I look for patterns. The victims are all female, all of a similar age, have all been made-up to look the same. All the places they’ve been killed are relatively central but, from what I can see, there’s nothing that connects them. The killer’s MO has remained the same: rose petals, candles and the changed appearance of the women. Killing Death Stalker was different, but then I’m assuming that was unplanned and opportunistic.
I know Death Stalker figured out the killer through the dentist link, but I can’t work out how. There’s something in the mind-map that I’m missing, not seeing, there has to be. Grabbing my phone, I take a picture of the whiteboard. I prefer to work alone, but time is against me and I need help. I open the CrimeStop app and upload the photo to Case Files: The Lover.
The Watcher I’ve been to the police and answered their questions. I am not a suspect. I discovered that they don’t know about us – they don’t even know Glen Eastman was Death Stalker. Death Stalker shared some of the information he had with me. I’ve summarised everything into this diagram and added the data we’d already collected. If Death Stalker found the killer, there must be something here that tells us the Lover’s identity. I can’t see it. What do you see?
It’s a selective version of what happened, but in essence what I’ve said is true. I hope they’ll believe it, or at least believe it enough to work with me. Holding my breath, I press send.
I don’t have to wait long for the comments.
Robert ‘chainsaw’ Jameson That’s an interesting perspective, but I see there are only two lines from my name to pieces of evidence. I can’t believe that’s correct. I’m one of this group’s biggest contributors.
Witness Zero We’ve got a lot of data, far more than I’d thought.
Ghost Avenger I’m at work right now, but I’ll have a proper look as soon as I’m on my break.
The Watcher Apologies if I’ve missed anything, Bob. Let me know what and I’ll add it.
Robert ‘chainsaw’ Jameson I’ll DM you.
Justice League Glad things smoothed out with the police. I’ve printed the mind-map and will take a look now.
Bloodhound Well done for sorting things with the police. I’m assuming you didn’t tell them anything about this group?
The Watcher You assume correctly @Bloodhound.
Crime Queen This is what you had planned all along! You wanted @DeathStalker gone so you could take over the group. EVIL TOXIC BITCH.
I stare at Crime Queen’s comment. She could put what I’m trying to do in jeopardy by alienating the group from me. I need to get her onside, to persuade her I’m not her enemy. I’ve tried being practical; now I need another approach. Mirroring her might work; I decide to copy her shouty capitals style.
The Watcher I NEVER wanted this. I SAW WHAT THE KILLER DID TO HIM! I have to catch this bastard, FOR DEATH STALKER!
It’s not the truth. I want to prove crowdsourced crime solving can triumph over the police, and make my thesis undeniably groundbreaking; I want to avenge these women, atone for my own wrongdoings and take down this killer who has violated them and changed them into something different from their real selves; I want to lead this team to victory and be accepted. I want Dominic Bell to respect me, like me, want me.
And, more than anything, the wolf inside me wants to taste blood again.
There’s still no reply from Crime Queen. It’s just gone half three, ten minutes since I replied. She’s seen what I said, but she’s choosing not to respond. I exhale hard and bang my fists down onto the desk. My coffee spills.
‘Shit.’
There’s a ping from my laptop.
Anonymous871 has sent you a direct message [click here to read]
I frown. Who is this? I don’t recognise the name from True Crime London. Why are they messaging me? I click the link. The message is one word and a photo.
Anonymous871 to @TheWatcher BETRAYED
The picture is of Dom and me, taken last night when we were outside Crème in the smoking area. In it he’s leaning close to me, whispering something in my ear. I’m smiling.
I reread the message. The avatar beside it gives me nothing to go on – it’s a plain black circle, no photo, no graphic – but although the message is from someone calling themselves ‘Anonymous’, the accusation and capitalisation fits with Crime Queen. She hates that Death Stalker messaged me last night when he needed help. She thinks I betrayed him by not calling the police and staying with him until help arrived, even though it was too late. It stands to reason she’d think me talking to Dom would be a betrayal, too.
The Watcher to @Anonymous871 Crime Queen, is that you?
Three dots appear. Anonymous 871 is typing. I wait. The dots stop but no reply is posted. As I watch, Anonymous871’s avatar disappears.
A standard notification appears beneath my message:
User Anonymous871 does not exist. This account has been deleted.
59
DOM
Abbott frowns. ‘So you think she was in on it?’
In truth, I don’t bloody know.
They’ve been in the incident room debriefing on the interview with Clementine Starke for ages, but it’s getting them nowhere. There’s no evidence that she’s involved, but something about her behaviour, the gulf between her emotion and her words, still grates on Dom. He’s not shared that with Abbott, though. Could he really be the leak? ‘She’s hiding something.’
‘Is it something relevant, though?’ Abbott says. ‘Could be she was shagging Eastman and is too embarrassed to ’fess up. There’s nothing linking her to any of the female victims, and we know the killer is male.’
‘True, but plenty of serial killers have hunted in pairs – Hindley and Brady, Fred and Rosemary West. She could be helping him find them, grooming them.’ Even as he’s saying it, Dom doesn’t believe it’s true. Doesn’t want it to be true. ‘And what about the missing laptop?’
The door opens and Parekh leans through the gap. ‘Guv? Have you got a minute?’
Not really.
He nods. ‘Sure.’
‘We’ve been going through the phone records and financials. On the money side, there’s a bit of credit card debt, but nothing dramatic. Their phone calls are all to known numbers. Melissa’s check out as mainly work-related, Kate’s are to friends and family.’
‘I’m sensing a “but” …’
‘I cross-referenced the spending of our four female victims, checking for patterns, and as you’d expect, dental work came up.’
‘Yes, but not the same surgeries, we know that.’
Parekh nods. ‘That’s right, there’s no connection on the face of it, but you said to dig more, so I’ve contacted each surgery and asked for the details of who treated each of our victims. I should have the data any minute now.’
‘What about Eastman?’ Dom says.
Parekh shakes her head. ‘There’s no debt on his financials. Nothing about dental work, either. I did find payments to a security company, though; he’d had cameras installed. I’ve asked for the footage from last night – they’ve promised it in the next couple of hours.’
‘Good. How about his phone records?’
‘All the calls and texts are to identifiable numbers, regular stuff – work, family and friends. He had a lot of internet usage, but we can’t see what sites he visited.’
‘Was Clementine Starke a friend he called regularly?’
‘Not that we’ve found, but she told you he’d messaged her, didn’t she? That could mean via an app – we wouldn’t see that.’
‘Good point. Look, keep on the dentist thing.’
‘Will do,’ Parekh says, ducking back through the door and closing it behind her.
Dom’s phone vibrates in his pocket. Taking it out, he feels his heart rate accelerate when he sees it’s from Chrissie:
Call me. Please. Darren needs you.
He knows he should call, but what the hell can he say? She wants him to talk to Darren and he can’t do that, not right now.
He needs to speak to Holsworth first; get his suspicions out in the open. Then he can repair the damage with Chrissie.
Dom checks his watch. It’s nearly three; the interview is in an hour and a half. He can’t be late, there’s a lot to get through before Holsworth sees Darren at 5.30.
He looks over at Abbott, who’s standing at the board, staring at the photos. ‘I need to get off to the IPCC meeting. Can I borrow your car? I’ll be a couple of hours. I’ll call you if there’s any news!’
Abbott hands Dom his car keys. ‘No probs!’
Dom grabs his jacket and leaves the room. As he closes the door and heads for the stairs, his mobile goes again. He checks the screen, expecting the text to be from Chrissie. It isn’t. Instead it’s a withheld number.
The message says one word: BETRAYED
The photo attached shows two people: Clementine Starke and him, talking outside Crème. He’s saying something in her ear; the pose looks intimate.
Betrayed – what does it mean? Is she working with the killer? Who sent this – and who else has seen it? Is she in danger? Is he?
He stares at the photo. Notices how she’s smiling at him, and that he’s smiling back. Remembers that in that moment he’d felt a spark of hope that he might be able to move on from what happened with Therese.
He needs to see Clementine. Needs to know what the message means and who sent it. He glances at his watch again; it’s gone three. If he’s going to detour via Clementine’s flat before the IPCC meeting, he needs to leave now.
‘Wait there, I’ll come down.’
Dom stands two paces back from the doorstep, waiting. He knows this is risky; he doesn’t have much time and he can’t be late for Holsworth, there’s too much at stake. But he has to know what the text means, and what the hell Clementine Starke thinks she’s doing.
A minute passes. Then another. He wonders why it’s taking her so long to come to the door, and why she didn’t just buzz him inside and make him go up to her apartment.
He’s debating whether to press the buzzer again when he hears the sound of the door being unlocked. She’s wearing the same clothes as earlier, but her hair’s twisted onto the top of her head in a messy bun. It makes her look younger. ‘Hey.’
‘I have a couple more questions.’ Even he can hear the anger in his voice.
She frowns. ‘Me first. Were you so very drunk last night that you didn’t remember us meeting?’
‘I remembered, I just couldn’t say anything. When I first saw the eFit I thought it looked like you but I didn’t see how it could be you. Then, when you showed up at the office, it was too late for me to admit we’d met before.’
‘It was awkward.’
‘Yeah, it was.’ He keeps his expression serious, but he’s feeling more hopeful; she isn’t talking like she’s out to blackmail him or betray him. If anything, she looks hurt he hadn’t acknowledged they’d met. ‘Look, can I come in?’
She shifts her weight from one foot to the other. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘I got a text.’ He holds his phone out to her.
Her eyes widen as she reads the message. ‘Who’s it from?’
‘I don’t know. I thought maybe you would.’
‘Sorry, no.’ She looks away.
‘You sure about that?’ Dom puts the phone back in his pocket. ‘It says “betrayed”, what do you think that means?’
She looks back at him. Holds his gaze a moment, then shakes her head. ‘I really don’t know.’
Although her words are calm there’s worry in her expression. Dom thinks he’s onto something. ‘Did someone threaten you? Hurt you?’
She’s shaking her head and moving back from the door. ‘I think you should leave, Detective.’
He can’t let her go yet. ‘This text means something. Don’t you want to work out what? We’re both implicated.’
‘I’m going inside now.’
‘Don’t.’ Dom’s phone starts buzzing. He ignores it. ‘You know who murdered Eastman, don’t you? You know more about the murders than you’re telling me.’
For a moment she looks surprised. Then she shakes her head. ‘No.’
Guilt. He sees it in her gesture. ‘You sure?’
She recovers her composure fast. She looks at the pocket of his jacket where the phone’s vibrating.
The call stops. There’s a brief pause, then the phone starts again.
‘Sounds like they really need to speak to you,’ she says, stepping back and turning to shut the door.
With his free hand, Dom wrestles the phone from his pocket. The caller rings off. A moment later a text from Abbott appears on screen.
New suspect: Thomas Leopold. Answer your phone.
Dom looks back at Clementine. She’s staring at his phone. Angling the screen away from her, he says, ‘We’re not done here.’
She gives him a sad smile. ‘Yes we are, Detective.’
She shuts the door as he answers the phone.
‘Guv?’ There’s a brief hesitation, then Abbott says, ‘We’ve found the link between the dental work.’
‘Tell me.’
‘Thomas Leopold. He’s a visiting specialist whose name came up on the consulting staff list at each of the surgeries. Parekh checked it out. He oversaw the work on each of the victims.’
Dom looks up at the top floor of the red-brick building. Wonders what Clementine Starke is doing now, before wondering why it bothers him so much. Shaking his head, he turns and hurries back to his car. ‘And it’s him?’
‘The evidence points that way. He’s six foot one, medium build, dark hair. The staff that worked with him described him as attractive, charming. A dental surgeon meeting patients, getting to know them on the side, that’s how we think he did it. I mean, you’d trust a surgeon, right? They’d seem normal.’
‘Yeah,’ Dom says, opening the door and sliding into the driver’s seat. ‘You would.’
‘We’re en route now to pick him up.’
Dom taps the satnav screen on the car’s central console. ‘Give me the address, I’ll head right—’
‘Don’t. Jackson told me you’d say that. He said I was to tell you to go to your meeting, that it’s an order. We’re pulling up outside now. I’ve got to go.’
Dom can hear Parekh’s voice in the background, Biggs’s too. They’ll be hyped, adrenaline pumping and ready. He hates that he’s not there with them. ‘Do it then, Sergeant. Get the fucker and end this.’
‘Yes, guv.’
Dom hangs up and drops the phone into the cup holder on the dash. He shoves the key into the ignition but doesn’t turn it. Hesitates. Something doesn’t feel right. He should feel relieved, excited, but he doesn’t. He feels a void, like there’s a gaping wound in his mind that won’t stitch back neatly together. There’s something more.
It has something to do with Clementine Starke.
Pain needle-pricks across the site of his old head injury. His eye flickers.
‘Fuck,’ he shouts, bashing his fists against the steering wheel. Gritting his teeth against the pain that vibrates through his body and into his skull, he fires up the car’s engine and pulls out, accelerating hard.
A bloke in a suit is crossing the road twenty yards ahead. He jerks his head in Dom’s direction, speeds up to get out of his way. Dom keeps his foot down. He knows he’s driving like a twat, and doesn’t care. It’s almost four o’clock. He’ll be lucky to make the meeting with Holsworth in time.
He hopes he hasn’t left it too late.
60
CLEMENTINE
The buzzer goes again. Dom’s persistent, I’ll give him that. It is troubling we’ve both been sent the message BETRAYED and the photo, but unsurprising that we’ve each interpreted it differently. He doesn’t trust me any more, he’s probably right not to. I’ve lied to him, hidden the things I’ve done and refused to share information that could help him solve the case. He would be a fool to trust me.
I’ve already shared the suspect’s name that
flashed up on his phone – Thomas Leopold – with the Case Files group. We’re closer – I’m closer – to finding the killer; I have to get to him before Dom.
And yet, even though I want to beat him, I’m happy Dom’s come back. I want to answer the door. I want to see him. I take a step towards the intercom.
Wade’s warning repeats in my mind: ‘If he discovers what you’ve done – breaking into a crime scene, removing evidence – that’s a prison sentence.’
He’s right. I can’t risk letting Dom see what I’m doing. I close the lid of my laptop then snatch a cloth and rub it across the whiteboard, erasing the mind-map in large, sweeping arcs. When it’s clean, I throw the cloth onto my desk, pick up the paperback of Black Rose Chronicles and shove it into a drawer.
The buzzer sounds again, longer this time. Hurrying to the intercom, I switch the speaker to two-way and say, ‘Fine, Dom, if it’s really that important, come up.’
I hit the button to release the main door. The speaker is still set on two-way, and I hear the bolt unlock four floors below, followed by the squeak of the front door as it’s pushed open. Heavy footsteps. Then the door clicks shut. He’s on his way up.
My heart’s pounding. Excitement fizzes in my belly. The combination makes me feel both nauseous and elated. I tell myself I’m being ridiculous, that this is dangerous, stupid; I should not let Dom get this close. Still, I cannot resist this new feeling. I count to five, then draw back each of the bolts, undo the deadlock and unlatch the door. I don’t open it, though. I can’t appear too eager. I’ll wait for him to knock.
He seems to be taking his time.
Going over to the window, I take hold of the curtains ready to pull them shut. That’s when I see it. There’s a gap between the vehicles parked lining the street; the gap is where Dom had parked his car.
I hear a creak on the landing.
Turning, I look at the door. The locks are unfastened. All my defences gone.
Why isn’t Dom’s car outside any more? Who have I let into the building?
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