He meets her gaze. ‘So, Ms Starke, you—’
‘Clementine, call me Clementine. Please.’
He nods. Keeps his tone businesslike. Tries not to let the tension show. ‘All right, Clementine. Firstly, thank you for coming forward.’
She smiles. ‘My picture is all over the news. I couldn’t really not, could I?’
Dom glances down at the notepad. Uses the questions like a crutch, even though he’s done interviews like this a thousand times. ‘I need to run through some background stuff before we get started, is that OK?’
‘Of course.’
Her smile doesn’t waver, but he imagines he sees something in her eyes – confusion, doubt perhaps. ‘You told the desk sergeant that this is your home address.’ Dom takes a slip of paper out of the thin folder beside his notepad and slides it across to her. ‘Is that correct?’
She glances at the location scribbled on it and nods. ‘It is.’
He tucks the paper back into the file. ‘And what’s your occupation?’
‘I’m a PhD student. Final year.’
Dom scribbles student on his notebook, and wonders how a PhD student can afford a place in such an expensive area of the city. What the hell is she mixed up in? ‘What do you study?’
‘People, and the psychology of how they interact online.’
He remembers what she’d said about her family being complicated and wonders if that’s why she chose to study psychology. Last night, she’d been easy to talk to; it’d felt natural to share his fears about Operation Atlantis, and about what happened with Therese. Afterwards he’d slept for the first time in bloody ages.
Now she’s a murder suspect.
He puts down his pen. ‘As you know from the appeal, a witness placed you at the scene of a crime in the early hours of this morning.’
Clementine closes her eyes for a moment. ‘Yes.’
‘What were you doing there?’
She gives a little shrug. ‘Just seeing a friend.’
But you were with me. Why did you leave without a word?
‘At two-thirty in the morning?’
She meets his gaze and holds it. ‘That’s right.’
‘Why?’
‘He asked me to come over.’
Dom wonders if it was a booty call, if Clementine Starke and Glen Eastman were fuck buddies, or murder buddies. ‘And was that usual in your relationship?’
‘Sometimes.’
Dom glances towards the blacked-out viewing window, and wishes they were alone. Hates that Abbott is observing them through the glass. ‘So you’d often meet him late at night?’
‘No.’ She looks away. ‘But every now and then he’d message me and ask to meet up straight away.’
‘And that’s what happened last night, he messaged and you left where you were and went to him?’ He lets the unspoken accusation hang between them: you left me and went to him.
‘I’m parched, any chance of a drink?’
She’s being evasive. What’s she hiding, or is she just playing with him, delaying the moment when she talks about him?
‘Answer the question, please.’ Dom’s tone is harder than he’d intended.
Clementine frowns. ‘I thought I was here as a witness. Should I be calling a lawyer?’
He knows he should back off and try to recapture the connection they’d had last night. Get her to open up. That’s what he ought to do. Instead, he leans forward and says, ‘You tell me, should you?’
She slides her chair back, the legs grating against the floor like nails down a blackboard. When she speaks, her voice is whisper-quiet. ‘I think someone else should interview me.’
She’s going to say something.
Dom closes his notepad. Holds his hand up as if in surrender. ‘Look, I’m sorry. Let me get you a coffee and we’ll start over again.’
She stares at him for a long moment, then gives a curt nod. ‘OK.’
56
CLEMENTINE
This isn’t how I wanted things to go.
My heart’s still pounding against my chest, as it has been ever since Dom closed the door behind him. I’m alone now, but I don’t let my guard down. Can’t. I know that I’m most likely being videoed by the camera wall-mounted high in the corner, and that there’ll be people – other detectives, a psychologist, perhaps – watching me from behind the cover of the black-glass window. I hate them watching me, analysing me, judging me. I hate that Dom is, too.
Keeping my posture the same and my expression neutral, I look around the room. It’s a poky box with no natural light. The vomit-green walls and lino floor give it a depressing, hopeless feel.
You belong here.
You deserve this.
I wonder what the psychologist is thinking about me. Do they think I had a hand in Death Stalker’s murder? Do they realise that I’m capable of killing? Maybe they’re telling Dom their initial impressions right now.
I fight the urge to retch, and focus instead on the fact that Dom didn’t let on that he knew me. He acted like we’d never met. I wonder what that means. Is he trying to protect himself? Is he doing it to protect me?
You’re not worth it.
I look down at the plastic wood-effect table. Run my hand through my hair, and twist a strand tight around my index finger. I wonder how much Dom knows about Death Stalker and what he was doing online; if he knows about News Byte and True Crime London. I wonder if he’ll ask me about it when he returns with the coffee, and what I’ll say in reply.
I’ve lied to the police before; when they came to interview me after Father died. I lied to save my own pelt.
I’m still in hospital, I don’t know how much time has passed. Weeks, a month, it’s impossible to say in the hot, muggy environment of the burns unit. I’m still on the painkillers, but they barely touch the pain. Under the bandages my arms feel like they’re still burning.
They sit on either side of my bed, the police detectives; a woman and a man. The man is huge; tall and muscular. The softness of his voice when he speaks to me seems out of place with his size. The woman just watches, taking notes.
The male detective asks me to tell him about what happened before the fire started. Did you notice anything suspicious at your father’s house? Was your father acting strangely? Did you see who started the fire?
As he asks the questions, the images from that day replay in my mind: finding the letter; discovering Father is a dirty copper; the shock of the cash, the drugs, the exploitation; Father’s anger when he found me at the cottage. Starting the fire.
But I don’t tell the detective those things. Instead, I keep my expression neutral, my voice flat, and I tell him I can’t remember what happened before the fire started; that I saw nothing suspicious; that Father was just the same as normal; that I don’t know who started the fire.
Lies. All lies. And yet they believe me.
Just like Dom will.
There’s no proof for him to seize. I’ve destroyed the evidence – smashed the hard disc of Death Stalker’s laptop, snapped the SIM in half and trodden the phone into pieces. I dropped them into various bins on the way, a one-and-a-half-hour detour from the straight route here, in places where the CCTV cameras are always vandalised.
But I want to tell him. I want to end the lies, the carefully constructed camouflage of my true nature, and come clean. I want to tell him the truth about last night, about the Case Files investigation. I want to tell him who I am, what I’m capable of.
The door opens and DI Dominic Bell enters carrying two mugs. He smiles as he sits down and pushes one of the mugs across the table to me.
Tell him now.
I put my hands on the table. The laminate’s cold and sticky beneath my palms. I inhale, rehearse the words in my head: You should arrest me. I’ve killed a man.
57
DOM
Dom decides an apology is the best way to go. Clementine Starke looks serious, like she’s revving up to have a go or say fuck knows what. He le
ans forward, keeps his voice low, speaking before she can. ‘Look, I’m sorry if I came on a bit heavy … we, I, need your help on this.’
She bites her lip. Her eyes don’t leave his as she leans forward and takes the coffee he’s made her. Cradling the mug between both hands she says, ‘OK.’
‘Thanks. So, if we can pick up from where we left off, how would you describe your relationship with Glen Eastman? Was he a friend?’
Dom notices how the right corner of her mouth twitches at the mention of Eastman being her friend.
‘I wouldn’t call us friends. He was more of an acquaintance, I guess. He wrote for a news website. You might have heard of it, it’s called News Byte.’
Dom clenches his jaw. News Byte – the website that’s been churning out scandalised coverage of his investigation. ‘I’m aware of it.’
‘Well, I helped him out sometimes with his investigations, giving advice mainly, when something he was interested in crossed into my field of expertise.’
‘And it wasn’t unusual for him to ask to meet late at night?’ Dom watches her closely, interested in how she answers, in the congruence, or lack of it, between her voice, her facial expressions and body language and the words.
‘He’d get in touch at whatever time he needed help.’
‘Did you ask him why he needed you to go to his apartment? What was so urgent it couldn’t wait until morning?’
‘It was morning, Detective, but I understand what you mean.’ She glances away. The volume of her voice dropping as she says, ‘No, I didn’t ask.’
‘Weren’t you curious?’
‘Naturally, but I thought I’d find out soon enough.’
Dom waits to see if she’ll elaborate, but she doesn’t. So far her responses have seemed genuine. He wants to trust her, he really does. ‘It must have been a shock, finding him like that?’
‘Yes.’
‘I know this is difficult, but can you tell me how you found him?’
She puts the mug down on the table. ‘The door was open and I remember thinking it was strange – he was a very private person, very security-conscious. He’d never leave the door unlocked.’
Dom nods encouragingly. ‘Go on.’
‘So I went along the hall and into the kitchen. At first I didn’t see him, but I could hear the radio playing so I knew he must be around. I called out, but there was no answer, so I walked …’ She flaps her hands as if to try and get rid of the memory. ‘He was there, on the floor by my feet. I … I screamed. All that blood …’
Dom keeps his voice gentle, soothing. ‘I know it’s hard, but you’re doing great.’
She closes her eyes a moment.
When she opens them, Dom asks, ‘Did Mr Eastman have a laptop or a computer?’
‘Of course, he was always writing.’
‘We couldn’t find it at his apartment. Do you know what happened to it?’
‘I’ve got no idea.’ Her eyelids flutter. ‘I thought perhaps it had been taken.’
She’s lying, definitely hiding something about the laptop. Dom holds her gaze. ‘You saw it was missing?’
‘Yes, I … I think so, I must have.’ Her lower lip begins to tremble.
Despite her words and actions, in her eyes he sees nothing but calm. ‘Why did you run, why not call 999?’
‘I was afraid.’ Her eyelids flutter again, and she looks away. ‘I thought … maybe the killer was still there. I wasn’t thinking, I just ran.’
Dom doesn’t believe her. She’s making the right moves, saying the right things, that a person reliving the horror of what they’d seen would do, but it’s not genuine. The eyelid flutter indicates she’s hiding something. He wants to know what it is and why she’s not telling him. ‘I’m sorry I have to ask you to go through it again, but it’s important. I’ll take down what you say, then ask you to read and sign it as your statement. Do you need a moment?’
‘No, it’s fine.’ She smiles, and this time it reaches all the way to her eyes. ‘It helps, you know, talking to you.’
It’s one hell of a performance, but in that moment he sees a glimmer of truth. Her smile – the one she gave him as she said talking helped – that’s the first genuine emotion he’s seen from her since he started asking the questions. ‘It’s my job.’
‘I know, but I feel I should help you out in return.’ She leans across the table and whispers, ‘Eastman had a lot of sources, people he paid to feed him sensitive information from live cases.’
Dom feels himself go cold. Shakes his head. ‘You can’t be accusing me of—’
‘Not you,’ Clementine Starke says. ‘Never you. But you might want to take a closer look at that sergeant of yours.’
58
CLEMENTINE
Home.
I’m sitting at my desk, staring at the screen, but it’s not the folder of Death Stalker’s files that I downloaded onto my laptop I see, it’s Dom’s face – his disappointment that I was involved with Eastman. I feel it like a knife in my stomach, a dull ache leeching the energy from me.
The numbness is retreating, but I want it back. I try to banish his image, but I can’t. He appears in my mind uninvited, and I find myself reliving the way he smiled as we smoked outside the club, the feel of his head against my thigh as he slept on the couch, the hard stare he gave me as I left the police building.
I run my hands through my hair, and clasp them over my head. Is this what addiction feels like? This craving sensation? This is pain.
A ping from my laptop alerts me to an incoming Skype call. It’s Wade. I let it ring unanswered; two rings, three, four. The call aborts. Within a few seconds another call comes; it’s Wade again. I know he’ll persist until I answer. If I don’t pick up on Skype he’ll call my mobile, then the landline.
I press accept. Wade appears on-screen, looking unusually casual in a black t-shirt, greying stubble visible on his face. I’ve never known him not to shave. I don’t give him the chance to speak. ‘Look, Wade, I know what you’re going to say, but it’s all OK.’
He frowns. ‘What happened?’
‘It was a mistake.’
‘So the eFit wasn’t you?’
‘It was.’
Wade curses under his breath. ‘How? Tell me.’
‘Death Stalker messaged me early this morning. He was panicking. Said he’d tracked the Lover and found his latest victim, but she was already dead. He was afraid the killer knew who he was. He asked me to meet him at his place.’
‘And you didn’t think to call the police?’
‘We were so close. We could have found—’
‘You could have been murdered too.’
I shrug. Pretend that wouldn’t bother me.
He stares at me. ‘You’ve invested heavily in this so-called investigation, but you need to end this now, Clementine. Before you get hurt.’
‘Are you threatening me?’
‘I’m serious, Clementine. You need to stop. If Death Stalker’s gone, it’s over. We can request to retract your thesis. You can rewrite your conclusion. It wouldn’t take long – a month or two. You can resubmit, and no one will—’
I hold my hand up to stop him. ‘That’s not happening. Look, I’ve been to the police. I talked to Dom. It’s sorted.’
‘Dom? You’re on first-name terms with that detective?’
‘I’ve got everything under control.’
‘No, Clementine, you haven’t.’
‘You were the one who told me to get my own police contact. I did what you said.’
‘And how did you do it?’
I feel my cheeks colour and notice Wade’s jaw clench as he sees. I don’t answer his question. Stare straight into the webcam.
Wade shakes his head. ‘You need to back off immediately. If he discovers what you’ve done – breaking into a crime scene, removing evidence – that’s a prison sentence, Clementine.’
‘He wouldn’t arrest me.’
‘Don’t be a fool, and don’t let this …’
He waves his hand at me as if he’s batting away an insect, ‘… this infatuation overrule your usual caution.’
Wade’s furious; I can see it in his expression, I can hear it in the harshness of his tone. I’ve never known him this angry, but I ignore his jibe; refuse to rise to it. ‘I said, it’s under control.’
‘You can’t control people. Just because you’ve studied him, it doesn’t mean you can manipulate him to do what you want.’
‘I don’t need to manipulate him or anyone else, I just need to be able to predict the killer’s movements, and for that I have to work out what Death Stalker knew. If I go back through the information, follow each of the threads, I must be able to work out what happened, and then extrapolate that forward into what will happen.’
Wade’s image pixelates before returning to sharp focus. ‘With every new dynamic introduced, a new set of possibilities, actions and reactions become possible. You cannot control every variable, therefore you cannot predict all outcomes. Back off, Clementine. You are in danger here.’
Perhaps, but something Wade has said resonates: every new dynamic. The group has been changing, morphing from purely online to real world interaction. Each new dynamic has introduced new data, new perspectives. ‘That’s it.’
‘That’s what?’
‘I have to go. I’ve got an idea. I think I can find him, Wade. I think I know how to reveal who he is.’
‘No, Clementine, don’t do this! You’ll leave me no choice but to—’
I end the call, and Wade disappears from my screen. I know what I have to do.
I stare at the whiteboard. Everything I know about the murders – the evidence I’ve collected, all Death Stalker had on his laptop and phone, every bit of data the members of Case Files: The Lover contributed – is represented on the tangled mind-map of victims, suspects, places and evidence. I’ve tracked each piece of data back to its source. Along one side of the board I’ve written the name of each person in Case Files: The Lover. At the bottom I’ve written LAB CONTACT? – I’ve still found no details for him in Death Stalker’s files.
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