I wonder if Death Stalker was right; if the Lover did see him. I wonder if the killer followed him home or if this is the killer’s home.
A frisson of apprehension ripples through me. Either way the killer could be here. I feel an overwhelming urge to turn and run, but I don’t. I have to check Death Stalker’s OK. I have to know what he discovered.
I nudge the door open with my toe and step over the threshold. I don’t call out. Instead I pad along the pockmarked laminate towards a door at the end of the hallway. I catch a glimpse of myself reflected in the glass of the black and white photos collaged along one wall, and flinch. Look away. Focus on the door.
As I get closer I hear music playing in the next room; a dance tune with a thumping beat. My own pulse pounds at my temples. With every step the anxiety builds inside me. I keep my breathing steady. Ignore the scratchiness at the base of my throat. Keep moving forward.
Reaching the door, I wait two beats before peering inside.
I see the knife first.
It’s lying on the white kitchen worktop, a pool of crimson beneath the blade. The metal is smeared with blood. Its contrast with the whiteness of the room is jarring – the white units and worktop of the kitchen, the white carpet in the living space beyond, the white couch that lines the opposite wall.
The tune changes to one I remember from the club. This isn’t fun. It’s dangerous.
I take a deep breath. Know that something very bad has happened here.
I can’t leave, though, not yet.
Five paces into the room, I spot him. He’s slumped on the floor beside the island unit: Death Stalker, or what’s left of him. I stare down at him. See the cuts zigzagging across his body, his throat and his arms. The white top he’s wearing is drenched in blood. The splatter has flicked across his jeans, drying reddish-brown.
I check the time on my phone. It’s three-quarters of an hour since he last messaged me. If the blood is already drying, the killer must have attacked him soon after. What if the killer is still here?
My legs feel weak, trembling, but I have to be sure. My breathing is rapid, shallow, as I force myself across the room to the bedroom, then the bathroom. I check that they’re empty. Use the end of my sleeve wrapped around my hand to open cupboard doors, checking every space.
There’s no one else here.
I go back to Death Stalker. Stand over him, careful to avoid the blood splatter on the floor, and check for signs of life. There are none. Given his wounds, he must have bled out in minutes. I stare at the macabre criss-cross of cuts. Unlike the victims in the photos Ghost Avenger posted online, Death Stalker does not look peaceful. His eyes are wide, his face contorted in agony. His release is not one I envy.
My stomach lurches and I feel a bitter tang in my mouth. The metallic smell of blood fills my senses, and I cannot stop myself from staring at it; the scarlet against the white purity of the floor tiles, the crimson against Death Stalker’s skin.
I think of Father. Crimson flames. Burnt skin turned black.
Fury ignites inside me and I lash out, kicking Death Stalker – a hard kick to the side of his thigh. He’s more solid than I’d anticipated. He hurts my toe, so I kick him again. ‘How could you do this? You’ve ruined everything.’
The track on the radio changes, the dance tune mixing into something slower. I gasp and it morphs into another sound – a sob. I feel a strange quivering sensation in my chest and recognise an unfamiliar feeling – sadness. I drop to my knees. Touch Death Stalker’s arm and realise that he’s already turning cold. My eyes start to water.
The pressure in my chest releases. The fury has gone. That’s when my brain kicks back in. When the police come they cannot connect Death Stalker to the True Crime London investigation. If they discover us they will shut us down. I need to remove every trace and leave. Fast.
Crouching down, I search his pockets for his phone and take it. I check the room for anything that could link us. Find his laptop by the sofa and snatch it. In the bedroom, I find a tatty paperback called Black Rose Chronicles. Given the text on Dom’s phone was about a Black Rose film, I assume the book is linked to the case. I take it too, stuffing it into the laptop bag I spot wedged between the desk and the wall.
I don’t look at Death Stalker as I hurry back through the kitchen. Now he’s just another victim, another inanimate piece of evidence. If True Crime London is to have any chance at solving this, we need the information that led Death Stalker to the Lover’s latest victim and caused the Lover to find and kill him.
I shiver, think about the increasing danger, and for a moment I consider the notion of walking away and disappearing. But I don’t. How can I, when that would mean Death Stalker bled out for nothing, died for nothing, and that our investigation comes to nothing?
No. I won’t let that happen. I’m in too deep to stop when we’re so close.
Hoisting the strap of the laptop bag onto my shoulder, I stalk out into the night.
48
DOM
There’s another noise. His mobile’s vibrating against the laminate floor. Reaching down, he grabs the phone and answers.
‘This is Bell,’ he says, rubbing his neck where it’s sore from sleeping with his head cramped against the armrest of the couch. He notices there are two glasses on the floor. Remembers the woman from the club; how they’d talked, he’d talked. Glancing around, he wonders if she’s still here. He can’t believe he fell asleep.
‘Guv, it’s Parekh.’ She sounds breathless, excited. ‘I thought I’d get in early and keep looking for reported thefts of controlled drugs.’
Dom glances at his watch; it’s almost 5.30 in the morning. ‘It’s very bloody early. What’ve you got?’
‘Nothing useful on the drugs yet, but uniform have just called. There’s been another attack, over near Farringdon. From the description of the scene and the victim it could be our guy.’
Fully alert now, Dom says, ‘Why aren’t they sure?’
‘This one, it’s not like the others.’
Parekh was right. As it is now, this crime scene isn’t the same as the others, but give it a couple more hours and it would have been.
What made him stop?
The apartment is in one of those merchant banker dormitory-type buildings – the traditional Victorian facade hiding an interior of uber-modern loft-style living spaces. Emily and Abbott have cleared the room where the victim was left. Dom stands on the threshold, ready to go inside. It’s a narrow area, little more than two yards wide; a walk-in dressing room, with rails of clothes lining the walls. On the shelves at the far end, clear plastic boxes filled with shoes are neatly stacked; there’s a photo of each pair taped onto the corresponding box.
She’s sitting at the dressing table. Abbott’s already got a preliminary ID: Melissa Chamberlain, twenty-five years old, working as a trainee solicitor for a well-known legal firm.
Dead.
Melissa’s head is slumped forward, her body held in place by the cable ties binding her wrists, ankles and throat to the high-backed chair. She’s wearing underwear, white cotton briefs and a pink lace bra. There’s a birthmark the size of a postage stamp above her left hip. A layer of concealer has been smeared over it. The shade is a few tones darker than her skin.
Dom takes three paces into the space. Now they’re alone, Melissa and him.
He tries not to overthink things. Keeps his mind clear and lets his brain freewheel, taking in the room. The dressing table is clear and spotlessly clean. A large flowery make-up bag is sitting on the carpet beside it. The overhead light and the spotlights around the mirror are blazing.
It’s him, isn’t it?
This feels different to the previous crime scenes, and not only due to the over-bright lighting. The whole energy of the place is strange, out of kilter.
Dom moves closer to Melissa. Her brunette hair is held back from her face by an Alice band and shines with the gloss of recent colour. It’s the same shade and length Jenna, Kate an
d Zara’s was altered to.
There’s a tightening in his chest. His hands start to tingle and he clenches his fists until he can feel his nails cutting into his palms.
Breathe deep. Get this done.
Dom kneels beside Melissa, twisting between her and the dressing table so he can look at her face. Her eyes are closed and only one has been made up. He peers closer, notices the eyeliner looks shakier and the eye shadow is smudged. Her mascara has run, leaving a tidemark of black dye across her cheek. There are black marks, he counts three, where it looks as though mascara tears have dripped from her jaw onto her chest. There’s a fourth on the lace trim of her bra.
Why leave her like this?
He hears the rustle of bootie-clad feet padding across the floor behind him. Ignoring whoever’s approaching, he stands, still looking at Melissa. The cable tie noose around her neck is new, different. Dom wonders why. The plastic has bitten into her flesh, blood is crusted around the wound. She must have fought back hard.
‘Different, isn’t it?’ Emily’s voice comes from behind him.
They never give me long enough.
Dom tries to hide the irritation in his voice, but fails. ‘Looks like she tried to fight off her attacker. Can you make sure her nails are checked for scrapings?’
‘I always do.’ The doc is standing a couple of feet away, gloved hands on her hips. ‘Something must have made him stop. I don’t think our vic’s struggling would have done it. He’d already got her into the chair. That would’ve been the hardest part.’
‘Maybe he was disturbed,’ Abbott says, stepping into the dressing room behind Emily.
‘Yeah, but something spooked him. You said the door was open when the first responders arrived?’
Abbott nods. ‘Wide open, they said.’
‘Did you see this?’ Emily steps closer to Melissa, and points to a needle-stick mark on the inside of her forearm. ‘He didn’t hide it this time, just shoved it straight into the easiest vein.’
The guilt punches Dom in the gut so hard he almost doubles over. He could have prevented this; should have got this killer already. He stares at Melissa, at her slumped shoulders, her bound wrists, the bloodied noose around her throat.
Who did this?
Why?
I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.
He swallows hard. Looks back at Emily and Abbott. ‘He knew he wasn’t going to finish his routine, but he killed her anyway.’
‘She’d have seen his face, wouldn’t she?’ Abbott says.
Dom doesn’t respond.
Abbott clears his throat. ‘So far we’ve got no eye witnesses and no next of kin. I’ll get the uniforms started on door-to-doors as soon as it’s light.’
Dom looks at his sergeant. ‘Who called this in?’
‘One of the neighbours,’ Abbott says. ‘They heard some banging, and a man shouting. Thought it was a domestic.’
49
DOM
On the murder board, a picture of Melissa Chamberlain has joined those of Jenna Malik, Zara Bretton and Kate Adams. The photo is from her graduation. It shows a smiling young woman with naturally blonde, straight hair, wearing minimal make-up. Her eyes are bright, and filled with hope. They’re staring right at him. He wants to look away, but won’t let himself. Her gaze delivers the sucker punch of failure.
Abbott clears his throat.
Dom looks away from the board. The team come back into focus. Abbott’s biting his bottom lip. Biggs hasn’t shaved; his stubble is patchy and unkempt-looking. Dom knows they were called in early, but it still irritates him. He makes an effort to keep his tone calm as he says, ‘Yes, Sergeant?’
‘Shall I kick off, guv?’ Abbott’s got his pad open, ready.
‘Go ahead.’
‘So we’ve got a fourth victim. Melissa Chamberlain. She was twenty-five, single and worked as a trainee solicitor. Her dad’s a single parent, lives in Surrey. The local police have made contact and he’s on his way here to make the formal identification.’
‘Do we know when he’s likely to arrive?’ Dom asks.
‘Close to seven-thirty, I’m told. The post-mortem’s scheduled for eight o’clock. Dr Renton’s shifted her schedule to get it done early.’
‘Thanks for bringing us up to speed.’ Dom looks around the team: they might be knackered, but they’re looking attentive, apart from Biggs. ‘As you know, this scene was different. Melissa was part way through the transformation, her hair was dyed but her make-up only half-complete. The door was open, the window onto the Juliet balcony, too, so it’s likely he left in a hurry, either out the front or down the fire escape. We need to know why.
Parekh raises her hand.
‘Go on,’ Dom says.
‘The call came from the neighbour in the adjoining apartment, Lacey Beck, at 2.19 this morning. She heard shouting and thought it was a domestic. She’s given a statement. She also told me the camera on the entry system isn’t working – it was reported to the building manager a few days ago. I had it checked and she’s right, so there’s no video of the killer. But I’ve asked for the CCTV around the building and neighbouring streets to be pulled. I should have it in the next few hours.’
Abbott’s phone starts ringing. He moves to the back of the room, turning away from the team as he answers.
Dom continues, ‘Biggs, can you get over to the crime scene and work with the uniforms on the door-to-doors? Make sure they’re asking about more than just last night – we need to know how Melissa lived, what her routine was.’
Biggs rolls his eyes. ‘I know how door-to-doors work.’
‘I don’t expect any mistakes, then.’ Dom looks back to Parekh. ‘Did anyone pick up anything useful from the Black Rose film or the book?’
Parekh shakes her head. ‘I read the book cover to cover and didn’t notice anything that connects with the case. The make-up is wrong for the period, the setting is different and none of the women’s descriptions fits our victims. I watched about half an hour of the film and saw nothing there.’
‘So we’re saying it’s a dead end?’
‘I think so.’
‘All right. Park it for now then. Concentrate on Melissa Chamberlain, and on Patrick Bartlett’s alibis – find out if he knew Melissa.’ He looks at Biggs. ‘When you’re done with the door-to-doors go over to Masters and Rubenstein and find out what you can about Melissa from them – colleagues, friends, her habits and work assignments.’
‘Right.’ Biggs is typing on his phone. From this angle it looks like the name at the top of the screen is Lindsay.
Do they know each other? Is Biggs passing Lindsay information? Is one of them feeding the details to the press? Is Biggs the sieve? Dom can’t think about that right now, but knows he’ll have to tackle Biggs about it later. Shit. ‘Look for anything that could connect her with the other victims.’
Biggs looks up. ‘Understood.’
‘We’ve got something, guv,’ Abbott says, rejoining the group. ‘That was the crime scene manager. They’ve found a latent print on Melissa’s dressing table. It isn’t hers.’
‘How long until we know?’
‘They’re expediting it – an hour, maybe two.’
Dom looks at Parekh. ‘Can you chase them in an hour?’
‘Will do. I’ll put in a request for Melissa Chamberlain’s phone and financial records, too.’
‘Good.’ Dom looks at Abbott. ‘We’ll need to get over to the identification and the PM, you OK with that?’
Abbott nods. ‘Of course.’
‘Right, let’s get to it. Our killer’s claimed another victim, but didn’t finish his ritual. He’s likely to be frustrated and angry. He’s going to kill again, and it’s going to be soon. We have to catch him. Failure can’t be an option.’
An effort has been made to make the public entrance to the mortuary look more welcoming than the business end, but it doesn’t really pull it off. Like a party dress on a pig, the grey carpet and orange curtains can’t disguise the bui
lding’s true identity. The double-width parking spaces outside with plaques saying Ambulance and Funeral Directors are not at all subtle.
Mr Chamberlain has to walk past them to get inside. Not that they will distract him from what he’s come here to do. How could it? His daughter is dead.
Dom spots him as he comes through the door. Walking beside him is a uniform; a short bloke with glasses. He removes his hat as he enters the building.
Dom hates this bit. There’s nothing he can say to make the situation any better; never knows if a handshake is a good thing or not. It doesn’t get easier with time. No one should ever have to outlive their own child.
The uniform recognises him. ‘Detective Bell? I’m PC Drayton.’
He nods at Drayton, and with his eyes on Mr Chamberlain says, ‘I’m Detective Inspector Bell and this is my colleague Detective Sergeant Abbott. Thank you for coming.’
The words feel too sparse, inadequate, but they do the job.
Mr Chamberlain asks, ‘Where is she?’
He wants to get it over with. Dom understands that. Until he sees her, and confirms it’s his daughter, he’s in limbo, waiting to know whether it’s really true.
‘This way, please.’ Dom leads him out of reception and along the corridor. There’s no carpet here, instead vinyl tiles squeak beneath Mr Chamberlain’s shoes. The noise seems comic, inappropriate for the situation. No one speaks.
Dom stops when they reach the fourth door on the right. He looks at Mr Chamberlain. ‘Are you ready to do this?’
‘Yes.’ Mr Chamberlain’s voice sounds tight, like it’s a struggle to force out the word.
Dom opens the door and leads him inside.
The room is painted lavender. It’s small with three chairs along the far wall and a purple curtain drawn across what looks like a window. They halt next to the curtain.
Dom explains the process. He asks Melissa’s father if he understands, and he nods.
Abbott pulls the cord and the curtain opens. On the other side of the glass the young woman lies on a metal gurney, a white sheet covers her from toes to shoulders. She looks different to the last time Dom saw her: the mortuary technician has taken samples of the make-up used by the killer and cleaned it from her face.
My Little Eye Page 25