Daniel Kennedy. Zoe Darego. Sean Delaney and Carole Lewis. The names were written in red removable ink on the whiteboard.
‘You’re absolutely sure that Lewis needs to be on the board?’ asked Pellacia. Henley glanced over at Ramouter who was staring at their boss, his eyes wide with disbelief.
‘Of course she’s sure,’ Joanna said before walking past and dumping a pile of papers on Ramouter’s desk.
‘I’m just playing devil’s advocate,’ Pellacia continued. ‘We’ve got a gap of four months between Lewis’s murder and Kennedy and Darego being found. Then we have how they were killed. Kennedy, Darego and Delaney were all dismembered. Lewis wasn’t – her throat was cut.’
‘It was a bit more than her throat being cut.’ Henley pulled a large evidence bag filled with letters towards her. ‘Whoever it was almost cut her head off. It may have been a more opportunistic killing but there was still a degree of planning involved. My gut tells me that she went to that park expecting to meet somebody specific, someone she knew. I just don’t know who.’
‘Your gut isn’t enough, I’m afraid. What about the DNA that was found on her?’ asked Pellacia. ‘Any matches?’
‘There were two, her husband and Gary Wilkins. Stanford arrested and interviewed Wilkins last night. He admitted to having sex with Carole earlier that night. He says it wasn’t the first time and that she was one of the regulars who met in Highgate Woods. He says that he was already at work at the time Carole was murdered but he’s changed jobs since then and Stanford is having trouble finding his old site manager. The third was unidentified.’
‘Is it possible that our killer is one of the other men she slept with?’
Henley shook her head. ‘We can’t rule it out, but the DNA from the unidentified match was found under Lewis’s fingernails and from the dried semen on her legs. It wasn’t found inside of her. I don’t think that our killer had penetrative sex with her.’
‘I know that we’re looking at Blaine and now this Gary Wilkins as viable suspects, but what about the other two jurors who were done for contempt? They’re part of the reason why the original trial fell apart. Have you spoken to them?’ Pellacia asked Ramouter.
‘Pine works full time as a paramedic, so it’s been a bit tricky arranging to meet him because of his shift times, but we’re seeing Naylor later; not that he was pleased about it.’
‘How far did you get with tracing the other jurors?’ Pellacia asked.
‘It took most of the morning, but I found them,’ Ramouter said. ‘There’s a couple that we don’t have to worry about for the time being. Naomi Spencer is in Vietnam on honeymoon. She left about a month ago and is not due back for another two and a half weeks. Kushal Bollasingham is serving a sentence at High Down. Eighteen months for benefit fraud. He’s scheduled for early release next April. Then we’ve got Hamilton Bryce. He moved to Manchester last year. I asked him if he had been in touch with any of the jurors after the trial and he confirmed that he hasn’t.’
‘Hopefully, we don’t have to worry about Bryce. With the exception of Lewis, our copycat seems to be confining his movements to south London, but we should still ask Greater Manchester Police to keep an eye on him,’ Henley suggested.
Pellacia nodded his agreement.
‘That just leaves Alessandro Naylor, Jessica Talbot, Dominic Pine and Michael Kirkpatrick,’ said Ramouter, folding his list in half. ‘What do we now? We can’t just rock up at their front doors and tell them that they’re possible targets for a serial killer.’
‘We’re going to have to.’
‘What did the UKPPS say about protecting the remaining jurors?’ asked Pellacia.
Henley groaned as she recalled her infuriating conversation with Gia Mapess, the London director of the UK Protected Person Services.
‘She was more concerned about policy and procedure than applying her common sense,’ said Henley. ‘They need to review the case in order for them to assess the level of threat against our jurors.’
‘A serial killer running around London isn’t enough of a threat?’ asked Pellacia.
‘Not until they say so and then it’s up to the jurors to give their consent as to what sort of protection they want; personal alarms, police patrols—’
Henley was interrupted as the phone on her desk began to ring. She recognised the number on the display; it was Anthony’s direct line.
‘What’s happened to your mobile?’ said Anthony. ‘You weren’t picking up, so I thought I’d try to get you the old-fashioned way.’
Henley cradled the phone into her neck, reached into her bag and pulled out her mobile. There were five missed calls from Anthony, but the phone was on silent mode. ‘Sorry about that. So what’s the urgency?’
‘Your head.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Your head. The one that was unceremoniously dumped at your house. I’ve got an ID for you. Check your email.’
Henley woke up her computer and opened the attachment in Anthony’s email. The man looking back at her was smiling. The curls of his thick black hair fell onto his forehead. He looked like he was in mid-twenties.
‘His name is Elliot Shen Cheung. Twenty-four years old when he disappeared,’ Henley enlarged the photo on the smartboard. ‘The e-fit was circulated and went live on the Missing Persons Unit website last week. About two hours ago the unit received an alert that there was a possible identification.’
‘So who is he?’ asked Ramouter. ‘And what did he do to Olivier?’
‘Originally from Hong Kong,’ Henley continued. ‘Came over when he was eighteen to go to university in Cardiff. He moved to London when he graduated and was working for an advertising firm in Hoxton Square. He was reported missing by a friend a week before his body, minus his head, was discovered, but apparently no one had seen him for at least two weeks prior to that.’
‘What about his employers? They didn’t think that it was odd that he hadn’t turned up for work?’ asked Pellacia.
‘They said it wasn’t the first time that a junior member of staff hadn’t bothered to turn up,’ said Henley.
‘Who made the identification?’ asked Ramouter.
‘The MPU received two alerts. The first alert came from a Tanya Dunnett. She was Elliot’s girlfriend, but they broke up about a week before he disappeared.’
‘And the second?’
Henley could feel the scars on her stomach tightening as she examined the photograph of a smiling Elliot Cheung who was now lying in six separate parts in the mortuary.
‘It was Peter Olivier.’
‘Excuse me?’ said Pellacia. ‘Peter Olivier contacted the MPU?’
‘He didn’t call them. It was done yesterday afternoon, via the website. I’ve already spoken to Ezra and he’s trying to track the IP address that Olivier used.’
‘If it was Olivier,’ said Pellacia. ‘There are some strange people out there. For all we know, it could be someone claiming to be him.’
‘It’s a possibility,’ Henley agreed. ‘But I wouldn’t put anything past Olivier. The most important thing is that we’ve got an identification.’
‘So, who the hell is Elliot Cheung?’ asked Pellacia. ‘I don’t remember coming across that name when we were looking at the rape allegations that Olivier made.’
‘And he’s too young,’ said Henley. ‘Cheung was twenty-four when he went missing. There’s a reason why Olivier went for him. To pick some random? It doesn’t fit his pattern.’
Pellacia forehead crinkled with concentration. Henley didn’t need to ask him what he was thinking. She knew.
‘You’re worried that this case is getting out of hand?’ she said.
‘We’re running this copycat murder investigation; Olivier is on the run and we’re effectively looking at reopening a murder case.’
‘We’re not reopening a murder case. All we need to do is find out how Olivier is connected to this Elliot Cheung.’
‘And why he arranged for Cheung’s head to be delivered to your house.’
‘I already know the answer to that,’ said Henley. ‘It’s because he’s a sick fuck.’