thread around the needle-stick site under her armpit like thermal springs around a geyser. There’s no life here, though, no warmth. He tries not to look at the aftermath of the post-mortem but fails. The ugly stitching, crude and out of place, makes her look like a badly handcrafted rag doll. He swallows back anger.

  The facts crowd in on him: the changed anaesthetic, the different injection site, the marks on her wrists and ankles left unhidden and the little details consistent in all three murders. They have to mean something. ‘The killer’s trying to conceal it better.’

  ‘From us?’ Abbott asks.

  Dom shakes his head. ‘No, he’s not bothered about us. He wants to hide it from himself.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘He’s recreating a scene where the victim was bound by their wrists and ankles but not injured anywhere else.’

  ‘From where, another murder?’ Abbott asks.

  Emily’s nodding. ‘It would explain why some marks are covered and others aren’t.’

  Dom meets Emily’s gaze. ‘You’re sure he assaulted her?’

  Emily frowns. ‘You doubt me, Detective?’

  ‘No, I just need to be clear that—’

  ‘She was sexually assaulted, yes. All the indicators of penetration are present. Post-mortem, as with the previous victims.’

  Bile rises in his throat. He swallows hard, not wanting to let the others see his reaction. Coughs. Even after all his years on the job. Even when you’re expecting to hear it, nothing makes that shit more bearable. Nothing. ‘DNA?’

  ‘Came back with no matches, like before.’

  Dom slams his hand down onto the bench beside him. ‘How’s that even possible?’

  ‘You don’t need me to tell you that,’ Emily says.

  Dom stares at her, too pissed off to speak.

  Abbott fills the silence. ‘So there’s nothing to go on?’

  ‘Not quite,’ Emily says. ‘We found traces of a latex-silicon compound across her breasts, stomach, inner thighs and inside her vagina.’

  ‘Meaning, what?’ Dom asks.

  ‘Within the compound were propellants consistent with what you’d expect in an aerosol spray. My best guess? The killer used it to cover his skin to prevent leaving trace evidence, DNA, at the scene. Unfortunately for him it didn’t work.’

  Abbott makes a note. ‘Do we know who makes the compound?’

  ‘I’ve asked the lab to look for a match.’

  ‘No DNA match. No fingerprints.’ Dom can’t keep the frustration from his tone. ‘Basically, zero forensics.’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’ Emily flicks through the notes on her clipboard. ‘We’re still waiting on the lab for a couple more things. We’ve sent samples of the glue used to seal her lips and keep her eyes open. It was also used to fix her right hand into a fist to hold the note, so we have a decent sample size. I’ve asked them to identify the manufacturer if they can.’

  ‘Why do you think he uses the glue?’ asks Abbott.

  Dom frowns. ‘I’d have thought it’s bloody obvious. He wants her to keep quiet, and he wants her to see want he’s doing to her.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ Emily says. ‘It’s worth ruminating on further, the eyes especially.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘If he’d have applied the glue while she was conscious I’d expect there to be more mess – excess glue on the eyelids, lashes missing or pulled out as she struggled against him. There’s nothing to indicate that, so, and I’m theorising here, I suspect the glue was applied either while she was unconscious or after she was dead.’

  Abbott frowns. ‘Why would he do it after she was dead?’

  Dom swears under his breath. Shakes his head. ‘To force her to look at him while he fucked her.’

  ‘Precisely.’ Emily looks from Dom to Abbott, pausing a moment before continuing. ‘Just so you know, I also took scrapings of the make-up before we cleaned her up. I’ve asked the lab to look for a brand match.’

  Abbott opens his mouth to speak.

  Emily puts up her hand. ‘Yes, yes, Sergeant. I’ve asked them to be treated as a priority.’ She looks at Dom. ‘That’s about all, gentlemen.’

  What with the first two crime scenes being so clean, Dom hadn’t expected much from this one. He needs something more than a change in anaesthetic in order to catch this killer.

  He looks at Kate, lying naked on the gurney. His stomach churns. The lights seem too bright. He fights the urge to cover her with a sheet, his jacket, anything. She’s been violated enough.

  Dom looks back at Emily. ‘Call me as soon as you have anything, yeah?’

  ‘Of course.’

  He reminds himself it’s not Emily’s fault there’s no evidence. Forces a tight smile. ‘Cheers, appreciate it. I’ll be on my mobile.’

  As they stride along the corridor to the exit, Dom checks his watch. It’s just after twelve. He needs to get a shift on if he’s going to make the meeting with Holsworth at one o’clock. Turning to Abbott, he says, ‘Can you check in with Parekh and update her?’

  ‘Will do, guv. Are you not coming back to base?’

  ‘Not yet, I’ve got to do that IPCC interview. I’ll not be long.’

  They wait at the double doors for a tech in scrubs to wheel through a trolley piled with medical equipment. The tech’s hunched over the handles, his dark hair flopped forward over his face. White cords feed up from beneath his tunic to his ears. Dom can hear thrash metal pulsing from them.

  The tech looks up as he passes. As he meets Dom’s eye, his mouth curls into a lopsided smile. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘No problem, mate.’

  The tech nods, holding his gaze a fracti
on too long.

  26

  CLEMENTINE

  The ‘tea shop’ is neither a shop nor a place that serves tea. It’s the third bench round the lake when you enter Regent’s Park from Marylebone Road and follow the path anticlockwise. I know the special name and obscure location are important to Wade, but with the morning’s freezing fog lingering into lunchtime I wish that, for once, we were meeting at an actual tea shop.

  I approach clockwise. It’s three minutes to twelve and I can see Wade standing in front of the bench, feeding ducks and a squirrel with bread from a plastic bag. Aside from a female jogger further along the path, only visible due to her fluorescent-pink jacket, we’re alone.

  ‘Hey,’ I call. My voice sounds overloud in the quietness of the park.

  Wade turns, looking startled. His cheeks are ruddy from the cold. Tiny droplets have formed on the tips of his quiff. He scans the path behind me. ‘You’re on time, Clem.’

  I don’t answer. He’s called me Clem on purpose, even though he knows I never respond to the abbreviated version of my name. He’s started the power play early today. I won’t rise to it. Won’t give him the satisfaction, not when I so clearly got the better of him last night.

  ‘Clementine.’ His tone is firmer now, more authoritative.

  I wait a beat before I look at him.

  He runs a hand carefully over his hair. He’s smiling, attractive in the way of an ageing rock star. When he speaks his tone is conversational, amused. ‘You know we have to talk about what happened.’

  ‘We don’t.’ I keep my tone professional. He usually values that, likes to stay focused on the work, most times anyway. Not the time he wants to discuss, though. ‘You said you wanted to talk about my thesis, so talk.’

  His smile sags. ‘OK, walk with me.’

  We stride along the water’s edge, our footsteps crushing the frosted grass, leaving partially thawed footprints in our wake. I match Wade’s pace and wait for him to speak first.

  ‘I’m disappointed in you, but you know that. The conclusion in the version of your thesis that you submitted deviated from the one I’d signed off.’

  It’s true. I don’t deny it.

  He exhales, his breath pluming in the cold air. ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s the right conclusion.’

  ‘Based on what, your online games with these true-crime fanatics? What research are you using as a model?’

  I don’t answer; it’s a trap.

  Wade looks at me. Raises an eyebrow. ‘Go on. I’m waiting for you to impress me with your innovative use of a human-computer interaction theory. One that is so very outstanding that you thought it OK to break the rules and go over my head.’

  I lengthen my stride so I edge ahead of him. Stay silent. There’s no defensible position for what I’ve done. There isn’t a theory that endorses it. He knows that.

  ‘I didn’t think so.’ He pauses at the water’s edge and opens the plastic bag. He takes out a few pieces of bread and throws them to the ducks swimming alongside us.

  I stare at the ducks, the water, the mucky plastic bottle floating half-submerged further out; anything but at Wade.

  ‘You’ve left me wide open.’ He sounds disappointed. ‘I told the Faculty your thesis would be special.’

  I dart a look at him. Narrow my eyes. ‘So it’s about you, not me?’

  He shakes his head. ‘You went behind my back. Submitted a conclusion I don’t agree with, but will reflect on me because you’re my student.’

  The memory of him naked beneath me flits across my mind’s eye. I hold his gaze a beat longer than appropriate, then say, ‘I am, aren’t I?’

  From the way he flinches, I know he gets my meaning.

  ‘So are we done?’ I say.

  He frowns. ‘We agreed a true-crime group couldn’t solve a live crime. All the theory points to that. Most of the data, too.’

  ‘Exactly, most of the data. I kept thinking, what if—’

  ‘Jesus! What is it with you and your what ifs?’

  I stop, facing him. I don’t hide the anger from my voice. ‘Look, the thesis is submitted, it’s too late to change it, so if you’re going to question me, hear me out first, before you start laying into my answer.’

  He smirks. Chucking the last piece of bread to the ducks, he scrunches up the plastic bag and slips it into his pocket. ‘Fine, I’ll play your game of Let’s Pretend. Tell me why this group is so impressive.’

  I haven’t told Wade everything, but I’ve told him enough for him to see I’m serious. As we walked around the water he listened to the information I have on each member of the group, to the assignments Death Stalker gave us and the details we have on the police investigation.

  Wade’s asked me questions about each of the team – their online personas and the details of their real world lives. He’s been far more OK with it than I imagined possible. That changes when I tell him I don’t know Death Stalker’s real life identity. He doesn’t speak, but his mouth purses and frown lines appear between his brows.

  ‘Problem?’ I ask.

  Wade slows his pace. It’s a stalling tactic. The park entrance is in sight and he won’t want to take another lap of the lake; he never does. ‘It’s more dangerous if you don’t know who they are. It’s the unknowns that increase the risk.’

  I shrug. ‘Not much, though. I know something about all of them aside from Death Stalker, and he’s interacting with me more each day. Anyway, I’ve—’

  ‘Interacting how – private messages? About what?’

  I roll my eyes. ‘The case, obviously. I found out some things and he asked me to keep them secret from the rest of the team for now. We’re going to talk about it when we meet.’

  Wade halts. There’s a pained expression on his face. ‘He’s singled you out? I don’t like the sound of that. He could be dangerous, Clementine. Have you stopped to think for a moment that he might actually be the killer playing some sick game? Why else would he be so desperate to start this investigation?’

  ‘Any of them or none of them could be the killer.’

  ‘So you admit you’re in danger.’

  I don’t tell him that I slept with a knife on my bedside table last night, just in case. Instead I shrug, look unbothered. ‘We’re all in danger every moment of every day. You could fall downstairs and break your neck tomorrow, or I could be run over by a bus on my way home. It’s all—’

  ‘You’re not thinking about this rationally.’

  ‘I’ve got it covered. I’ll go along to the meeting, meet Death Stalker and find out all about him. It’ll be fine.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ His jaw is clenched tight, and there’s a vein pulsing at his temple.

  He meets my gaze. ‘This Death Stalker character hasn’t revealed his location, yet he’s made the rest of you do so. He hasn’t told you his real name either. He’s got an agenda here, no question. You need to find out what.’

  Keeping my tone light, I say, ‘He says he’s all about social justice, that he wants to get the government to fund the police better. But does it really matter if that’s true? Maybe he’s just looking for glory. If the group solves the case, maybe he’ll get it. And as I’ve predicted it as part of my thesis, if I’m part of the group that succeeds, it’ll give more weight to the post-doctoral funding bids we talked about—’

  ‘It’s a risk, a big risk.’

  ‘It’s a risk I’m taking. I need to prove—’

  ‘A PhD isn’t about proving what ifs. It’s not about indulging personal whims, either; it’s about demonstrating you can follow the rules of research. When you have your PhD, that’s the time to indulge your fancies.’

  I raise an eyebrow. ‘Like you?’

  He ignores my comment. ‘You must earn the right to break the mould, Clementine. Right now you need to prove you’re able to fit inside it.’

  ‘But what if this group does solve—’

  ‘It can’t happen. They, you’re, at a disadvantage. You’ve no solid data: it�
�s all smoke, mirrors and chat. Your thesis really could have been something. It’s like you’re deliberately trying to sabotage yourself.’

  The park entrance is less than fifty metres ahead. Through the gap in the hedge I see people scuttling along the pavement. There’s a flash of red as a bus passes along Euston Road. If I’m going to succeed in my viva and be awarded my PhD I need Wade on my side. ‘I’m just hypothesising that if they got the data, and were faster at investigating without all the red tape the police have to contend with, it could be possible.’

  He keeps walking. ‘But they won’t get the data.’

  We’re forty metres from the entrance. The noise of the traffic is now a permanent drone.

  Twenty.

  I’m almost out of time. If I want to sway him to my way of thinking I need to do it now. I reach out and put my hand on his arm. ‘Maybe. Or perhaps they already have it.’ I pause, letting the implication of my words sink in, before adding, ‘Look, you know I’m good at this stuff, that’s why you picked me to supervise. I’m aware that what I’m suggesting is a gamble, but it’s potentially groundbreaking, too. What if this action research does prove my thesis correct? What if I’m, we’re, the first academics to have predicted it happening?’

  Wade stops. He turns to me. He’s close, very close. His expression is guarded, but not well enough. I can see the glint of competitiveness in his eyes. ‘Tell me, do you really think this group of true-crime freaks can beat the police at their own job?’

  I hold his gaze for a long moment. ‘Yes.’

  27

  DOM

  Dom’s been in the interview with Holsworth for twenty minutes. The bastard has a smug look about him; his two colleagues – Jan Ekman and Donald O’Byrne – do too. They’ve switched on the interview recorder and finished the formalities, checking name and rank for the record. Dom’s confirmed he was medically suspended for seven days after the raid because of the minor head injury incurred in the line of duty, that he was signed fit to return to full duties and has been back in the Murder Investigation Team for the past month.

  All three nodded, made out they knew what it was like to serve as a police officer, like they knew the realities of being on the MIT, the day-to-day stresses of the job, but Dom knows they’re full of shit. Independent Police Complaints Commission investigators don’t have to come from a police background, and none of these three do. Holsworth came from criminal law – a legal liar – while the other two are from the civil side. IPCC aren’t like Professional Standards, real police officers you had a begrudging respect for. The IPCC just wanted to nail you to the pole to hit their monthly quota.