The Domino Killer (21 page)

Sam woke up and got straight out of bed.

‘What is it?’ Alice mumbled, her face buried deep in the pillow.

‘Last night. The online chat on that site.’

Alice lifted her head. ‘It’s not even six o’clock.’

‘Sometimes these things need a few hours to settle in, as if the sleep sorts it all out,’ he said.

‘Where are you going?’

‘Online.’

Alice groaned and put the pillow over her head.

Sam reached down for his clothes, still on the floor from the night before. As he lifted his trousers, his phone fell out. A light was flashing.

It was a text from Charlotte:
Can you pick me up? My car’s got a flat.
It had come in fifteen minutes earlier. That was an early start.

He called her. When she answered, he said, ‘Something happened?’

‘Didn’t Brabham ring you?’ Charlotte said, crunching on her breakfast.

‘No, he didn’t.’

‘There’s another murder.’

Sam pinched his nose and wiped his eyes. ‘Give me thirty minutes,’ and he clicked off. ‘There’s another body.’

‘There’s always another body somewhere,’ Alice said. ‘What time will you be back this time? Before midnight?’

He didn’t respond but got dressed quickly. It was a sad reality that a dead body meant long hours. And they didn’t get shorter when a suspect was found, because then the interviews went on and on, the time of day irrelevant.

Before he left the bedroom, Alice held out her arm. He bent down to her, and when she pulled him closer, he kissed her, the taste of sleep on her lips.

‘I’ll be back when I can,’ he said.

Before he left, he looked in on Ruby. She was sprawled along the sofa. He made a promise to himself that he would spend some time with her, once he was able to grab some for himself.

The drive to Charlotte’s house was spent trying to become more alert, the heat turned down low in the car, the blowers on, using the cold air to get rid of the last traces of tiredness. When she climbed in, the car was filled with perfume.

‘Where am I going?’

‘Worsley,’ she said, and yawned.

‘That’s not in our division.’

‘There are some similarities to our case apparently, so Brabham wants to check for a link.’

As he drove, Sam said, ‘I think I got something about the website. I was thinking about it before I went to bed and my brain must have somehow sorted it out when I was asleep.’

‘I’m interested,’ she said.

‘I received a reply from vodkagirl last night. We had a brief chat, and pretty quickly she wanted a picture of me.’

Charlotte smiled. ‘You’ve been out of the dating game too long.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Dating is all about photos now. If I chat to a bloke online, and I do, they soon get to wanting to see me naked. It’s almost as if they’re not bothered about meeting me but just want to stay in front of a screen all night, tossing themselves off.’

‘And?’

‘I tell them to get lost.’ Then she blushed. ‘Most times anyway. But even when I’m not interested, it doesn’t stop the cock pictures from coming in.’

‘But if you want to exploit someone, you have to get their secrets. Take Bruce from yesterday. He said vodkagirl wanted to know his darkest secrets, something to share.’

‘Yeah, I got that, and I mentioned about the paedophile-hunter, the guy who lured them to a meeting with a camera.’

‘But what if it’s more than that?’ Sam said. ‘There was something else Bruce said. Vodkagirl had told him that a teacher had abused her, trapped her in a storeroom and tried to take her virginity. She said she was looking for someone to understand her feelings but described it as abuse.’

‘And?’

‘It was meant to turn Bruce on but also make him be a hero, by describing the teacher as her abuser. And what was Keith Welsby?’

‘A teacher,’ Charlotte said, starting to smile.

‘That’s right,’ Sam said. ‘Was that the demand? Kill my abuser and you can have me?’

‘That’s extreme,’ she said. ‘Who’d go for that?’

‘A man who has desires burning him up so that he can’t control them any more. Dreams of children. Like Henry Mason.’

Charlotte shook her head. ‘No, it’s too far. Murdering someone is a big step.’

‘But what if vodkagirl has his secrets? What if he’s sent things to her, pictures of himself, or disclosed things he should have kept to himself?’

Charlotte didn’t respond straight away, until she turned to smile. ‘I like it. So vodkagirl either blackmails Henry Mason into murdering Keith Welsby because of secrets he disclosed, or else persuades him to be her hero, and then she will be all his?’

‘That’s what I’m thinking.’

‘And Henry Mason turned up to meet an underage girl, his duty done, and what he got was his own murder.’ She frowned. ‘One problem, though: who killed Henry Mason?’

‘The person behind the profile. Who else?’

‘Brabham won’t be happy.’

‘Why? Method and motive solved. We just need to find out who’s behind the profile.’

‘Because it stops the domino effect pretty quickly,’ she said. ‘No more big-time press conferences on this case, and it means this new murder will have nothing to do with ours.’

‘Perhaps someone shouldn’t have spoken to the press so soon.’

They parked close to the crime scene, in front of a restaurant that had been squashed into a low-rise building fronted in white pebbledash.

The area had been closed off for a few hours, the call coming in during the night, but a lot of the work had been held off until daylight to avoid the risk of contaminating the scene; a crucial piece of evidence could be hidden in the dark and be taken away on the sole of someone’s shoe, like a cigarette butt or a piece of paper.

‘Where’s Brabham?’ Sam said.

Charlotte looked around before she pointed to a cluster of people and the glare of a television spotlight. ‘Looks like he saw the lenses and went straight over.’

Sam watched until the cluster broke up, the interview done. Brabham stepped away but he paused before he made his way to his squad. He was talking to a young female journalist, smiling and touching her arm, something more than a brief quote. As he moved on and she turned to watch, Sam recognised her: Lauren Spicer, the young reporter who’d tried to get a quote from him a couple of mornings before.

‘You were right,’ Sam said. When Charlotte looked confused, he added, ‘The young reporter got her scoop from Brabham.’

‘But who’s using who?’ Charlotte said.

‘That’s their problem,’ Sam said, as he looked around. There was a small cobbled footbridge that rose over the canal. Trees hung over the water further along, near to a large building with a fake Tudor front. A barge puttered along in bright reds and greens, with flowers spilling out of boxes on its roof, steered by a man in a wispy beard and denim cap, happy living in his cliché.

‘It’s a similar location,’ Sam said. ‘A local attraction to make sure the body will be discovered at some point, but quiet too. The houses nearby are the sort where people don’t look out much, hidden behind high hedges. The road that passes is too far away to make for good eyewitnesses, and it’s a major route to the motorway.’

‘It’s a park too,’ Charlotte said. ‘The local plods are probably called here most weekends in the summer, a magnet for those too old to stay indoors but not old enough for the pubs. So who would pay any attention to shouts and screams, except perhaps for a weary call to the local station?’

Crime scene tape was drawn in a wide arc around the green. Someone hovered nearby with flowers even though the victim hadn’t been identified; wanting to be seen on the news, was Sam’s guess. There was a small huddle of detectives in forensic suits at the edge of the crime scene tape.

Sam and Charlotte walked towards them. As they got closer, Sam said, ‘So what have you got?’

One of the crime scene technicians pulled her hood down, her dark hair plastered to her head. ‘A dead man in park and some sort of rendezvous,’ she said. ‘Stab wounds. Under the ear, the chest, a couple in the ribs.’

‘The method is different, then,’ Sam said. ‘How long has he been there?’

‘A few hours, most likely overnight. Rigor mortis has set in and the pool of blood has congealed.’

‘Do we know who he is?’

‘No, not yet. He was dressed casually. Hoodie and jeans. No flowers. It could be a feud over something. There’s a hire car parked on the road just through there,’ and she gestured towards the canal. ‘The keys are in his pocket and it’s been there all night. That’s why it looks like a rendezvous, because he made a special trip. The local car hire place hasn’t opened yet, so we can’t get details of the hirer. Nothing obvious on his person.’

‘Any sign of a struggle?’

‘No, nothing. No other injuries apart from the stab wounds. My guess is that he was approached from behind and there was a frenzied attack. There are easier ways to kill someone, if that was the intention.’

Sam pointed at the brick monument and said, ‘What is this thing? It looks like someone started to build a tower and stopped, so stuck a birdbath inside.’

‘Built because they felt like it,’ one of the nearby detectives said.

There were footsteps behind them, and as Sam turned, he saw it was Brabham.

‘Let’s not get any closer,’ Brabham said. ‘Not until we’re suited up.’

Sam turned slowly on the spot, his hands on his hips. ‘Why here?’

‘The same reason as the other place, I suppose,’ Brabham said. ‘Quiet at night with good escape routes. Better than meeting in a pub.’

‘But why this specific place, and the other place?’ Sam said. ‘It’s got to be somewhere, I know that, but what if there is a reason for the meeting being here? When you choose a meeting place, it’s a conscious decision, a thought process. It might be worth checking whether there is any link to these places. A history perhaps.’

‘And if the domino theory is right,’ Brabham said, ‘the man there might be Henry Mason’s killer.’ He smiled to himself and said, ‘One by one they fall.’

Sam suppressed his groan. Brabham had worked out the headline already. Sam was troubled, though, because he had to agree that there were some similarities with the Welsby and Mason murders. A man murdered in a frenzied attack when waiting around in a quiet and green area. It looked like Brabham was getting lucky, that he might be getting his dominoes.

Sam was happy about one thing, though: the more bodies there are, the stronger the likelihood that there would be a connection. It was little solace for whoever was carved up behind the forensic screen, but he’d just helped create a better chance of finding his killer.

Joe was unsure of his surroundings as he opened his eyes. He was in a large bed under a crisp white duvet, the morning sunlight brightening the wooden beams that crossed the bedroom ceiling. As someone stirred next to him, it came back to him. He was in Melissa’s bed, fully-clothed, the disclosures of the night before draining them both. They’d spent the night talking until sleep had taken over, although it had been fitful. His mouth felt dry, his skin tired.

He reached across to move the hair from her face. He leaned in and kissed her. She smelled of warm clothes.

‘I’ve got to go,’ he whispered.

She stirred, her eyes barely open. ‘Do you have to?’

‘I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you.’

Melissa rolled over to look at the clock. She rubbed her face and yawned. ‘Carrie will be up soon. She’ll go straight into the bathroom. As soon as she does, sneak out. I’m not ready for the awkward questions.’

‘Okay, will do.’

She propped herself up on her elbows. ‘So what are you going to do today?’

‘Follow your brother,’ he said, stretching out, trying not to make a noise.

‘And?’

‘Just see what he’s up to.’

‘And if you can prove that he’s responsible for any deaths?’

‘I’ll tell the police.’

‘Are you allowed to do that? You’re his lawyer.’

‘At the moment, I’ll be a suspect for last night’s death. Right now, my needs come first.’ He sighed. ‘There are ways of doing it. Lawyers have been tipping off the police for years. Often just hints, whispers as to where they should direct their investigations, but a tip just the same.’

‘I thought you were meant to help them, the criminals.’

‘So did I, back when I first started out. I’ve learned the hard way that it’s about making money, and there’s no money to be made from crooks who don’t get caught. No, we need them banged up just like everyone else does.’

She shuffled across the bed and put her arms round him. When she pulled him close, into her warmth, the smell of stale perfume, he wanted to stay there. If he did, he wouldn’t have to face all the hurt.

‘Just be careful,’ she said, breaking the spell.

‘Can I ask you something?’ he said, his face buried into her neck, so that his words came out muffled.

‘Yes, sure.’

‘Have you ever suspected him of anything like this?’

She pulled away and looked him in the eye, her finger tracing small circles on his cheek. ‘No, never,’ she said. ‘He’s insignificant; no one would suspect him. That might be his disguise.’

‘There’s never been any police interest, even calls to see whether he knew anything?’

‘No, nothing.’

‘And another thing,’ he said. ‘Can I borrow your car?’

She smiled. ‘Keys are on the side in the kitchen. Little black Alfa Romeo in the underground car park.’

He kissed her. ‘Thank you. If I find anything out, will you help me?’

‘What, help the police catch my brother?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘Help the police catch a killer.’

She drew his head into her chest and held him one last time. ‘If you can prove that’s what he is, I’ll do anything to stop him.’

Gina groaned and clasped her head as she rolled over in bed, the memory of the night before rushing at her. She needed to open her eyes more slowly. Her curtains were too thin to block out the light so the early-morning sun made her wince. She drank too much wine when she was alone, she knew that, but the events of the day before had made her hit the bottle a little harder than usual. Hangovers hung around longer than they used to, it was an age thing she knew, and she wanted to be clearheaded.

The walk across the bedroom was a weave. She grabbed a dressing gown as she made her way to the bathroom, and then dry-heaved over the toilet bowl as the effect of movement assaulted her.

She just about hung onto what she’d eaten the night before and straightened so that she could confront the mirror. Her hair was tangled over her face and her cheeks were flushed.

The light in the bathroom was unforgiving, bright spotlights in the ceiling, showing the wrinkles and creases she spent time hiding in her morning routine. The reflection wasn’t a happy one. Her hands gripped the edge of the sink as she leaned in.

So this was it, the beginning of the end of her life. No job, just a long stretch of empty days ahead.

It was an uncomfortable truth that Gina had avoided by filling her days working for Joe and then relishing the downtime of the weekend. She’d told herself that she worked for Joe because of some desire to stay in the game, that she missed the world of crime when she left the police so much that she needed to work for a defence lawyer, but the truth was much simpler than that: she was lonely.

Not many people got close to Gina and saw the woman she became when she hung her suit in the wardrobe. Her life was uncomplicated, with no man to mess it up, but with complications came a busy life. Once she went home and the suit went away, all she had was a book for the evening, or wine and television, just marking time until the following morning. If she didn’t work at all, what would she have?

It was quiet moments of reflection like that when her shield came down. If she collapsed in the house, who would find her? No one visited. She wrapped up her feelings as privacy, but it meant there was never anyone who called round just to see how she was. She’d accepted Joe’s job offer to stop the way ahead being nothing more than decades of long nights alone.

Thoughts of the night before took her back to when Ellie was killed.

Not many killers got away from her when she was in charge of her own murder squad, so Ellie’s death hung around her career like a stain. Knowing what Joe had seen might have changed things. Why hadn’t she spotted that he was hiding something? He’d been so different to Sam, who’d been vocal and tearful and angry, wanting to get at whoever it was who’d killed his sister, but that changed into support for his mother. Gina had watched Sam grow up right in front of her, as he became the older brother, determined to cope. Joe had been different. He’d been withdrawn and quiet, lost in his own thoughts. At the time, she’d put that down to just how he dealt with things, everyone is different, but she’d been wrong all along and not spotted it. He’d been hiding a secret.

She leaned into the mirror again and grimaced. Her grey roots were showing where her hair parted. Lines puckered around her mouth and the creases around her eyes didn’t disappear when the grimace ended. She pulled her robe tighter. She prided herself on her body but she didn’t need the stark glare of spotlights to tell her that time was ruthless as it marched on.

She felt old, and she didn’t want to. She still had a lot to offer.

Images of Joe came back to her from the night before, just flashes, the haze of alcohol making her wonder whether it had really happened like that, but she knew it was true. Joe was no longer the person she’d known. Now he was scared, in hiding, a prisoner of his mistake seventeen years earlier.

But he was still Joe Parker, the man she’d known ever since the day his sister died. Legally, he became an adult on the day Ellie was murdered, his eighteenth birthday, but Gina remembered the fresh face, barely shaving, and the long skinny legs, not yet fully adapted to his grown-up size. She cared about him. Did she really think he could have anything to do with a murder? No, of course not.

She went back to her bedroom to look for her phone, finding it under a pile of clothes. Scrolling quickly, she found Joe’s number.

She’d made her decision. She needed to help him.