Perfect Girls: An absolutely gripping page-turning crime thriller Page 13

  Rachel didn’t ask Brickall which camp he was in. She already knew the answer. She pictured him as a thuggish little boy, making up for his lack of height by being free with his fists. King of the playground.

  ‘Which were you?’ he asked, reading her mind.

  ‘Bullied. Definitely.’

  ‘I find that hard to believe.’ He wiped his mouth hard with a paper napkin, then screwed it into a ball.

  She sighed. ‘Look, I’m sorry about today. I just had to keep digging. Rob and I, we—’

  Brickall jumped up abruptly, spraying uneaten french fries over the floor. ‘Stop banging on about it, okay? You’re fixated, Prince! I’m telling you, you need to just let this go.’

  He turned on his heel, throwing the screwed-up napkin at the bin and missing, then strode off in the direction of the car park.

  Rachel went after him, grabbing him by the elbow as they reached the car.

  ‘Hold on a minute, sunshine, I’ve had enough of this. Now, you need to tell me what’s eating at you.’

  He shook off her arm, turned away and opened the car door.

  Rachel climbed into the driver’s seat beside him. ‘Don’t tell me it’s nothing: I’ve known you eight years. It’s something.’

  Brickall gave a long sigh and leaned his head on the dashboard. ‘Shaun Rawlings,’ he muttered.

  Rachel was mystified. ‘Shaun Rawlings?’ Was this a case he was working on?

  ‘He’s the bastard who murdered my brother by driving four times over the limit.’

  ‘What about him?’ Rachel asked, though she could guess.

  ‘He’s out. He served nine months of his two-year sentence for killing Paul, then they let him out on licence. Because he’s an animal he then committed an armed robbery and ended up serving the rest of the sentence plus another eight years.’ Brickall scrunched up his shoulders. ‘But… he’s out now.’

  Rachel put a hand on his shoulder. ‘You always knew that was going to happen.’

  ‘But he’s moved back to south London, to my area. I’ve seen him in Tesco’s and coming out of the betting shop. It’s like he’s trying to rub my nose in it.’

  ‘I’m sure that’s not true, but even if it is, you’re going to have to find a way to rise above it and ignore him.’

  ‘Easier said than done.’

  ‘I know,’ Rachel told him. But it’s important you do.’

  As she turned the key in the ignition, Rachel made a conscious effort to lighten the mood. ‘For a moment there I thought you were going to say you were pissed off because I knocked you back last night.’

  ‘Don’t be so fucking daft, I was just messing around.’ He gave a contemptuous laugh. ‘As if I’d ever go there.’

  Amen to that, thought Rachel. That would be nothing short of madness.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  There’s plenty of time to clean up. After I’ve finished eating, I sleep for a few hours. The blinds in the bedroom are open, so the early light wakes me. I climb into my Tyvek crime scene suit, cover my head with the hood and my shoes with paper covers. Two sets of gloves.

  I don’t rush it. The theatre’s closed, my hostess is still officially out of town and I reckon I have at least twenty-four hours before anyone reports Clayton missing or notices his truck. I load every single item first into the washer, then the dryer. It takes several loads, all on the longest ninety-degree cycle, which is time consuming. While the washing machine is working, I tackle the floors, then every surface in the apartment. Slowly, thoroughly. I’m like the human equivalent of a fine-tooth comb.

  While I’m waiting on the final drying cycle, I switch on the TV news with a gloved finger.

  ‘Construction workers at the Fairfield Theater today made a grisly discovery when they found two bodies – one male and one female – on the site. The victims have not yet been identified. At this stage, Wake County Police say the deaths were not accidental and they’re treating the discovery as a homicide investigation…’

  I jump back from the TV as though I’ve been burned. Then I switch it off and start quickly but methodically gathering all my stuff, adding in the framed photo of the loved-up young couple. Clayton had his phone and his wallet on him, so he will have been identified. It’s not going to take them long to figure out that the other one is his girlfriend, and then they’ll be straight round here.

  I step out onto the communal landing, still in my paper suit and shoes. I strip them off, bundle them into the garbage bag I’ve just removed from the kitchen bin and push it down the chute that’s next to the elevator. Then I put on my cap and sunglasses and take the emergency stairs down to the parking garage. That was a lot closer than I had planned for. I’m going to have to be a lot more careful next time.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  ‘Her Majesty’s Inspectorate of Constabulary,’ Patten addressed the officers in the Major Crimes Investigation Support meeting room, ‘have decided in their wisdom to conduct another of their reviews into our effectiveness. Specifically, whether we are investing enough in equipment in order to support our officers. They also want to look at our extradition and fugitive protocols. So –’ he slapped a file on the desk for emphasis; something he was fond of doing – ‘we’ve got a lot to get through in the next few weeks.’

  There was a collective groaning and eye rolling around the table.

  ‘Obviously, it makes sense for International Division to cover Ins and Outs.’ He used the favoured office slang for criminals crossing UK borders in one direction or the other – ‘so DI Prince and DS Brickall: can I leave that with you? Retrospective summary of all our files going back to whenever the hell HMIC were last here.’

  Rachel and Brickall slouched back to their desks like teenagers who had just been given extra homework.

  ‘What do you want to do – Ins or Outs?’ Brickall asked.

  Rachel shrugged. ‘I really don’t care.’ She realised as she said it that there were probably a lot more criminals coming into the country illegally than there were being shipped out.

  ‘I’ll do Outs then,’ said Brickall, also realising this.

  ‘Fine,’ she smiled. His mood had improved somewhat since he had talked to her about Shaun Rawlings’ release from prison, but she was keeping quiet about the American case anyway. She was, in effect, doing what Brickall had wanted and letting the matter go. He was right anyway; she was at a dead end. No more talk about Phoebe Stiles.

  ‘Coffee?’

  He nodded, eyes fixed on his computer monitor, and she headed off to the communal kitchenette to put on the kettle. Reflexively checking her phone while the kettle boiled, she saw she had a voicemail that must have been left while she was in the meeting. The associated missed call was from Robert J. McConnell.

  Her hands trembled slightly as she called voicemail.

  ‘Rachel, something’s… listen, you’re definitely not going to want to miss this. It’s probably best if I explain in an email, this is just a heads-up. Okay, take care now. Bye.’

  Back at her desk, she checked her inbox. There it was, intriguingly entitled ‘You must see this’. She glanced over at Brickall, who was watching her expression closely.

  ‘What?’ he demanded.

  ‘Nothing. Just an annoying email from my sister.’ She had indeed received an email from Lindsay that morning, demanding she disclose her plans for Easter, so this was not an outright lie. She closed her email down and stood up. ‘I’m going to start pulling up some archived files.’ She didn’t want to risk another confrontation, so Rob’s message was going to have to wait. But that didn’t stop her thinking about it.

  * * *

  As soon as she got home, she curled up on the sofa with her laptop and started reading.

  From: Robert J. McConnell

  To: Rachel Prince

  Hey Rachel

  Hope all good in London?

  Okay, so I’ve been regularly screening on homicides of women under the age of 35, and a few days ago there was one in No
rth Carolina that caught my eye straightaway. The victim is blonde, pretty and not unlike our Heather/Stacey/Jennifer (who I now think of as Miss XX, given that all we know is that the killer has female DNA). I made some enquiries and – bingo. Sure enough this girl was renting out her apartment on CasaMia. I’ve not managed to get a look at the crime report, but I’ve spoken to the PD there and she was strangled, not struck, which doesn’t fit the pattern. But this still has the potential to be more than a coincidence, so I’m currently trying to get the all the relevant police forces to talk to each other, but it’s not easy from here at the Department of Justice. I’m attaching a link. Let me know what you think. Sending good thoughts, Rob.

  Sending good thoughts? What on earth did that mean?

  Rachel clicked on the link, which took her to a report on the Raleigh News & Observer’s site.

  Morrisville resident and former beauty queen Melissa Downey (24) and her boyfriend Clayton Hill (26) were found brutally murdered on Tuesday. The grisly discovery was made by law enforcement officers outside the Fairfield Theatre, currently closed for refurbishment, where Miss Downey previously competed in pageants. Police have so far refused to comment on the motive for this double killing, but it is believed that Hill, who was Miss Downey’s boyfriend, might have been going to her aid when he too became a victim of the killer. His Chevrolet Silverado was found abandoned a mile away. The investigation continues.

  The photo of Melissa Downey, smiling and pouting for the camera, instantly put Rachel in mind of Tiffany Kovak. The boyfriend had the thick neck and heavy shoulders of an American football player.

  She fired an email to Rob.

  How was the boyfriend killed?

  He replied a few minutes later:

  Blunt force trauma to the back of the skull, same MO as Phoebe and Tiffany.

  She emailed again. CCTV images?

  Will work on that.

  Rachel closed her laptop, changed into her running gear and headed for the Thames Path. It was nearly dark, and persistent drizzle made the air soupy and her face damp. The last of the office workers were hurrying to the tube station or over the bridge, some huddling outside bars and pubs to smoke.

  I have to go out there, was the persistent thought in her head. She had tried to forget about the case – not perhaps as hard as Brickall would have liked her to – but it was no use. She could not, would not, let go.

  * * *

  As soon as she had parked her car the following morning, she went straight to Nigel Patten’s office. The desktop photos of Danielle and toddler Jack had now been joined by pictures of the new baby, as bald as his father.

  ‘Sir, you remember the Phoebe Stiles case. In Los Angeles?’

  He steepled his fingers and looked at her wearily. ‘It was only a few weeks ago. I’m hardly likely to have forgotten.’

  ‘Interpol in Washington have been in touch, and it looks like there’s another related case.’

  ‘Where? You mean in the USA?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And is this another UK national?’

  Rachel shook her head. ‘American this time.’

  Patten frowned. ‘So why on earth is Interpol contacting you about it then? I’m not sure I follow.’

  Rachel hesitated. He had a point. It wasn’t strictly a matter for an international agency. ‘I suppose because it has links to the Stiles murder, and she was British,’ she extemporised. ‘And I’m not convinced the man they’ve arrested killed Phoebe. In fact, I’m pretty sure he didn’t.’

  ‘So why exactly are we discussing this now, DI Prince?’

  ‘Because I’d like permission to go out there and continue helping with the investigation, sir.’

  He dropped his palms hard onto his desk and sat upright, giving her the steely look he usually reserved for insubordinate constables. ‘Out of the question, not when we’re so busy. Permission most definitely denied.’

  ‘But sir—’

  ‘I said no, Detective Inspector. I need you here.’

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  It’s definitely becoming harder to find candidates. This makes me antsy. I know they are out there; hundreds of them, thousands probably. More. But getting all the requirements to line up seems harder. And I’m not prepared to lie low and wait any longer; I have to do it again. Right away. The patience I used to pride myself on is running out. I believe this is what the crime experts call escalation. I try to calm myself by spreading out the key, the cap, the photo of the loving couple, and looking at them.

  There is one, but it’s quite a long way north. Part of the impatience is not wanting to deal with the travelling. But then, some geographic distance could be a good thing right now. The dates work. The profile works. I press ‘Request Booking’ and wait. An hour later: ‘Pack your bags Kelly, your trip is confirmed!’

  I’m at Logan Airport, waiting to pick up a small-but-not-too-small rental car, when I see, to my dismay, an updated message on my phone.

  ‘So sorry, I’m afraid I can’t be there myself to meet you. The doorman will let you in the building, and the key will be in a lock box to the right of the front door. Code is 6719. Everything you need to know is in the folder. Enjoy!’

  This is a major hitch, there’s no doubt about it. But she has to come back sometime, right? She would always have planned on returning to the apartment. I’m just going to have to wait for her to return home. And in the meantime there’s plenty of other things I can be doing.

  Her perfect life is all mine right now.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  ‘Do you think they’re after the total number of EAWs issued, or just those where an extradition hearing has actually taken place?’

  ‘Sorry – what?’ Rachel looked up at Brickall with a start.

  ‘I’m talking about European Arrest Warrants. What’s the matter with you? Your head’s completely missing today.’

  ‘Nothing.’ She went back to staring at her screen.

  He shot her a sharp look, but Rachel ignored him and kept her head down. A few minutes later, she abruptly shut down the screen she was looking at and marched back to Nigel Patten’s office, rapping smartly on the open door.

  ‘DI Prince. How can I help you?’ His expression was not one of a person who wished to help.

  ‘Sir, I’ve just been checking my leave card, and I’ve got nine days carried over from last year. Which, if I don’t take them in the next five weeks, I won’t be able to use at all.’

  ‘Go on,’ he sighed.

  ‘So I’m going to take them now.’

  ‘Now as in?’

  ‘Today, sir. You can count the rest of the afternoon as a full day.’

  Patten grimaced. He looked tired, but then he’d looked permanently tired ever since his paternity leave. ‘You are aware, Detective Inspector, that you need me to sign off on this. And also that with this inspection coming up, we’re at our busiest.’

  Rachel kept her gaze level and her tone neutral. ‘I am sir. But can I remind you that I haven’t taken any time off in over seven months. Since before Scotland.’

  ‘I know you’ve worked hard, DI Prince. And you did a good job on the Nigerian trafficking case. But—’

  ‘I came in early this morning and worked on the fugitive figures.’ By early, she meant five thirty, fuelled by two double espressos. ‘I’ve got a spreadsheet and PowerPoint presentation all prepared. I’ll send them to you and copy in DS Brickall.’

  ‘What about your DCI board? Isn’t that about to happen?’

  ‘Still a couple of weeks away. I’ll be back in time.’

  ‘What if I say no?’ As she stood her ground, Patten continued: ‘No, don’t answer that. But have it on the record that I’m only agreeing with extreme reluctance. And I want you back here at the end of your nine days leave.’

  ‘That’s thirteen days, sir. If you add weekends. Which means I’ll be back in the office the day before my promotion board. So it all works out perfectly.’

  She le
ft the room before he could change his mind and almost skipped back to her seat, plonking herself down and scanning her inbox for any last-minute loose ends, while stuffing her things into her bag.

  ‘What are you doing?’ demanded Brickall. ‘Did somebody die?’

  ‘I’m taking some leave.’

  ‘What the hell for? You never take leave. Oh, hold on –’ he slapped his hand to his forehead – ‘this is about that bloody case, isn’t it?’

  Rachel ignored the question, standing up and shouldering her bag. ‘See you a week next Monday.’

  Brickall very pointedly turned away and absorbed himself in his computer screen. Rachel waved to his back. She didn’t like leaving him when he was so down, but he was an adult after all, and she wasn’t going for long. ‘Well… bye then,’ she called.

  He did not reply.

  * * *

  After booking her flight for first thing the next morning, and wincing at the last-minute prices, Rachel reached for her suitcase and started filling it. She was interrupted by the doorbell.

  Joe stood there, his tall figure looming over a tiny, pretty girl with masses of wavy brown hair and huge brown eyes.

  ‘Er… hi!’ Rachel said.

  Joe spotted the suitcase through the open bedroom door. ‘You’re not off somewhere again? Only we were having a drink in Bermondsey Street and I thought we might as well pop by.’

  ‘No problem, I’m flying first thing tomorrow, so I’ve got a couple of hours before I need to get some shut-eye. Come in… come in.’

  Joe placed his arm protectively round the waist of the girl as he steered her into the flat. ‘Great. I wanted you to meet Sophie. Sophie – this is my mum.’