The Evil Beneath Page 12

  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 6th, 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 you
r 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?’

  ‘Billy’s been quiet. Withdrawn. He goes to his room and plays with his transformers.’

  ‘Transformers?’

  ‘Those cars and animals that you turn into robots.’

  It sounded terribly old-fashioned in an age when every kid’s world was dominated by Xbox and Wii.

  ‘Does he have many friends?’

  ‘Not really. It’s hard for him. He doesn’t join in, doesn’t mix much. The other kids…if they’re not bullying him or laughing at him, they just ignore him.’ An unfortunate whine was ever-present in her voice. It didn’t make me warm to her, but I did feel a well of compassion towards her unfortunate son.

  ‘What else does he do?’

  ‘He draws and paints pictures. He’s into Power Rangers and he likes collecting things. He wants to know how things work. Like engines and electricity…’ She paused. ‘He’s good at science,’ she said, out of the blue.

  ‘That’s excellent.’ Something positive, at last. ‘Have you met the science teacher?’

  ‘Yes. Mr Slade. He seems okay. He seems to be able to relate to Billy.’

  ‘Any chance Billy might be persuaded to talk to Mr Slade about the bullying, do you think?’

  She was straight down on me like a ton of bricks.

  ‘No, No! He won’t involve anyone at the school. The teachers…the headmaster…nobody!’

  Why wouldn’t she just consider it? Try talking to the boy about it, again? Keep gently prodding away at him, to get him to see sense?

  I was forced to find another way. I wasn’t convinced she had much of a support network, but I asked the question anyway. ‘Have you talked to any of your own friends about this situation?’

  She looked down. ‘I don’t really have anyone.’ It sounded like both mother and son were awkward types who didn’t mix well or make friends easily.

  ‘How long have you been in the area?’

  ‘Only si
nce the beginning of the year. I don’t go out much, except to work. I’m a part-time secretary in a company in the city. And I drive a mini-bus for Billy’s school. To try to keep close to him. I’m not good at socialising.’

  That much was obvious. Lynn’s whining tone and dejected body-language smacked of being a victim. People didn’t find that attractive. I tried something else.

  ‘Do you go to a gym or a club?’

  ‘I go swimming,’ she said.

  ‘Do you know people there? Anyone you get on with?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘It might be worth talking to other people you can trust, other mothers, about this kind of thing. Parents’ groups, perhaps. I can find some websites for you about coping with bullying. There will be other people who’ve been through situations like yours.’

  ‘I thought you were going to help me.’

  ‘It’s very hard, Lynn.’ I set my pen down on the table beside me. ‘The person who needs most help is your son and you tell me that he won’t accept any intervention at the moment. It’s hard for me to do anything constructive.’

  ‘He won’t come to these sessions.’

  ‘That isn’t how this works I’m afraid. Anyway, I’m not trained to work with children. How old is Billy again?’

  I knew I had it in my notes somewhere, but I didn’t want to look away.

  ‘He’s fourteen.’

  ‘There should be an educational psychologist attached to your son’s school. You could see if they could help him. Which school does he go to?’

  ‘He doesn’t want the school involved. I thought I’d made that clear.’

  We were going round in circles and I couldn’t find a way out.

  As I was turning things over in my mind, she asked to leave the room to use the toilet. When she had gone I looked through my notes again. Was there anything here I could use as a lever to make some progress?

  I was scanning the first page, when I came across Billy’s age. I’d written it down in our first session. Lynn had said he was thirteen. Today, she’d said he was fourteen. That was odd at first, until I realised there was a simple explanation. He must have had a birthday during the last few weeks. No real mystery there. As I continued to read, however, I noticed another inconsistency. Lynn had said the head of her son’s school was a woman, but today she had referred to the headmaster.