A Violent Heart, page 9
‘Ah . . . I remember Michelle and her husband, now that you say. Of course. She passed. Cancer, I think.’
‘You knew them?’
‘As well as any of the neighbours. But my memory’s not that good now.’
‘Do you remember their daughter Sally?’
His brow creases as he thinks this over. ‘Yes! Young Sally. Lovely girl.’
‘Can you tell us about her.’
He taps his forehead. ‘Oh . . . My memory is not good. But I know someone who could help you. Sally and my daughter, Fiona, were friends.’
‘Could we speak to her?’
‘I don’t see why not. Would you like me to call her?’
‘Yes, please.’
A little late but Archer introduces herself and Quinn.
‘You’re police?’ the old man says. ‘Well, I never. Is Sally OK?’
‘What’s your name?’ Quinn asks diverting the topic.
‘I’m Gerald.’
‘Could we speak to Fiona?’ he asks, in an urgent but friendly tone.
‘Yes, yes, of course.’
Gerald calls his daughter and gives the phone to Archer. She explains who they are and why they’re in Bristol. Fiona is surprised but invites them to her home.
She greets Archer and Quinn at the door of her two up, two down in East Clifton and brings them into the kitchen where she is preparing dinner for her husband and two sons.
‘The boys will be home soon,’ Fiona says, furiously chopping carrots and tipping them into a pressure cooker.
‘We appreciate you talking to us,’ says Archer. ‘We won’t take up much of your time. So you knew Sally McGowan?’
‘Is everything OK? She’s not hurt, is she?’
‘I’m afraid she’s dead,’ Archer replies.
Fiona lifts a tea towel, wipes her hands, her eyes blinking as she takes in the news. ‘It doesn’t surprise me, if I’m honest.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘She moved to London. Very suddenly.’ The woman’s face pales, she swallows. ‘Oh. I would often wonder what happened to her. We did lose touch. I just assumed she’d married and had kids like me.’
‘She wasn’t so lucky.’
Her eyes slide from Archer to Quinn and back again. ‘If the police are here then something terrible must have happened.’
‘How well did you know her?’ Archer asks.
‘We were mates. We lived close to each other and had a lot of fun together. Oh God, it’s so awful. Especially after her mum and dad both dying from cancer. Some families just have no luck. How did she die? No, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.’
‘What was she like?’
‘Funny. Gobby. Loved music, especially the Smiths. Lord knows why, they were so depressing.’
‘What did she do after her parents died?’
‘She was really cut up about it, as you would be. She had no one and they were going to put her into care because she was underage. She weren’t having any of that. She was always fiercely independent.’
‘So she ran away to London?’ Archer asks.
‘Thought the streets would be paved with gold. You know how people always think that. She sent me a letter once. Saying she’d found a room in London somewhere.’
‘Did she say where?’
‘If she did I don’t remember.’
‘Do you still have the letter?’
‘I’m afraid not. All my teenage stuff was chucked a long time ago. In the letter, she seemed happy enough, but then she called me one night out of the blue, from a phone box. She was still upset about her mum. She was drunk, too. I asked her what she was doing for money. She said a friend was helping her out. A woman who had given her a place to live.’
‘Did she tell you who this was?’
‘No, but she was making money with the help of this woman.’ Fiona wrings the towel in her hands and shakes her head. ‘I begged her to come back. But she wouldn’t.’
‘How did she make money?’
‘She was on the game.’
Archer and Quinn look at each other. She knows he’s thinking what she is. Both Elena and Sally were sex workers. This is no coincidence. This is the work of the same person. Could there be others?
‘I don’t suppose you have a picture of her?’ Archer asks.
‘I doubt it. When I get a moment I could take a look in the attic. There’s a lot of old photos from my school days in boxes up there.’
‘That would be really helpful.’ Archer takes out a business card from her pocket. ‘If you find something here’s my number and email.’
Chapter 18
M
ALLORY JONES FEELS LIKE SHE’S being hoiked unceremoniously from a cosy, warm womb. She groans as she wakes, her head pounding, her mouth dry as a barren wasteland. Something warm and stiff is pressing into her buttocks. What the fuck? Her eyes blink open and squint at the morning sunshine slicing through the half-open shutters of the bedroom. Memories from the night before come flooding in.
Fuck.
‘Hey, sugar. Are you awake?’ he asks, his fingers tracing the tattooed black foliage that runs from her shoulder and down her arm.
I am now.
‘I’m horny. How about it?’
They’d met on a dating app, gone to a bar and drunk their body weight in cocktails. He’s an American tourist, an archetypal jock with little upstairs and a disappointing downstairs. Still, he’d made her cum, and that’s all she needed. Now she needs him to leave.
‘Come on. One more time,’ he replies, lying on his back, the sheet pulled away, his manscaped erection and balls on full display. His hand slides to the back of her head and he tries to guide her face down south. ‘Take it in the mouth. Breakfast, baby.’
Mallory rolls her eyes. ‘Got work to do,’ she says. Taking a breath, she swings out of bed, ignoring the throbbing headache.
‘That makes me sad,’ he says, in a babyish voice that makes her want to smash his face.
‘My boyfriend will be home soon,’ she lies. ‘He’s going to flip if he sees you here.’
He flinches. ‘What the fuck? Are you kidding me?’ he says, tumbling out of bed and pulling on his clothes.
‘Can I get you coffee?’ She grabs a T-shirt from the top of her dresser, and pulls it on. ‘Relax. You’re twice his size.’
‘No, I gotta go.’
Mallory shrugs, exits the bedroom and trudges into the loft apartment’s vast bright combined living room and kitchen. The smooth concrete floor is cool beneath her bare feet. From a cupboard she grabs a tumbler and fills it with cold water. Searching through the drawers she finds a packet of Nurofen and swallows two. Yawning, she picks up the kettle and fills it. Her eyes slide across to Bruce’s bedroom. The door is ajar, the only light is from the bank of monitors where she sees his silhouette. She pads across the living room, glancing at the photo of Bruce and her brother, Zach, his husband, laughing together on a snowy mountain top in Val d’Isère.
She feels an ache in her chest. They were happier times.
Mallory enters his room, wraps her arms around his shoulders and kisses the side of his head. ‘Hey, Boo.’
Bruce had once told her that because his surname was Radley, his nickname as a kid had been Boo, after the character in To Kill a Mockingbird. She had laughed and henceforward, always called him by that name. Fortunately, he didn’t mind.
‘You stink,’ he says.
‘Yeah. Had a few too many.’
‘Who’s your friend?’
‘Some dude from an app.’
‘Classy.’
‘Woman has needs, Boo.’
‘And those needs must always be satisfied.’
‘Did you get any sleep?’
‘With all that screaming from the bedroom?’
She thumps his chest, ‘I did not!’
He chuckles. ‘To answer your question, I had a rough night.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I dreamed about him.’
A twist in Mallory’s stomach. ‘Zach?’
‘No . . . him.’
She closes her eyes and hugs him tighter. ‘Oh, Boo. We’ll find him. One day. I promise.’
‘Yeah . . . we will,’ he replies, flatly.
He’s in one of his malaises and she wants to bring him out of it. ‘What are you looking at?’ she asks brightly, steering the subject but also curious about the live police broadcast on his screen with a detective she doesn’t recognise standing at a lectern.
‘It’s about to start,’ says Boo, turning up the volume. ‘Might be something we can use on a future show.’
With Bruce as her producer and researcher, they are the co-creators of the Mallory Jones Investigates true crime podcast. Mallory, a former reporter, fronts the show for which they both research and write. With her snappy delivery and sharp attention to detail, combined with Bruce’s excellent production skills and extensive research, they are the brains behind the award-winning podcast that has won them followers from across the globe.
‘Hey,’ comes the jock’s voice. ‘I’ll get going, then.’
Mallory uncurls herself from Boo and peeks through the doorway. She’d forgotten about him. ‘OK. Bye. Nice to meet you,’ she says politely with a fixed smile.
He hesitates, shifting awkwardly on his feet.
‘Everything OK?’ she asks.
‘How do I get back to my hotel? I mean, where are we?’
‘You can get an Uber. This is Hoxton. It’s not far.’
‘Oh, yeah. Good idea,’ he says, fishing his phone from his jeans. With a curt nod goodbye, he turns and bolts through the front door, pulling it shut behind him.
She relaxes. That was easier than I thought. ‘Coffee, Boo?’ she says.
‘Please,’ he replies, the sound of the detective’s voice chirping in the background.
In the kitchen she scoops two large spoonfuls of French blend, drops them into a cafetière and pours the steaming water over the top. Boo’s dream, and the reference to ‘him’ has unsettled her. She rubs her arms and leans on the counter, waiting for the coffee to brew. Zach has been dead for five years, but grief never leaves you. It evolves and becomes something else. In both their lives Zach’s ghost seems forever ever-present. They loved him. He loved them. And then, one day, he was gone. Just like that. Mallory rubs her arms. The coffee is ready, and she grabs two mugs from a cupboard and pours. As she carries them across the living space, Boo hobbles out, supported by his canes.
‘Quick. Come see. We have a potential new show plus we might be able to help the police.’
She follows him back into the bedroom and places the coffee on the desk. On the monitor, the detective is answering questions from reporters. Superimposed on the screen is a photo of a woman in her mid to late twenties.
‘That picture is of a woman called Elena Zoric,’ Boo says. ‘She was a sex worker murdered a few days back.’
The tablets are already easing her headache. Mallory takes a sip of bitter hot liquid and feels herself coming to life. The photo of the woman disappears from the screen and reveals DI Grace Archer and DS Harry Quinn lurking in the background.
Boo leans in for a closer look. ‘Isn’t that . . .?’
‘Yes, that’s her,’ she says.
‘Two women, both sex workers were shot through the heart with a penetrating captive bolt gun. The other woman is Sally McGowan. We have a third, Mal.’
‘Hannah Daysy,’ she says.
‘The very one.’
Mallory looks at the monitor. The detective sergeant is answering questions. She has no idea who he is but she knows Archer. She needs to tell her. She owes her that at least.
Chapter 19
D
S LEE PARRY, HOLDING SEVERAL sheets of paper, is leading a press conference with Archer and Quinn standing like extras in the background. Archer has no interest in the limelight and has accepted Parry as the face of Elena’s investigation. That said, his lack of organisation, stuttering delivery, and inability to give solid answers makes her regret not stepping forward.
Too late now.
Archer leans towards Quinn. ‘Is this his first time?’
‘Aye. No question.’
‘He’s quaking.’
‘Dying on stage, you might say.’
Shame, Archer thinks, selfishly wondering if this display will contribute to her taking the SIO position for Elena.
‘So . . . erm . . . just a few more questions to wrap up, please.’
‘The murders are more than thirty years apart,’ says a female reporter from the Daily Mail. ‘Are we looking at an older killer, perhaps someone in their sixties or seventies?’
‘Erm . . . we could be looking at someone older, that’s true . . . but we don’t know his age yet . . . obviously. Initially, we thought it was a copycat killer, but we’ve struck the idea off the list.’
Wouldn’t have shared that, Archer thinks.
‘You’re sure it’s a man?’ the reporter asks.
‘It’s looking that way.’
‘One more question.’
Parry nods.
‘What do you say to London’s female sex workers? A killer is on the streets. Do they need to be more vigilant, and can they trust the police?’
‘Well, of course they can trust the police. We’re not . . . ha-ha . . . monsters . . . we’re the . . . good guys.’
Snorts of derisive laughter from the audience. Parry tugs at his collar and clears his throat. ‘OK. That’s it for today. Thank you.’
‘He’s as good as six feet under,’ Quinn whispers.
Parry turns and walks towards Archer and Quinn. His face is red, his brow glistening.
‘How was that?’ he asks.
‘Smooth. You did all right, mate,’ says Quinn.
Archer’s phone rings. She doesn’t recognise the number. She answers.
‘DI Archer. It’s Mallory Jones. Don’t hang up. Please.’
Archer’s jaw tightens. She ends the call. Mallory Jones has been a royal pain in Archer’s backside since they first met eighteen months back during the @nonymous murders. Jones is a true crime podcaster and self-styled ‘investigator’ with too much time on her hands. One of her most popular shows is the ‘The Girl Who Lived’, a crass tabloid headline attributed to the twelve-year-old Grace Archer who had been abducted by child killer, Bernard Morrice. Jones’s story, and subsequent successes with the @nonymous murders, the Aaron Cronin case and the Silent Man killings, had earned Archer a cult following. One that she did not want anything to do with.
Jones calls back but Archer rejects the call and blocks the number.
‘Who was that?’ Quinn asks.
‘No one of any importance,’ she replies.
Quinn’s phone rings. He answers. ‘’Scuse me,’ he says and steps away.
Parry is still hanging around. ‘I was rubbish, wasn’t I?’
Archer begins to feel a margin of pity for him. ‘It was your first time, don’t beat yourself up.’
‘I need to do better for the next time.’
‘Let’s hope the next time is when we’re closing this case.’
Parry considers this. His expression brightens. ‘I suppose. Between us we should be able nip this in the bud sharpish.’
Archer’s margin of pity narrows to nothing.
Quinn finishes on the call and rejoins them.
‘I gotta shoot,’ Parry says, turning his back. ‘Later,’ he adds with a wave.
‘Fancy a coffee?’ Quinn asks.
‘Sure.’
They grab a table at Café Koha in St Martin’s Court, sitting outside in the shade between the stage doors of the Wyndham’s and Noël Coward theatres. Quinn orders a coffee, and Archer, a tea. Both also ask for cold water. Archer thinks Quinn is not himself. He said little on the walk to the café and is weirdly avoiding eye contact. She’s about to ask him what’s up when her phone rings. It’s Clare Pierce.
‘Clare, how are you, and how’s Richard?’
‘He’s comfortable. Sleeping at the moment, thankfully.’
‘How’re you holding up?’
‘It’s fun. I really recommend it.’ She begins to chuckle, which becomes a belly laugh, followed by a sob.
‘Sorry, I shouldn’t have asked.’
Pierce composes herself. ‘Don’t be. I should be sorry. This process has affected my head a little. I’m drained and feel a little wired.’
Archer can hear the exhaustion in the CI’s voice. ‘Poor man. Considering what I’ve put him through in the past . . . he deserves better.’
By ‘the past’, Pierce is referencing her affair with DI Andy Rees, a corrupt Met detective that Archer had sent down almost two years back. Pierce knew nothing of Rees’s extracurricular activities, yet when his arrest was made she was unfairly put under the spotlight.
‘I saw the press conference this morning,’ Pierce says.
‘Not our finest moment,’ Archer says, drily.
‘Never mind about that. Listen, I may have a lead for you . . .’
Archer perks up, and gestures for Quinn to come closer and listen.
The coffee, tea and a bottle of water arrive. The waiter places them on the table, and pours the water into two clean glasses.
Archer mouths a thanks.
Clare continues, ‘Years ago when I started at the Met, I was indirectly involved in a case to do with a missing girl. A sex worker. This morning when I heard the name, Sally, it triggered something, and I remembered. She was so young, you see. It moved us all. There was a Sally who worked in Soho who went missing at the same time your victim disappeared. It has to be her. It can’t be a coincidence. I did some digging. She lived in Stuart Mill House in King’s Cross. What an awful place that was. Full of drug addicts and dropouts. Sally was reported missing by a woman she lived with. I don’t remember her name. That’s it.’ Pierce takes two tired breaths and scoffs. ‘At the time the detectives were all male, and they didn’t much care for women in general. Despite Sally’s age, she was a sex worker, and as far as they were concerned, she was a low priority, or probably no priority. So I really doubt that anything was recorded or properly followed up. But that’s for you to find out.’
