The Echo Man, page 25
If they survive.
CHAPTER
59
EVERYTHING IS A puzzle. They are studying the photographs from the memorial, painstakingly trying to identify every face in the crowd. Shenton is working on the cipher again.
“Any luck?” Cara asks him, and he frowns.
“I hate to say this,” he mutters, “but I’m starting to think it’s not possible to crack. After all, some of the original ciphers from the Zodiac Killer were never decoded.”
Cara stares at him. A thousand swear words filter through her mind, but she somehow doesn’t say any of them.
“Did you hear back about the handwriting?” Shenton asks in the face of her silence.
She nods. “The expert thinks left-handed. And distinctive enough to compare if we get any suspects.”
“You know the Zodiac Killer was thought to be ambidextrous,” Shenton says, off-hand. “So any handwriting analysis might not work.”
Cara grits her teeth. He’s just trying to be helpful, she tells herself. Don’t take this nightmare situation out on him.
She moves away from Shenton before she says something she’ll regret, and goes over to the whiteboard. She stares at the rows of victims, the woman found outside Griffin’s apartment added to the grim lineup. Dr. Ross has given his view. Cause of death: electrocution. That, and contributory factors from starvation, dehydration, sexual assault, torture, and blunt force trauma. He guesses she was held against her will for about a week. “Gary Heidnik,” Shenton had muttered, allocating a serial killer to the murder.
She picks up the lab report received that morning. Libby had a blood alcohol level in line with the few drinks they knew she’d consumed in the bar. Michael Sharp had a long list of drugs in his bloodstream, but again, nothing strange knowing the sort of pharmaceuticals he liked to imbibe.
There were no prints on the gun. No DNA. The only cells under Libby’s fingernails were her own. No foreign saliva. The material sent to the newspaper with the cipher was confirmed to have traces of Libby’s blood, and a matching hole was found in her dress. But nothing else.
It’s been the same, all along.
“Come on,” she mutters under her breath. “Make a mistake.”
But she knows that might mean another murder. And how could she wish for something so evil? Even if they could catch the guy.
She looks at the names of the victims across the top of the board. Lisa Kershaw. Daria Capshaw. Sarah Jackman. Marisa Perez. Ann Lees. Elizabeth Roberts. Michael Sharp. Multiple people they haven’t yet been able to identify. And Mia Griffin.
Cara resolves that once this is over, once the Echo Man is caught and behind bars, she will make sure these are the names that are remembered. These were all someone’s daughter, father, brother, wife. These are the people that matter.
She taps a finger on Libby’s photo, then one on Mia’s. “I’ll find this guy,” she mutters to herself. “For you.”
Then Cara wonders about Libby’s phone and laptop. She takes a long breath in and out. I need a change of scene, she thinks, and leaves, walking down the five flights of stairs to the basement.
* * *
The digital lab requested their offices were sited down here. It was the place nobody else wanted, with the lack of natural light, the distance from the canteen. But that must be what they like about it, Cara thinks, the automatic lights flicking on as she walks down the corridor.
The room seems in darkness as she comes to the door at the end. She tries the handle, but it’s locked. There’s a doorbell to the right, and she presses it.
After a minute, a hiss announces someone listening.
“DCI Elliott,” she says to the intercom.
A buzz indicates she’s allowed inside, and she pushes the door open.
The room is dimly lit. On one side, shelves of equipment dominate, wires falling haphazardly out of their boxes, some littering the floor. There are rows of computers, a gentle glow coming from one in front of her.
“Hello?” she calls.
A face pops out from behind the monitor. The man smiles.
“How can I help?”
His appearance and friendly manner disarms her. He’s good-looking, with a trendy haircut and nice eyes behind his glasses.
“DCI Cara Elliott,” she repeats. “I was wondering how you were getting on with the laptop and phone.”
“So you came down here?” he says.
“You don’t get many visitors?”
“None.” He reaches across and pulls a chair over to his computer. “Come and join me, I’ll look. Charlie Mills,” he says, holding out his hand.
“You’re Charlie Mills?” she replies, shaking it. She can hardly reconcile this guy with the name she’s seen signing off any number of completely incomprehensible reports that have passed her desk over the years. She expected someone monosyllabic, maybe balding, slightly overweight.
He laughs. “Don’t worry, I’m used to it. Come back when it’s not curry day in the canteen and meet my team. They’ll conform to your expectations. What’s the case number?”
Cara reels it off and he types it into the computer. He pulls up a report, then glances across at her.
“Says here we sent you this yesterday.”
“Oh.” Cara feels stupid. “Who did you send it to?”
He says the name of the mailbox and Cara frowns. It’s the joint one, used for unimportant information rather than urgent reports of this kind.
“Okay, well,” she mutters. It’s a bit of a worry. “Can you tell me what it said? While I’m here?”
“Would love to,” Charlie replies with a grin. Cara wonders if he’s flirting with her, then dismisses it. He must be, what, early thirties? She’s sure he’s got better people to smile at than a married mother of two.
Charlie scrolls down the page, his eyes flicking over the text. “Says here the laptop didn’t come up with anything useful. Didn’t do much on it except social media, personal photographs, and emails.”
“Anything in the emails?”
“You can take it away and check for yourself if you like, but nothing my guy seemed to think was suspicious. Oh, but this—this is more important.”
Cara stares at him as he recites a long list of names that sound like gobbledygook. He laughs at her blank look.
“Illegally uploaded spyware and viruses,” he clarifies. “It means that if she was using her computer, someone could see what she was doing. And monitor her keystrokes.”
“So they would know her passwords?”
“Exactly.” Charlie’s face is suddenly serious. “Luckily, she never brought her work home, but everything else, well. This guy knew.”
“Any way of working out who?”
He shakes his head. “Afraid not. Looks like my techie did a bit of digging, but they were all dead ends. Plus here.” He points at the screen. “He was able to watch her through the webcam.”
Cara shudders. The thought of the guy watching Libby’s every move? It’s terrifying. No wonder he knew how to tailor the Tinder profile to appeal to her.
“What about her mobile?” Cara asks.
She watches as he reads the next report. “Nothing of note, I’m afraid. Although we did do a bit of work on that dating profile she was connected with.” He reads on. “There’s even a set of geographic coordinates for one of the messages he sent.”
“You have a location?” Cara’s excited. This could be the lead they need.
“Wait a sec, they forgot to run it back …” Charlie types for a bit, then frowns. “That can’t be right,” he mutters, typing again.
“What?”
Charlie turns to her, a shocked expression on his face. “The location,” he starts. “It comes back to here.”
“What do you mean?”
“It comes back to the nick. This message was sent from within the walls of this police station.”
CHAPTER
60
CARA WALKS BACK to the incident room, her head spinning. The room is busy, detectives working behind their desks, some chatting, others silent. There’s Deakin, head down, reviewing reports, Griffin with one of the DCs. She looks at them all and she wonders: Is it you?
She sits down at her computer and clicks on the group mailbox. There are a few messages in there, and she scrolls down, looking for the email from the digital team. She can’t see it, so she runs a search through all the folders. Still nothing.
Has someone deleted it, wanting to hide the evidence of what they’d done? Has the killer realized he’d made a mistake?
Deakin comes over and she quickly clicks away.
“Listen, we had a thought, about the letter,” he says, and she looks up at him. “Are you okay?” he adds. “You look pale?”
“I’m fine,” she mutters. But she needs to tell someone. “Sit down,” she whispers, and he does, his face puzzled. “I’ve just been with the digital lab. They said there was spyware on Libby’s computer.”
“Someone was watching her?” Deakin says, and she nods.
“But that’s not all. They said that one of the messages on the man’s profile on Tinder was sent from here.”
“Here?” Deakin looks up, glancing around. “You mean, from the incident room?”
“Not necessarily. From the police station.”
“What? So our guy is a cop?”
Cara sees Deakin’s expression. It’s astonishment, disbelief. The same feelings she knows she has on her own face.
“Could be. Like Toby said. Or a civilian—someone from Control or admin. Or any number of people working out of this building.”
“But they couldn’t narrow it down any more than that?”
“No. They just needed to be here when they sent that message. And this stays between us, right?” Deakin nods quickly. She sighs. “What were you going to ask me?”
“Oh. So we want to get someone to have a closer look at the paper the note is written on. There are no fingerprints, but I read that specialized machines can detect if there are tiny indentations we can’t see with the naked eye. If this page came from a notebook, we might be able to make out things he had written down before.”
Cara nods. “ESDA. Electrostatic detection, yes. They can find secondary impressions on the paper,” she adds, annoyed she hadn’t thought of it herself.
“But it’s expensive. We need you to ask Marsh for the budget.”
“No problem, okay,” Cara replies. He’ll have to say yes after yesterday’s conversation, surely. “How’s the face?” Deakin’s hand goes up to the bruise. She reaches over and he allows her to gently push the corner of one of the bits of tape back down with the tip of her finger. He cringes slightly. “Does it hurt?”
“Not really. Just worried it’s going to damage my rugged good looks,” he adds with a lopsided smile.
“Will you put in a formal complaint?”
Noah sighs. “I can’t be bothered, Cara. I probably deserved it. And besides, he seems to be looking worse than me.”
Cara looks across the office to where Griffin is sitting. He’s straight in his seat, his face tense. They all look shit right now, but Noah’s right: he’s not well.
“He seems ill,” Deakin adds. “I think he needs to go home.”
“Thanks. I’ll talk to him.” Deakin stands up, but she grabs his hand before he goes. He turns. “Really, Noah. Thank you.”
He smiles and leaves, and she follows him out into the office, going across to Griffin. Up close he seems even worse. There is a fine sheen of sweat on his forehead, and his face is almost yellow.
“Nate, are you okay?” she asks, and he looks up suddenly.
He hesitates. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. You’re ill. Go home if you need to.”
He runs his hand across his forehead. She notices he’s shivering. “Yes, I think I will,” he says quietly.
“Do you want me to drive you?”
He shakes his head quickly. “No, no. They need you here.”
She watches as he stands, picks up his bag, and leaves. He’s walking slowly, as if putting one foot in front of the other needs all his concentration. She thinks about following him, forcing someone to take him, but she knows he’ll hate the intrusion. Just the fact he’s agreed to leave of his own accord is enough.
She stands outside her office, at the edge of the incident room. Watching the team, all hard at work. The detectives behind the rows of computers, still examining CCTV. The analysts scrolling through data. The inquiry officers, following up on every tip from the public, however unlikely, however crazy.
Cara thinks about what the digital lab found. About the Tinder account.
She watches them all. And again, she thinks, Is it you?
Is it you?
CHAPTER
61
NOW THIS IS a nice house. He looks up at the row of windows, the bright red front door, then walks the last few feet up the gravel driveway. Her car is here, and he knows she’s alone.
He’s been watching her. And she’s just right. This is it. He’s ready. He takes a deep breath and rings the bell. The door opens.
The first blow with his fist sends her backward, blood spouting from her nose. The second on the mouth, knocks her to the floor, arms windmilling. He hears her jaw crack, he sees her eyes widen in pain. He walks into the hallway after her, and she pushes frantically away, her hands struggling to get purchase, her shoes squeaking on the tiled surface. He leans down and hits her again—knuckles breaking her eye socket, a second on the side of her head.
She looks dazed. He hears her try to say something through her mangled lips, blood and dribble running down her chin. He stands over her, savoring the moment. He knows what he’s going to do.
He grabs her by the top of her arm, pulling her up and ripping her shirt open. Buttons ping off and bounce on the floor; stitches rip as he wrenches it clear of her body. Her bra is pink and lacy and delicate—he grabs it by the front and uses it to drag her further into the house, offering him little resistance as he tears it off forcefully, searing her skin.
The woman’s still struggling. She has fight in her. He likes that. He places a few well-aimed kicks in her stomach, feels a crack as ribs break, and she doubles over, then vomits violently. He rolls her over onto her front, facedown, then reaches into his pocket and takes out a length of cord. He wraps it around her neck, crossing it over, then pulling, his knee on the middle of her back. She gurgles, he sees her eyes roll back in her head. But he lets go. Not too hard, he thinks. Not yet.
Skirt next, then tights. Matching underwear, nice. This bitch knows how to take care of herself. They tear into shreds as he drags them down her legs. He smells sweat and urine. Shoes have gone already in the struggle, lying on their side in a puddle of blood.
He can feel his heart beating faster. He’s hard with anticipation. He stands over her prostrate naked body, fingering himself lightly through his jeans. He looks at her bare skin, bruises starting to show, at her juicy cunt, the tight ass he knows is waiting for him.
She’s just looking over her shoulder, the last vestiges of consciousness still flickering.
He looks back at the open front door, to the empty street beyond. He pushes the door with his foot, and as he does so, he sees the hope ebb away from her eyes.
It closes with a click. He doesn’t want to be disturbed. He wants to make this one last, remember every detail.
Because this is it.
The beginning of the end.
CHAPTER
62
GRIFFIN ALMOST FALLS as he staggers through the door, and Jess guides him to the bed. He lies down with a thud. She can see the pain, clear on his face.
“This is ridiculous, Griffin. Take something.”
“I’ve only got one left.”
She goes to his bag and pulls out the packet. Sure enough, there’s one lonely capsule. She pushes it out of the foil and gives it to him with a glass of water.
“Take it,” she demands. He levers himself up slowly on one elbow and swallows the drug, then slumps back down on the bed. “Did you see Nav?”
He frowns. “He gave me a prescription for co-codamol. It’s useless.”
“This is ridiculous,” Jess exclaims. “I’m calling him again.”
“He won’t help me,” Griffin says.
Something in his voice makes Jess turn, his mobile in her hand. “What did you say to him?” Griffin’s face clouds. “What did you say?”
“We had an exchange of views. It doesn’t matter.”
“Look at you! It does matter.”
She turns away from him and dials Nav’s number. After a few rings he answers, his voice sharp.
“What?”
“Nav, you need to help Griffin,” Jess says.
“He doesn’t want my help.”
“Oxy, Nav. Not whatever shit you offered him.”
“Oxycodone is a controlled drug, Jess. He’s not my patient. Tell him to go to his doctor. Go to the emergency room. Anything.”
“He says you had an argument.” There’s silence at the end of the phone. “What did he say, Nav?”
Another pause. “It’s not important. It’s not because of that.”
Nav sounds upset, flustered, but Jess hasn’t got time for that now. She moves away from the bed so Griffin can’t hear her. “Look,” she says. “I know he’s an asshole. I know he can be difficult. But he’s been through a lot. Please, Nav? For me?”
There’s silence again, then Jess hears Nav grunt. “Fine. I’ll come over when I’ve finished here. And Jess?”
“Yes?”
“Alice gets out of the hospital in a few hours.”
The wave of emotion catches Jess by surprise.
“She’s better?” she manages to croak.
“Well enough. She’s going to stay with your parents. She was asking about you and Patrick.”
Jess can’t bring herself to talk.
“You need to end this, Jess,” Nav continues. “For Alice’s sake. You need to hand yourself in to the police. Then they’ll let you see her. Alice needs her mom.”
