AS THE SOCOs TAKE OVER the crime scene, Archer and Quinn return to Charing Cross and gather the team in the incident room. Klara has started building profiles of the three women and distributes A4 printouts with information on each.
‘Thanks, mate,’ says Hicks, snatching a sheet from her hand.
Archer feels her hackles rising, but Klara seems unfazed and carries on as if nothing has happened. Archer watches Hicks as he studies the sheet with his index finger lodged inside his left nostril.
She rolls her eyes.
Klara continues, ‘From her Facebook profile, Elaine Kelly is thirty-two and married to Frank Kelly, who looks almost twice her age. They have a son called Jordan and live on the Aylesbury Estate.’
‘And no one has reported her missing?’ asks Tozer.
‘There’s nothing on our records. Elaine’s best friend is Jackie Morris. The last time they communicated was via text last Thursday. Jackie was supposed to look after Jordan but cancelled because she was ill.’
‘What about the husband?’ asks Quinn.
‘He doesn’t have a social media presence. Jackie Morris says their relationship was on and off and he roughed her up from time to time. We have his details on file. Domestic violence and drunken bust-ups in bars.’
‘Sounds like a charmer,’ says Quinn.
‘We need to talk to him,’ says Archer, recalling the bruise on Elaine’s eye.
‘Their address is on the second sheet.’
‘Chau Ho was twenty-three, a dentistry student at Queen Mary University with a part-time job in the Lumberyard Café on Seven Dials. She was a live-in caretaker with some friends in an abandoned hospital in Shadwell. She was prolific on Instagram and has over a thousand followers.’
‘Hey, Keegan, how many followers have you got on Instagram?’ asks Hicks, veering off topic.
Klara frowns and the room goes quiet.
Archer kills the silence. ‘DI Hicks, what the hell has that got to do with anything?’ she snaps.
‘He . . . she has eighteen hundred followers on Instagram.’
‘And?’
‘Perhaps the killer has a kink for Instagram types. She might give us some insight.’
‘That is the shittest suggestion for insight I have heard in a long time,’ says Quinn.
Hicks looks back at the sheet and shrugs. ‘Just a thought.’
‘Rodders, for the record, mate, her name is Klara. K, L, A, R, A. Klara.’
‘My bad, Klara. Please accept my humblest apologies,’ says Hicks, with a wry grin.
‘Please carry on, Klara,’ says Archer.
Klara clears her throat and continues, ‘As I was saying, she was prolific on social media, especially Instagram.’
Archer studies her picture and is sure she recognises Chau, having frequented the café she worked at. ‘What about Megan Burchill?’ she asks.
‘Megan was thirty-five, single and lived alone in Ealing. She worked as a Higher Education Project Co-ordinator in Covent Garden. We don’t know much else. She liked books, cats and television soaps.’
‘Thank you, Klara.’
Archer addresses the room. ‘The victims all have friends and family so find out if anyone knows what might have happened. Os, get a court order together and get those images taken off social media.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘But ensure we get copies of everything.’
Os scribbles notes on his pad.
‘Klara, could you look into the CCTV from the Greenwich Peninsula over the past few days? Marian and Tozer, could you meet with Chau and Megan’s families and look after them? Give them what they need and find out what you can about them.’
‘What about this Frank Kelly?’ asks Quinn. ‘Strange that he hasn’t come forward, considering his wife is dead.’
‘Agreed. We’ll go talk to him after this meeting.’
Archer turns to Hicks and Felton. ‘DI Hicks and DS Felton, please follow up with the friends of Megan and Chau.’
Hicks curls his lips and nods once.
‘DS Quinn and I will follow up with Elaine Kelly’s family and friends.’
‘Ma’am,’ says Klara, ‘Jackie Morris mentioned Elaine’s son, Jordan. She has been asking around and no one has seen him or the father. Her address and contact details are on the third page. Oh, she also mentioned some pubs you could try if Frank Kelly isn’t at home.’
‘Thanks, Klara. Good work. That’s it, everyone. Good luck all and thank you.’
As the team disperses, Archer says, ‘DI Hicks, a word, please.’
She closes the incident-room door leaving only herself and Hicks inside.
‘Stop harassing Klara.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Klara is essential to this investigation.’
A half smile appears on Hicks’s thin lips. ‘I’m not sure what it is you’re implying.’
‘Better coppers than you have been fired for less. I’m warning you. Stop it now!’
The smile fades from Hicks’s face. ‘I don’t have a problem.’
Archer gathers her papers from the table. ‘You’ve been warned,’ she says as she leaves the incident room.
Dropping the papers on her desk she catches Quinn’s eye. ‘Shall we go?’
*
Archer drives an unmarked car through the evening rush-hour traffic as late-forecasted rain begins to pelt down across the city. Quinn has used Google maps to discover the location of Frank Kelly’s drinking holes. She drops him off at Thurlow Street. As he steps outside, cold November air floods the interior.
‘I’ll call you if I find anything,’ he says.
Archer nods, shifts gears and continues on her journey. With the wipers on full, she reaches the Aylesbury Estate in South East London just as the rain transforms into a full storm. Outside people scatter like mice running for shelter and a single umbrella floats twisted and broken on a small kerbside river. Archer spots a free parking space which is a loading bay outside a bathroom shop.
As she steps out of the car, the rain assaults her face and hair. She pulls up the collar of her pea coat, which thankfully keeps off the worst of the cold.
The Aylesbury Estate is known as Britain’s finest example of urban decay and after years of residents’ campaigning, the council has put money into regenerating the entire estate. It has been a slow process and some flats still remain unoccupied. Archer crosses the road and makes her way up the concrete stairs to the Kellys’ flat on the fifth floor. The walls are daubed with unimaginative white, yellow and orange graffiti comprising illegible names, profanities and various depictions of genitalia. Despite the evening cold, she can still make out the unmistakable stale stench of urine.
She hears footsteps approaching and stops to look up, but sees only shadows. Archer peers along the fourth-floor walkway but there is no one there. She moves on to the fifth floor and makes her way down the external corridor, hears the whine of a car alarm and wonders if it has been triggered by the storm or an opportunistic thief.
A pleasant and fragrant wave of garlic, cumin and coriander wafts under her nose as she passes a kitchen window, which is open an inch for ventilation. She hears the laughing voices of a happy family and envies them being together in the dry warmth ready to eat a delicious meal. Archer’s mouth waters and her stomach rumbles. When did she last eat?
She approaches Elaine Kelly’s flat at the end of the corridor, stepping from a haze of spice into an invisible curtain of bubble-gum sweetness.
Like spray paint.
Fresh spray paint.
She freezes.
A life-size figure of a semi-naked woman with floating blonde hair, her hands raised in prayer, has been painted on the wall at the end of the corridor. It’s Elaine Kelly looking back at her.
Archer feels her pulse quickening. She notices the door to the flat is ajar, the lock is broken where it has been forced open.
The footsteps on the stairs.
He has been here. Just now. She peers over the wall at the forecourt below, her eyes blinking at the rain. She scans the area but sees no one. Then something catches her eye by the cluster of communal bins. Archer squints and sees a man looking up at her. The hairs on her neck stand on end. The figure turns and hurries out of the estate.
‘Hey!’ cries Archer as she springs forward, sprinting toward the staircase.
An Indian man with a stern face appears. ‘Can I help you?’ he asks, but Archer dodges past him and runs down the steps, her phone pressed to ear, Quinn’s number ringing but he doesn’t answer. She takes the damp staircase two steps at a time, gripping the bannister to avoid a fall and a cracked skull or broken limb.
Down below she hears the laughing voices of children taking shelter from the downpour. She hears the siren of a passing emergency vehicle and sees a fire engine whizz past. Her heart pounds in time to its scream as she runs towards the bins and follows the route the figure used to leave the estate. Her eyes scan the street outside but there is no sign of him. She sees the fire engine’s lights in the distance near to where she left Quinn. There is no sign of the man. He could have jumped in a car or on a bus and disappeared to God knows where. She phones Quinn again and this time he picks up.
‘He was here. @nonymous was here just now!’ says Archer, catching her breath.
‘Did you see him?’
‘Yes . . . but he was too far away.’
Archer can hear the siren pass Quinn by.
‘Are you still at the Aylesbury Estate?’
She can only just about hear him.
‘Yes.’
‘I’m on my way. I’ll be there in a few moments.’
She makes a call to the Forensics team and from the back of the car takes out two forensic suits.
Quinn joins her outside the apartment as she photographs the painting.
‘He’s painted this with a stencil again,’ says Quinn. ‘Like Banksy does. Allows him to finish quickly and get out.’
‘He was inside the flat,’ says Archer. ‘He broke in by the look of it.’
The Indian man reappears from his doorway. ‘What is going on?’
‘Police,’ says Quinn. He asks the man his name.
‘Vaz Kumar.’
‘Mr Kumar, please remain inside your flat. We’ll come and talk to you later.’
He nods and disappears inside.
For the second time that day Archer and Quinn put on forensic suits.
The lights in the flat are switched off. She sweeps the beam of her torch across the hallway, searching for the switch. She presses it but the light doesn’t come on.
‘Hello?’ she calls, but no one answers.
She listens, zoning in on the rooms close by but hears nothing. The first door to her right opens onto a small kitchen. There’s a stack of washed pots and dishes at the side of the sink waiting to be put away.
‘Mr Kelly? Police. The door was open,’ she says aloud. ‘We thought we’d check to see if you were OK.’
With Quinn behind her, she moves stealthily through the hallway. Crouching down, she finds a pay-as-you-go electricity meter, which has clearly not been paid. She peers into the living room. It’s small and cluttered and to her relief no one is inside. A part of her expected to find the corpse of Jordan Kelly or even his father Frank.
The main bedroom is messy with the wardrobe and drawers open and clothes everywhere. What has he been looking for?
The smaller bedroom, Jordan’s room, is as neat as a nine-year-old’s bedroom could ever be. There are superhero posters on the walls, stuffed toys, various robots on top of the bed and Lego scattered across the floor.
She runs the beam around the living room. On the walls are pictures of Elaine, Jordan and the man she recognises from Elaine’s Facebook profile – Frank Kelly. Archer is reminded again of how much older he is. Nearly twice her age, grey-haired with a ruddy and bloated face. He was clearly punching above his weight.
Fitted to the wall is an enormous flatscreen television that seems just too big for this modest space. Below it is a fake fireplace, the focal point of the room, and lined across the mantelpiece are small ornaments of birds and some of Jordan’s toys.
Neither Frank nor Jordan are in the flat and there is little more to see. Archer and Quinn retreat outside to avoid further contamination. Archer pulls back her hood and mask.
‘Anything from the pubs?’
‘Yeah. He’s been seen drinking in the two I visited. One landlord said he was there on Sunday with a young woman and a baby. She didn’t fit Elaine’s description.’
‘No Jordan?’
‘No, just the three of them.’
‘I wonder who she is.’
‘Anyone’s guess at this point.’
‘Jordan can’t be with his father then, unless he left him with someone else on the Sunday.’
‘I get the sense Kelly isn’t the doting father type.’
Archer bites her lip. ‘I’m worried about Jordan. I’ll call Klara and get her to do some rooting around Elaine’s contacts. Perhaps someone knows something. Could you talk to Os and ask him to prepare a missing persons profile for Jordan? If nothing comes through from Klara’s search I want that profile posted on our social media and passed to the press immediately.’
It takes an hour for the SOCO team to show up and in that time Archer and Quinn have phoned through their instructions to Os and Klara. They have also knocked on doors and spoken to Mr Kumar, his family and the other neighbours. No one has heard or seen anything. @nonymous appeared quiet as a ghost, left his mark and disappeared without trace.