My Little Eye

by Stephanie Marland

  They walk through the boxy hallway, past a cat litter tray that looks like it’s not been emptied in weeks, and into the living space. It’s sweltering hot, the heating cranked up full blast. Over by the window, a skinny girl in tiny denim shorts and a vest is lounging on a scuffed leather sofa, painting her toenails. She doesn’t look up. Beside her is a ratty-looking dog. It fixes Dom with its beady eyes and starts to yap.

  Dom halts. ‘We need to talk about Saturday night. Where were you?’

  Hodge narrows his eyes. ‘What’s it to you?’

  ‘We’re investigating a murder.’ Dom keeps his tone conversational, but straightens up, squaring his shoulders, just in case the bloke’s thinking of trying something. ‘So just answer the question, mate.’

  ‘I was down ’Spoons, OK.’ Hodge turns and shouts to the girl. ‘Shut that little runt up, will you, it’s doing my head in.’

  Ignoring the kissing noises the girl starts making to the dog, Dom keeps focused on Hodge. ‘You were there all night?’

  ‘I reckon. Went there after work, stayed till they closed.’

  Abbott jots down what he’s saying. Hodge’s gaze flits to him. He frowns.

  ‘Were you alone?’ Dom asks.

  Hodge laughs. ‘Nah, course not. I was with some mates, and my bird.’

  Dom turns to the girl. Avoids looking at the dog. ‘Is that right?’

  The girl shrugs. ‘Why’d you want to know? He didn’t murder no one.’

  Dom keeps eye contact with her. Waits. She looks young, eighteen, maybe less. Her expression is a mix of defiance and indignation. He wonders if that’s her default attitude or whether she’s switched it on for their benefit, if there’s something she’s trying to hide.

  She rolls her eyes. ‘Fine, I was with him.’

  ‘What about after the pub shut?’ Abbott asks Hodge.

  ‘Got a kebab, came home.’

  Dom keeps looking at the girl. ‘And you?’

  ‘What he said.’ She licks her lips, slow and provocative. ‘I was with him. All. Night. Long.’

  Dom doesn’t acknowledge the girl’s comment. He looks at Hodge and says, ‘We’d like you to take a look at a picture, mate.’

  Abbott takes Kate Adams’s photo from his pocket and hands it to Hodge. ‘Do you recognise her?’

  He shakes his head. ‘Nah.’

  ‘What’s that?’ The girl slams the bottle of nail polish onto the wooden floor and glares at Abbott. ‘You saying my man, like, knows this bitch?’

  Abbott ignores her and asks Hodge, ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Course.’ Hodge looks shifty. ‘I never seen her, honest.’

  The girl jumps up from the sofa and struts over to Hodge, the dog at her heels, yapping again. She snatches the picture. ‘Who’s the bitch? Tell me you didn’t put your dick in this skank?’

  Dom steps sideways, away from the dog. ‘She’s a murder victim.’

  The girl spins to face him. ‘He’s not been shagging her?’

  ‘She was at the Wetherspoons the night before she died,’ Abbott says.

  Dom’s aware the girl is giving Hodge the evil eye. He ignores her and says to Hodge, ‘Did you see her?’

  ‘Like I said, not that I remember.’ He turns to the girl. ‘Woman, I don’t know her, and I ain’t shagging her.’

  The girl is scowling. She looks at Kate’s photo again, then back at Hodge. After a long moment she smiles. ‘Course not, ugly bitch like that.’

  Dom feels his heart rate rising. This girl has been told Kate Adams is dead and she’s bloody smiling. It makes his skin crawl. He takes Kate’s photo from the girl. Looks from her to Hodge, trying to keep the anger from his voice as he says, ‘Give the names of these friends who can verify where you were to DS Abbott.’

  Abbott takes the girl’s name and the names of their friends; three blokes and two women. As she notes down their contact details, Dom scans the flat. It’s messy as hell – old plates crusty with leftovers, crumpled beer cans beside a heap of musty washing that’s not been hung up. Roll-ups in the ashtray that don’t look like plain tobacco.

  Dom’s got a hunch. Hodge’s defensiveness isn’t linked to Kate, he’s fairly sure on that, but there’s something he doesn’t want Dom to know. ‘Tell me where you were standing in the pub that night?’

  Hodge glances at his girlfriend, then shakes his head. ‘Dunno.’

  He sounds nonchalant, but Dom saw the way he tugged at the bottom hem of his hoodie; a nervous tick.

  ‘Sure you do.’ Dom looks pointedly at the ashtray and back to Hodge. ‘Just take a moment to think.’

  The girl saunters away, flopping down onto the sofa again. Dom can tell she’s trying to look as if she doesn’t give a shit, but he’s not buying it.

  He says more firmly, ‘Mr Hodge, tell me where you were standing.’

  Hodge tugs the hem of his hoodie again. ‘I don’t want any trouble, it’s just a bit of fun with my—’

  ‘Look, mate. Right now I’m not interested in whatever you were selling, what I want to know is where you were standing.’

  ‘Midway along the balcony.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why’d you think?’

  ‘I’d like you to tell me.’

  Hodge exhales hard. ‘The camera has a blind spot, everyone knows it.’

  Everyone knows it. Shit.

  Dom glances at Abbott. He nods. They’re both thinking the same; the killer could have known about the blind spot, too. He could have been at the pub, standing on the balcony, and if he’d avoided the front entrance, maybe sneaked in through a fire door, then it’s possible he wouldn’t be caught on CCTV anywhere.

  Abbott pulls into the postage stamp of a car park a few hundred yards from the office and switches off the engine. They haven’t spoken on the drive back. Not since Tommy Hodge slammed the door behind them. Little shit. He and his sulky girlfriend hadn’t given a crap that a woman had been murdered, and trying to get a straight answer out of either of them had been a nightmare. Pointless, too. Tommy Hodge was just another dead end.

  Abbott twists to face Dom as he releases his seat belt. He looks as disappointed as Dom feels. ‘I’ll contact the names Hodge gave us and make sure his story checks out. I’ll look on the CCTV, too, confirm the girlfriend was there like she said.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Dom says. ‘And let the Drug Squad know about his little business. They might want to check it out.’

  ‘I’m on it.’

  They head towards the building. As they approach the entrance, Dom recognises the bloke with a pudding-basin haircut loitering by the steps. Their eyes meet. There’s a flicker of recognition on the bloke’s face, and he bounds forward.

  Dom speeds up, lengthening his stride so that Abbott has to hurry to keep up.

  ‘What is it?’ he asks.

  Dom keeps his eyes on the door. His expression’s grim. ‘Bloody reporter, incoming.’

  The guy cuts them off, and thrusts a voice recorder into Dom’s face. ‘DI Bell? I know you’re very busy, but if you could just—’

  Dom sidesteps him. The reporter’s yakking away, but Dom keeps walking. ‘Speak to the press office. They’ll answer your questions.’

  ‘About Operation Atlantis?’

  Dom slows. How does this freelancer know the codename Atlantis? That information was never in the public domain.

  The bloke’s trotting alongside him, keeping pace. ‘That other DI’s out of the coma now, isn’t she? Therese Weller? The hospital told me she’s doing well. That must be a relief? You were close, weren’t you?’

  He glares at the reporter. Clenches his fists to stop himself from throttling him. The bastard’s grinning, like he knows stuff he shouldn’t, stuff about Dom, and about Therese. Who the hell is leaking this stuff?

  Dom shakes his head. ‘No comment.’

  ‘Really? I’d have thought you’d want to—’

  ‘I said, no comment.’ Dom leaps up the steps and shoves the door into the foyer hard. The glass
rattles in its frame as it swings open. As he looks back he sees the freelancer standing on the other side, watching him. He raises his hand and gives Dom a little wave.

  The atmosphere in the incident room is sombre. It’s gone seven and the team’s energy is flagging. Dom understands that, he feels the same, but they can’t slow now; they’re still so far from an arrest.

  He’s sitting on the table at the front, his usual perch. ‘I know you’re all knackered. We’ll make it quick tonight.’

  There are nods from the team. Even Biggs looks grateful.

  ‘OK, good,’ Dom says. ‘I’ll kick off, then. Abbott and I checked out Tommy Hodge – one of the IDs Jon Leighton made – but it’s a dead end. He’s been alibied out by his girlfriend and a handful of others.’ He looks at Parekh. Notices there’s a bag of Maltesers open on the table beside her. ‘You checked out Leighton’s story, didn’t you?’

  She refers to her notepad as she gives her report. ‘Leighton checks out. His alibis are good for all three murders. He was staying at his parents’ house when Jenna Malik was killed, and out with work colleagues until 3 a.m., and 2.30 a.m., on the nights Zara Bretton and Kate Adams died.’

  Abbott catches Dom’s eye.

  Dom nods. ‘Yeah, go ahead.’

  ‘No luck in getting hold of the member of staff at the Wetherspoons Leighton identified – Enzo Metiz. He’s not answering his phone, although the pub say that’s normal, it’s his day off. The assistant manager confirmed Metiz was working the night Kate Adams was there, so I’ve asked them to contact me when he reports for work tomorrow. Till then I’ll keep trying to get hold of him.’

  ‘All right.’ Dom picks up a marker and puts a black cross through the picture of Tommy Hodge. Turns back to the team. ‘What else have we got?’

  ‘It might be nothing, but I’m having trouble confirming Patrick Bartlett’s alibis for each of the murders,’ Parekh says. ‘And he’s eaten at the sandwich place Zara Bretton worked at a few times. I don’t think we can discount him yet.’

  Dom nods. ‘Keep on it.’

  ‘I’m still waiting on phone records for Kate Adams,’ Abbott says. ‘They’re promising me them tomorrow.’

  ‘OK.’

  Biggs clears this throat.

  Dom looks at him. He’s sitting alone at the back of the group, arms crossed over his gut, a bored expression on his face. Dom nods.

  ‘I looked into Stax’s revised alibi, and talked to the girl he was shagging,’ Biggs says. ‘It’s legit. I spoke with some of his colleagues, and they confirmed it. They apologised for not telling us before.’

  ‘Thanks, Biggs. Good work.’ Dom can barely spit the words out, but with everything else going on he can’t afford a shitstorm over Biggs.

  Biggs nods, accepting the praise like he’s not a lazy bastard. Dom looks away, seeking out Abbott again. ‘Anything from the drug theft searches?’

  ‘Nothing reported for the anaesthetics we’re interested in.’

  ‘All right,’ Dom says. ‘How about the lab?’

  Parekh opens a file. She flicks through the papers and pulls out a yellow form. ‘Nothing on that latex compound, but we got some details on the glue and make-up.’

  ‘When did they come in?’ Dom’s voice is gruff, showing his frustration. Lab work coming back; Parekh should have told him immediately. She’s a good detective – hard-working. Her making a rookie mistake is bloody irritating.

  ‘About an hour ago, while you were interviewing Tommy Hodge. Perhaps I should have called … I’m sorry.’ She looks flustered as she fumbles with the file. Her cheeks colour as she scans the pages. ‘There’s nothing critical, I don’t think, but I’ve got the details here, I can run through them.’

  ‘All right,’ he says, his tone a little softer. An hour’s OK, it’s reasonable to have waited for him to get back if there’s nothing critical. ‘What’ve we got?’

  ‘The glue has been identified as Crystal Stick.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘That’s it, really. Crystal Stick is the second-biggest selling superglue in the UK. The lab has identified it as the current formula, so it’s been bought within the last three years as the formula was slightly different before that.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘They’ve confirmed the same glue was used on all three victims.’

  ‘And the make-up?’

  Parekh picks up the other sheet of paper. ‘That’s more interesting. Unlike before, this time the lab’s been able to identify the brand. It’s Glam Max.’

  ‘What do we know about it?’

  ‘Not much. Glam Max wasn’t widely sold in the UK. It was made by a South African manufacturer who went bust in the late nineties. I did a quick Google search but couldn’t even find any for sale on eBay.’

  ‘So are you saying the cosmetics were bought in South Africa?’

  Parekh meets his gaze. ‘It’s possible, but I need to dig more to be sure.’

  Dom nods. ‘Quick as you can.’

  ‘Oh, and copies of the Black Rose Chronicles and DVDs of the film arrived,’ Parekh says, tapping the pile on the table beside her.

  ‘I’ll have a copy of the DVD,’ says Dom. ‘Everyone take something to read or watch tonight. Be vigilant for anything that might link to the case. And Parekh, chase Patrick Bartlett’s alibis, that’s the priority.’

  ‘Yes, guv,’ Parekh says as she passes Dom a DVD, then hands out the rest of the pile to the team. Biggs starts grumbling when she hands him a book.

  Ignoring Biggs, Dom looks round the team and, trying to inject a bit of enthusiasm into his voice, says, ‘If there’s nothing else, then I’ve got one more thing. The DCI has called a press conference for 1100 tomorrow. It’ll be the full works – cameras, relatives, and so on – you know the drill. We need more before that. Anything you find that could be useful information to release, talk to Parekh. We’ll regroup first thing to see what we’ve got, and make a plan from there.’

  Pulling out his phone, Dom checks the screen. He’s got a new message – it’s from Therese: Got discharged so I’m back home. Thought you might want to know. Didn’t want you turning up at UCH to find me gone.

  He stares at the words, almost oblivious to the team leaving the room. He can’t put it off any longer. He needs to know if she’s been playing him all these months.

  40

  CLEMENTINE

  I wasn’t going to come. I only told Death Stalker I would to keep him onside. After the day I’ve had, though; the frustration of calling over fifty dental practices and cosmetic surgeries pretending to be a Dentiflex sales rep, and finding that not one of them use Dentiflex products, I needed to do something. Even this, sitting in the bus shelter across the road from the police building, feels more productive than the past few hours.

  Maybe that’s why I’m content to sit here a while and stare at the building. It’s one of those pale brick and glass constructions, sandwiched between a line of shops and an ugly sixties office block. The rush hour bustle is over. The street is dark and getting more deserted as the time edges closer to eight o’clock.

  It’s late. I wasn’t expecting to see him.

  He’s wearing different clothes, but it’s definitely him striding out of the building. His gaze is on the ground as he hurries down the stone steps. He doesn’t see me, but I’m watching. I see you, Detective Dominic Bell, and I wonder where it is you’re going.

  He takes a left at the bottom of the steps, and, as he turns to hail a cab, I catch a glimpse of his expression. It’s one I can recognise. He looks haunted, remote. I’ve seen that expression on my own face. It’s there every time I wake from the nightmares and rush to the bathroom to vomit; staring back at me from the mirror as I splash water on my face. I saw it on Father’s face, too.

  Dirty copper.

  Is Dominic Bell dirty too? I want to know what he’s done. Why he did it.

  I don’t want to have to hurt him.

  Cabs are plentiful in this part of town. The c
abbie driving mine is far too chatty, and I’m really not in the mood. Still, that he showed up as Dominic Bell was leaving was lucky, as was his reaction to my instruction to follow the cab in front – a raised eyebrow and no questions. We’ve been driving fifteen minutes, heading south.

  Every now and then the cabbie glances in the mirror at me. He’s doing it now. I look down at the floor, avoiding eye contact.

  He clears his throat. ‘Off on a night out then?’

  I pretend I haven’t heard. Stare harder at the grainy rubberized floor.

  ‘Meeting friends?’ His voice is louder this time, and I realise he’s not going to stop trying until he’s got a reaction.

  I avoid the mirror, looking directly at him instead, at the distressed collar of his leather jacket and the back of his shaved head. The close crop doesn’t quite disguise his bald patch. ‘Something like that.’

  He nods, and for a moment I think he’s done. Then he gestures outside. ‘Bad weather, isn’t it? Worst November for rainfall in ten years, they’re saying. Not a problem for me, mind. Makes for good business. People don’t want to be walking in this.’

  ‘I guess not.’

  ‘I’ve done this job six years and it’s the worst I’ve seen.’

  I stare past him, through the rain-splattered windscreen, watching Dominic Bell’s cab turn right down a side street. Oncoming traffic stops us following. The cab is getting away. Its rear lights disappear from view behind the buildings. I grip the plastic seat, digging my nails in tight. We can’t lose him now. I can’t lose him. ‘Can you—’

  The cabbie spots a gap and lurches us across the road. He floors the accelerator. The doors rattle as we bump over a hole in the tarmac, and I feel a twist of tension in my stomach. I ignore it. Clutch the seat harder as we swing round a bend.

  ‘That’s them. Parked up on the left there.’ The cabbie sounds triumphant.

  He’s right. Twenty metres ahead, Dominic Bell is climbing out of the cab. ‘Can you stop here? I don’t want to get too close.’

  He pulls over. Keeps the meter running.

  I watch as Bell’s cab pulls away. The detective glances left and right along the road, then strides across. It’s a residential street, terraced houses on both sides. He stops in front of a purple door. Knocks.