A Violent Heart, page 19
‘I had to leave early this morning. Urgent trip.’
‘I see. That’s a shame. I have fresh croissants and bagels. The coffee’s brewing.’
Archer feels oddly warm at the thought of sitting with Liam at the breakfast table eating croissants and bagels and drinking freshly brewed nutty coffee. ‘I could do with that now.’ She notices Parry wobbling down the carriage, arms full with packaged sandwiches, crisps, biscuits, and a cardboard tray containing hot drinks. ‘My breakfast looks fit for the economy ticket holder.’
‘No first class for you, then? That’s a travesty.’
‘The police have no idea how to treat a girl,’ Archer says.
‘It would seem so.’ Liam chuckles.
Parry bends over the table, slides the drinks across and gently lets the food tumble to the surface. She catches him giving her a fleeting frown. Liam is talking but Archer realises that Parry had heard her statement about the police not knowing how to treat a girl and has probably, in the context of the investigation, misinterpreted her words.
‘So what do you think?’ Liam asks.
Archer is caught off guard. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that?’
‘I was saying that the painting will be finished by the weekend, and then we can think about laying the parquet flooring.’
‘Sounds good.’
‘Grand. Listen, when are you back?’
‘It’s hard to know at this stage.’
‘No problem. If you’re not going to be home, then what do you think about me working into the evenings? I could finish the painting sooner, obviously.’
‘That sounds like a great idea.’
‘OK. Listen, I’d say have a good trip, but that’s probably inappropriate.’
‘I appreciate the sentiment. Thanks. Have a good day.’
‘You too.’
Chapter 39
T
WO DAYS EARLIER, AFTER THE successful release of the Hannah Daysy podcast, Bruce had picked up an email from a Somerset listener called Gwen Baker. She had indicated that she believed there was another murder, similar to Hannah’s, of a woman called Star Royale. Mallory had emailed her back straight away. She waited, excited about a new story but Gwen’s response arrived later that evening just before Mallory was turning in. Gwen had apologised, saying there was a family crisis that she had to deal with, but it was all fine now. She had left her number. Mallory called immediately but no one answered. She rang again and again but each time it went to voicemail. She left a brief message on the third attempt and went to sleep, disappointed.
Mallory dreamed of Hannah at night on a remote road, breathless as she tried to run from the man who had picked her up in his car. She had felt Hannah’s terror and gasped as the figure of the killer emerged from the darkness. Her heart pounded. Something was not quite right. It wasn’t Hannah’s killer. It was her brother’s, the Raincoat Killer, dressed in his long wax coat and hat. He approached with his knife dripping blood. Zach’s blood. She didn’t know how she knew it was his, she just did.
His face is concealed in the darkness, but his mouth is open and a long red tongue slides out and licks the blood from the blade. Terror turns to fury and she screams at him. He laughs, runs at her and plunges the blade into her chest—
Mallory’s eyes shoot open as she wakes to the sound of her own screaming. Her bedside lamp is on.
She feels a warm hand resting on her arm and flinches.
‘Hey. It’s only me,’ says Bruce.
Her heart is pounding, a layer of sweat coats her skin. As her vision adjusts, she sees Bruce in his wheelchair, dressed in boxers and a T-shirt, looking at her with a worried expression.
‘Sorry . . .’ Mallory shudders at the memory of the dream and rubs her chest, half expecting to feel warm blood.
‘I heard you from my room. Must have been a bad one,’ Bruce says.
‘A humdinger.’
‘Room for one more?’
Mallory pulls the covers down and makes room for him. He slides from the wheelchair, drags his legs onto the bed and curls up beside her. Mallory pulls the covers over him and leans into his side. Zach’s murder is still painful and raw like an untreated wound. It has become an unspoken rule that they will be there for each other to provide comfort and support as and when needed.
‘Sorry if I woke you,’ she says.
‘I was awake already.’
She doesn’t press him on this. She understands her nightmares are nothing compared to the terrors he relives when he closes his eyes.
‘Do you think we’ll ever get through this?’ he asks.
Three years have passed since that night. That fucking, fateful, horrible night when their lives changed for ever.
She feels the tears building behind her eyes and closes them. ‘It’s going to take more time, Boo.’
‘Yeah . . . I know,’ he whispers.
They lie together until Mallory’s 7 a.m. Alexa alarm shakes them from their dozing.
‘Alexa, stop!’ Mallory says, her voice dry. She slides across the bed and stretches. Bruce swings himself around and sits on the edge of the bed, rubbing his arms.
‘OK, Boo?’
He yawns. ‘I need to sleep more,’ he replies and shifts across to his chair. ‘I’ll make some coffee. Do you fancy eggs?’
‘And a side of pancakes, sausage and bacon, please.’
They rarely have food in the apartment. He raises an eyebrow at her.
‘Deliveroo it,’ she says.
Mallory showers, dresses and, after picking at her breakfast, eventually gets a call from Gwen Baker.
‘I’m sorry I missed your calls,’ Gwen says in a sweet, soft West Country accent. ‘It had been a long day, and I was knackered, so I took myself off to bed.’
‘No worries.’
Mallory hears the sound of young people arguing in the background.
‘Listen, I’m just running to work and have to drop the kids at school. Can I call you later?’
Mallory is beginning to wonder if Gwen is serious or not. ‘Sure, listen, I tried to look Star up online and couldn’t find anything about her.’
‘That doesn’t surprise me. That’s not her real name.’
‘Mum, hurry up!’ comes the voice of what sounds like an impatient teenager.
‘That would explain why.’
‘I’m on the phone, Lizzie, can you please wait?’ Gwen says to the teenager. ‘I’m sorry, I have to go. The police have a lot to answer for.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘They weren’t interested in her. Some police believed she got what was coming to her.’
Mallory has heard all she needs to hear. This was the same police reaction to Hannah. ‘Do you get a lunch break?’ she asks.
‘Erm . . . yes.’
‘Can you meet me? I’ll buy lunch. Wherever you like.’
‘But you’re in London.’
‘Yes, but later I will be in Somerset.’
‘Oh!’
With the lunchtime meeting agreed, Mallory grabs her purse, phone, laptop and all the chargers she needs before checking in with Bruce. She pops her head around his bedroom door. The shutters are closed, and it’s gloomy. It’s always gloomy. Bruce is lying on the bed, snoring quietly. She notices a bottle of sleeping tablets on his bedside table. She prays he’s not reliving that night. ‘Sweet dreams, Boo.’ She slips quietly away and makes a mental note to call him later.
At Paddington station, she hurries across the concourse, scans her ticket and, with a minute to spare, hops onto the last carriage of the 9.37 to Taunton as the whistle blows and the doors close. She makes her way to the middle of the train, excited at the possibility of a new story that could be related to Hannah Daysy, and the other victims currently being investigated by DI Grace Archer. She has considered calling Archer to update her but decides against it. She’s already handed over everything on Hannah, and decides she will do so again once she’s got the scoop on Star Royale.
Mallory scrolls through the news on her phone and holds her breath at a headline.
Sex trade woman murdered in Northumbrian porn cottage
A crass title that somehow strikes a chord. She speed reads the article, her heart racing. Gemma McFadden. Eighteen years old. Possibly involved in pornography or the sex trade, the article speculates. The grisly details of her murder match those of Elena, Hannah and Sally. Mallory bites her thumb. Scrolling through other newspapers she finds similar articles. Is Archer aware, and working on the case? At the least, she must know about it considering the murder is all over the media.
Mallory changes for the Bridgwater train at Taunton almost two hours later and, despite the train running behind schedule, arrives with enough time to make it to the café. Navigating with Google Maps, Mallory makes her way across town, uncertain what she feels about the place, which seems to be made up of bland modern cottages, many with England flags in the windows. The pavements are narrow, the road gridlocked with cars and trucks, and the bitter taste of diesel is in the air. She arrives at Eastover, a small bridge spanning the River Parrett. On the side is the West Quay where there is a row of shops, pubs and cafés. The Fountain Inn is an ornate Victorian building painted black and grey. She is fifteen minutes early, and there are some tables available outside overlooking the river. She grabs one and waits.
There are several people walking across the bridge towards the pub. Mallory is certain the middle-aged woman with the dyed auburn hair and sleeveless white blouse is Gwen Baker. It’s not a hard call. Besides, she’s looking across at Mallory with a warm smile on her face. Mallory stands and returns the smile. ‘Gwen?’
‘Yes, I recognised you right away.’
‘The tattoos, I suppose.’
Gwen looks at Mallory’s arms, which are painted with a rich tapestry of black foliage. The only colour is the large butterfly, inked in reds, greens and blues in the crook of her elbow.
‘You got that after your brother died,’ Gwen says.
‘He loved nature. Butterflies, especially. It’s actually a painting of his.’
‘Yes, I heard you talk about it on your show. It’s very beautiful.’
‘Thank you. Can I get you a drink?’
‘A Diet Coke would be nice.’
Mallory returns five minutes later with a Diet Coke each. ‘Thank you for seeing me at such short notice.’
‘Not at all. It’s so sad that there’s been no justice for Star all these years later. Her life ended so horribly. Her story should be told.’
‘Gwen, do you mind if I record this conversation? Perhaps I can use some of it on the podcast.’
‘No, that’s fine,’ she replies, taking a sip of her drink.
Mallory presses the record button and pushes the phone across the table closer to Gwen.
‘Tell me about Star. What was she like?’
‘I always think of Star as a girl. But she wasn’t really.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Star was a boy. I don’t know what he was back then. Not sure he did, either. He’d say he was a transvestite ’cause he liked to dress in women’s clothes now and again. But you never hear that term now, do you?’
‘No, I suppose you don’t. What was his real name?’
‘Kelvin Glover. I knew him from school. He was quite flamboyant even back then, when it was not really accepted like it is these days. He loved to dress up. At the time, Boy George and all those types were popular. It was becoming common, although not so much in Bridgwater, but that didn’t deter him. Kelvin and I left school at sixteen. We lost contact, but I’d see him occasionally in the supermarket or the streets but never as his alter ego. She appeared a few years later with a notorious reputation that’d make your toes curl. Star loved that people talked about him. Anyway, time passed quickly, as it does. I’d heard he’d was involved with the wrong people and was doing drugs. Heroin, mostly. I bumped into him one night when I was coming home from the pub. He was dressed to kill and looked fabulous. That’s when he revealed to me he was Star Royale, and Kelvin Glover was no more. We were both pissed. He also told me he was a “working girl” – was quite proud of the fact, too. He became one to fund his addiction. The punters were fond of him.’ She leans across the table. ‘Gave the best blow jobs, apparently. And swallowed, too.’ Gwen giggles and grimaces at the same time.
‘Each to their own,’ Mallory says with a smile.
‘His clients all knew he was a boy, but he did as much business as the real girls, if not more. He used to come into the Ship Afloat pub where I worked. That was the last place I saw him.’
‘Still in Bridgwater?’
‘Yes, about ten minutes away on Market Street. It’s called the Star on the Harbour now, ironically. It was a rough place, and you’d often find the odd sex worker who’d offer a knee trembler in the toilets for a fiver. Anyway, she swanned into the pub like some movie star . . . I think that’s why she chose that name . . . and insisted on a getting a drink. She had been banned by the landlord, Bob the Bastard. That was our nickname for him. But that didn’t stop her. Besides, Bob was upstairs. One punter, a stranger, took an interest in her. I overheard a bit of their conversation. Small talk, really, but he called himself John. They spent a little bit of time together before Bob showed up and kicked off. Star and the stranger left the pub, and a few days later, her body was found.’ Gwen looks across at the River Parrett. ‘Just down there, hidden in the reeds.’
‘Is that why you wanted to meet here?’
Gwen nods. ‘It’s not morbid, is it?’
‘Not at all. It’s respectful.’ Mallory stands and peers down at the riverbank, the water is shallow, the reeds thin but high.
Gwen continues, ‘No one noticed her. She was wrapped in a tarpaulin, among the rubbish people used to leave there. It was so awful.’
Mallory shudders at the thought of Star’s murdered body being dumped at the riverside with people strolling by for days, unaware that her body is lying waiting to be discovered. ‘You said you were working in the bar the night that Star met the stranger.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Do you remember what he looked like?’
Gwen thinks for a moment. ‘It was so long ago. That said, he just seemed like a typical pub punter. Nondescript.’
‘Was he white or black? Young or old?’
‘White, I think, but I didn’t pay him that much attention. I couldn’t say his age. He was older than me. I remember that much but then everyone in the pub was. I’d say he wasn’t that tall, about five foot eight.’
‘What about hair colour?’
‘Don’t remember. The pub was quite dimly lit. He wasn’t from around here, I knew that much.’
‘Did he tell you that?’
‘No, I overheard him talking with Star. He said his name was John, and he was passing through.’
‘Did he have an accent?’
‘He spoke quietly, but there was definitely a hint of something.’
‘West Country?’
‘No. Northern. I’m sure of it.’
Gwen checks her wristwatch. Her eyes widen. ‘I better get back to work.’ She finishes her drink and stands. ‘So nice to meet you.’
‘You too. Is there anything else you can think of?’
‘I’ve said all I remember. If I missed anything, it may be in the police report, if they bothered to write one, that is. They weren’t interested in Star. They believed she had it coming.’
‘Did they say that?’
‘No. Eve told me.’
‘Who’s Eve?’
‘Eve Brunet. She used to live around Bridgwater. She was another sex worker. She was attacked by a punter four weeks before Star and believed the same person who attacked her was the one responsible for Star’s murder.’
‘Why did she think that?’
‘I’d heard what happened and went to see her. I told Eve about the stranger called John. I described what little I knew of him, and she went white as a sheet. It’s the same man, she said. We went to the police, but they didn’t take us seriously. Said they’d look into it. That was more than thirty years ago.’
‘Where is Eve now?’
‘We lost touch a long time ago. She moved to Taunton after Star’s murder. I had heard a rumour she was working in a flower shop.’
Chapter 40
M
ALLORY IS ON THE TRAIN back to Taunton, her mind racing about the fact that a victim of the killer who murdered Star, Hannah, Elena and Sally is still alive. Gwen’s description of the man had been helpful, but could Eve’s be better? She must have spoken to him, looked him in the eye, been close to him, smelled him and heard his accent, tone, seen his hair and eye colour. DI Archer enters her thoughts suddenly. Mallory’s gut pinches with guilt. She should report this to her right away. Mallory bites her lip. Maybe not just yet. Not until she gets the scoop from Eve. After that, she’ll call Archer.
The train is travelling at a snail’s pace. Mallory sighs, opens Facebook on her phone and does a search for Eve Brunet. Dozens of names appear. A quick scan reveals they are mostly French or Canadian. Brunet sounds like a French name, so it is no surprise. There are some women that could be in their mid-fifties, but not one of them lives in Taunton. Could she have emigrated or married? It’s possible. She decides to message the women in the age range directly and begins composing the message on the Notes app on her phone.
Dear Eve, hello, you don’t know me. I’m a journalist and true crime podcaster who is searching for an Eve Brunet who use to live in Bridgwater, Somerset, and was once attacked by a maniac serial killer who murdered defenceless sex workers. Did you encounter him? Are you the one that got away? If you are . . .
Mallory rereads what she’s written, swears under her breath and deletes the lot. That’s enough to freak anyone out. Besides, cold contacting people by Facebook should be the last resort. There are other ways of tracking people down.
At last, the train pulls into Taunton station. Mallory exits, hurries up the platform to the concourse and outside where she jumps into a waiting cab.
