QUINN’S PHONE RINGS. HE PUTS it on speaker as he steers the unmarked car through traffic.
‘Harry, it’s Klara, is DI Archer with you?’
‘Yes, we’re driving back to the Charing Cross.’
‘Hi, Klara,’ calls Archer.
‘Grace, I’ve been trying to call you but there was no answer.’
‘Sorry, Klara. It’s been on silent since we interviewed Kelly.’
Archer retrieves the phone from her coat pocket and sees several missed calls. Two from Klara, two from the hospital and three from Grandad’s mobile.
‘Shit!’
‘Everything all right?’ asks Quinn.
‘I was supposed to pick Grandad up from hospital this afternoon.’
‘We can head there now.’
‘There’s no time,’ interrupts Klara. ‘There are three new bodies in cabinets doing the rounds on the Internet. They’re trending under #LimehouseMolls.’
‘Jesus Christ!’ says Quinn. ‘He could at least give us time to breathe.’
Klara continues, ‘I checked @nonymous’s Facebook page, but there is nothing streaming there yet, which is odd.’
‘Perhaps he’s having a tea break,’ Quinn says drily.
‘I found the location. They’re at Duke Shore Wharf in Limehouse. Looks like we have a uniform presence there already.’
‘Put your foot down, DS Quinn,’ says Archer.
Quinn turns on the police lights and siren. Archer jolts backward as he increases the speed and weaves through the traffic.
Using her phone, she searches for the #LimehouseMolls and sees a distance shot taken from a bridge looking down at the water’s edge where the cabinets stand in a row.
‘Have the victims been named on the socials?’ asks Archer.
‘Not yet. There are no death shots or videos of anyone yet.’
‘Thanks, Klara. We’re on our way.’
Archer calls Grandad’s number. It rings for a moment before picking up. ‘Jake Archer’s phone,’ says an unexpected soft male voice. Unexpected but she recognises it all the same.
‘Jamie?’
‘Hi, Grace. Yes, it’s me. Jake is with the doctor at the moment.’
Archer touches her neck. ‘What’s happened?’
‘No need to be alarmed. He’s just getting a check over before he goes home. Are you on your way here?’
‘No . . . not yet. I’m running late.’
‘I can hear the siren. I’m assuming you’re a little tied up?’
‘You don’t know the half of it.’
‘Then don’t worry. I can take Jake home.’
Archer hesitates before answering. It’s a lot to expect from this stranger, but what choice does she have? ‘That would be so helpful, Jamie, thank you.’
‘Don’t mention it. I’ll hang around with him until you get home.’
‘You don’t need to.’
‘Doctor’s orders. He’s not to be left alone on his first night out.’
‘Ah, I see. Then I will come and rescue you as soon as I finish.’
‘No rush.’
‘That’s so kind. Thank you, Jamie.’
‘You’re very welcome. See you later, then.’
‘Bye.’
They arrive at Narrow Lane in Limehouse where two police cars block access to the riverside. Archer and Quinn grab forensic suits from the boot. As she unzips the plastic wrapping Archer overhears a male witness talking to an officer.
‘I saw three blokes in hoodies. Bold as brass they was carrying those things down there.’
‘Did you see their faces?’ interrupts Quinn.
‘No, they was wearing masks.’
‘What time was this?’
‘Around six thirty. And they were laughing, having a right giggle.’
Archer and Quinn pull on the white paper overalls. Archer covers the lower half of her face with the mask and fixes the white hood over her hair. They make their way down a narrow alleyway to the riverside where there is a fixed steel ladder down to the riverbank. Archer takes stock of the cabinets below. They are a different style to the three from The Connection at St Martin’s and from the Greenwich Peninsula. They are shiny and seem to glisten and sparkle against the black mirror of the snaking Thames. If she isn’t mistaken they don’t seem to be filled with formaldehyde. If looks more like the victims are packed in ice.
At the bottom of the ladder, Archer notices footprints in the mud. Quinn has seen them too.
‘Three different sizes and styles. Trainers by the look of it,’ says Archer.
They trudge across the muddy riverbank avoiding the footprints. As they get closer to the cabinets Archer can see clothed bodies wrapped in what looks like crumpled transparent plastic sheeting. It’s not ice as she had thought. It’s hard to make out faces or much else as the plastic has obscured the victims.
‘They don’t look like the expensive glass vitrines the killer has been using,’ says Quinn.
‘My thought exactly. They look plastic, flimsy and cheap.’
‘Perhaps that’s the style he’s going for.’
Uncertainty creeps over Archer.
She moves closer and sees unnatural beige skin tones on the hands of one of the bodies. She frowns. ‘They’re not real people.’
‘They’re shop mannequins in fucking wigs,’ adds Quinn. ‘Is he playing some sort of game?’
‘Or some jokers have pranked us.’
‘Fucking fuckers!’
Archer takes several shots despite being certain this nothing more than a sick joke and then trudges back to the ladder, climbing to the pavement above.
‘They could be pranksters or perhaps he’s throwing us off the scent.’
‘I’m not discounting anything. There are cameras everywhere here, which should make them easy to track down.’
*
As they arrive back at the station Klara beckons to them. ‘I’ve got CCTV on the Limehouse cabinets.’
Archer and Quinn gather around Klara’s monitors and watch footage of three men in identical dark hoodies carrying the cabinets from the back of a white van and down the ladder to the riverbank. The cabinets are plastic and with mannequins inside are clearly easy to carry. There is no secrecy or subtlety about what they are doing. She recalls the witness earlier saying the three of them appeared to be laughing. The three men hurry back to the van and one of them spots the CCTV camera and beckons to his friends. They approach the camera and reveal the front of their hooded tops, each of which has @NONYMOUS stencilled on the front in bold white lettering.
‘Cheeky wee bastards!’ exclaims Quinn.
‘Our killer has become a modern-day folk hero,’ says Klara.
‘Can you get a close-up the reg of their van?’ asks Archer.
‘No problem.’
‘Look, I need to go,’ says Archer. ‘My grandad . . .’
‘No worries,’ Quinn tells her.
‘Grace . . . sorry . . . I found Elaine Kelly on the Infernos CCTV. There’s something else you should see.’
Archer is getting anxious about Grandad and the time. She pulls on her coat as Klara rewinds the video. Archer watches the grainy black-and-white footage of people dancing in an odd backwards fashion while others retreat from the bar and dance floor.
Klara pauses the video and points at a male figure behind the bar. ‘Keep an eye on him,’ she says.
Archer leans forward. ‘That’s Jason Armitage.’
‘He’s watching someone across the bar,’ says Klara. She runs her finger across the screen, to Elaine Kelly who is standing at the bar looking out toward the dance floor. There are other people at the bar and Archer isn’t convinced the shot has any value. ‘He could be looking at anyone?’ she says.
‘Look at this,’ replies Klara, pressing the play button.
Archer watches Elaine walk along the bar. Armitage steps forward, grabs her arm and says something to her. Elaine looks at him, pulls away and then walks on. Armitage watches her go, ignoring the customers waiting to be served.
‘Good work, Klara. Save that clip for me and see what else you can find.’
‘That’s not all. I did some digging. Seems he has a history of violence and an existing rape conviction.’
‘Let’s get him in.’ Archer turns to Quinn. ‘I really need to go. Can I leave it with you?’
‘Of course. You go see to your grandad and grab an early night.’
‘I’ll call you later.’
*
It’s almost 5 p.m. when Archer arrives at Roupell Street. She lets herself into Grandad’s house, where she is greeted by the familiar and comforting smell of burning wood and lavender, the latter a legacy from her grandmother that the old man could never let go of. There is another fragrance too, an appealing scent with subtle tones of pepper and citrus.
A man’s cologne.
Jamie appears in the narrow hallway. ‘Hi.’ His voice is quiet.
‘Is he sleeping?’ she replies.
Jamie nods. ‘He was tired and couldn’t stay up any longer.’
‘Thank you so much for taking him home and staying with him.’
‘My pleasure.’
‘Come into the kitchen. Can I get you anything?’ She notices the bottle of red wine from the hamper is half full and sitting on the kitchen table.
‘Jake insisted on opening it.’
‘He likes his wine.’
‘He had one glass and that finished him off.’
‘How has he been?’
‘On fine form.’
‘I’m so relieved. I felt so guilty not being there for him.’
‘Don’t be. He understands the demands of your job.’
‘I know he does. But he deserves better.’ Archer feels a build-up of tension and rolls her shoulders to try and ease it.
‘You look like you could do with a glass of wine yourself,’ says Jamie.
‘I will if you will.’
Jamie pours them a glass each and smiles, his gaze lingering on her face. Archer feels a warmth spread throughout her body. She takes both glasses from him and sets them on the table. She moves closer, losing herself in the pepper-and-citrus tones and the pleasant red-wine tang of his warm breath. She kisses him gently and he wraps his strong arms around her. His lips are soft and relentless, as if he is hungry. She unbuttons his shirt, fingers clambering for skin and feels him hardening as she presses against him. Jamie’s hands slide under her sweater and she feels her skin tingle to his touch.
Archer hears a creaking noise on the stairs. She stiffens and meets Jamie’s gaze. His expression is a mix of disappointment and amusement. She hears footsteps descending the stairs and pulls away from him, fixing herself as he buttons his shirt.
The living-room door opens and Grandad appears, dressed in his pyjamas. Archer feels an ache in her chest. He seems so pale, small and frail. His watery eyes fix on her. ‘I thought I heard something,’ he says.
‘Hi, Grandad. I just got home.’
He stares blankly at her and doesn’t seem to be aware that Jamie is with her.
‘Grandad, are you OK?’
He trembles. ‘I had a terrible dream.’
‘Come and sit down.’
Archer crouches beside him and holds his cold papery hand. He squeezes hers.
‘I dreamt about him.’
‘About Dad?’
He shakes his head, his eyebrows knit together and he seems suddenly so much older. ‘No . . . him . . . that monster.’
Archer feel’s Jamie’s gaze and swallows. ‘He’s gone now, Grandad.’
‘I dreamt he came back, Grace. He came for you again. I could feel him, his anger, his rottenness. I chased him . . . I wanted to kill him . . . crush him like a cockroach, but he just kept tricking me.’ Tears stream from his eyes. ‘I’m so sorry, Grace. I couldn’t protect you then and I can’t protect you now.’
‘Hey, it was only a dream,’ she says in soothing tones.
She can see Jamie move slowly across the room. ‘I should go,’ he mouths.
Archer nods and Jamie makes a phone sign with his hand. She nods and smiles as he lets himself out.
It isn’t long before Grandad begins to fade. Archer helps him to his room and into bed. Closing the door quietly she goes back to the living room and calls Quinn.
‘Klara found more footage of Armitage manhandling Elaine Kelly near Infernos,’ he tells her. ‘Looked like they were having some sort of row.’
‘What do you mean “manhandling” her?’
‘They were arguing, she was trying to walk away from him and he grabbed her arms and shook her.’
‘When was this?’
‘A few weeks back. I asked him what that was about and he denied it happened until we told him about the footage. At that stage he broke down and swore that he had nothing to do with her murder. He said they’d had sex just the once. He’d wanted to see her again, but she refused and he was “upset”.’
‘Did you ask him about the note?’
‘He denied any knowledge while taking a beamer.’
‘Taking a what?’
‘His face beamed red . . . Belfast slang, ma’am . . . anyway, I’m going to go at him again shortly. By the way, I released Frank Kelly. We’re keeping an eye on him, though . . . and Hicks brought in the pranksters. Three middle-class and over-privileged white boys who share a house in Islington. Hicks is charming them now in the way that only Hicks can do. I’m about to join him.’
‘Let me know how that goes.’
‘Will do. How’s your grandad?’
‘Sleeping.’
‘You should be too.’
‘I’ll try.’
‘Goodnight, ma’am.’
‘Goodnight, Harry.’