ARCHER MANAGES THREE HOURS OF erratic sleep, which isn’t bad considering Grandad’s stroke and ‘The Forsaken’ murders are crowding her headspace. Dom’s infidelity is lobbying for attention; however, as hurt as she is, she doesn’t have the capacity to dwell on his cheating. There are much more important matters to deal with and she needs all her energies focused on preventing more deaths and stopping a killer. As far as she is concerned, their relationship is over.
She showers, dresses and feels a sharp sense of emptiness inside Grandad’s house without him chatting and pottering about the place. She calls the hospital and is pleased to hear he’s snoozing and comfortable after an early breakfast.
Archer exits the cottage and double locks the front door. Pulling up the collar of her coat, she leaves Roupell Street and makes the journey past the station and across the Golden Jubilee Bridge with other early morning commuters.
Her thoughts turn to the case. She needs quicker results, so longer working hours and weekends are going to be necessary at this rate. But extra hours are not the only thing that will solve this case. She needs to approach it differently. Work in a way she isn’t used to doing. How she is going to do that isn’t clear to her right now.
Her phone starts to ring as she reaches the top of Villiers Street and the Strand.
Dominic.
‘Shit!’
She considers ignoring it, but decides to get it over with. He won’t give up until they’ve talked.
Fat chance!
She presses answer and says, ‘You’ve got a nerve!’
She hears his voice, but it’s drowned out by a passing moped rider who glances at her as he whizzes by.
‘I can’t hear you. Give me a moment.’ She edges into Charing Cross train station’s front car park. ‘What did you say?’ A bus passes on the other side of the road followed by a moped who is turning into the car park.
‘I said, can we meet and talk?’ says Dominic.
Archer’s muscles tighten at the thought. ‘I don’t think so . . .’
Dom says something but the moped’s engine is revving nearby making it difficult to hear.
‘What? I can’t hear you?’
‘I said . . .’
A gloved hand suddenly appears and snatches Archer’s phone from her ear and some strands of hair too.
‘What the hell?’
It’s the moped rider.
‘Hey!’ she calls, but he speeds off across the car park and onto the busy Strand. She sprints after him taking to the road because the pavement is crammed with people. She darts in between cars and sees the moped rider slow to a stop at the lights near Trafalgar Square.
The thief has raised his visor slightly and is looking down at her phone.
‘I don’t want this piece of crap!’ he shouts at her and throws the phone onto the other side of the road and the oncoming traffic. Her heart sinks when the glass smashes, and ends up in a puddle.
‘You shit!’ she shouts, committing his number plate to memory.
He gives her the finger and jumps the red light.
Archer crouches down and picks up the phone from the cold dirty water. She wipes it with her cuff and presses the touch button, but the screen is completely smashed and the phone looks beyond repair.
Looking on the bright side, at least her awkward exchange with Dom was cut short. She almost wants to laugh but once again has the sensation that someone is watching her.
She looks around scanning faces, but no one is looking her way.
Hello, paranoia, my old friend.
Archer slips the broken phone into her pocket. As she makes her way up Adelaide Street she hears a voice say, ‘Hello, again.’
She jumps and looks across to see a man with an untidy mop of grey hair and a jowly red face sitting on the Oscar Wilde memorial granite bench.
The reporter, Mike Hamilton.
‘Detective Inspector Archer, please may I have a moment of your time?’
‘I have nothing to say to the press, Mr Hamilton.’
He smiles at her, looks down at the inscription on the bench and reads it aloud. ‘We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars. Profound, don’t you agree?’
‘I would agree that “gutter” is certainly appropriate at this moment.’
Archer turns to leave.
‘Please wait,’ he says, getting up and touching her arm.
Archer looks down at the pudgy pale fingers on her sleeve.
‘DI Archer, I’d like to help you.’
Archer frowns. ‘And how could you do that?’
‘Let me tell your story.’
Archer’s hands ball in the pockets of her coat. ‘I don’t have a story, Mr Hamilton.’
‘Oh, but you do, Detective. May I call you Grace?’
‘No, you may not.’
‘What happened to you all those years ago?’
Archer feels like she’s been punched. She swallows and turns to leave, but Hamilton hurries ahead of her and blocks her way. ‘Perhaps we got off to a bad start. What I meant—’
‘Three people are dead, Mr Hamilton. Wouldn’t your time be better spent reporting the facts on their murders?’
‘I am very interested in that story, of course. But the fact that you are leading the investigation is of equal interest. You who have hands-on experience with a serial killer.’
Archer feels nauseous and picks up her pace.
Hamilton follows her. ‘Tell me your story. Tell me about young Grace Archer. The girl who survived.’
Archer crosses William IV Street. Hamilton is still on her tail.
‘Tell me about Daniel Jobson. What happened to little Daniel, Detective? You and Daniel were the last of Bernard Morrice’s victims. But you escaped . . .’
Archer’s heart is pounding, she feels dizzy and the walls of the surrounding buildings seem to close in around her. She hurries up Chandos Place, Hamilton’s voice following her like an echo from her past. She cannot think about any of that right now. It is over. It is history. The present and the future are what matter now.
She sprints up the steps to Charing Cross Police Station and crosses the office, enters the incident room and slams the door without thinking. She sees her team, including Hicks and Felton, looking across at her and then quickly turning away. Hicks is the only one whose gaze lingers longer than it should and she is sure his thin lips are curved into a smile. Ignoring him, she craves some time alone to think and sits by the window, staring out at the gunmetal clouds and breathing slowly through her nose. She closes her eyes for a few moments and when she opens them she sees Quinn looking in at her with a puzzled expression.
Archer has no choice but to push Hamilton from her thoughts for the time being.
She beckons for Quinn to come in.
‘Everything OK?’
She removes her coat and drapes it over a chair. ‘I’m fine.’
‘As long as you’re fine.’
Archer rubs her palms together and recalls Quinn’s abrupt confession about his son and his emergence from the Corpus Christi Church afterward.
‘How about you? Are you OK?’
He shrugs. ‘I’m fine.’
‘Good. We’re both fine then.’
‘Fine as fine can be.’
‘Excuse me, Detective Inspector Archer?’ comes a voice.
Archer looks across to see a young Indian man carrying a briefcase standing at the doorway.
‘How can I help you?’
He smiles. ‘I’m Krish from Forensics. Is there somewhere we can talk?’
‘Come in and close the door, Krish from Forensics,’ says Archer. ‘This is DS Quinn.’
‘Nice to meet you . . . both.’ He smiles again and steps inside.
‘Take a seat,’ says Quinn.
‘I was hoping Sir Peter Davis would be here.’
Krish sits at the table, Archer and Quinn sit opposite him.
‘Why would the Home Office be here?’ asks Archer.
‘The Home Office?’ says Quinn.
‘I tried to call you, DI Archer, but your phone kept going to voicemail.’
‘My phone is broken.’
‘Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘What have you got for us, Krish, and what has it got to do with the Home Office?’
‘Just coming to that.’ He reaches into his case, takes out a manila folder and places it on the table with his hands resting firmly on top of it.
‘The contents of this folder are very sensitive.’
Krish’s eyes roll between Archer’s and Quinn’s.
Quinn sighs. ‘We’re in the middle of a murder investigation. Are you going to share what you have or do we have to wait on your chum?’
‘I’m sorry.’ He slides across the folder. ‘Dr Kapur sent us through several blond hairs from the victims in the glass cabinets. Unfortunately, the formaldehyde had an impact on our ability to find a match. However, the site Forensics team were able to find similar blond hairs on the material used to cover the glass cabinets. We tested the follicles and were able to find a match.’
Archer opens the file and looks at the profile and photograph inside.
‘Jesus Christ!’ says Quinn. ‘Are you kidding me?’
‘I wish I were. They belong to the missing MP, Lewis Faulkner.’