The Optician, page 21
“No, Sarge. I was going through the people on the Facebook group and one of them told me something interesting. Something happened in France that summer.”
“We know that something happened, Harry,” Smith said. “It was something that culminated in the deaths of four women. I’m a bit busy right now so could you just spit it out.”
“Sorry, Sarge. The woman I spoke to didn’t know the details, but one of the models suddenly disappeared. She took part in the initial stages of the pageant, but she wasn’t there on the last day.”
“Could this woman elaborate?” Smith said.
“She reckons the disappearance was hushed up by the organisers, but there were rumours of an ambulance and some kind of accident.”
“Interesting,” Smith said. “Dig deeper. I have to go.”
Vicky sat back down.
“Where were we?”
“You think you know something about the recent murders in the city,” Smith refreshed her memory.
“I vaguely remember the women,” Vicky said.
“Why didn’t you come forward sooner?” Smith asked.
“Because I didn’t twig until I saw the broadcast last night. Is she alright? Is Dr Sweetman alright?”
“I don’t know,” Smith admitted. “We’ve got every available officer looking for her.”
“I hope she is. I liked her.”
Smith’s phone started to ring again. Once more it was DC Moore. He rejected the call.
“What is it you want to tell me?” he asked.
“Like I said, it only came back to me during the broadcast. When Dr Sweetman talked about what the four girls did.”
“Who is she?” Smith said. “Who was Dr Sweetman talking about?”
“Her name was Ivy something.”
Smith recalled the conversation with DC Moore.
“She didn’t take part in the last day of the pageant, did she?”
“No. She just disappeared, but I saw the ambulance. I saw the French paramedics and the organisers running around like headless chicken.”
“Do you know what happened to Ivy?”
“It must have been something bad for her to be rushed to hospital.”
“Tell me everything you remember about Le Havre in the summer of 2015,” Smith said.
“Some of the girls were nice,” Vicky said. “But there were some bitches too. There always are at things like that. I’d done a few pageants before and you’re always going to get the divas who think they’re Kate Moss.”
“Was Stacy Ladd one of these?”
“She was horrible. A proper madam. She was gorgeous, but she was a really nasty piece of work.”
“How long was the pageant?” Smith said.
“It took place over four days.”
“Long enough for friendships to form.”
“We were a bunch of teenage girls away from home,” Vicky said. “Some of the parents came along, but most of us were unsupervised. You can imagine what sort of stuff went on. We were in France – the attitude to alcohol there is totally different to here, and we made the most of it.”
Smith was getting an idea of what went on at the pageant, but he still didn’t know what had happened that set off the spate of murders in the city.”
“What do you think happened to Ivy?”
“I think Stacy and her minions did something to her,” Vicky said.
“Why would you think that?”
“Because they were the last ones I saw Ivy with.”
“Are you referring to Stacy, Gemma, Rachel and Casey?”
“The broadcast brought it all back. Those four formed some kind of alliance. They were inseparable. And Stacy was definitely the boss.”
Smith’s phone started to ring again. DC Moore was persistent, and Smith knew he had something important to tell him.
“Excuse me,” he said. “I have to take this.”
He walked away from the table and answered the phone.
“Sorry to bother you, Sarge,” DC Moore said. “But I know who the victim was that summer in France.”
“Ivy?” Smith said.
“What? How did you know that?”
“It’s not important. What have you found?”
“Ivy Grogan was on the list of girls at the pageant,” DC Moore said. “She was the one who was rushed off to hospital. Ivy wasn’t part of the Facebook group that was set up and there’s a very good reason for that.”
He stopped there.
“I’m not in the mood for theatrical pauses, Harry. I don’t do suspense.”
“Sorry, Sarge,” DC Moore said. “I lost signal for a moment. Ivy Grogan isn’t on that Facebook group because she’s dead. Has been for a good few years. She committed suicide in the autumn following the beauty pageant.”
Smith went outside to smoke a cigarette before he returned to the table. He needed a moment to process what DC Moore had told him. He was starting to get a picture of what took place in Le Havre in 2015. Stacy Ladd and her acolytes did something to Ivy Grogan – something that resulted in her taking her own life shortly afterwards. He decided to ask Vicky if she had any theories about that.
He went back inside and ordered another beer. He was halfway back to the table when he stopped. The woman called Vicky was gone.
CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR
Ivy Grogan’s parents still lived in the city. Smith and DC King were standing outside the house, shivering in the icy breeze. Smith had picked DC King up after leaving The Golden Hen. He’d donated his second beer to a grateful elderly man reading a newspaper. Vicky’s sudden disappearance was baffling, and Smith wondered why she’d suddenly decided to up and leave.
The door opened and a man who looked to be around Smith’s age looked them up and down.
“Can I help you?”
Smith took out his ID. “DS Smith and this is DC King. Can we have a word?”
“What’s it about?”
“Could we speak inside?” DC King said. “It’s Baltic out here.”
Mr Grogan invited them in and told them to call him Henry. He didn’t offer them anything to drink.
“Is Mrs Grogan home?” Smith asked in the living room. “We’d like to talk to her too.”
“My wife passed away five years ago,” Henry said.
“I’m sorry about that,” Smith said.
“What is it you want? Is it something to do with that Optician?”
“It is,” Smith confirmed.
“I watched that damn thing last night. Is the doctor alright?”
“We can’t discuss that,” DC King said.
“I appreciate that this might be difficult to talk about,” Smith said. “We’d like to ask you some questions about your daughter.”
“I thought as much,” Henry said.
“What happened to her?” Smith said.
“Before she sliced open her wrists in the bath you mean?”
Smith could only nod his head in reply.
“I can’t talk about it.”
“I understand it must be painful for you, Mr Grogan,” Smith said. “But this is important.”
“I mean I can’t talk about it,” Henry said. “I signed a piece of paper saying so.”
“I’m not following you.”
“I think he’s referring to some kind of NDA, Sarge,” DC King said.
“That’s right,” Henry confirmed.
“Who made you sign it?” DC King said.
“I can’t talk about that either.”
“Mr Grogan,” Smith said. “Henry. This is extremely important. A woman’s life is in danger, and you have my word that nothing you tell us today will be repeated.”
“Is his word worth anything?” Henry asked DC King.
“It is, Henry,” she confirmed. “He’s painfully honest.”
“Who made you sign the NDA?” Smith said.
“I wasn’t thinking straight,” Henry said. “Ivy was our whole world. She was my baby girl, and I sold her soul for a few pieces of silver.”
“Who paid you, Henry?”
“The people who organised the pageant. They promised me that they would cover the costs of everything. Ivy would get the best medical treatment that France had to offer, and they would fix what needed fixing. But I couldn’t tell anybody about it.”
“What happened, Henry?” Smith said. “What happened to Ivy?”
“Acid.”
That was all he said. Smith thought back to the broadcast and Dr Sweetman’s words came to him again.
“Her eyes were damaged, weren’t they?” he said.
Henry nodded. “They said it was a horrible accident. There was alcohol involved, Ivy picked up the wrong bottle, and squirted acid in her eyes.”
“And you believed that?” DC King said.
“It was a terrible time in our lives,” Henry said. “My thoughts were muddled, and we needed the money. You must think I’m a terrible person.”
“Not at all,” Smith said. “None of it was your fault.”
“When I saw the broadcast last night it all came back. Ivy’s pain, her suicide and Nelly’s death a year later.”
“Nelly was your wife?” DC King said.
“She went downhill fast after Ivy did what she did,” Henry said. “Her nerves gave up.”
“Was Ivy blinded by the acid?” Smith said.
“Not completely,” Henry said. “She lost the sight in her left eye – the acid totally destroyed everything in and around the socket, but she had partial sight in her right eye. Looking back, I often think it would have been better for her to have been rendered totally blind.”
“Why would you say that?” DC King said.
“Because then she wouldn’t have been aware of what she looked like.”
“We won’t keep you much longer,” Smith said.
“It was when the bandages came off that the dark clouds appeared,” Henry said. “That was when she spiralled into her depression. Let me show you something.”
He got up and left the room.
“Who the hell signs an NDA after their daughter has been maimed?” Smith whispered.
“We don’t know the full story,” DC King said.
“I’ve got a good idea. No amount of money would make me keep quiet about something like that. What kind of father does that?”
“He’s coming back.”
Henry had a photograph in his hand. He passed it to Smith.
“She was beautiful.”
Smith had to agree. Ivy Grogan was a classic beauty with flawless skin and a bone structure that any fashion brand would kill to have on their books. Her eyes were a striking shade of green, and they were full of life.
“The top half of her face was destroyed,” Henry said. “Her beautiful eyes were ruined, but she still had partial vision in one of them and that’s why she did what she did. She took a look at herself in the mirror one night. She ran a bath and got in with a razor blade in her hand. Nelly was the one who found her.”
CHAPTER FIFTY FIVE
DC King intercepted Smith as soon as he’d got inside the station the next day.
“We got something from the appeal for the woman claiming to be Gemma London’s housemate, Sarge.”
“You can tell me on the way to the canteen,” Smith said. “I need coffee. We’ve run out at home.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever run out of coffee.”
“It’s been a hectic few weeks,” Smith said. “Out with it then.”
“Two people phoned in convinced that they saw her at The French Connection.”
“Did they say when they saw her?”
“On opening night.”
“The place was packed on opening night,” Smith said. “And if the mystery housemate is involved with The Optician, it makes sense that she would be there – it’s the last place Gemma London was seen alive. Casey Plant was also there on Wednesday. Did they give us anything else?”
“Just that she was at the pub that night. It’s not really going to help, is it?”
“I don’t know, Kerry. Do you think the woman who called herself Hillary Twain could be The Optician?”
“It’s possible. It’s not unheard of for serial killers to taunt law enforcement in that manner.”
“Webber pulled an all-nighter with the doctor’s car,” Smith said. “So hopefully he’s got some new info for us. We’re close – I can feel it.”
“Do you think Dr Sweetman is still alive?” DC King said.
“I really don’t know. Nothing came up during the door-to-doors and that makes me wonder if I was wrong about The Optician working alone. I got thinking about the night that Dr Sweetman was abducted. I watched the whole thing. She got into the car voluntarily. There were no Uber stickers on it, and Dr Sweetman had arranged for someone to pick her up earlier. What if she knew who The Optician was but she wasn’t aware that she was a serial killer?”
“If we had her phone, we would be able to check to see who sent her the message telling her that her lift was there.”
“We could ask her service provider for the info,” Smith said. “But we don’t have weeks to waste.”
“Do you think it’s possible that she kept in contact with any of the girls from the pageant?” DC King said.
“She was a good few years older than them, but stranger things have happened. And she got into that car as if she’d got a lift with the person driving it before.”
“It was stolen earlier that week,” DC King reminded him.
“I know. It’s bugging the hell out of me.”
Bridge came in with DC Moore.
“Briefing in ten,” Bridge said. “Webber has found something.”
“I was hoping he would,” Smith said.
“I managed to get the list of all the girls who took part in the pageant,” DC Moore said and held up a sheet of paper.
“And?”
“None of the names have come up in the course of the investigation.”
Something occurred to Smith.
“Is there someone called Vicky on the list?”
DC Moore ran his finger down the list of names.
“Victoria Lamb. Who is she?”
“The woman I met at the dodgy pub on Malton Road. She was the one who told me about Ivy Grogan and when I got back after speaking to you on the phone she’d done a runner.”
“Why would she do that?” DC Moore said.
“I have no idea, Harry. Perhaps she got cold feet. Maybe she’d told me everything she could and didn’t want anyone to see her talking to a police detective. I don’t know.”
He picked up the piece of paper and looked at the names on it. There were eighteen girls at the pageant. Four of the names were very familiar – all of them were now dead, but, apart from Victoria Lamb, none of the other names meant anything.
Smith tapped the paper. “One of these girls knows who The Optician is.”
“Tracking them all down will take time,” DC Moore said.
“Remind me again what it is you get paid for, Harry.”
“I was just saying.”
“We shouldn’t keep Webber waiting.”
Smith got up and left the room. He hadn’t touched his coffee.
“What’s wrong with him this morning?” DC Moore said.
“There’s nothing wrong with him,” Bridge said. “There’s a serial killer out there and until she’s caught, Smith won’t stop. You should know him well enough by now.”
“I think Whitton’s dad’s illness is affecting him too,” DC King said. “He’s got a lot on his mind.”
“He’s right about one thing though,” Bridge said. “The answers we’re looking for are on that piece of paper somewhere. One of those girls knows something more than we’ve managed to find out.”
DC Moore glanced at Smith’s untouched coffee. He picked it up and took a sip.
“Christ. No wonder the bloke is wired all the time – there’s enough caffeine in there to keep an army awake for days. That stuff should come with a health warning.”
“If you’re going to drink coffee,” Bridge said. “You might as well do it properly.”
He dared to taste the coffee too.
“Bloody hell. I can hear my heartbeat in my ears.”
“We’d better get to the briefing,” DC King said. “At least you and Harry will be wide awake for it.”
CHAPTER FIFTY SIX
Webber had come alone. The Head of Forensics was sitting next to DI Smyth at the table. In front of him was a thin file and Smith didn’t think it boded well. It was clear that he hadn’t found much in Doctor Greg Cooper’s VW Passat. Webber nodded to Bridge and the DCs King and Moore and opened the file.
“I’ll keep this brief. We went through the vehicle with a fine-toothed comb. Fortunately for us, Dr Cooper cut short his holiday in the Indian Ocean and volunteered his fingerprints for elimination purposes.”
“Did you find traces of the victims?” DC Moore asked.
Webber sighed. “Do you want to hear my findings, or not?”
“Of course.”
“Please be quiet then. These are the preliminary findings, but I can confirm that three of the victims were inside that car at some stage. There were a lot of fingerprints and we’ve matched some of them to Gemma London, Casey Plant and Rachel Gold.”
“Not Stacey Ladd?” Smith said.
“I would have told you if we’d found anything.”
“Fair enough.”
“There were numerous hair strands,” Webber continued. “But we haven’t finished analysing them all. I can confirm that many of the strands were bleached blond.”
“Stacey Ladd had blond hair,” Bridge said.
“And it’s likely that the hair came from her,” Webber said. “Moving on to the driver’s side of the vehicle, and this is interesting. The Optician was not especially careful.”
“She left prints,” Smith guessed.
“Dozens of them,” Webber said. “On the steering wheel, dashboard and window.”
“They’re not in the database,” Smith decided.
“Obviously,” Webber said. “If they were, I wouldn’t be sitting here, getting interrupted every five seconds.”
“I’ll shut up.”
“Makeup,” Webber said without elaborating.
He looked around the table.
