I raise an eyebrow. ‘Rough night?’
‘I guess so.’ He touches his cheek where the blonde slapped him, and winces. For the first time since I’ve been watching him, a smile twitches at the corners of his lips. ‘I was only trying to help.’
I take a drag on my cigarette. Smile back. ‘I guess some people don’t want to be rescued.’
He takes another drag. Shrugs as he exhales. ‘Yeah.’
‘If you’re thinking of making a habit out of doing the hero thing, you might want to think about getting a cape.’
This time his smile is broader. It makes him look younger, less hassled. ‘I’ll consider that, thanks.’
I laugh, but I’m confused; it comes easy, talking to him. ‘You’re welcome.’
‘So, has your night been better than mine?’
‘It’s been all right.’
‘That good?’
‘Almost that good.’
He stubs his cigarette out on the bin. ‘Look, do you fancy a drink or something?’
Yes, I do. But I don’t say that. If I go back inside with him, if I drink more and let my guard down, bad things could happen. I don’t want to show him who I really am. I don’t want to hurt him. ‘Thanks, but I’ve had enough of it in there for one night.’
He frowns, and the haunted look starts to take him over again. ‘Somewhere quieter, then?’
I hold his gaze as I battle with my choices. No. Yes. Maybe. I’m thinking that he’s broken, too, like me. But I’m a wolf in women’s clothing and he is just a man. I think about Wade saying it wouldn’t hurt to have a police contact of my own; right now I have an opportunity to make Dominic Bell that contact.
‘A pub?’ he asks. ‘My place?’
The choices circle in my mind: yes, no, maybe. Yes. No. Maybe.
Yes. I decide yes.
We drink. Him fast. Me slower. At first it felt awkward sitting on the black leather sofa here in his pristine flat with its laminate floor and magnolia walls. But as the first drink gave way to the second, and he put on some music – old stuff, Radiohead and the like, we’ve both relaxed. It’s bearable, no, more than bearable; it’s almost fun.
The more he drinks, the more he talks. I let him. Listen to him. Think how trusting he is to tell me these things, and how much I like that he’s telling me. Know it must be the alcohol that’s loosened his tongue.
‘It’s not that I don’t want to do it, you know? It’s just …’ He takes another gulp of whisky. ‘I wish I could bloody well sleep.’
‘Why can’t you?’
He doesn’t answer. His gaze is fixed on the telly in the corner. There’s an Xbox with one controller sitting on the laminate underneath.
I stay silent, giving him time. That’s what the books on interpersonal skills say to do – ask a question and allow the person the space to think about the answer. Keep your focus on them, even if they look away. Wait.
It doesn’t take long. He looks back at me. ‘All the stuff from work, it’s there when I close my eyes. I try to make sense of it, solve it, but … it’ll last as long as the job takes, I know. It always does. But this time, this job …’ He shakes his head. ‘I don’t know. It feels harder. I feel responsible, for everyone.’
He hasn’t told me what he does for a living and I’ve not asked. ‘So what’s different about this job?’
His eyes narrow at the question. He’s wary, suspicious. ‘I can’t tell you the details.’
I shrug. Look unbothered, even though I really do want to know what’s going on with him. He’s an interesting puzzle; an incongruent mix of controlled, strong detective and doubting, troubled man. Isolated like I am, perhaps. ‘OK.’
‘It’s just …’
I reach for the bottle of Glenfiddich and pour another measure into his glass. ‘You don’t have to tell me. I know what it’s like, that’s all. I’ve had insomnia since I was a teenager.’
‘How’d you manage?’
‘Sometimes well, other times not so much. There’s stuff you can try, CBT, meditation, white noise apps. Some people find it helps.’
‘And you?’
‘Sorry. Nothing consistent. The bad stuff always finds a way of breaking through.’
He looks concerned. ‘What bad stuff?’
Heat flushes across my cheeks. I don’t answer right away. I’m not sure I want to answer at all.
There’s a ticking sound against the laminate. I look in the direction of the noise and see a small black cat standing in the doorway. It’s staring at me, unblinking.
‘You don’t mind cats, do you?’
They make me uneasy. It’s like they can see my true nature. ‘No, it’s fine.’
As if on cue the cat stalks towards me. I keep very still. Try to act relaxed.
Dom scoops up the creature and plonks it onto his lap. ‘Sit here, BC.’
I raise an eyebrow. ‘BC?’
‘Short for Black Cat.’ He grins. ‘Not very imaginative, I know.’
I smile. ‘Indeed.’
The cat purrs as he strokes it. It’s still staring at me, eyes half-closed. Dom’s looking at me too. ‘So what was the bad stuff?’
I down some of my whisky. ‘I was in an accident when I was young. It messed up my memories. Stopped me sleeping.’
He leans closer. ‘And you blame yourself for what happened?’
I flinch. Shift back on the sofa, widening the distance between us. The leather squeaks beneath my bare legs. Questions fire rapidly into my mind. How could he know? Why is he asking me? Why have I told him anything? I’ve never told anyone this stuff.
‘Sorry. Look, I didn’t mean to pry. It’s just the not being able to sleep thing got worse for me after a … friend was hurt in an accident. It was my fault she got hurt. I should have protected her better.’
It’s OK, this isn’t about me, it’s about him. Somehow knowing that makes me want to tell him at least some of the truth. I exhale. ‘There was a fire.’
Dom nods and waits for me to keep talking.
I surprise myself when I do. ‘My father died.’
He puts his hand on mine. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘It was a long time ago,’ I say, moving my hand and picking up the bottle of Glenfiddich so I don’t have to look at him as I speak, so he can’t see the darkness of unspoken truths lurking behind my eyes. I top up my glass. When I go to fill his he shakes his head. ‘What about you?’ I ask. ‘Why do you think you should have protected your friend?’
‘Because that was my job. I was meant to be her back-up.’
Dirty copper. The words echo around my mind. I push them away. ‘So why didn’t you back her up?’
The haunted look is back in his eyes. ‘I got taken out first. Didn’t have my head in the game.’
Because you’re on the take?
I feel the adrenaline start to pulse through my veins. Try to control it. Grip my glass tighter to disguise the tremor in my fingers. ‘Why?’
Dom’s eyes dart from side to side as if he’s struggling to put what he’s thinking into words. The cat gets up and moves to the armrest beside him, its front paws needling their claws into the leather. Dom doesn’t seem to notice.
He exhales hard. ‘I’d been jerked around. I was pissed off.’
‘With her?’
‘Yeah, too right with her.’ He runs his hand through his hair, leaving a tuft at the back sticking up at a weird angle. ‘We’d argued the night before. Not about work. We had a thing, outside of work. Turns out she didn’t think it was as big a deal as I did.’
‘So you—’
‘I was thinking about what she’d said, and what I’d said the night before. Not concentrating enough on the situation we were walking into. That’s why they got the jump on me. How it got messed up. I keep trying to figure out how it went to shit so fast. There’s all this stuff that doesn’t fit together. They’re trying to blame me, but I think someone on the team was in on it … it’s making me crazy.’
He’s not d
irty. Someone is, though. I lean closer. ‘Who?’
‘I don’t know for sure.’
My heart’s hammering. My true nature is straining to be unleashed; wants to rip and tear and destroy whoever it is. I fight the urge. Stay outwardly calm. ‘But you’ve got an idea?’
‘I’ve got two, and neither are good. One’s meant to be a good mate. The other’s family.’
‘Shit.’
‘Yeah. It’s fucked up.’
‘Yep, that sounds like family.’
‘Yours are difficult then?’
I wait a long moment before I answer. ‘It’s complicated.’
‘Complicated how?’
I shake my head. I’m not going there. Not telling him those things.
‘Advice, then?’
I force a laugh. ‘Believe me, I’m the last person you’d want that from.’
‘You’re the only one here to ask.’
I make a show of looking round the empty room. ‘I guess I am. Well, for what it’s worth, I think you need to tell someone about your suspicions. You need to know the truth. I doubt you’ll be able to sleep well until you find out what really happened. Tell your boss; let them handle it.’
He rubs his forehead. ‘Yeah. I probably should tell someone.’
I finish my whisky. I’m thinking it should be my last. Any more, and bad things could happen. I smile at him. ‘You can always talk to me.’
He holds my eye contact until his phone buzzes and breaks the moment. Dom picks it up and, as he does, I read the message on the screen.
Watched the Black Rose dvd. Can’t see any connection. Parekh.
Dom curses under his breath.
I check my watch; it’s gone midnight. ‘Look, I should get going. Any chance of a tea first?’
He gets up. Weaves unsteadily out to the kitchen. Moments later I hear him switch on the kettle.
Reaching across the sofa, I pick up his phone and press the unlock button. The message has disappeared from the screen. The screen won’t unlock; it needs a passcode. I’m still trying to guess it when Dom returns with the tea.
THURSDAY
45
CLEMENTINE
He didn’t see me with his phone. We drank our tea but before I’d finished mine, Dom fell asleep. Now he’s slumped sideways on the couch, his head resting on my thigh. He looks relaxed, his usual frown lines gone. With most people, all people, I’m forcing the interaction with them – every gesture, every word is a chore. Tonight, with him, it’s been different.
I feel different.
It’s like the sensation you get when you’ve had a dead leg and the feeling starts to return, except this is throughout my whole body, across my skin and into my bones. I like him, I assume that’s what this ache breaking through the numbness means. I feel the beginning of something; a connection, perhaps.
I touch his face. Stroke the flecks of grey hair at his temple. He sighs in his sleep. His eyelids flicker, but he doesn’t wake.
‘You asked about my family, why it’s complicated. One of the reasons is money. When my father died he left me everything – his London flat, the Oxfordshire cottage, or what was left of it, the money in his accounts. When Mother discovered he’d cut her from his will she contested it.’ I look down at Dom, checking that he’s still asleep. His breathing is steady, regular. He hasn’t stirred. ‘Father’s legal team fought back. Mother didn’t see a penny. From the day she stormed out of that courtroom she’s never spoken to me.’
I trace my fingers across Dom’s forehead, over the faint imprints of the frown lines he wears so often while awake. I wish I could stay here, in this moment with him, but I know that I cannot.
Trust. It makes you vulnerable, weak.
There’s a pressure building in my chest; a surge of emotion threatening to overwhelm me and tip my carefully constructed world off its axis. I feel it coming and it terrifies me. What if I let go and he sees me for what I really am?
Crazy.
Evil.
Murderer.
However much I want to stay, I must not. I cannot allow myself to get close.
I remove my hand. Ease myself out from beneath him and stand up. The tingling feeling begins to subside. The numbness is returning. I tell myself that it’s better this way. If I’m to help True Crime London be the first amateurs to beat the police at solving a serial killer case, I need to use this situation to gain an advantage.
I scan the room for anything related to the case. There’s nothing obvious, and there are few places to look; the furniture is minimal – couch, television, Xbox, and a bookshelf against one wall stacked with fantasy novels – Tolkien, George R.R. Martin, Philip Pullman. There’s nothing soft about this room, no cushions or rug, no artwork. Nothing sentimental.
I glance towards the couch, checking Dom is still asleep. He is, but the cat has woken up and is watching me. From its disdainful expression I can tell it doesn’t approve.
‘Don’t judge me,’ I whisper, and step out to the hallway.
There’s nothing here either, nor in the kitchen. The whole place seems unnaturally tidy, too sterile and lacking in the debris of everyday life.
Dom is the only thing here connected to the Lover case. My jacket is hanging in the hall. I remove my phone and head back into the lounge to take a photo of him.
When I unlock the screen the notifications appear.
Crime Queen, Witness_Zero and two others posted in Case Files: The Lover.
Death Stalker sent you a private message.
I press the alert for Death Stalker’s message.
Death Stalker to @TheWatcher I need your help.
Death Stalker to @TheWatcher It’s URGENT. Reply asap. PLEASE.
I check the timestamps. One message was sent hours ago; the last one four minutes ago.
The Watcher to @DeathStalker What’s up?
Death Stalker to @TheWatcher She’s dead. I left it too late. Couldn’t stop him.
The Watcher to @DeathStalker You found the killer? Where are you?
Death Stalker to @TheWatcher I got more information on the brush. Went to dental surgery. I saw him there. Recognised him. I followed him. Watched him break in. I left it too long to go in there. She’s dead. DEAD!!!!!!
She, whoever she is, is dead. I try not to think about that, about what was done to her, because right now I need to know what Death Stalker discovered about the Lover.
The Watcher to @DeathStalker Where’s the killer?
Death Stalker to @TheWatcher I think he saw me.
The Watcher to @DeathStalker Who is he?
Three dots appear. He’s typing.
Come on. Hurry up. We could catch the Lover.
Death Stalker to @TheWatcher I ran.
The Watcher to @DeathStalker You wanted to catch him before the police. This is your chance.
No answer.
‘Come on, come on,’ I mutter. ‘Don’t bail on me now, not when we’re so close.’
Death Stalker to @TheWatcher She was still warm when I touched her. He’d just killed her. I was banging on the door, trying to get into her flat. He was in there. She was warm.
He’s losing it. Able enough to talk the talk, but crapping out when he has to step up.
The Watcher to @DeathStalker Who is he?
Death Stalker to @TheWatcher Not saying online, beware hackers. A window was open on to the balcony. He got away down the fire escape.
The Watcher to @DeathStalker Did you call the police?
Death Stalker to @TheWatcher No, we need to find him. Help me?
I exhale hard. Finally he’s thinking about finding the killer again.
The Watcher to @DeathStalker Yes
Death Stalker to @TheWatcher Meet me at my place. Basement flat. 248c.
A geotag pops up next to his message. Tapping the link, I open the maps app and find his location – it’s in east London, but only just, pretty close to Liverpool Street station. It won’t take long.
I grab my coat and boot
s. Ignore the nagging thought that this could be a set-up, that Death Stalker might not have told me the Lover’s name because he’s the killer and I might be walking into a trap. Glancing back at Dom, still sleeping on the couch, I wonder if I should leave a note. I decide against it. If Death Stalker is being honest, and we’re going to beat the police, I need to keep this from Dom.
The Watcher to @DeathStalker On my way. ETA = thirty minutes.
46
He is gasping. Running. Hiding.
She is ruined. All his planning wasted.
Frustration. Desire. Rejection.
The aching burns through his bones, more intense with every step. Heat scorches across his skin. His breath rises like clouds of ash into the frigid night.
How did they find us?
How did they know?
He has been so careful, disguised himself completely and hidden all his tracks, yet they found him out. He’s cleverer than that. Better than that. Should have been better than that.
He punches the wall. Bites back the pain but howls inside. Waits deep in the shadows beneath the fire escape. Hidden.
The source of his fury runs along the path on the other side of the street. They’re walking fast, glancing round every few paces; tense and scared and on the alert.
Revenge. Avenge. Destroy.
He yanks his hood down further over his face. Pulls his jacket tight around himself and clenches the handles of his bag harder, as if they’re a chicken’s neck to be snapped. They’re twenty yards ahead now, but they won’t get away.
He will put this right, and he will make sure no one else can find him.
Then he will have her again.
47
CLEMENTINE
I know Death Stalker could be bluffing. If he’s the killer, Death Stalker could have faked his distress to lure me to his home.
Wade told me to be careful. I am not being careful. I’m on Death Stalker’s street a few minutes from the Queen of Hoxton pub, standing outside a tattoo parlour. The next building is 248.
I go down the stone steps to the basement flat, halting when I see the door is ajar. I look around, but see no one. Listen hard, but hear nothing. The stone here is swept clean, in stark contrast with the leaf-strewn pavement at ground level. A grey blind is drawn across the window; there’s no way to see inside.
My Little Eye Page 24