First to Die

by Alex Caan

  ‘They can share the burden with you, don’t you see? To care for me?’

  ‘And what about the evil son of a bitch you are helping to free in return? He will be out immediately if you do this; the case you helped build against him will collapse.’

  ‘You won’t understand. You don’t have children.’

  That hurt. It was partly to care for her mother that she hadn’t allowed herself to even contemplate a family of her own. Eric had dropped plenty of hints that he really didn’t care too much about kids, and although they hadn’t been together long enough, at least she knew they were on the same page on this, that he wouldn’t get the urge and leave her for a younger woman who would give him children.

  Kate had ignored her mother every time she tried to speak to her. Now, sitting at her desk, she was beginning to feel guilt replace the anger. Jane wouldn’t see anyone all day, apart from Charlie, or other strangers. And she would dwell on their fight, and worry about what she had done, while Kate would be distracted and occupied by work.

  She needed to call and say it was OK, open up communication channels at least. Even though it wasn’t OK. Kate breathed in. She couldn’t let her past and her own drama interfere with what they were doing. She had four dead bodies, a toxic poison no one had come across before, and no motive or link between any of them. Except for Julian Leakey, who had had an affair with one of the deceased, was possibly involved in the murder of a second and was probably killed using the poison developed by the third.

  Zain was convinced that Anya Fox-Leakey tied it all together, and was now working the angle that Mark Lynch’s mysterious girlfriend might have been her. Rob had questioned Vince Hopper who Anya had called, but the man also ran a legal jewellery business, and explained that this was why she had been in communication with him. PCC Hope was still adamant that without any actual evidence they were not permitted to go near her. Her father and the Foreign Secretary, and by association the PM, were all protecting her.

  What was Kate left with then?

  Her phone rang, interrupting her thoughts.

  ‘DCI Riley, this is DS Joy Goldman. We’ve identified the dead woman. Her sister came forward.’

  *

  Selena Cowan was still in shock when Kate met her. They were in the Kensington and Chelsea police station, where DS Joy Goldman was stationed.

  She didn’t look older than forty, but people were experts at taking care of themselves, or letting themselves go. She would now only judge someone’s age from an official ID.

  There were tracks down Selena’s face, where mascara had mixed with her tears.

  ‘I should have known something was wrong. She didn’t come home, and she wasn’t answering her phone. But I thought: no, she’s a grown-up.’

  ‘Had she disappeared before in a similar manner?’

  ‘No, not like this, anyway.’

  ‘And the last time you spoke to her?’

  ‘It was on Bonfire Night. She said she was going to a party, that she would call me when she had time.’

  ‘She didn’t arrange a specific time to call?’

  ‘No.’ Tears were falling over her face again. ‘I should have looked for her sooner, raised the alarm. She might still be OK then.’

  ‘Do you know why your sister might have been in the Earl’s Court area? Did she have friends there, or any work connections?’

  ‘Not that I know of. She was working at Great Ormond Street.’

  ‘Doing what exactly?’

  ‘She was a pharmacist there.’

  Kate nodded. A pharmacist may have understood the chemistry behind what Mark Lynch had created at least. But how that connection then led to Julian Leakey, and Natalie’s violent murder, Kate just couldn’t understand.

  She tapped her netbook, and brought up pictures of Julian.

  ‘Do you recognise this man at all?’

  Selena shook her head. ‘Is he involved? Did he do this?’

  ‘We found his body the same day we believe your sister was killed. Are you sure you don’t recognise him?’

  Selena shook her head again.

  ‘Did you and your sister speak openly about her life? Would you know about her relationships for example?’

  ‘Yes, I think so.’

  ‘What if she wasn’t particularly comfortable about the nature of one? Would she speak to you about that?’

  ‘I’m not sure I understand?’

  ‘We are just exploring all possibilities here, so please don’t take this as an accusation or get upset. Do you think if your sister was having an affair with a married man, she would tell you?’

  Silence, as Selena thought about it. ‘No, I don’t think she would to be honest.’

  ‘Has your sister been worried by anything recently? Any threats, or any concerns that she’s shared with you?’

  ‘No, she hasn’t mentioned anything. Oh God, I really wish I had acted more quickly. I can’t believe I let it get this far. I could have saved her!’

  ‘What about ex-boyfriends? Have there been any that you were particularly worried about?’

  ‘There have been some I loathed, but none that I think could be capable of something like this.’

  ‘And her work, has she ever mentioned to you anything that she was concerned about?’

  ‘We don’t discuss her work. I just don’t get it, I’m not really into science. So we don’t talk about it, unless I get prescribed something by my GP. I tend to ask her to check the ingredients and the side effects. That sort of stuff.’

  ‘She wasn’t particularly preoccupied when you last spoke to her, or saw her?’

  ‘I don’t think so. I honestly can’t remember. I should have called sooner, I can’t believe I waited. I could have saved her.’ Again the self-blame, the guilt that she would probably always carry with her.

  ‘Please, Mrs Cowan,’ said Kate. ‘There is nothing you could have done. Your sister was probably murdered on the night of the fifth itself. Raising the alarm wouldn’t have helped her, I’m afraid.’

  Selena Cowan started to cry loudly, while Kate tried to comfort her.

  But at least they had a name for the dead woman they had found in Earls Court.

  ‘Freya Rice,’ Kate said later to Michelle. ‘I need you to find out everything you can about her, and most of all any link she may have had with Julian Leakey.’

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Zain was mining Mark Lynch’s laptops and phone. He was using the Police Technical Operations software he was officially allowed to, instead of the sophisticated stuff he had ‘borrowed’ from his previous employers. He needed to get those upgraded anyway, they were probably out of date by now.

  Mark’s computer hard drives weren’t giving up much. He had an Internet history which wasn’t surprising. Lots of links and page downloads from science websites, journals, articles. There was a lack of porn though. He loved his classical music and his heavy metal, so there were lots of YouTube videos in his watched list.

  ‘I can’t really see anything that screams out to me,’ he told Michelle. She was looking into Mark’s phone history, trying to track numbers that might be of interest.

  ‘He must have kept all his workings at the lab,’ she said.

  ‘That’s odd though. That was a database that anyone could access; if he was carrying out all these dodgy experiments, why wouldn’t he keep private records?’

  ‘Sometimes things are safer where everyone can see them. Who would check up on his work at the lab? Who would suspect anything?’

  ‘True.’

  ‘He may have been a creature of habit as well. Do an experiment, write up the notes. I don’t think he was thinking very far ahead, or logically.’

  Zain continued flicking through the files he had recovered. There was nothing else of interest, even in the deleted files he had managed to restore.

  ‘I can’t find anything that might indicate a girlfriend,’ he said.

  ‘Neither can I. There are no consistently rung mobile nu
mbers, apart from his colleagues. There are plenty of calls he’s received from withheld numbers, though.’

  ‘You think she was calling him? Maybe she’s married? They can release those numbers to you, anyway.’

  ‘The phone company is playing hardball. They said there are issues of data protection.’

  ‘Punch them with a warrant then.’

  ‘I already have. Their lawyers are looking over it now.’

  ‘Arseholes.’

  ‘Quite. There is this one, though,’ she said, typing it into Google. ‘See.’

  Zain came over and had a look at the address details Michelle had picked up.

  ‘I’d better go and check it out,’ he said.

  *

  The offices were located off Westminster Bridge Road, part of Guy’s and St Thomas’ Hospital. The blue NHS hoardings guided Zain to where he was meant to be going, a small building to the side of the main hospital. It looked more like a Portakabin than a hospital department, but the signs on the outside were clear.

  Zain pressed an intercom, and, after showing his badge, he was let in. The receptionist asked him to wait while she placed a call to let her boss know he had arrived. He read posters on the wall, warning of the crisis in the NHS, offering a whole series of numbers for helplines that were available to those in need.

  ‘DS Harris?’

  ‘Dr Stevenage?’

  Dr Philip Stevenage was a portly man, who looked as though he was in his fifties, with grey hair like a halo. Zain followed him down corridors that were free of the lino that he had seen in most hospitals. These had brown carpets and lined wallpaper. It looked like a seventies drawing room from an ad he had seen on TV once. How we used to live.

  Dr Stevenage’s office was past a series of communal rooms, which mainly had chairs laid out in circles. There was a relaxing atmosphere in the building, although it still felt sanitised and clinical. The office itself looked quite informal. There was no desk, just a low table, a sofa and a ‘client’ chair which was offered to Zain. He had flashbacks to the copious amounts of therapy he had undergone over the years, feeling strangely anxious as he sat down.

  ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘Firstly, did you get the warrant I faxed over?’

  ‘Yes I did. I am aware of the circumstances of the case, and yes I am happy to comply. Mark Lynch’s death is a shock, and while I am not sure how I can help, I will do my best.’

  ‘So you’re OK discussing his medical notes with me?’

  ‘I only have his therapy notes. I treat patients here using CBT mainly, cognitive behavioural therapy? It’s a talking therapy.’

  Zain knew what it was, he’d had enough himself. Didn’t work as well as his green pills, but he didn’t say that.

  ‘Those notes might be more useful than anything an actual medical file might contain anyway,’ said Zain.

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘How long was Mark Lynch a patient here?’

  ‘For the last seven years. He came to us when he moved to London, after a referral from his GP and therapist in Birmingham. I believe it coincided with the start of his course at UCL.’

  ‘Were you treating him?’

  ‘No. I run the centre, but his actual therapist is a psychologist called Brid Hearne. She’s away at the moment at a conference in Edinburgh, so asked me to meet with you and discuss his notes.’

  ‘You spoke to her? She gave you permission?’

  Zain was now worried about anyone involved in the case that might be on leave or ‘away’. Both Mark Lynch and Freya Rice had been missing, or ‘on leave’.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can you tell me what his issues were?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Mark started therapy quite early on in life; he was fifteen I believe. We don’t have those notes, because when he turned nineteen any of his previous notes were destroyed. It’s to protect the young.’

  ‘He was a legal minor until nineteen?’

  ‘For our clinical purposes that is the cut-off age. He transitioned from Great Ormond Street’s mental health services to us.’

  ‘How long was he at Great Ormond Street?’ said Zain. Freya Rice was working there before she died. Was there a link?

  ‘A matter of months, just while he was formally transferred to the adult services we offer.’

  ‘What did those services involve in terms of treating him?’

  ‘Mark lost his mother as a teenager.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘To an aggressive form of brain cancer. She had tumours that couldn’t be removed or treated. I believe from diagnosis to death it was a matter of weeks.’

  Brain tumours? And Mark had ended up working on something that might be able to remove tumours without surgery, to save other lives. To do for others what he hadn’t been able to do for his own mother.

  To Zain that felt noble. So why exactly had he ended up creating a neurotoxin that did anything but save lives?

  ‘How did the death affect him?’

  ‘He was a vulnerable teenager and had a particularly negative reaction to it. Depression at first, which became severe and debilitating. A fear of death, and he was worried about his father all the time. He thought if he couldn’t see him, it meant his father would die.’

  ‘How do you know this if his notes are no longer available?’

  ‘There is a summary at the start of his adult notes. So no detailed sessions, but we have the general gist of what was discussed.’

  ‘And yet he managed to get into UCL? That’s not easy?’

  ‘No. He was given special measures for his exams, extra support. But yes, quite an achievement considering how severe his illness was. However, that was the illness at its most intense. He was treated and cured partially for years before he applied for university.’

  ‘If he’s still coming here, how effective was the treatment?’

  ‘Mental illness isn’t something that can be switched off, DS Harris.’

  ‘I am aware of that.’ Fuck, was he aware of that.

  ‘Part of Mark’s issues were dealt with, but other aspects of his condition needed constant support. Especially when he lost his father.’

  Shit, thought Zain. Talk about life kicking you fucking hard when you were lying on the ground bleeding already. He had been there. Degrees on the same scale maybe; he couldn’t imagine what losing both your parents would feel like.

  ‘It caused a relapse?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How old was he?’

  ‘His father passed away last year.’

  ‘And before that, what was he being treated for?’

  ‘He hadn’t healed properly; he was holding on to a lot of resentment and blame from when his mother passed away. I was trying to fix the teenager inside him that was broken. His symptoms were a lot milder, of course.’

  ‘Was he on any medication?’

  ‘When he was younger, yes. But by the time he came to us, he was managing through the therapy. He was prescribed Prozac and sleeping tablets last year after his father died.’

  Zain thought about how crap Natalie’s life had been leading up to her death, and now here was Mark, suffering for years, and in the end meeting a terrible death. Dr Kapoor had confirmed the use of anaesthesia from Mark’s toxicology tests. He hadn’t been able to move and he wasn’t awake when he had been killed. The open eyes were a reflex, she thought.

  It shouldn’t matter. Murder wasn’t nice and shouldn’t happen to anyone. But when people had shit lives, it felt worse. His grandfather always reminded him that a traumatic death was a way to have your sins forgiven. Zain couldn’t see into a parallel existence, or a future like that. He had to deal with what was tangible to him. Maybe he needed to let go, follow his grandfather’s route a bit more? Get down with the Sufis.

  ‘His therapy was all done through CBT then?’

  ‘Yes. He had weekly sessions, and he attended a support group once a month after his father’s death. It was a bereavement network
, where we put those who have lost loved ones together, hoping they can help each other heal.’

  ‘The sessions took place here?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Zain studied the doctor carefully. Would he comply with Zain’s next request? It wasn’t normal procedure, and would be flouting a number of data protection edicts. Still he had to ask.

  ‘Is it possible to access the records of everyone who attended the support group? And what their medical histories are?’

  Dr Stevenage smiled, but he was displaying his teeth in a fixed grin. Kate had told him once that was a warning in nature.

  ‘What do you think my answer to that request is going to be, DS Harris?’

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  Michelle was furiously building up profiles on Mark Lynch and Freya Rice. She had as much data on them as she could get hold of electronically, from various HR databases, HMRC, the DVLA and the passport office. Anything where they had filled out an electronic form. She had their personal files from their hard drives, their private phone messages. The only number she was still trying to access was that of Mark Lynch’s mysterious withheld-number caller. But sifting through everything she could, there was nothing that helped her work out a link between them, or with the other two victims.

  ‘I can’t see anything,’ she said to Rob, who was scanning CCTV taken from vantage points where the victims might have been. ‘No crossed work histories, no contact. There is no intersection between their lives.’

  ‘Keep looking, they must have had some moment when they got together somewhere.’

  ‘I am, it’s just frustrating. I’ve tried running algorithms, I’ve tried manually. Nothing is getting me a hit.’

  ‘Here!’ said Rob. He tapped his screen. ‘I got them.’

  Michelle came over and looked at the image on his screen. She saw two blurred shapes, captured at night, under the glow of street lamps and shop signs. It was raining, so the image was smudged slightly.