A Violent Heart, page 11
Archer writes Stalker on the board. ‘That would tie in with the suspect who was following Elena.’
Quinn says, ‘I checked to see if Elena had made any complaints to the police about getting aggro but there was nothing.’
‘Klara, would you be able to see if there are any historical reports of Sally or Hannah getting aggro from a client? Might be a needle in a haystack but could be worth a look.’
‘On the list,’ replies Klara, typing notes on her laptop.
‘I’d hazard a guess and say he’s probably white,’ says Quinn.
‘Why do you think that?’
‘Just an instinct, I suppose. If he’s been killing for years then it would be easier for a white man to fall under the radar than a black man.’
Archer folds her arms and considers this for a moment. ‘I agree, but it’s too early to determine. We’ll leave it open for now. What else do we think?’
‘I suppose the question is, why is he killing prostitutes?’ says Quinn. ‘Is it some sort of moral crusade?’
‘Then why not kill pimps?’ offers Klara.
‘He hates women, sex workers especially,’ says Quinn.
‘Why?’ Archer asks.
‘Maybe he’s religious. Maybe he thinks he’s doing the world a favour.’
They’re quiet for a moment, processing their thoughts.
‘Why doesn’t he have sex with them?’
‘He’s impotent. And angry as a result,’ Quinn suggests.
Archer writes Impotent and Angry both with question marks under the killer’s profile list.
Klara says, ‘Why such a long break between killings?’ She’s paging through data on her laptop. ‘From what I can see, there are no records of any similar murders between Hannah’s death in 1991 and Elena’s this year.’
‘Assuming those murders have been recorded,’ says Archer. ‘People go missing all the time. Perhaps their bodies have not yet been discovered.’
‘I’ll need to do a proper analysis,’ says Klara. ‘Chilling thought to think there could be bodies of missing sex workers concealed around London,’ she adds.
Archer ponders this momentarily. ‘That’s the world we live in. Could you look into instances of sex workers reported missing?’
‘Already added to my to list,’ Klara replies.
Archer’s phone pings with a message. She can see Mallory Jones’s number pop up on the screen. She opens the message.
Good to talk today. I hope we can bury the hatchet at last. Here’s the links to the episode on Hannah Daysy. Any questions let me know.
Archer types back a thanks. ‘I have the link to the podcast,’ she says.
A knock on the door. DC Marian Phillips enters carrying an iPad. ‘Two updates I thought you’d want to know about. We have ID on the man who followed Elena from the restaurant. His name is Hassan Bilal. He doesn’t fit the early profile of an older white man but perhaps he’s seen something. We have officers on their way to pick him up now.’
‘Good work,’ says Archer.
‘Also, something important from CSI. They found flecks of green paint in the Persian rug that Sally McGowan was wrapped in.’ Phillips shows a magnified picture to Archer. ‘I recognised the tones. I painted my bedroom that very same colour. I asked CSI to do an analysis, and the report just came back with confirmation that it is Farrow and Ball’s French Grey.’
‘Right,’ says Archer, who thinks maybe Phillips has lost the plot.
‘Someone else has this paint on their living room wall. Someone I interviewed not two days ago . . .’ Phillips leaves the sentence hanging, her eyes sliding to each of them like a party quizmasters waiting for one of them to scream out the answer.
‘Are you going to tell us or what?’ asks Quinn.
Archer takes the iPad and uses her finger to make the paint flecks bigger. She can see the colour in full and realises now where she has seen it. ‘Miles Davenport’s living room,’ she says.
Phillips is smiling as if she’s just won the bingo.
Archer hands the iPad back to Phillips. ‘Good work, Marian. Let’s get him in for questioning immediately.’
‘Pleasure,’ she replies, and leaves the room.
Archer presses play on the podcast app and turns up the volume.
Sombre music plays momentarily before Mallory Jones’s voice speaks.
‘The name Hannah Daysy probably means nothing to you today. Back in 1991, it meant something to a small group of people. Hannah’s tiny circle of friends. Her estranged family. But most of all, it meant something to Anthony Daysy, the son she left behind. The devoted eight-year-old who adored his mummy, and she in turn, adored him . . .’
Chapter 23
Hannah
1991, London
G
ET OUT, HANNAH. GET OUT . . . RUN!
The black cylindrical steel baton slams against her nose, crushing the cartilage. The shock stuns her.
His hands are on her. She is in a fugue, but adrenaline is kicking in.
She reaches for him, nails scratching his face. He swears, his grip loosening.
Arm twisted, she yanks the handle and pushes the car door open with all her strength. Hannah clambers from the car, legs kicking, arms flailing, his hands snatching at her T-shirt, trying to haul her back inside.
‘Help me!’ she cries into the desolate night.
Blood spills from her nostrils onto her lips and into her mouth. The coppery taste makes her gag. Her breath is short, wheezy, an asthma attack imminent. Not now! Please not now. Inhaler! Where is it? Her bag is on the floor of the car. Fuck! Her top rips, she falls onto her back on the gritty road. No light. Darkness everywhere. The sky is starless, the moon has abandoned her. She slides backwards, stones and glass cutting into her flesh. Twisting onto all fours, she scrambles away, widening the distance between herself and the Cortina, legs bare, one foot shoeless, knickers half on, half off. Short rasps of air puff from her shitty lungs, her head throbs from the knuckles that had slammed her temple moments before he broke her nose with the steel baton. Her heart is pounding, her throat hurts.
She manages to push herself up. Miracle of miracles.
‘Help!’ Her cry is hoarse, swallowed by the vast blackness. The narrow lane ahead seems to stretch into infinity. Oh God! No one around. No one to help her.
She hears the car door creak open and his boots crunching on the stony surface. The door slams shut, a match strikes. She tries to pick up her pace, but her tight, whistling airways are saying, No, stop, girl, time to rest, give yourself a moment, but she is charged, on fire, and desperate.
‘Come back, I haven’t paid you yet.’
She shakes her head. She doesn’t want the money. She just wants to go home, to be safe, and warm, with her boy . . . Oh God . . . He’s the reason she’s here. She’s doing this for him, her little Anthony. She wanted him to have a better life than she had, to never go without, like she had. What would he think if he saw the state she was in now? Battered, bloody and miles from home. She chokes back a tear. Oh, Ant . . . She promises herself this will be the last. No more. Starting tomorrow she’ll look for a proper job. The money would be less, but they’d make do. Yes, they’d make do.
She stumbles on and shoots back a glance. He’s leaning against the car smoking a cigarette. In one hand is the baton.
‘I won’t tell anyone,’ she calls.
He chuckles. ‘Yes, you will.’
His name is John. That’s what he told her, but she didn’t believe him. They were all called John, or Joe, or Jim. Always a name beginning with a J. Why was that? As punters go, he seemed OK, though. Friendly enough, clean. They’d agreed a price and she got into his car. As soon as they were out of the city, he changed. He went quiet and weird, like he was high or something.
Hannah lets out a sob and presses on, limping over tiny stones and bits of glass that cut into the soft pads of her bare feet. She tries to inhale through her nose, but the blood is clogging it. She sucks air in desperation and hurries away, her heart thudding weakly like a wounded rabbit’s. Her toes slam on something hard, electric pain shoots through her foot and leg. She yelps, trips and falls to her knees. She’d hit a jagged rock the size of a fist.
She hears his footsteps approaching rapidly.
Her eyes widen. Her fingers grasp the rough cool surface of the rock. He is close. She braces herself. She hears the clatter of copper coins scatter around her.
‘Told you I’d pay you,’ he says.
His warm palm rests on her head. She shudders. Stinging tears fill her eyes. His fingers run over her scalp like spider legs. She whimpers and leans forward. ‘I’ll just go now,’ she says, her chest wheezing like broken bagpipes. He yanks her by the hair and pulls her up. He presses against her and she feels his hardness, pushing against her hip. Her stomach turns, she pulls away from him, anger and disgust, flames searing her courage. She swings the rock at his head and connects with his ear. He stumbles sideways, clutching the side of his head, the baton dropping from his hand.
‘You fucking bitch!’ he cries.
She backs away but before she can escape he rounds on her, punching her hard in the stomach. She gasps, doubles over, her knees wobbling as she crumples to the ground, the rock falling from her grip.
He straddles her and rips her T-shirt, exposing her chest.
‘No, please. My little Ant. He’s waiting . . .’
His eyes are wild, hungry. He places the steel on her chest. It feels cool on her skin.
‘Please, no,’ she says, choking out a sob as she pushes desperately and weakly against his weight. The baton has some sort of lever at the top. He presses it and she hears a loud bang. She shudders, confusion clouding her mind at the icy cold sensation in her chest.
In her final moments as the world goes dark, she sees the smiling face of little Ant. Don’t forget me, baby. Please don’t forget me . . .
Chapter 24
M
ILES DAVENPORT IS SITTING AT the table in an interview room. Archer glances at him when she enters. His face is pale, his eyes wide and blinking. Despite that, there is a trickiness to his expression, which indicates he is going to fight his corner. Archer feels her pulse racing. Bring it on.
Neither Archer nor Quinn greets him, an agreement they had come to before making their entrance.
Davenport’s brief is a man with a long face and a dour expression. Wearing round spectacles and an oversized pinstripe suit, he bears an unsettling resemblance to a younger Jacob Rees-Mogg. His name is Colin Bakewell. A suburban name in comparison to his older doppelgänger.
‘Is my client being charged with a crime? If not, why exactly is he here?’ asks Bakewell, in an accent that is pure South London. It wrongfoots Archer momentarily.
‘We have questions regarding the remains of a young woman found in 48 Pleshey Road.’
‘My client has no connection with that address.’
‘Shall we begin?’ Archer says, ignoring his assertion and turning to Davenport.
Davenport shoots a look at Bakewell who nods a confirmation at him.
‘How old are you, Miles?’ Archer asks.
‘He’s already answered those questions when he got here. You know how old he is,’ replies Bakewell.
Archer waits for Davenport to answer.
‘Fifty-two.’
‘Have you always lived in London.’
‘Mostly.’
‘Where else have you lived?’
‘I was born in Berkshire. Brought up in Caversham.’
‘Nice part of the country. Posh . . . ish,’ says Quinn.
Davenport shrugs.
‘How long have you lived in Pleshey Road?’
‘Twenty years or so.’
‘And before that?’
‘Various locations in North London.’
‘You know the remains we found belong to a Sally McGowan?’
‘I’ve read the papers and seen the news.’
‘She was sixteen when she was murdered. If Sally was alive today, you and she would be the same age.’
Davenport frowns at Archer.
‘Imagine if she was alive and well and happy, living her best life with a successful career, a mother, or both. Imagine.’
‘I’m not sure what point you’re making,’ says Bakewell.
‘Have you ever met Sally?’ Quinn asks. ‘Like, in the flesh?’
Davenport flinches at the suggestion, ‘No, of course not!’
‘But you’ve seen her. Been close to her.’
Davenport’s face glistens, his breathing quickens like a rabbit’s, caught in a trap. He turns to his brief. ‘I’ve never met her. I don’t know what they’re talking about.’
Archer takes out the photo of the Persian rug that contained Sally’s remains. ‘Recognise this rug, Miles?’
‘Why should I?’
‘It’s a similar style to the rugs in your home.’
‘Lots of people have Persian rugs.’
Archer takes out a print depicting the magnified shot of the carpet with the flecks of green paint. ‘This is a magnified picture of the rug. It contains residues of paint. Our analysis shows the paint is Farrow and Ball’s French Grey.’
Davenport blinks three times, his face blank, the colour draining rapidly from it.
‘Miles, this is your rug, isn’t it?’ Archer asks.
He swallows and seems to shrink into himself. Tears fill his eyes and he begins to cry.
‘Speak to us, Miles,’ Archer says gently.
He drops his face into his hands and weeps some more.
Archer catches Bakewell rolling his eyes. ‘Can I have a few moments with my client, please?’
Archer nods.
‘Taking a break in the interview,’ she says, pressing the pause button.
‘Miles, can we get you a drink of something?’ Archer asks.
‘Tea, please. Milk, two sugars.’
Archer exits the interview room with Quinn. At the vending machine in the corridor outside, Archer punches the code for Davenport’s tea. ‘Drink?’ she asks Quinn.
‘Not for me, thanks. So, what’re your thoughts?’
‘He’s guilty of something. What that is, I’m not entirely sure.’
‘Do you think he killed Sally?’
‘It’s possible. Do you?’
The styrofoam cup drops into its slot and begins to fill with hot liquid.
‘Same. I’m thinking he started young, killing her at sixteen. Got a taste for it, and went on a spree over the coming years.’
‘Why move the body to the attic room of Bob Innes’s house?’
‘He lives in a big house. Maybe he was storing her as a souvenir.’
‘Charming thought. I’m not so sure, though. Something’s not adding up. Moving the body to the house opposite to where you live is just so . . . amateurish.’ Archer takes the tea from the machine.
The interview room door opens and the pound-shop Rees-Mogg steps out. ‘He’s ready.’
Archer hands across the tea and presses the recording. ‘Resuming the recording with Miles Davenport. Present are Detective Inspector Grace Archer, Detective Sergeant Harry Quinn, Miles Davenport and his solicitor, Colin Bakewell.’
‘I didn’t kill her,’ Davenport begins, ‘I swear. This is all a big mistake, and I’m sorry. Truly sorry.’
‘Start from the beginning, please, Miles,’ says Archer.
The suspect sips his tea and takes a moment to compose himself. ‘It was two weeks ago. I was doing some renovations in my own attic. I want to sell up, you see. House prices are so good at the moment. My mortgage is paid off and with further work I could easily make over 1.6 million, according to the estate agent. I could retire on that.’ Davenport trembles and wraps his podgy hands around the cup. ‘I decided to get my loft converted to a fourth bedroom with an en-suite. I’d never really been up there. The only access is with a ladder. There’s no electrics and no floorboards, so it’s never really been useful for anything. When I moved in all those years ago, I looked in and saw a massive roll of loft insulation. I remember being perched on the ladder, pointing my torch and seeing it for the first time. It seemed to glow in the darkness and I recall feeling an odd shiver down my spine, which I could not explain. Anyway, the loft was a project for a later time so I climbed back down and set about doing up my home, living my life, all those years not realising that she was there.’
‘Do you mean Sally McGowan?’
He nods his head and says, ‘She was inside the loft insulation.’
‘When did you discover her?’
‘As I mentioned, two weeks back. I started clearing out the loft. I rolled the insulation across to the hatch and begin to cut at it so that I could squeeze it through. I trimmed enough off and pushed the remains through the hole. It unfurled like a coiled snake and from its clutches, she fell to the landing floor. I peered down from the hatch wondering what the hell I was looking at. It looked like some old, stained clothes at first, but then I saw the bones. I climbed down in a state of disbelief, praying that this was in my imagination, but it wasn’t. There was a dead body on my landing floor.’ Davenport drops his head and runs a hand through his thinning dark hair.
‘Why didn’t you call the police?’
‘I panicked. So much went through my head. My house, my retirement. No one would buy this house if they knew a dead body had been found hidden here.’
‘So you moved her?’ Archer asks.
‘I know it was the wrong thing to do but I had no choice. I thought I’d move it to Bob’s house and let the body be discovered there. As long as she was found what did it matter?’
From the corner of her eye, Archer can see Quinn shaking his head. ‘It matters because she was murdered and a crime scene with vital evidence has been tampered with.’
‘I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking.’
Quinn chips in, ‘On the contrary. You were thinking. You were thinking of your money and your retirement. That’s where your priorities lay.’
‘I can’t explain it!’ Davenport protests. ‘I wasn’t thinking logically. Besides, I hadn’t been well.’
‘Being unwell doesn’t cut it, Miles,’ snaps Quinn.
