My Little Eye

by Stephanie Marland

  One thousand, two hundred and seventy-three emails, 63 unread. I scroll through to the last ones read, work my way through those received between our meet in the café and his messages this morning. I find no mention of dentists or brushes.

  I search against keywords – dentist, brush. Still nothing. The lab sent Death Stalker the chemical formula for the powder found on the bristles, yet there’s no trace of it. I grab Death Stalker’s mobile from the desk and check his messages, his contacts, his FaceTime. There’s no reference to a laboratory. No lead I can follow.

  I put the phone down and stare at the laptop. Think. What else? What next? There has to be something here. Has to be.

  My mind circles back to the undercover operation. Switching windows, I return to the News Byte folder and search the files. Towards the bottom I find what I’m looking for – a document with Atlantis in the filename.

  Opening the document, I see it’s a cut and paste of an email trail – an exchange between Eastman and an officer in DI Bell’s team. I bite my lip as I recognise the name – Detective Sergeant Abbott.

  I read the mails. The first is timestamped the morning of Kate Adams’s death. In it, Glen Eastman is making contact with DS Abbott – he’s asking Abbott to tell him what’s taken the DI away from the crime scene early.

  I read through the exchange – DS Abbott saying there are rumours about Bell’s role in the failure of the Atlantis operation, promising he’ll try to find out more. Eastman urging him to hurry; DS Abbott using some salty language to tell him to back off, Eastman reminding him of their arrangement – the money he’s paying. What money, I wonder, and how does a freelance hack get the money to bribe a murder squad detective?

  The final email from the sergeant says virtually the same as the News Byte article, with one exception. Abbott makes references to a crime scene photo he’d sent that morning, and asks Eastman to confirm it’s been received. Eastman messaged back a single word: Yes.

  What photo? I scroll through the files but don’t find anything else mentioning Atlantis. I toggle back to his emails. Reordering them into date received, I search for the image from Abbott.

  Nothing.

  I slam my fist hard onto the trackpad. There’s a crunch, and a split appears, fracturing the casing across the side of the laptop. The pointer flickers and disappears off-screen.

  Damn. My hand’s throbbing. I rub it, massaging out the pain. Maybe Abbott didn’t email the picture. Grabbing Death Stalker’s phone, I open the text messages and swipe down to the day Kate Adams was killed.

  There it is. An image with four words: How we found her.

  The picture is Kate Adams. Not the pretty blonde shown in the newspaper articles. No, this is Kate Adams the corpse – lying naked on a bed, surrounded by rose petals and burning candles. Her hair is dyed the same mid-brown as in the mortuary photos. Her pubic hair is, too. But the biggest difference in this image is her make-up. In all the pictures used by the media she looked close to natural – a smudge of eyeliner, a touch of mascara. This photo is a complete contrast; heavy black eyeliner, peacock-blue eye shadow and thick black mascara. Her lips are stained a pinky-purple.

  I feel a quivering sensation in my chest. I cannot take my eyes off the picture of Kate Adams, but what I’m experiencing now isn’t the envy I felt from the mortuary photos. I’m feeling horror, disgust, a sickness in my stomach that’s making me heave. I can’t restrain the anger for the loss of this woman, this victim. I feel it fizzing in every pore as the sadness and fury take hold. I don’t understand why it’s happening, but I do know what it means.

  I have to find the Lover.

  I have to kill him.

  52

  DOM

  The witness lives in the first floor apartment. She’s an older lady, hard to age due to her botoxed face and shoulder-length chestnut hair, but from the creping around her neck he guesses she’s nearer seventy than sixty.

  She flirts with him. Chattering away as she makes him coffee, after having insisted on giving him a drink.

  Just tell me what you saw.

  But she doesn’t. She’s drawing it out – having a murder squad detective in her home is exciting. Her eyes are bright. She keeps touching her chest and her face as she speaks. He’s trying not to hate her. There’s nothing exciting about a corpse, three corpses, five corpses and counting. There’s loss, and pain, and anger, but never excitement. Never.

  Finally, the coffee is made and she leads him to a dainty wooden table. She waves a hand towards one of the spindly chairs. ‘Sit, please, Detective Inspector.’

  He does as he’s told, figures it’s the best way to keep her on side. The quicker he finds out what she knows, the sooner he can leave. ‘So, Mrs Edgecombe, DS Biggs tells me you witnessed someone entering Mr Eastman’s apartment earlier this morning?’

  ‘Yes, I saw her. Pretty young thing, she was.’

  Dom tries to mask his surprise. ‘Her? You’re sure it was a woman?’

  ‘I’m not completely senile, you know.’ She winks. ‘It surprised me, too – I always thought he preferred men.’

  Dom doesn’t comment. He takes a sip of his coffee. It’s too bitter. He puts it back on the coaster. ‘Lovely coffee,’ he says. ‘Could tell me what you saw, from the beginning?’

  She touches her fingers to her chest, playing with the lace of her collar. ‘Of course, Detective, it would be my pleasure.’

  He nods encouragingly.

  ‘I don’t sleep so well these days. I woke up, let me see, must have been around one o’clock, no, later, about two-thirty.’

  ‘And that was when you saw her?’

  ‘Indeed. I’d gone to get a glass of water and realised I’d not pulled the curtains at the front.’ She gestures to the long gold curtains dressing the front window. ‘So I go to do it, and that’s when I see her.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘She’s trotting down the steps to Mr Eastman’s.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘That’s all. I pulled the curtains and went back to bed.’

  ‘So you didn’t see her leave?’

  ‘No, as I told you, I went straight back to bed.’

  ‘Did you hear anything from downstairs?’

  She laughs. ‘No, but I hardly would, now would I? There’s another apartment between me and Mr Eastman. Even when he was having one of his parties it never bothered me.’

  ‘Parties?’

  She gives a wave of her hand. ‘You know how young people are, always gadding about. He had all sorts over, you know, but never the same ones, always different.’

  Dom nods. ‘Can you describe the woman you saw?’

  ‘Oh yes, I got a good look at her. She was about my height, I’d say. Slim, although not as slim as me.’ She gives a little laugh. ‘And she had dark hair.’

  ‘What was she wearing, can you remember?’

  She pats him playfully on the arm. ‘Of course, Detective Inspector, I’m not that old. She wore a great big coat with a fur trim around the hood. I don’t know what colour.’

  Mrs Edgecombe’s hand is still resting on his arm. He doesn’t mind; she’s been helpful, more so than he’d anticipated. ‘That’s great, thank you. You’ve been a star.’

  ‘Well, I do like to be useful.’ She flutters her eyelashes. ‘Now, can you tell me about the murder? What did they do to Mr Eastman, how did they kill him?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m not allowed to divulge that information.’ Dom moves his arm, causing her to remove her hand. Her excitement at her neighbour’s death sickens him. ‘It would be very helpful if you could give the description of the woman to one of our trained eFit officers, and work with them to get a good likeness. It would really increase our chances of finding her.’

  Mrs Edgecombe beams. ‘Of course, Detective Inspector, whatever I can do to help. Now would I need to come to the station with you to do that?’

  He’s back at the office by 10.30. The open plan is busy, every team member chasing down leads, conferring
over their notes, looking for new angles. Dom isn’t feeling the buzz, though; he feels knackered. The lack of sleep is messing with his head.

  Parekh accosts him on the way to his workstation and shoves a couple of forms in his face to sign. As he hands them back he says, ‘Team huddle in five. I need anything we’ve got that’s viable for the press conference.’

  ‘Yes, guv.’ She tucks the forms into her file and hurries away.

  Dom reaches his desk. That’s when he sees it.

  Propped against a stapler in the middle of the desk is a white envelope. His name, rank and address are printed dead centre. Private & Confidential has been stamped in the right-hand corner. Urgent is stamped on the left. He can take a good guess at what’s inside.

  He snatches up the envelope and tears open the top. Pulling out the pages inside, he scans them. He was right. It’s the transcript of his interview with Holsworth; the seeds of doubt he’d sown about Darren Harris laid out neatly in Times New Roman with double spacing.

  ‘Guv?’ Abbott says.

  Dom doesn’t acknowledge him. He speed-reads the letter paper-clipped to the front of the transcript. It tells him to sign the document to say it’s an accurate reflection of the interview, and bring it to a follow-up interview that afternoon at 4.30. The IPCC are looking to make a decision on their recommendations from the investigation by the end of the week. Dom wonders if Therese, Lindsay and Harris have received similar envelopes. He wonders what their letters say.

  ‘Hey, you OK?’ Abbott says, louder.

  ‘Yeah. Fine.’ Dom shoves the pages back into the envelope, folds it and tucks it into the inside pocket of his jacket. It feels as heavy as a brick. When he looks at Abbott he notices his eyes are focused on the spot where he put the envelope.

  ‘More IPCC crap,’ he says, then jerks his head towards the other end of the office. ‘Incident room. Pre-press briefing.’

  There’s not much time. They stay standing, grouped around the murder board. There’s a new photo on it: Eastman. Dom picks up a black marker pen. ‘OK, what’ve we got?’

  Parekh raises her hand.

  He points the marker in her direction. ‘Yep, go ahead.’

  ‘The make-up, Glam Max, is in very limited supply. If our killer is solely using Glam Max, they could have got hold of some old products from an ex or family member who’s been to South Africa, or they’ve ordered it and had it shipped. I’m trying to get a customer list from the only place selling the product online, but it looks like I’m going to need a warrant.’

  ‘OK, keep on it. Anything else?’

  She nods. ‘As far as I can tell Eastman wasn’t connected to Melissa Chamberlain romantically. I’ve spoken with her best friend. She confirmed Melissa did have a love interest, and that it was recent and got serious fast, but she’s adamant Melissa told her he was blond.’ She flips back through her notes. ‘Enzo Metiz alibis out, Patrick Bartlett too; for all of the murders.’

  ‘So they’re off the suspect list?’ Dom says. ‘Shit.’

  He puts a black cross through Enzo Metiz’s photo and Patrick Bartlett’s name. ‘Can you recheck the dentist link? Melissa’s dad mentioned she’d recently had dental surgery. I know we discounted it before as the victims had all visited different surgeries, but it’s come up again. It’s too much of a coincidence.’

  Parekh makes a note. ‘I’ll do that. I’ll also go through Kate’s phone records, and back through Zara Bretton’s and Jenna Malik’s, to check for patterns. I’ve got Melissa’s and Eastman’s phone and financials on urgent request, so that’s my evening sorted.’

  ‘All right, good.’ Dom looks at Abbott. ‘Any luck with the eFit?’

  ‘They’re still working, it’ll be ready soon.’

  Dom glances at the clock. It’s twenty to eleven. ‘Look, I need it now. We’ll have to work with whatever they’ve got so far. Can you nip down to the interview room and fetch it, and get enough copies to give to the media?’

  ‘Guv.’ Abbott gets up and hurries from the room.

  Dom turns to Biggs. ‘Anything else from the door-to-doors?’

  Biggs looks unusually solemn. ‘Nothing yet.’

  ‘OK,’ Dom says. ‘Anything else to add?’

  ‘I’m visiting the vic’s work in a bit. Got an appointment with her manager at three-thirty, so I’ll find out anything there that’s relevant.’

  Dom nods. ‘Thanks, guys. Keep going, yeah. We’ve got to be getting closer to this bastard. Keep on doing what you’re doing. We’ll—’

  The door opens. Jackson’s assistant pokes her head round the door. ‘He’s wondering if you’re ready, DI Bell?’

  ‘I’m coming.’ Dom looks back at the team. ‘We’ll regroup later. If you get anything meaningful in the meantime, call me, all right?’

  He’s in the corridor outside the press briefing room when his mobile starts vibrating. He pulls it out. Its buzzing sounds angrier than usual. Chrissie.

  Dom rejects the call and switches the handset off. As he’s tucking it back into his pocket, his fingers brush the folded envelope. How can he talk to Chrissie when he’s about to sign a witness statement for the IPCC that says Darren Harris knew Genk, that he was inside the building when he should have been outside; that he most likely was the inside man for Genk? It’ll wreck their lives. How can he do it to his own sister?

  Through the open doorway he sees the journos seated on rows of chairs laid out theatre-style, facing the raised area where he’ll sit beside Jackson. Every chair is full. The noise of chattering grows louder the closer they get.

  Pushing away thoughts of Chrissie and Harris, Dom takes a deep breath and steps into the lion’s den.

  53

  CLEMENTINE

  Death Stalker’s laptop is broken. I’ve reset his phone to factory settings and destroyed the SIM card. I cannot risk the police tracking it and finding me. They’ve found his body. I’ve seen tweets about a murder near Liverpool Street station, and there’s been some speculation on True Crime London. It’s not been picked up by the Case Files group yet, but then, why would it have been? The victim is male. That’s not the Lover’s MO, not usually. There are rumours about another female victim, though.

  Ghost Avenger posted in Case Files: The Lover

  Is there a fourth Lover victim? I just got to work so don’t have full details yet, but there could be another Lover victim. From what the duty manager just said in handover the police want a rush job done on her. Vital stats seem to tally with the other victims. I’ll find out more and report back.

  Robert ‘chainsaw’ Jameson Thanks GA. Not heard anything from @DeathStalker on this. He usually gives the heads-up.

  Crime Queen Not seen DS online today – anyone know where he’s at?

  Bloodhound Please untag me if you post pictures of the victim on this thread @GhostAvenger.

  Ghost Avenger Will do @Bloodhound.

  Ghost Avenger Not spoken to DS today @CrimeQueen.

  I don’t respond to the thread. Instead I pick up the paperback I took from Death Stalker’s home – Black Rose Chronicles. It’s seen better days; the pages are yellowed and the corners dog-eared. On the cover there’s a picture of a mansion in ruins, standing behind locked iron gates. Briars have grown over the ironwork, and among them are roses, withered and black.

  Inside the book is a printed copy of an email sent by DS Abbott. It gives information held back from the media – how the killer uses anaesthetic on his victims, and how he applies superglue to their lips and eyelids.

  The email refers to a retyped passage from the book – page 247. DS Abbott says the text was on a note found in Kate Adams’s hand, and that a black rose was left on Zara Bretton’s naked body. He says his boss believes the Lover is trying to recreate someone from his past. I think Dom’s right.

  I read the excerpt from the book. It’s romantic, wistful – a lover yearning for their love – and I wonder if that’s what the Lover believes himself to be.

  I’m still thinking about
it when a notification alert pings on my laptop:

  Crime Queen posted in Case Files: The Lover

  Crime Queen There’s a press conference starting. The Lover is the topic. It’s streaming live on www.capital-news-vlog.com

  I click ‘like’ beneath the update and open the vlog in a new window. This press conference has been put together fast. I wonder if they’ve connected Death Stalker with the case; if they’ve found the woman he said he had found dead.

  The press conference has already started. The video feed shows a long table with a bunch of serious-faced people in suits sitting behind it. One looks awkward, like he’d rather be somewhere else; it’s Dom.

  The older man sitting beside him looks more comfortable. He’s talking about the case. Giving the names of two more victims – Melissa Chamberlain and Glen Eastman – found in different locations but believed to be connected. He appeals for witnesses to come forward.

  I watch Dom. He’s doing his best to sit still – elbows on the table, hands clasped together – but his leg is jigging beneath the table.

  The camera moves away from the detective to focus on a man who can barely get his words out; his voice sounding increasingly strained as he talks about his daughter, Melissa. The effort of speaking about her looks like agony.

  The man stops speaking and the camera pans back to Dom.

  ‘… and so we’re appealing for this person to come forward,’ he says. ‘We believe they may have critical information that can help our investigation of Glen Eastman and Melissa Chamberlain’s murders.’

  I lean forward. Is this witness the person Death Stalker got his new information from? Could this be the lead I’ve been searching for?

  Dom is handed a sheet of paper. His expression changes from seriousness to shock. He blinks rapidly, fixes his expression back to serious and holds up an eFit picture. His voice sounds stilted as he says, ‘And so, I repeat, if this is you, or if you know who this person is, please call us immediately on the number that’s on your screen.’

  I exhale hard. Slump back in my chair. A freephone number appears along the bottom of the video feed, but I don’t register the sequence. I’m staring at the eFit.