My Little Eye

by Stephanie Marland

  As Dom passes, he hears the old guy muttering, ‘No, Albert, no. Not before you’ve done the dishes.’

  Poor bugger.

  He puts some change into the hat. ‘Get yourself a tea, mate.’

  The old guy mutters something Dom can’t make out, and smiles. His teeth are yellowed and rotting. An image of the first victim, Jenna Malik, floats into Dom’s mind: she’s been in the ground four weeks. Deep in the soil and darkness, worms will be eating through her coffin.

  Dom looks away.

  The pub is fifteen minutes’ walk from the river, hidden down a side road round the back of the Southbank Centre. It’s an old building with big sash windows covered in a thick layer of grime. The brickwork is fretting, crumbling from damp and frost. The front door, pitted beneath flaking green paint, looks like it’s suffering the same fate. Dom pushes it open and steps inside.

  A blast of warm air hits him. The place is as he remembers, all dark wood and frosted glass, traditional. He spots Lindsay in the corner, tapping away at his phone. Smart, with his usual black suit and dark shirt accentuating the white blond of his hair, he could be a banker rather than a detective. He’s already got the pints in.

  Dom weaves his way through the tables and sits down. ‘Hey.’

  Lindsay looks up. Smiles. ‘All right, chap.’

  ‘Not bad,’ Dom says, going along with the small-talk bollocks. ‘You?’

  ‘Can’t complain.’ Lindsay slides the full pint across the table to Dom. ‘Heard your investigation’s turned chilly.’

  Dom keeps his tone light. ‘Don’t go there, OK?’

  Lindsay laughs. ‘No problem.’

  Dom takes a mouthful of beer. ‘So what’s this about?’

  ‘Why does it have to be about anything?’

  ‘Nothing in weeks, then you call twice. Bit odd.’

  Lindsay takes a long slug of his beer before answering. ‘Look, you’re the one who buggered off back over the river.’

  ‘The operation ended. Therese was in hospital.’

  ‘I know but, I’ve got to be honest here, I had no clue what was going on with you. You never told the lads you were going. You didn’t visit Therese when she came round.’

  Fuck this, and fuck you.

  Dom takes another gulp of his pint. The sooner he finishes it, the sooner he can be away.

  ‘You know, Holsworth visiting her in hospital really shook her up.’

  Dom frowns. ‘She seemed OK when I saw her earlier.’

  ‘Putting on a good face, wasn’t she. The whole thing’s freaking her out. I told her not to speak to Holsworth. Said to give herself more time, but she didn’t bloody listen.’ Lindsay runs a hand through his perfectly styled hair. ‘She should have made him wait.’

  Why shouldn’t Therese speak to Holsworth? Lindsay’s overreacting, playing the role of protector too much. Dom can’t imagine Therese liking that. She’s always blazed her own path. That’s one of the things he admired about her. ‘Since when were you her keeper?’

  Lindsay raises his eyebrows. ‘I’m just being a mate.’

  Him and Therese had never told anyone about their thing, but from Lindsay’s tone Dom reckons he suspects something. Dom changes the subject. ‘How’s your wife?’

  Lindsay shrugs. ‘Busy with the kids, as ever.’

  ‘Doesn’t mind you visiting Therese all the time then?’

  ‘Why should she? Me and Therese have been colleagues a long time. You know how it is with this job, you can’t help but get close, can you.’

  Dom doesn’t respond. Can’t. He wonders if Therese has told Lindsay about them, about how it ended. He grips his pint tighter and takes a mouthful of beer – anything to avoid looking at Lindsay.

  ‘Mate, are you all right? You’ve gone a bit pale.’

  ‘Long day,’ Dom says, and takes another swig of beer.

  ‘Tell me about it. Holsworth had me in again this afternoon.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘He kept asking about Darren Harris.’ Lindsay shakes his head. ‘Poor bastard. If Holsworth’s got something on Darren then he’s going to get screwed.’

  Dom says nothing.

  ‘He wanted to know if I’d had eyes on Harris for the whole operation. Really had a hard-on for him. Made me wonder why.’

  Dom says nothing.

  ‘Your interview was this lunchtime, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Did he ask you about Harris?’

  Dom shakes his head. He doesn’t want to talk about Harris. He knows Holsworth is on Darren’s tail because of what he’d told him in his interview, because of the boots. ‘I was disabled early, wasn’t I? You were the guys on the outside.’

  Lindsay looks serious. ‘Didn’t think you’d be getting out of there, know what I mean?’

  ‘I thought that myself for a while.’

  ‘You know, I told Therese I should go in with her, but she wouldn’t have it, would she. Always has to know best.’

  Bastard. Had Lindsay wanted his place in the operation? It takes all Dom’s self-control to keep his tone even as he says, ‘I’d partnered with her on the other ops, no need for that to change.’

  ‘No, suppose not.’

  ‘Did you see Harris do anything dodgy?’

  Lindsay frowns. ‘Did I hell! He did his job, and he was good at it. That’s what I told Holsworth. When we lost the comms link he stayed calm, didn’t freak out.’

  Dom remembers the moment he realised their communications had failed. Eclipse. Bring the rain. But there’d been no response, no back-up arriving. ‘Did they find out why the comms stopped working?’

  ‘Dunno. All I know was one minute you were clear, the next it was radio silence. Couldn’t hear a damn thing from either of you.’

  ‘Did you try and fix it?’

  Lindsay looks confused. ‘What do you bloody think? I was going spare. Genk wasn’t playing ball; he’d told Therese to go back to her whore business. From the intel we’d got I knew if he wasn’t doing business with you, things could turn bad any minute.’

  Dom sits very still. His pulse thumps at his temples. ‘So what did you do?’

  ‘We needed ears on. I got Harris to stay put while I moved location, thinking if the signal had hit a dead spot I’d have more chance getting you back that way.’

  ‘And did you?’

  ‘Not till it was too late – that’s when I sent in the cavalry.’

  Genk wasn’t playing ball. He told Therese to go back to her whore business.

  How the fuck did Lindsay know that? Genk hadn’t spoken until after Dom was down, until after he’d given the abort command – the command Lindsay claimed he’d never heard. ‘How’d you know?’

  ‘Know what?’

  ‘That Genk told Therese to go back to her whore business, that the deal was off?’

  Lindsay’s expression gives nothing away, but he holds Dom’s gaze a fraction too long. Shrugs. ‘Dunno. She must have told me.’

  Liar.

  ‘You sure about that?’ Dom says.

  Lindsay leans closer. His lips curl into a sneer. ‘Oh, I’m crystal. But it’s best to keep quiet in this type of situation. Wild accusations and career-limiting assumptions get made otherwise, don’t they?’ He fixes Dom with a glare. ‘It’s lucky none of us got killed, isn’t it? Mate.’

  Dom stares back. If Lindsay knew what Genk said, then he knew they were already in trouble, and he didn’t call it in. He’s hiding something, covering for himself or for Therese or for Harris, or for all of them.

  Lindsay leans closer. ‘You want to stay breathing? Keep your fucking mouth shut.’

  34

  CLEMENTINE

  Home. My phone vibrates in my pocket as I’m unlocking the door. I wait until I’m inside, until I’ve fastened every one of the bolts, before I check it. When I do, I sigh. It’s a message from Wade.

  I wanted to be sure you’re OK.

  Kicking off my boots, I remove my jacket and hang it on the peg besi
de the door, then type: I am.

  Good. I could come over?

  I look at Wade’s text and remember how he bent me over his desk and spanked me as he fucked me. I enjoyed the feeling of him inside me, and am tempted to let it happen again; to invite him over and let the rush of endorphins, the ecstasy of climax, chase away the nothingness for just a little while. But I don’t.

  Instead I text:

  Met the team. They’re all right if a bit weird. Something about Ghost Avenger seems off. Death Stalker too – it’s obvs he wants control. We share what we find, he won’t.

  Wade’s reply is immediate: How so?

  I head to the kitchen. Grabbing a glass from beside the sink, I give it a quick rinse and fill it with water. I take a sip, then message back:

  I asked. He gave some bullshit about tapping police contacts on their investigation, but didn’t give details. He wants to unmask the Lover and keep the glory. That’s my take.

  Based on? Wade replies.

  I take another sip. Text back: Observation.

  Wade fires back: Not very scientific.

  Shaking my head, I type: It’s late. I’m going to bed.

  Wade: Death Stalker’s main ace is his contacts. It wouldn’t hurt for you to have a police contact of your own.

  I don’t reply. Instead I think about DI Dominic Bell.

  Sleep doesn’t come easy. It’s hours after Wade’s texts, and I’m lying in the centre of my bed staring through the curtain-less window at the moon. It’s round and full tonight. I find its glow comforting.

  On the night Father died there was a full moon watching over me in the cottage. I remember glimpsing it through the window earlier in the evening, before the smoke grew too thick. Aside from that, the sequence of what happened evades me. I close my eyes, and try again to remember.

  After reading the letter, I need answers. It’s late, getting dark. The whisky makes me feel both numb and tearful. I struggle to process what I’ve learnt. I can’t believe the accusations against Father. He’s a hero, not a criminal. It has to be a mistake.

  I need answers but Father’s not here to ask, so I stumble upstairs on unsteady legs, heading to the study. The door is locked. It’s never been locked before. He lives alone, so there’s no need.

  I know where the key will be, though. One time, when I was young and we were playing I Spy, I spied Father’s special key drawer. It’s the second drawer of the apothecary cabinet in the kitchen. He’d left the drawer slightly open, and I’d seen the keys. It was the only time he’d not laughed when I beat him.

  I go downstairs. There are fewer keys in the drawer than I remember. I take all that look as if they could be a match for the study door, then try them in the lock until I find the right one.

  Inside, the room looks different. Father is always tidy, but his large oak desk is strewn with papers and Post-its. Behind it, pinned to the wall, are scraps of paper with his spidery scrawl, newspaper clippings and photographs; lines of string connect them.

  On the leather chair there’s a navy sports bag; it looks out of place. I unzip it. I cannot believe what I see.

  I spy with my little eye, rolls of banknotes held together with elastic bands.

  I spy clear plastic bags filled with white powder.

  A stack of obscene photographs.

  I flick through the pictures. My hands shake. Tears stream down my face. Nausea gets stronger with every image I see. Each one is of a different girl, a girl as young as me, naked or in bra and knickers. Written in the top left corners are names and reference numbers. Beside the number is a price.

  I drop the pictures and they scatter across the floorboards like dirty confetti.

  They’re right; my father isn’t a hero, he’s a monster.

  I cover my face with my hands and howl.

  That’s where the memory ends. Every time. Leaving me feeling the fury. Preventing me from knowing what happened next, the actions that took place, before the fire that killed Father took hold.

  My heart’s racing. I count to ten. Count backwards from ten. Stare at the moon and damn it to hell for not telling me what it witnessed all those years ago. For leaving me with the horror of what Father did, all over again.

  He was a dirty copper.

  Father was disgraced, the investigation said he was guilty, I know that.

  Dominic Bell is a dirty copper, too.

  I start to tremble. Don’t like where this thought process is taking me.

  This wolf doesn’t want to kill again.

  WEDNESDAY

  35

  DOM

  Abbott and Parekh have been in the office since seven o’clock. Dom’s glad. Forty-eight hours after a murder can be the point where leads dry up and the energy directed at the case wanes. It’s when the dread sets in; the worry you won’t make an arrest. No one in the team wants that to happen; except Biggs, and it’s hard to know what he wants. Dom looks up from his desk to see him saunter in. It’s almost 9.30.

  Biggs dumps the plastic bag he’s carrying onto his desk, chucks his coat over his chair, then picks up his mug and heads towards the kitchen. He says hello to Abbott and Parekh, ignores Dom. He still hasn’t updated him on what happened with Stax the previous night.

  Dom gets up and follows him to the kitchen. He glances up as Dom approaches.

  Dom halts just inside the doorway. ‘A word, Sergeant. Now.’

  Biggs steps over to the machine. ‘I’m just getting a—’

  ‘Leave it.’ Dom’s tone is dead serious. ‘We’ll talk in the meeting room.’

  Biggs says nothing, but he leaves the mug on the counter and follows him. Dom can feel eyes on him as they walk through the open plan.

  The room seems smaller than usual. The murder board dominates one wall, the pictures of the victims staring down from it. Biggs props his arse against the nearest table. Looks unbothered.

  Dom gestures to the door. ‘Shut it, yeah.’

  Biggs nudges it closed with his foot. ‘So what is it?’

  ‘You were meant to call me with an update on Stax last night.’

  Biggs shrugs. ‘Wasn’t any point, there was nothing of use. Guessed you’d have phoned me if you were that fussed.’

  Trust Biggs to throw that at him. Dom hates that he’s right; he should have called Biggs, but with Darren and Lindsay and the damn Operation Atlantis stuff, he’d forgotten. Dom glares at Biggs, doesn’t back down. ‘If I ask you to do something, I expect it done.’

  ‘Yes, boss.’ Biggs’s tone is full-on sarcastic. ‘That all?’

  ‘No.’

  Biggs looks bored. ‘What then?’

  Dom’s temper flares. How can an experienced detective be so blasé in the middle of a case like this? ‘Tell me what the hell happened with Stax.’

  Biggs gives a weasel smile. ‘He caved.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘He’s been shagging a bar girl at that club where he works.’ Biggs smirks. ‘That’s what he was doing when his girlfriend got killed.’

  Dom’s gaze flicks to Kate Adams’s picture on the murder board; she’s smiling, unknowing. He tries to swallow down the disgust he feels towards Stax, the two-timing little bastard. No wonder he acted so shiftily; he wouldn’t look nearly so good in the press if the truth came out.

  Biggs looks like he doesn’t give a shit.

  ‘You find that funny, Sergeant?’

  ‘Not especially. Just didn’t think it was worth calling about.’

  ‘I do. And I expect you to follow the chain of command.’

  Biggs exhales, the breath whistling through the gap between his top teeth. ‘But, see, the thing is, sir, word is you’re not going to be here long enough for it to matter what you think.’

  Dom’s fingers twitch. He stares hard at Biggs, fighting to keep calm. ‘Is that right?’

  Biggs shrugs. ‘It’s what I hear.’

  Dom resists the urge to shove the bastard against the wall. ‘I wouldn’t listen to rumour, Sergeant.’

&nb
sp; Biggs looks him straight in the eye. ‘Maybe you should.’

  Dom lunges at Biggs. Stops himself just before making contact, his face inches from the sergeant’s. ‘Look, personally I don’t give a flying fuck whether you want to work for me or not, because right now this isn’t about you or me. It’s about these dead women.’ Dom jabs his finger towards the crime scene photos. ‘Look at them, remember their faces, their names – Kate, Zara, Jenna – young women with hopes and dreams. Go on, take a good look, and then you tell me you think it’s OK, no, you think it’s funny, not to follow orders, not to work this case like it absolutely should be worked.’

  Biggs opens his mouth to speak.

  Dom doesn’t give him the chance. ‘So did you check with this bar worker that she was with Stax when he said she was?’

  Biggs’s stare is hard, angry. Five seconds pass before he shakes his head. ‘Not yet.’

  ‘I thought not.’ Dom doesn’t keep the contempt from his voice. He steps back, putting a bit of distance between them. ‘You used to be a class act, Biggs. But all this crap you’re pulling now … it’s pathetic.’

  Biggs stares at him. Doesn’t speak.

  ‘I know you wanted my job, but you didn’t get it, yeah? I guess you liked it while I was on secondment, but I’m back now, so you need to suck it up, or find another team, because this crap,’ Dom gestures between the two of them, ‘whatever it is, can’t carry on.’

  Biggs is stony-faced.

  Dom holds his eye contact for a long moment. Sighs. ‘Go and do some bloody work.’

  Biggs moves to the door. Opens it.

  ‘DS Biggs?’

  The sergeant turns, looks at Dom. ‘Yes?’

  ‘If nothing changes, you will be out of this team by the end of this case.’

  ‘Like fuck I will.’

  ‘Don’t you—’

  Biggs exits, letting the door slam behind him.

  Tosser.

  The last thing Dom needs right now is the bureaucratic nightmare of their disciplinary proceedings. He rotates his shoulders, trying to ease the tension. Knows Biggs won’t suck it up. The best he can do is get him transferred.