Dom looks round to see Parekh hovering in the doorway. ‘Yeah?’
‘Jackson’s looking for you, thought I’d give you the heads-up.’
Just what I need.
‘Thanks,’ Dom says. ‘Anything new?’
Parekh shakes her head. ‘Abbott’s trying to get hold of Enzo Metiz. I haven’t seen Biggs since this morning, and I’m waiting for a pingback on that other ID.’
Parekh leans against the door frame. She’s rolled her shirtsleeves up and Dom notices the intricate henna tattoo winding from her index finger, across her hand and up her arm.
She sees him looking. ‘Big family wedding at the weekend, the celebrations started a couple of weeks ago.’
He nods. ‘How’s our new indexer doing?’
‘Ploughing through, checking for drug thefts, but nothing that fits with the anaesthetics has flagged yet. I’ll let you know if we get something.’
‘Cheers. Appreciate it.’
Parekh disappears back to the open plan. Dom takes a final look at the pictures. The more he looks at them, the less he’s convinced the men Leighton singled out are relevant.
Someone has to know something.
‘Sir?’
Jackson is sitting behind his desk. He beckons Dom in.
‘Parekh said you were looking for me?’
‘Who the hell is talking to the press?’ Jackson gestures to the websites open on his desktop. ‘There’s stuff in here about Patrick Bartlett. They’re saying he’s our prime suspect.’
Dom peers at the screen. Sees the photographs of Patrick entering the station, head down, looking guilty. ‘What the—’
Jackson looks furious. ‘Who did this?’
‘No one in my team.’
‘You sure about that?’
‘Totally.’
‘Because if he’s not the Lover, it’s going to look like one massive fuck-up. All the major news channels are running it. I’ve already had Bartlett’s lawyer on the phone chewing my ear off. How serious a suspect is he?’
‘We need to check his alibi, but I doubt it’s him.’
Jackson curses under his breath. ‘When the press find that out, you’re not going to come off well – they’re already gunning for you.’
Dom glances at words on the screen again. Words leap out: befuddled, incompetent, shameful. He looks back at Jackson. ‘Yeah, I get that.’
‘We need the press back onside, mitigate the fallout from the lack of arrest and the fact we’re likely to clear Bartlett. It’s nearly forty-eight hours since the initial press briefing about Kate Adams, so time we had another, a bigger one.’
Dom shifts his weight from one foot to the other. ‘I think we need to release more information. Tell them some specifics of how the killer changes his victims’ appearance. It might mean something to someone. We could appeal for them to come forward.’
Jackson shakes his head. ‘No, it’ll only confirm we’ve got a serial on our hands.’
Dom glances at the newspapers. ‘They think that already, I really—’
‘We’ll bring in some relatives to make an appeal. Kate Adams’s boyfriend, Mart Stax, and the parents of the second victim, Zara Bretton, I think.’
‘We’re still checking out Stax, he’s—’
‘It’s decided, Dom. Eleven o’clock tomorrow.’
This is bullshit. Without the victims’ changed appearance there’s nothing new to give the media. They’ve already had the CCTV image of the man outside Kate’s apartment, and that’s brought back nothing.
Jackson’s expression turns grim. ‘There’s something else. Biggs says you threatened him.’
Fuck.
‘He was being sloppy, not working with his colleagues. I took him aside and made my expectations clear.’
‘That’s not the way he tells it. He’s talking physical harassment here.’
‘That’s shit. I just told him to do his job.’
‘So you didn’t touch him?’
‘No, I bloody didn’t.’
Jackson looks unconvinced. ‘You need to keep it together, Dom. I can’t have you roughing up every officer who pisses you off.’
‘I didn’t. It’s not a—’
The DCI gives Dom a knowing look. ‘It would be to Human Resources.’
Dom stays silent. He stares at a poster on Jackson’s wall; a red rose with blood dripping from the stem, the domestic abuse helpline in large numbers below. He shakes his head. How can Biggs call what happened between them harassment?
Jackson keeps his voice low. ‘Look, this won’t go away easily, but I’ve talked him out of an official grievance. You need to be careful, though, Dom. Don’t push it.’
Dom frowns. Biggs is tough enough to keep on task as it is. If he’s got to pussyfoot around him, it’s going to be impossible. ‘I have to do my job.’
Jackson nods. Looks serious. ‘Yes, you do.’
Dom steps out of the lift. He needs fresh air, needs to clear his head. Biggs bitching to Jackson, it’s pathetic. The bastard is just trying to make as much trouble as he can; acting out because he’s got issues with Dom telling him what to do. Dom hates the bloody politics of it.
He halts. Across the reception area, outside the glass doors, he can see the press pack camped out, waiting for him. One of them spots him and starts shouting his name. Another joins in, then the rest. Shit. He steps back towards the lifts.
‘Dom?’
He turns, surprised. ‘Chrissie? What are you doing here?’
‘I’ve been calling you all day. Left messages. This can’t wait.’
Dom can see the anxiety on her face and hear it in her voice. It bothers him. Makes him feel responsible. He puts his hand on her arm and leads her across to the far corner of the reception area, out of sight from the main entrance. ‘What is it?’
‘They’ve called Darren in for another interview.’ She exhales hard. ‘I’m worried, Dom. Why do they want to speak to him again? This’ll be the third time. He’s told them everything he knows.’
‘I don’t know, Sis. Look, I spoke to Lindsay last night, he said they’d had him in again too. It’s probably just fact checking, standard procedure.’
‘You think?’
‘Most likely.’ He feels like a shit for lying to her, but what can he do? After talking to Lindsay, after Lindsay threatening him, he’s certain he’s hiding something about Operation Atlantis. Maybe Harris and Therese are in on it, too. But he can’t tell Chrissie his fears, not until he’s got everything straight in his own head. He can’t risk sending her off the rails again.
‘Look, it’d really help if you had a chat with him.’
‘Why me?’ Dom’s tone is harsher than usual, distorted by the guilt.
‘Because he’s family, and he’s freaking out.’ Chrissie is talking faster, her voice growing louder. Tears fill her eyes. ‘He needs to talk to you.’
‘Why didn’t he come, then?’
‘He thinks you’re avoiding him. The way you ran off last night, it was weird.’
Dom’s silent.
Chrissie’s eyes are on his. Her breathing’s ragged, emotional. ‘Are you avoiding him?’
Dom wants to tell her, but he can’t. Not yet. ‘Chrissie, let’s not do this right now, yeah? I’m in the middle of a case. I’ve barely slept. You know how it—’
‘The case is all-consuming, I get it, but we’re your family, Dom.’
He can hear the hurt in her voice. Can’t look her in the eyes as he says, ‘Look, I’ll try and get over later if I can, but I can’t promise anything. It depends on the case.’
Chrissie sighs. She knows he’s fobbing her off; that he’ll text her later and say he’s too busy. He hates that, and he hates the look of disappointment on her face, but he knows he’ll do it anyway. It makes him hate himself a little bit more.
38
CLEMENTINE
Death Stalker wants to meet. He’s got the results back from the lab but won’t tell me what they are on the messenger
app, says it’s better to meet face-to-face; he’s singling me out again. That excites me, and scares me.
I haven’t told Wade.
The Coffee Palace is one of those chains that pride themselves on their overpriced coffee and faux Italian decor. I buy an Americano and spot Death Stalker sitting in a corner booth at the back of the shop. There’s a silver laptop open on the table in front of him, but he’s not alone. I’m disappointed. Bloodhound is there and so is Crime Queen. She looks different. Her purple bob has gone; now her hair is mid-brown and styled in shoulder-length curls. I can’t help but stare for longer than I should. It’s an exact match for the way the Lover leaves his victims.
They’re deep in conversation, pretty heated. They don’t notice me as I approach.
Death Stalker is shaking his head. ‘Freya, these women are dying. You making yourself look like the victims is in really bad taste.’
‘But I’m making myself into bait, don’t you get it?’ Crime Queen’s voice sounds whiny. ‘I know about serial killers, it’s my thing, I can lure—’
‘I just think it’s a dangerous game to play, that’s all,’ Bloodhound says. ‘Your choice, obviously, but it’s—’
‘Agreed,’ Death Stalker interrupts. He looks at Crime Queen. ‘You’re putting yourself in danger.’
Crime Queen blushes. ‘It’s my—’
‘Look, take the damn wig off, or you’re out of the investigation,’ Death Stalker says. ‘I’m serious.’
None of them speaks. I clear my throat.
They turn, and notice me standing there. Death Stalker gestures for me to sit next to him. As I do, Crime Queen rolls her eyes. Bitch. I smile at Death Stalker and Bloodhound, and ignore Crime Queen.
Death Stalker glances pointedly at his watch and looks at Crime Queen. ‘So, we’re clear?’
‘Fine,’ she says, unfastening a couple of pins and pulling off the wig. ‘Happy now?’
Death Stalker looks at Bloodhound.
Bloodhound nods. ‘Thank you. It just seemed so disrespectful to the victims. I—’
‘Fucksake,’ Crime Queen says, scowling. ‘I’ve taken it off, all right.’
Bloodhound gets up and slings a canvas messenger bag over his shoulder. ‘Thanks,’ he says to Crime Queen and Death Stalker, then nods at me. ‘Nice to see you again.’
As he walks away, I take a sip of my coffee and wait for Death Stalker to speak. He’s silent at first, while Crime Queen gets her coat on and head towards the exit. I check out the booths near us. Most are unoccupied; those that aren’t have single drinkers, the majority tapping away on laptops or smartphones. No one is paying us any attention.
As the door closes behind Crime Queen, Death Stalker says, ‘The lab found something interesting.’
‘Yes?’
‘It’s not a make-up brush. It’s for dentistry.’
I frown. ‘Come again?’
Death Stalker looks impatient. ‘It’s a specialist dental brush. Used in cosmetic procedures like teeth whitening.’ He runs his finger across the laptop’s trackpad. There’s an email open on the screen but it’s impossible to read from this angle. ‘The brush is part of a set of cosmetic dental brushes sold by a manufacturer called Dentiflex. It’s a high-end product, not your average NHS-type thing. Expensive.’
‘Did they test the bristles, had it been used for dental work?’
Death Stalker shakes his head. ‘No, that’s where it gets odd. There was a trace of one substance on the bristles, a powder.’
I lean back a little, trying to see what’s on the laptop screen. ‘What kind?’
Death Stalker closes the laptop. ‘They gave me the chemical formula, but basically it’s the residue of a cream powder foundation.’
‘Did they match it with a brand?’
‘Not yet, but they’re trying.’
I think back to Zara Bretton’s Pinterest and Kate Adams’s Tumblr. ‘Both Zara and Kate had pictures of smiles, teeth, on their social media. I thought it was odd, but maybe there’s a connection.’
Death Stalker nods. ‘It’s a lead worth following.’
‘There must be thousands of dentists in London. Assuming there’s a link between the killer and the brush, it could still be impossible to identify them.’
Death Stalker smiles. ‘I know. That’s your next task.’
I expected as much. ‘It’ll take forever. What about the police investigation, have they got a line of enquiry on this? What’s your contact said?’
Death Stalker looks away. He picks up the laptop and slips it into the rucksack lying at his feet. ‘Not much.’
‘Meaning you’re refusing to share your intel with me?’
‘No, it’s not that. I don’t think my police contact is being straight with me. They know more than they’re letting on.’
‘So push them harder.’
‘I’ve tried, but it’s not working. Look, you got into the crime scene, could you get into the police offices, find out what they’ve got?’
I laugh. ‘You want me to break into a police building? Have you any idea how ridiculous that—’
‘Do you want us to beat them?’
I hold his gaze. This is my opportunity to get into his inner circle. ‘Of course.’
‘Then we need you to get in there.’
‘By we I’m guessing you mean the team, but that doesn’t wash with me. You’re keeping stuff back, making sure only you have the full picture.’ I lean across the table. ‘I’m OK with that for the wider group, but if you want me to take more risks, you need to tell me everything.’
He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t look away either, just stares straight back at me. Usually I feel awkward in this type of situation. I can see the person looking at me is experiencing some kind of emotion – I can see the changes in their expression. It isn’t a problem with Death Stalker. His expression remains neutral; his eyes give nothing away. I break eye contact and take another sip of my coffee. I’m surprised how his lack of emotion unsettles me.
‘Fine.’
I wait for him to tell me more.
‘The police have been looking at Kate Adams’s boyfriend as a possible suspect, but it’s not looking likely. They’re going through CCTV footage from a bar she was in the night before she died. So far they’ve got nothing to connect the three victims.’
‘And the victims were all found with their appearance altered. Dyed hair, different make-up?’
‘All of them looked like the same girl. My contact said Kate Adams’s boyfriend didn’t even recognise her. He thought there was a stranger in his bed.’
‘Found naked?’
He nods. ‘With candles burning and rose petals around the bed, just like the first two.’
I drain the last of my coffee. ‘Sounds like you’ve got plenty from your contact.’
‘They’ve gone cold since last night. Not replying to emails, not answering when I call. It’s critical we’re up to date with what they’ve got. Without their information we’re dead in the water.’
He’s right. I know that. But attempting to break into a police building requires a special kind of crazy, and specialist skills; I have neither of those things. ‘Maybe they’re just busy.’
‘I don’t think so. I think with the media attention the case is getting they’re losing their bottle.’
‘Then use whatever you have on them to get them to co-operate.’
‘I’m trying.’ His expression gives nothing away, but his voice sounds strained. ‘But I need a back-up plan in case it doesn’t work. I need to find the Lover.’
I keep my eyes on his. ‘Why?’
He holds my gaze, and for a moment I think he’s going to tell me. Then he shifts back in his seat, extending the distance between us, and says, ‘So we can get him locked up.’
This time something in his eyes tells me he’s lying.
39
DOM
Back in the open plan, Dom sees Parekh heading for him.
She holds up a scrap o
f paper. ‘We’ve got the man Leighton identified from the pub, the facial recognition software threw up a match; Tommy Hodge. I cross-referenced with the database – he lives near Earls Court on Siltoe Street in one of those council high-rises, and he’s got form.’
Dom tries to push the thoughts of Chrissie and their conversation away. He needs to focus back on the case, get out of the office. ‘Good work,’ he says to Parekh, then, turning to Abbott he says, ‘Fancy making a house call?’
Tommy Hodge’s flat is on the eleventh floor. They tailgate through the front doors behind a young mum with a double buggy and head straight for the lift. Thankfully this one doesn’t smell of piss.
As soon as they reach the eleventh floor Dom hears the dance music. The building’s not in bad nick. What’s letting it down is the racket coming from Hodge’s flat.
Dom knocks on the door several times. When there’s no response he resorts to banging hard with his fist and shouting Hodge’s name. It takes a few more minutes, but eventually the door inches open, the security chain in place.
‘What?’ a man’s voice shouts over the din.
Dom can’t get a proper look at him through the narrow gap. ‘Tommy Hodge?’
‘Who wants to know?’ There’s aggression in the man’s tone, maybe a slight undercurrent of fear.
Dom notices the bare wood around the door lock – the original lock has been replaced with one of a different shape. There are grooves gouged out of the door frame. Dom knows the signs of a door that’s been jimmied open. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Bell and this is Detective Sergeant Abbott,’ Dom shouts back. ‘We need to ask you some questions.’
‘Show me your ID. I know my rights.’
They produce their warrant cards and hold them up for him to read. Dom knows this isn’t a new experience for Hodge; his rap sheet for petty theft and aggravated assault is on the long side, especially considering he’s barely into his twenties.
When they’ve given him long enough to read, Dom yells, ‘Now can we come in?’
The door closes. A few seconds later the music stops. Dom hears the chain being unclipped, and the door reopens. The man from the pub CCTV image is staring back at them. He’s wearing grey jogging pants and an oversized hoodie; his feet are bare. He waves them inside. ‘Knock yourself out.’
My Little Eye Page 21