It’s a picture of me.
The notifications keep pinging on my laptop. I press mute. Need silence. I have to think through how I’m going to handle this.
I stare at the video feed from the press conference. The screen is paused and from the shock on his face, I can tell Dom knows the eFit is me. The thought makes me feel sick. What must he think? What does he believe me capable of?
He knows what you are. Murderer.
No. It wasn’t me. Not this time. I want to stop more women getting killed.
I click on the notifications, and let them take me to the Case Files: The Lover page. Beneath Crime Queen’s post about the press conference the replies are increasing.
Crime Queen @DeathStalker is dead. Eastman was him IRL. I just can’t believe it. How did it happen?
Robert ‘chainsaw’ Jameson That eFit looks like @TheWatcher. Seems weird. What would she have been doing at his home? I didn’t think any of us knew where he lived.
Bloodhound What the hell’s going on? Does this mean the Lover is on to us? Who spoke to DS last? What leads was he working on?
Justice League @DeathStalker’s dead? I’m stunned. It’s too horrible.
Robert ‘chainsaw’ Jameson Do you think, @GhostAvenger, that eFits are reliable? There have been instances when they point investigations towards the wrong person. How convinced should we be that @TheWatcher has some hand in this?
Ghost Avenger There’s always room for human error, but it’d be quite a coincidence.
Witness_Zero: I guess it depends on what @TheWatcher was doing near @DeathStalker’s place, doesn’t it? Perhaps they have a thing? @TheWatcher – tell us what’s going on.
Robert ‘chainsaw’ Jameson She seemed nice.
Bloodhound She did.
Crime Queen They’re linking @DeathStalker’s murder to the Lover killings. Do you think she’s the Lover?
Justice League This is ridiculous!! How can you suspect @TheWatcher? She’s one of us. It has to be a mistake.
Robert ‘chainsaw’ Jameson How could she be – the Lover sexually assaults his victims. At most, she’d be working with him.
Bloodhound Could it be a woman? Could the Lover use, erm, implements?
Robert ‘chainsaw’ Jameson IMPLEMENTS???? @Bloodhound?
Bloodhound Some kind of dildo?
Crime Queen I’m thinking about calling the hotline.
They’re talking like I’m not here, watching. Maybe they find it easier to talk about me rather than confront me. I light a cigarette and take a long drag, holding it in until the smoke burns the back of my throat. I count to ten and exhale slowly, controlling the smoke’s release. I have to respond.
The Watcher It isn’t what it looks like
Crime Queen @TheWatcher EXPLAIN YOURSELF!
I stare at the shouty capitals and know I have to take charge of the situation. These people know what I look like and where I live. I cannot let them turn on me.
The Watcher He asked me to come, but he was dead before I arrived. There was nothing I could do.
Crime Queen So you left him there alone. YOU JUST LEFT HIM. YOU COULD HAVE STAYED. YOU COULD HAVE CALLED FOR HELP.
Even I can read the emotion in her reply. I wonder if Crime Queen and Death Stalker knew each other better, other than just from True Crime London. I click over to the private message screen and send her a DM.
The Watcher to @CrimeQueen I am sorry, believe me. He must have died almost instantly. There was nothing I could do. If there had been, I would have done it.
No reply. I’ve lost her, and if she wants me out, I’ll be cast from the group, maybe tipped off to the police. I need to get in front of this, address the situation so I can get on with finding the killer. I’m alone now, just as I always have been. It’s probably better this way.
I toggle back to the Case Files: The Lover page and type a comment to the group.
The Watcher I’m going to the police. There are things they need to know.
54
DOM
Dom legs it as soon as the cameras are switched off. The journalist’s questions, and accusations, still echoing around in his mind: Why haven’t you made an arrest? Don’t you think you should have identified more suspects? Why can’t you match the DNA? Shouldn’t someone better take over? They jostle with questions of his own: Who is she? Why was she at Eastman’s flat? How does she fit with the case?
His head’s pounding. He rubs his forehead and tries to think about it logically, but it doesn’t make sense. The woman in the eFit was at the club, too. It was a chance meeting; it couldn’t have been planned, set up, could it? He took her to his home. Told her things. Liked her.
When did I become such a bad judge of character?
He’s been compromised, that’s the way the press will see it. Jackson, too. He’s been in contact with a witness, or a suspect, in the hours before they were seen at a crime scene. Alone with them, getting drunk with them and, if the press gets a hold of it, they’ll make out he was screwing her too. Jackson would have no choice but to take him off the case. He can’t have that.
But if he fails to disclose and it gets out, he’ll never survive it. Professional Standards will be all over him. Then the media coverage will become all about him, and he’s the last person they should be concentrating on: it’s about Jenna, Zara, Kate and Melissa. Eastman, too. It’s about getting justice, but the journos won’t give a shit. They’re already hell-bent on making him the story, looking for a way to sensationalise it even more. If they discover his link to the eFit woman they’ll succeed.
Behind him, the noise increases as people start to spill out from the briefing room into the corridor. He hears footsteps behind him.
‘Bell?’ Jackson’s voice is raised above the chatter. Closer, too.
Dom turns. ‘Sir?’
Jackson’s expression is grim. He nods towards his office. ‘In my office, now.’
Jackson plonks himself down onto his throne-like chair. On the desk, neatly lined up around his computer, smiling faces in silver-framed photographs look up at him like loyal subjects: his four daughters, his wife, his two Yorkshire terriers. But Jackson isn’t smiling. When he speaks, his voice is calm with a core of steel. ‘Is it my imagination or didn’t we talk before about how I don’t like being surprised?’
Dom’s stomach flips. Has Jackson discovered he knows the woman in the eFit? Surely it’s too soon. ‘We did speak about it, yes.’
Jackson holds his gaze. ‘You taking the piss, Bell?’
‘No, I’m just being accurate.’
‘You didn’t think to tell me about the eFit?’
Relief floods through Dom, but he tries not to show it. ‘It was being done right up to the last minute. Even I hadn’t seen it before it went in the press packs. I made the call to include it. I thought that’d be what you wanted …’
‘Yes, yes, it was a good decision – that’s not the issue. I just wish I’d known about it first. I don’t like to look a fool in front of the media.’ He raises an eyebrow. ‘None of us does, eh?’
Why haven’t you made an arrest? Shouldn’t someone better take over?
Dom looks down at his feet. ‘No’
‘So this woman, any idea who she is?’
Dom swallows hard. This is the moment to come clean. ‘I didn’t get a proper look at the eFit in the briefing.’
Jackson holds out one of the printed copies. ‘What about now?’
He takes it, looks at the picture, at the woman’s likeness. A memory of her handing him a tumbler of whisky pops into his mind. He hands the sheet back to Jackson. ‘No.’
Jackson leans forward, putting his elbows onto the green blotter on the desk. ‘Do you think she’s got anything to do with the murder?’
‘It’s too early to say. We’ve been promised the forensics within twenty-four hours – we should know more then.’
Jackson nods. ‘Hopefully we’ll get something from the TV coverage, too.’
There’s a
ping from Jackson’s computer. He looks at the screen. ‘Message says the Crimestoppers number is flooded with calls, almost five hundred so far. Could be some good leads.’
‘Yeah, hopefully,’ Dom says. He doesn’t hold out much hope, though. Although the public can and do help, often huge amounts of time are spent sifting through rubbish. He moves towards the door. ‘If that’s all, I’d best get back to it.’
‘Holsworth’s been in touch. Asked me to impress upon you the importance of turning up at four-thirty today.’ Jackson fixes Dom with a hard stare. ‘I told the jumped-up sod I would. So make sure you go. If it’s any consolation he made it sound like it’s the last time they’d need to speak to you.’
‘I’ll be there.’
‘Good. We need an arrest, Bell.’ Jackson gestures in the direction of the briefing room. ‘That lot aren’t going to keep snapping at your heels for long, you know. Pretty soon they’re going to start leaping for your jugular.’
Dom thinks about the woman in the eFit and wonders how long it’ll be possible to hide the fact they’ve met. ‘Yeah. They are.’
As he heads back to the open plan, Dom feels the freeze-out even more acutely. The indexer from Ketterman’s team has done a tea run, made everyone else a drink except him. Even Abbott seems to be avoiding him. He’s about to ask Abbott what’s eating him when his mobile buzzes. The number for the mortuary flashes on the screen. ‘Doc? What have you got?’
‘Not much.’ Emily’s voice echoes, like she’s calling from a swimming pool. ‘But it might help you narrow down your suspects.’
‘All right, what can you tell me?’
Emily speaks, but the line’s bad. Dom can’t make out what she’s saying. ‘You’re cutting out; say again?’
‘I’ll switch to the landline, this one’s a—’
‘No, don’t.’ He needs a break from the circus, from the people constantly surrounding him and judging him. ‘I’ll head over. I’m leaving now.’
He meets Emily in the morgue. The three most recent victims are laid on gurneys side by side – Kate, Melissa and Eastman. Emily is sitting over in the far corner, eating biscuits.
Dom raises his eyebrows and nods towards the biscuits. ‘Those things will kill you, you know.’
‘It’s lunchtime, and at least I’ll die happy.’ Taking another from the pack, she dunks it into her coffee and takes a bite. She gestures to the other mug sitting on the stainless steel worktop. ‘Made you a coffee. You know you look like crap, right?’
Ignoring her comment, he picks up the mug and takes a gulp of coffee.
‘I saw the press thing on telly. They’re bastards,’ Emily says, offering him a biscuit from the half-eaten packet. ‘You ever wonder if it’s worth it?’
He waves the biscuits away. Glances across the steel and tile workspace at the three bodies laid out on the gurneys, their serene stillness disguising the brutality of their endings. He looks back at Emily. ‘Yeah, and it is.’
She holds his gaze. ‘You sure?’
He thinks of Melissa’s dad, and his devastation as he glimpsed his daughter through the viewing window. ‘Yeah.’
Emily munches her biscuit.
‘So what have we got?’
Emily gets up and walks over to Eastman. ‘Let’s start with him.’ She gestures to the wounds on Eastman’s torso. ‘From the angle and depth of these incisions, I’ve traced the trajectory the knife would have followed to the point of impact. From this, I’d say you’re looking for a suspect of between six foot and six foot two in height.’
‘Male?’
‘Most likely, but the evidence doesn’t conclusively indicate that.’ She walks over to where Kate Adams and Melissa Chamberlain are laid out side by side. ‘I noticed the other thing by accident.’
‘What?’
‘Come over to this side, so that you can view them together.’
Dom hasn’t got a clue what Emily’s going on about, but he goes with it and steps around the gurneys so he’s beside her. ‘What am I supposed to be looking at?’
‘Always so impatient, Dom.’ There’s amusement in her voice. Her tone changes, becomes more serious, as she continues, ‘Look at their left shoulders.’
Confused, Dom does as she says. He looks at Kate, then Melissa. All he sees are two young women who’ve been destroyed; lives cut short, families devastated.
Emily steps closer to the nearest gurney and points to Melissa’s shoulder. ‘Here, see these faint marks? They’re bruises, finger-marks.’ She walks to the second gurney, gestures to Kate’s shoulder. ‘We have the same pattern here, same angle.’
Now she’s pointed them out he can see the yellowish marks on both women’s shoulders. ‘Meaning what?’
‘From their characteristics and orientation I’m fairly sure the killer used his left hand to make them. He’s been standing behind the victim, restraining them.’
‘His left hand is his dominant hand?’
Emily nods. ‘Precisely. Your killer’s left-handed.’
‘Anything similar on Eastman?’
‘Unfortunately for us, no.’
55
DOM
Thirty minutes later he’s back at the office. He pushes his way through the journalists gathered on the steps. Ignoring their questions and the taunts about lack of progress, he keeps his head down and hurries inside.
‘Dom?’
Shit. It’s Chrissie, in person this time. He shakes his head. ‘Sorry, sis, I can’t talk now, I’m—’
‘Darren’s had a letter.’ She sounds flustered, manic almost. ‘What’s going on? Why are they doing this?’
Shit.
Dom takes hold of her hands. Feels her shaking beneath his grip. ‘It’s standard procedure. They’re almost at the end of the investigation. I’ve had one too.’
‘His meeting is five-thirty p.m.’ Her words come out fast. ‘He’s been told to bring his rep.’
‘So have I.’
She swears under her breath. Looks like she might cry. ‘He’s bricking it, Dom. You need to talk to him. Tell him it’ll be—’
‘I can’t, sis. I’ve got the case.’
‘Don’t tell me that, not today, not now, it’s not good enough.’ Chrissie’s voice is louder. ‘Really not fucking good enough. He’s family, he’s—’
‘Stop, please.’ Over her shoulder, Dom notices the guy on reception watching them. ‘I can’t do this now.’
‘I’m just asking you to—’
Dom lets go of her hands. Backs away, towards the door. ‘I’m sorry, Chrissie, but no. I just can’t.’
Upstairs, he tries calling Holsworth. He wants to warn him that he might have it wrong, that Darren Harris might not be mixed up with Genk, that it’s possible DI Simon Lindsay sabotaged Operation Atlantis, or maybe even Therese. There’s also what she told him Lindsay said about someone higher, one of the brass, being involved. He needs to tell Holsworth but he isn’t answering, and Dom doesn’t want to leave any details on a voicemail.
‘Call me,’ he says before hanging up. ‘Call me urgently.’
Ten minutes later, at two o’clock, the team are gathered in the incident room. Dom takes a seat. He nods to Abbott. His DS points to a photograph pinned towards the bottom of the murder board. ‘The lab’s matched this shoeprint found on Melissa Chamberlain’s door to the shoes Eastman was wearing when he died. That’s a second connection to the scene, in addition to the fingerprint.’
‘So are we considering him a suspect?’ Parekh asks.
‘No, we’re fairly sure he’s out of the frame for that,’ Abbott says. ‘I spoke to a writer friend of his, Freya Rowland, and he alibis out for the times Jenna, Zara and Kate were killed.’
‘Not Melissa?’ Parekh says.
Abbott shakes his head. ‘No. He wasn’t with Miss Rowland anyway, and given the evidence at that crime scene I think we can be fairly sure he was close to Melissa’s flat around that time.’
Dom catches Abbott’s eye.
�
�Yes, guv?’
‘Emily, the doc, reckons the person who stabbed Eastman was between six foot and six-two. Probably male, although that’s an assumption rather than confirmed.’
‘That fits with the DNA results,’ Abbott says as he writes the new intel onto the board. ‘The DNA from the skin scrapings taken from behind Eastman’s fingernails is a match for the DNA found at the crime scenes of Kate Adams, Zara Bretton and Jenna Malik. The DNA left on Melissa Chamberlain matches too. The woman didn’t kill Eastman; the DNA is male.’
‘Ruling her out as a suspect?’ Biggs says.
Abbott nods. ‘Possibly, although she could be his accomplice.’
Five victims. One killer.
‘The doc also thinks the killer is left-handed, due to similar bruising patterns on Kate and Melissa’s shoulders, but there’s nothing to indicate whether Eastman’s killer is left- or right-handed,’ Dom says.
There’s a knock on the door. One of the uniforms who has been helping them with the door-to-doors enters. ‘DI Bell? I’ve got a message from downstairs. They’re saying a woman’s at the front desk asking for you. She’ll only speak to you.’
‘Did she say what about?’
‘She says you’re looking for her.’ The uniform gestures towards the eFit pinned to the board. ‘That’s her.’
Interview room three is the biggest room in the interview suite, but today it feels claustrophobically tight. She’s sitting opposite him. Clementine Starke, as he now knows her name to be; the woman from last night. She’s seriously pretty; her long black hair accentuates the bright blue-green of her eyes. She’s watching him, but he can’t meet her gaze.
He looks down at his notepad, at the hastily scribbled questions he put together before coming in here. Grips his biro tighter. His mind’s buzzing. Tension is making his jaw ache. He can’t think how to start the interview; all he can think about is how he’d let her into his home, talked to her about his problems, and how he’d liked her.
Fuck. What kind of a game is she playing?
He can’t let on that they’ve met before. Not now. If he was going to disclose that he should have done it after the press conference. He’s left it too late. All he can do is treat her like any other suspect. If she’s here to blackmail him, he’s screwed.
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