‘I’LL JUST SEARCH FOR YOUR details,’ says Rachel, an eager young sales advisor at the Vodafone store in Long Acre, Covent Garden.
Archer’s attention flicks to the muted television broadcasting the news on the wall behind the advisor. The screen shows a shot of Lewis Faulkner’s face alongside another of the Range Rover she and Quinn found late last night. The shot of the Range Rover is replaced by a live interview of an older man resembling the missing MP, talking from the living room of a grand home. Faulkner senior, presumably. On the other side of the screen, Lewis Faulkner’s benign smiling face looks down at her like a fleshy male Madonna without child. Archer appraises him as if searching for a clue to his guilt, or innocence.
‘Sorry about this. System’s a bit slow today. Must be a busy time,’ says Rachel.
‘That’s OK.’
‘Ah, here we go. Found you. Archer. Grace.’ The sales advisor frowns at the computers. ‘It says here your sim card is still in use.’
‘That can’t be right. My phone was broken and I’ve not used it.’
‘Mmm . . . let me see what’s going on.’
Archer glances at the television. The news anchor has moved on to the murders of Billy Perrin, Noel Tipping, Stan Buxton and Herman and Josef Olinski.
‘No calls have been made,’ says Rachel. ‘Perhaps it’s just a problem with the system. I wouldn’t worry about it. Let me get you a new sim.’ She crouches down at the sales desk, opens a drawer, takes out a new sim and inserts it into Archer’s phone before handing it back.
‘Was your old phone backed up?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. Do you know how to restore your data from the Cloud?’
‘I do, thanks.’
‘Great. I’ll make the switch on the system now.’
‘Flippin’ hell, mate, have you seen this?’ comes a man’s voice from somewhere in the store.
‘What the . . .?’ replies his friend. ‘Are those real people?’
‘Yeah, it’s the same bloke what did those three homeless people in.’
Archer turns to look at the two men who are open-mouthed and staring down at a phone screen.
‘She’s fit,’ says one of the men. ‘Or was . . .’
Archer feels a chill run down her spine and notices other members of staff looking at the television behind Rachel.
‘Oh my God,’ says the sales advisor.
She is watching the television. Archer follows her gaze.
A BREAKING NEWS banner with the subtitle ‘Marshland Martyrs’ is rolling across the bottom of the screen and a live Facebook feed shows three tall vitrines filled with liquid. Each one has a body inside.
Archer moves closer.
The news anchor is talking but she cannot hear. ‘Please turn the volume up!’
Rachel unmutes the television.
‘. . . these pictures are just in from the Facebook page of the killer who calls himself @nonymous. They appear to show the bodies of three semi-naked women with their hands clasped together in prayer. Something is wrapped around their arms. I’m not sure what it is. The image is really quite extraordinary . . .’
‘Shit!’ says Archer. She phones Klara. ‘Have you seen the news?’
‘We’re watching it now. Where are you?’
‘Close by.’
‘I’m putting you on speaker . . .’
Archer hears the echo of Klara’s office and the low hum of voices.
Archer pays for the sim and hurries out of the store. ‘I’ll be there in five minutes. Can you get a trace on the Facebook feed?’
‘Yes, the geo location is on the feed . . . here it’s . . . it’s broadcasting from somewhere on the Greenwich Peninsula. I should have precise location in a few moments.’
Archer sprints past Covent Garden market dodging dawdling tourists.
‘Is DS Quinn there?’
‘I’m here,’ calls Quinn.
‘We need backup, medics, SOCOs.’
‘Already on it.’
‘Good. I’ll be there in a few minutes.’
*
Sirens scream and blue lights flash as Archer and Quinn race across London in a convoy of police vehicles. Archer watches the broadcast on her phone. The vitrines are lit from behind with a dim blue light. The victims’ hair floats like their long dark skirts that seem to move from side to side. They are naked from the waist up; their arms are tightly bound with barbed wire and their hands held up in prayer. Archer shudders.
There is only darkness around the cabinets and there is no sign of movement. Archer knows the killer is long gone.
Klara phones. ‘Calls are coming in from friends and family. I have IDs on the women. Elaine Kelly, Chau Ho and Megan Burchill. All three have a social media presence and none of them have been reported missing.’
‘They’re clearly not homeless then?’
‘Definitely not homeless. And Elaine Kelly is a mother.’
‘Thanks, Klara. Find out all you can about them,’ asks Archer.
‘Will do.’
Archer sees the towering blocks of Canary Wharf nearby.
‘We’re almost there!’ says Quinn.
They arrive at the peninsula.
‘There it is!’
Archer looks up to see an abandoned warehouse on the opposite side of a rubble-strewn waste ground. Broken glass and rubbish clatters and cracks under the tyres of the squad car as Quinn speeds towards the rundown building.
They skid to a stop outside the entrance. The large brown doors are cracked open revealing the gloom inside with a faint red glow. Archer looks back to see the other vehicles pull up including a van filled with armed police. She wonders if they will be needed but it is better to be safe than sorry.
Retrieving a torch from the boot of the car she makes her way to the entrance elbowing open the door and peering inside. The interior is vast with broken windows and gaps in the roof letting through a murky pale autumn light. The cabinets are in the middle of the space and are situated in a semi-circle in front of a battered steel table with three devices broadcasting the scene.
Archer feels sick to her stomach.
She runs the beam around the interior of the warehouse but there is no sign of anyone.
She hears Quinn talking into the car radio.
‘SOCOs are on the way,’ he says.
‘Let’s go in,’ says Archer. She turns to the head of the armed police. ‘Sergeant Ward, DS Quinn and I will suit up and go in first. Perhaps you could follow and ask your men to wait for now.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
Archer opens the boot of the squad car and she and Quinn unpack disposable forensic suits. She hands Ward a pair of disposable shoe covers. ‘Keep your distance, but don’t stray too far. Just in case.’
‘Yes, ma’am. Understood.’
The sickly-sweet smell of formaldehyde permeates the air as Archer and Quinn walk side by side following the beam of her torch as it scours every dark, hidden corner.
As Quinn switches off the phone broadcasts, Archer stands as close to the cabinets as she can without the risk of contaminating the scene. The women’s eyes and mouths are closed, which gives them a look of serenity that seems at odds with the harsh bruises around their necks. The blonde woman has a bruise around her eye and a small scab on her lip. Archer feels a crushing sadness that burns and crackles as a surge of anger roars through her body. Who the hell does this maniac think he is?
She will find him and won’t give up until she does. She looks at the three women.
‘I promise, I will stop him,’ she whispers.