The Evil Beneath (12 page)

‘Are you being seen to?’

I repeated the same spiel I’d delivered at the first place.

‘You’ll need a Norwich library card or a pass,’ she said.

‘Oh.’ Stumped. ‘How do I get a pass?’

‘Have you got your journalist ID?’

‘Ah. You’ve got me there. You see, I’m freelance…on a commission for…
Country and Home
magazine. I’m not really attached to any particular paper.’

I surprised myself at how easily it slipped off my tongue.

‘Haven’t you got anything showing you’re a journalist?’

I made a show of looking in my bag, but I was running out of momentum. I put my empty hands on the desk. ‘I’m really sorry. I don’t think I have. You can take my credit card as assurance if you like, is that any good?’

‘We don’t operate like that, I’m afraid.’

I was about to turn away, when an idea occurred to me. I looked in my bag again, hoping I’d been less than my usual tidy self, lately.

I found it. ‘Will this do?’ I said, flattening down a creased sheet of paper. It was the email sent to me by Brad, that I’d used to view Aysha’s body at the police mortuary in Wapping. ‘It shows I’ve been authorised by the Metropolitan Police to investigate.’

Thank goodness I’d been preoccupied lately. Normally a note like that would have been ‘filed’ away by now. She took one look at the police logo and handed it back.

‘If anyone asks, I wasn’t the one who let you through, okay?’

She pushed a white card into a slot and the turnstile clicked and let me pass.

I walked down a dim corridor until I got to a large oak door. As I entered, the smell of furniture polish was so strong I could almost taste it. There was no one else in the room. Glossy oak tables ran in rows down the room and tall pull-out racks of recent copies of local newspapers lined the walls. Everything before January 2009 was on microfilm. I put my bag on a table and flicked through the boxes, searching for 1990. I pulled out the reel for the relevant year and slotted it into the machine, then scanned the dates in January. I was looking for anything after the 18th, the day our house went up in flames.

Then there it was:

Maybe Libby had been right: the report looked straightforward. Perhaps Cheryl had got her psychic wires crossed. I decided to check the records for the next few days to see if there was any follow-up report, once the police had made a full investigation. I came across a small piece on page seven on the following Monday. As I read, I could feel small hairs on the back of my neck start to prickle:

I then searched the frames every day, for the following week. I scanned each page on the machine, my pulse pounding in my head, but I found nothing more. I went through the pages again, together with all the papers from the week after that. I drew a total blank.

I sat back and let out a loud sigh, just as someone else came into the room. It was nearly 11.30, so I quickly made copies of the relevant frames on the special microfilm copier, grabbed my things and left the building.

Libby was already inside The Anchor, sipping a port and lemon. I got my own drink and joined her by a window.

‘Had a good morning?’

‘I went to Norwich.’ I pulled out the copies of the two reports.

Libby clicked her tongue. ‘This just upsets people,’ she said.

‘The second report says the police weren’t happy about the way the fire started…’

‘We can’t do anything about it now.’

She waved a bag of cheese-and-onion crisps at me. I shook my head.

‘Do you remember any of this? Was there ever a follow-up investigation?’

‘Nothing else came to light. It was a tragic accident, Jules.’

I prodded my finger on the second clipping, still not convinced. ‘Something wasn’t right. You said it was the toaster. There’s no mention of that in the report.’

‘The newspapers probably turned away anything that came up later as old news. The police must have done an investigation. Nothing ever came of it. Case closed.’

‘What about Mum and Dad, would they know more about it?’

Libby rounded on me. ‘Don’t go digging all this up again with your parents.’ Her eyes were wild. ‘Don’t you dare upset them all over again. It’s over. Luke’s gone. Just leave it.’

I stared at my hands in my lap and let it drop. For the moment.

When I waved goodbye after lunch, I knew I wasn’t giving up that easily. I still had one more card up my sleeve, but I needed Cheryl to help me play it.

Chapter Thirteen

I’d just managed to get into the scorpion position when the doorbell rang. I was furious. It had taken me months of yoga practice to develop enough strength to hold the position and I’d finally achieved it. I was tempted to ignore the bell, but it rang again and broke my concentration. I rolled on to my yoga mat and stormed down the hall.

It was Brad. He took one look at my red face and upside-down hair and burst into laughter.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Bad time?’

I waved him in, before the whole street saw me in my pink velour leisure suit.

‘Just trying to get relaxed,’ I said, sounding anything but. My Wednesday morning had involved two very odd clients and a
no show
, and I was in need of my yoga fix.

‘I wanted to keep you in the loop…I was passing.’

As I rounded the back of the sofa I kept my smile hidden from him. I wasn’t falling for the
just passing
routine. I put the kettle on and handed him a mug of coffee.

‘I don’t mean to pry, but what were you doing before I arrived?’

I dragged my fingers through my hair trying to force it into shape and cursed the velour suit. I sat down so he’d see less of it.

‘Yoga. I’m not very good.’

I looked down and froze. I’d left a copy of
The Lovers Guide to Tantric Sex
on the coffee table in full view. I stood suddenly to make sure his eyes didn’t drift in that direction, and leaned awkwardly against the back of the sofa. He shifted round to look at me.

‘I’m really here about Lindsey Peel, the third body we found at Battersea Bridge. You’d better sit down.’

How I hated those words. He patted the space I’d just vacated. As I returned, I slipped a newspaper over the yoga book, making it look like I was clearing space for any notes he might produce.

‘She didn’t have a termination at Fairways, but we know she worked there.’

‘Shit.’ I felt like the air in my lungs had been sucked out of me. I sank back into the cushions. Why did I ever bother being pleased when I saw this man? I should know by now that some dreadful news would always follow him like a bad smell.

‘She was a cleaner. You didn’t know her?’

‘No. I’ve never done the early morning shift.’

‘I’ve brought a photograph. We know who she is, so there’s no need for you to see the body.’ He pulled the picture out of his pocket. ‘But just in case you recognise…her clothes…or…’

I reluctantly took the snap. I recognised the aluminium trolley from the mortuary. The victim was dressed in a green skirt with a brown polo-necked jumper, under a khaki parka. She looked neither soaking wet, nor distressed. Her clothes appeared unruffled, her pale face serene, as if she’d simply fallen asleep in the wrong place. I tried to hang on to that belief, but it barely lasted a second, before the cruel truth of the situation took over. Like the others, she’d probably been strangled and dumped like a discarded bag of rubbish.

‘No. These aren’t my clothes.’ I said. ‘And I don’t recognise her.’ It was something. ‘But it’s another Fairways’ connection…’ All my energy was slowly being sapped from my body.

‘Yeah. We’ve been interviewing everyone who works there. Nothing so far. We’re still waiting for some comeback on the e-fit of the guy who threatened you at the demonstration. Zilch, as yet.’

I dug my heels into the carpet, staring at my bare feet.

‘We also traced Aysha Turner’s last movements,’ he continued. ‘The night before she was killed, friends said she’d gone to meet someone in Putney. We don’t have a name. They were meeting at the Duke’s Head by the river, so we’re checking that out.’

‘She was right next to the river …’

‘The post-mortem put time of death at between two and six on the morning of October 6
^th
, so she could well have been killed in that area and then taken down to Richmond Bridge…partly by car, perhaps partly by boat.’

‘It’s a long way. Someone must have seen something. There are always lots of people down at the riverside in both Putney and Richmond, even late in the evening.’

‘We’re banking on that. Forensics found size ten footprints - flat bog-standard shoes without any visible tread - at the scene at Battersea Bridge, but no DNA. Nothing from Richmond Bridge crime scene, as far as I know. The guy must have been really careful. Probably wore gloves, a hat, a long jacket without any wool… to prevent loose fibres, flakes of skin or hair from being left around.’

‘Smart guy. Who the hell is he?’

‘We spoke with your Mr Fin. Odd chap isn’t he? He has alibis for all three murders.’

‘I knew it wasn’t him, even though he gives me the creeps.’

‘Anyway. That’s it on Operation Chicane for now.’

‘Is that the name of the case?’

He looked bemused. ‘You must have missed that meeting.’

‘How did you come up with that name?’

‘It’s nothing complicated. We have an approved list - neutral words that we choose from.’

‘Just random?’

‘Pretty much - we use the next word on the list as long as it doesn’t have any coincidental connection to the case. Every UK police force is the same. Anything from exotic fruit to islands off the Scottish coast.’

He stood up.

‘So it could easily have turned out to be Operation Hedgehog or Operation Hard-boiled-egg,’ I said.

He gave me a wry look that said:
I’m glad you’ve still got your sense of humour.

‘Our SIO would like to see you, again, by the way. She was hoping for later today, if that’s okay with you.’

More grilling. ‘That’s fine. I’ve passed my shifts at Fairways to another counsellor this week.’

‘Good thinking. I was going to suggest you keep away from there, for the time being.’ He turned at the door and put his hand on my shoulder. ‘Fourish okay for you?’

‘Yeah. I’ll be there.’

My mood had sunk rapidly again, but I could feel the heat of his hand through my top, long after he’d gone.

***

Borough Commander, Katherine Lorriman was a carbon-copy of the figure I’d seen a fortnight earlier, only this time there was a slash of scarlet on her lips. Perhaps today she’d had a lunch date.

I was led by a male officer through narrow corridors, weaving through a constant stream of preoccupied staff, to her office. I’d obviously been upgraded from the drab interview suite. We passed the main incident room. It looked like the trading floor at the Stock Exchange. With three woman dead and no sign of an arrest, this case had certainly turned into a huge operation.

The first thing that struck me about the SIO’s room was the absence of plants or feminine touches. No trace of perfume in the air, no photos, no trinkets - there wasn’t even a painting on the wall. Instead, it was stacked high with boxes beside grey filing cabinets. Entirely functional, stark and uninviting, giving nothing away except that this, in itself, told me something. This woman took her job extremely seriously, she probably didn’t have much of a home life and what personal life she did have, she kept poles apart from her professional one.

I was relieved when Brad joined us. It made me feel less like an errant pupil brought before the headmistress.

‘We’re dealing with a smart and devious killer, here, Ms Grey,’ she said, without any opening welcome. ‘Most perpetrators take souvenirs of murders away with them,’ she continued. ‘It would appear, in this case, that the killer is doing the reverse.’ She put both her hands on the desk in an emphatic gesture. ‘He’s leaving objects behind that have a personal connection…to you.’

Her tone was on the verge of implying it was my fault again.

‘At the moment, the obvious connection is Fairways. Two of the victims had terminations there and one worked there. And you work there. It could simply be some anti-abortionist getting on his high horse - perhaps this guy who threatened you.’

Brad took over.

‘We’re checking through all the lists of known anti-abortion activists in London,’ he said. ‘We’re looking at footage of previous demonstrations from the last few years. It’s a massive job. We’re also sending out officers to speak to ring-leaders and other clinics who’ve had threats in the past.’

‘I understand that DCI Madison has been going through your personal background and family history to see why you’re being targeted in this way,’ she said.

‘I spoke to my parents to check if they had any links to London,’ I said. ‘They’ve never spent time or worked here. I’m the only relative who has ever lived here. My father laughed when I asked if he had any enemies. Nothing at all from them, I’m afraid.’

‘Is there anything else we haven’t considered?’ she said. ‘Any small thing, even if you think it may not be relevant?’

‘From your days at University - your psychotherapy training?’ added Brad. ‘Fairways, Holistica?’

I told them I’d been asking myself these questions every minute of every day. I still didn’t have any answers. We went over details, facts and speculations, but effectively the interview was over. The SIO didn’t offer me any coffee. She didn’t even thank me for coming. There were no words of reassurance either, although I’m not sure anything would have helped. There was a killer out there, with belongings of mine and an intimate knowledge of my life. It would be hard to frame that in a way that didn’t sound like I was in danger.

Brad led me out towards the main entrance. Now we were on our own I had to ask one more question.

‘I know it sounds a bit dramatic, but do you think I should go into hiding?’

Brad paused, acknowledging the difficult position I was in. ‘We’ve been talking about your safety. We’re going to give you round the clock protection.’

‘Really? What does that mean, exactly?’

‘It means you’ll have officers assigned to keep an eye on you…at home and whenever you go out… to check you’re okay.’ Images of an unmarked car crawling along the pavement beside me, came to mind. ‘They’ll be with you during the day and check you’re safe and sound at night.’

‘It might be best to curb my frantic social life, then, or they won’t be able to keep up.’

As if.

He smiled.

I wondered, now that other officers were in the picture, if Brad would stop dropping by from now on. Why couldn’t he have been allocated the job of supervising me? I wouldn’t have minded him checking to see if I was ‘safe and sound’ when I turned out the light. I ran with the ensuing fantasy for a second or two, then decided to save it for another time.

As we reached the door, I asked one final question.

‘Do you have any leads at all, so far?’

‘It’s slow.’ He breathed a hollow sigh. ‘We need to track down the guy who threatened you. We’ve got extra surveillance at Fairways in case he shows up again. We’re going to talk to Andrew again. A couple of your clients have been cagey. We’re still trying to track down various people on your list - your former college tutors…’

I pulled a face. It wasn’t sounding hopeful.

True to his word, I got a call from a female officer at around seven o’clock that evening.

‘I’m WPC Penny Kenton,’ she said. ‘I’ve got PC Zak Nwoso with me. We’re just across the road in a blue Astra.’

I crossed the bedroom and inched back the curtain. I could see a couple in plain clothes sitting inside a dark car.

‘It’s best that you don’t acknowledge us at any time, unless you need help.’

‘Okay.’

‘We’ll keep popping up all over the place, I’m afraid, but just try to carry on as normal. We don’t want anyone else to know we’re right on your tail.’

‘Thank you.’ I didn’t know what else to say.

‘Are you safe now? Everything locked up?’

‘Yes.’ I felt like a five year old. I half-expected her to ask if I’d brushed my teeth.

‘We’ll be staying around until the morning. Keep a mobile phone switched on by your bed and if there is anything, anything at all that you’re concerned about, call this number immediately, okay?’

I said I would and rang off.

Sleep did not come easily that night, but I wasn’t surprised. Nobody knew what was going to happen next. Nobody knew whether I was in any danger or not, except for the killer himself, of course. If only I could get inside his mind.

I was tempted to make sure someone was staying with me each night for the rest of the week, but I didn’t know who I could ask. It was too complicated to ask Andrew, and after finding the weird paintings recently, I preferred to keep my distance. All the other friends I might have asked lived in different cities. When I woke to go to the loo at about 3am, I couldn’t resist checking the street below. All was quiet and, sure enough, the blue Astra was still there. Even though I had others looking out for me, I still felt I was going to have to get through this all on my own.

When I woke the following morning, the blue car was lying in wait ready to keep tabs on my every move. This was how it was going to be from now on. Penny had called to say two new officers were taking over that day. PC Ralph Ferriton and PC Ron Alderidge. I was going to find it hard keeping track of everyone. I felt more secure on the one hand and strangely violated on the other. With my phones and email being tapped too, not much I did was going to be private for some time.

When I flicked through the notes for my first client, I realised how tired I was. My therapist had suggested I take some time out from counselling, but I couldn’t afford to. I was already turning away work at Fairways. When you’re self-employed, you can’t take leave and get paid for it. I’d lose money hand over fist if I took a break. I’d then be reduced to a life stuck in my flat, twenty-four seven, or walking the streets with a blue Astra glued to my backside. Not an option.

* * *

Lynn was the first to arrive. We launched into the same material as before. Lynn’s son being bullied. Lynn following her son to and from school. The boy, refusing to allow any intervention.

‘This must be so frustrating for you,’ I said.

It was certainly frustrating for me - there was so little room for me to help her.

‘What has been better, this week?’ A psychology trick; try to shift to the positive.

‘Nothing. It’s just the same.’

‘How is your son?’