ARCHER GLANCES AT THE DIGITAL clock on the dashboard. It’s 5.47 a.m. On the streets outside, stragglers trickle from clubs and walk in pairs or groups, some making the journey home, others to another all-night drinking hole. In shopfronts, the homeless, wrapped in coats, the lucky ones in sleeping bags, lie on makeshift beds fashioned from layers of thin cardboard.
Hamilton’s murder and his recent attempts to contact her turn over in her mind. She unbuttons her coat and reaches across to turn the heat to a more comfortable temperature. She notices Quinn has been quiet for the past twenty minutes; the only sound he makes is the disconcerting rumble of his stomach.
‘Are you hungry?’ she asks him.
‘I think the expression is “hangry”, ma’am. I haven’t eaten in twelve hours.’
‘Me neither. Let’s fix that. I know I should eat, but a corpse and bloody dismembered fingers can screw up a girl’s appetite.’
‘I’m trying to erase that image from my mind.’
‘Sorry . . .’
‘Don’t be. The thing is I really fancy right now is sausages. Do you think there is something wrong with me?’
‘Quite possibly,’ smiles Archer.
‘I know a place close to the office that is just about to open. We can eat there quickly and then head back to the madness.’
‘Sounds good to me.’
Archer’s mind turns back to Hamilton. His voicemail and follow-up text puzzled her. She takes out her phone and looks at his message.
What the hell was that about? Did he mean that piece-of-shit article he wrote? Why on earth would she give feedback on that? Even if her life depended on it she would never talk to Hamilton. She exhales and drops the phone back into her coat pocket.
Fifteen minutes later they are sitting at a table in the window of Café Verona, an Italian greasy spoon situated under the shadow of a monstrous 1970s block that is presently a Travelodge.
Archer taps her phone on the edge of the plastic table and thinks. Something is bugging her but she can’t put her finger on it. She senses Quinn watching her as her mind forages for the missing piece of the puzzle, and then it comes to her. It’s her phone. When the moped phone thief tossed it away, there was no sim card inside. She hasn’t made the connection until now.
‘Shit!’
‘What’s up?’ asks Quinn.
Archer hesitates before answering. ‘Mike Hamilton had been trying to contact me. He wanted info on the case and other information from my past.’
Quinn listens and she is grateful he doesn’t press her about her history. She assumes he already knows, as most people do. After all, there are a dozen articles on the Internet, including one ropey true crime podcast.
‘I ignored his texts and calls because he’s the last person I’d talk to about my private life.’
She explains about the moped rider who stole her phone, opens her message and slides the phone across to him.
Quinn reads the message. ‘Is that your personal phone?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you certain that the phone the moped rider tossed to the ground was yours?’
‘It was broken but it looked like mine.’ Archer has a sinking feeling. ‘The sim was missing.’
‘Then it’s possible the thief got lucky and switched phones. Smartphones contain banking, credit cards and links to apps with your credit card details. The right person can easily download hacking software from the Internet.’
‘But why would the thief talk to Hamilton?’
‘Perhaps Hamilton was being persistent and the thief didn’t want to raise suspicions. Who knows? Perhaps they wanted to screw with him in some way too?’
‘It doesn’t make sense.’ Archer is troubled but has other more important things to think about and pockets her phone.
Breakfast arrives. Everything is fried: the bacon, the sausages, the eggs, the tomatoes, the mushrooms, the bread. Even the beans have a disconcerting oily quality. Archer picks at her eggs and nibbles at the fried bread, which is tastier than it looks.
‘Breakfast of champions!’ says Quinn, who eats heartily.
‘Breakfast of cardiac arrest,’ replies Archer.
Quinn smiles. He is broad but also lean, yet she wonders just how he manages to not be twice his size if this is what he eats.
As if reading her mind, he says, ‘This is a rare treat.’
‘Glad to hear it. For a moment I thought I could hear your arteries furring up.’
‘I keep myself in shape. I come from a country where heart disease and suicide are ever present like evil Jehovah’s Witnesses constantly knocking at the door. Both have visited the Quinn family over the years. One will claim me. One day.’
Archer is unsure what to say to that and decides no response is the best option, for now.
Quinn demolishes his breakfast and scoops up the grease with the last of the fried bread. With a paper napkin he dabs his mouth gently as if he has just eaten a fine gourmet meal. ‘Ready to go?’
‘I need to make a quick stop at my grandad’s before heading back.’
‘No worries.’
Quinn waits outside in the car as Archer lets herself in. Grandad is pottering around the kitchen making breakfast and listening to Radio 4.
‘Morning, Grandad.’
‘Good morning, Grace. Have you been working an all-nighter?’
‘I have. How are you feeling?’
‘Your father was always doing them. Not good for your health,’ he replies not having heard or taken in her question. He smiles at her. ‘Would you like some tea?’
‘I’m afraid I have to go out again.’
‘OK, dear. I understand.’
Archer hurries upstairs and takes off her sweater. She washes her armpits, face, neck and brushes her teeth. From her wardrobe she finds a pale blue shirt. After brushing her hair, she hurries back downstairs.
‘Do you need anything, Grandad?’
He shakes his head. ‘No I don’t think so.’
‘Call me if you do, won’t you?’
‘Of course, dear.’
Archer pulls on her coat.
‘Say hello to your dad, if you see him today.’
Archer feels a lump in her throat. She wraps her arms around the old man. ‘I love you, Grandad.’
He chuckles under her embrace and pats her back. ‘I’m lucky to have you, Grace.’
Archer’s eyes begin to well. She is reluctant to leave him alone, but what else can she do?
*
Quinn drops Archer at the station and tells her he needs to sort out some personal business with a leak in his flat and will be back shortly. Archer says goodbye and heads straight into the office.
Later that morning, Klara’s contact with Megan Burchill’s dating app owners pays off. They are cooperating and send across the transcripts of Megan’s conversations with four different men. Three of them are from way back, but one is recent and stands out from the others.
‘Max084. It’s him. It has to be,’ says Archer.
Klara scrolls through the conversation. ‘He sent a car to pick her up the same night she disappeared. He must have driven that car himself.’
‘He pretended to be someone he wasn’t.’
‘It’s called catfishing,’ Klara tells her.
As they are speaking, Quinn walks into the room. ‘Morning! Sorry that took longer than expected. What’s the scoop?’
‘He’s using apps and technology to find his victims,’ says Archer.
‘Billy Perrin, Noel Tipping and Stan Buxton had phones but they were basic old-school devices used for calls only,’ says Klara.
‘Was there anything on their phone records?’ asks Quinn.
‘A few calls in and out to unregistered phones within Central London. That was it.’
Archer folds her arms. ‘I think you’re onto something. The killer used an app to catfish Megan. Jackie Morris said Elaine’s mysterious man had given her a phone to contact him. The killer uses the World Wide Web to showcase his victims. He knows what he is doing, he is savvy with technology.’
‘Oh God,’ says Klara as she turns to a different monitor, ‘I think you’re right. Look at this picture. I came across it this morning when I searched through Elaine Kelly and her friend’s Facebook pages. This is a picture of Jackie, Elaine and Jordan taken at the Lumberyard Café where Chau worked. Jackie tagged Elaine in it but Elaine’s security settings are set to not accept tagged photos on her timeline from other people. That’s why we missed it the first time.’
Archer feels her spine go cold. ‘When was that picture taken?’
Klara brings up the date of the posting. ‘It’s the same morning that “The Forsaken” cabinets were revealed.’
Archer’s eyes widen. ‘I was in the Lumberyard Café that morning. Chau was there. Elaine was there. He was there. The bastard.’ She tries to think. ‘Who else was there?’ she says out loud. Her mind scrolls back to that morning. She went there for a tea before the start of her new job. She tries to pick out faces from the clientele in her memory, but the truth is she didn’t take much notice having been so anxious about her first day at Charing Cross.
‘Klara, can you look at finding the public CCTV for that morning?’
‘I’ll get on it straightaway.’
‘We need to go back there and talk to the staff and see if they recall anyone suspicious on that day.’
DC Phillips appears at Klara’s doorway. ‘Ma’am, do you know a Victoria Dunmore-Watson?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘She’s on the phone and is in a right state. She said she’s been passed from pillar to post since yesterday.’
‘What does she want with me?’
‘She says she is Jamie Blackwell’s PA. She says you and Jamie know each other and that I was to tell you immediately that Jamie has been mugged and kidnapped.’
‘Why does she think that?’
‘Mr Blackwell was on his way to meet a client, apparently, somewhere near Ealing, when his phone went dead after what sounded like a struggle.’
‘Did uniform not respond?’
‘Yes, but Miss Dunmore-Watson doesn’t know where in Ealing this alleged attack took place. She says he’s been missing for a day and insists he’s been kidnapped. Please could you talk with her, ma’am? She’s doing my head in.’
‘Of course.’
A wave of relief passes over Phillips’ face and Archer wonders what she has let herself in for. She follows Phillips back to her desk and picks up the phone.
‘Miss Dunmore-Watson, this is Detective Inspector Archer.’
‘God, you took your time. Jamie is probably lying dead in some horrid ditch or being held to ransom by terrorists, or something.’ Dunmore-Watson’s voice is trembling with agitation.
‘I’m sure Jamie is just fine.’
‘How can you know that? I heard it.’
‘What did you hear?’
‘There was someone else there. Jamie fell and dropped his phone. I called his name but he didn’t respond. Then someone picked up the phone. I could hear them breathing. It wasn’t Jamie. I’m sure of it.’
‘Perhaps he’s home now. Why not try calling him there?’
‘He’s not home! Something’s happened to him. What is it you’re not understanding!’
Archer hears voices shouting across the office and sees Quinn and the rest of the team in Klara’s hub huddled around her computers. Quinn is beckoning to her with an urgent expression.
She mouths ‘one second’ at him.
‘Oh my God!’ cries Victoria Dunmore-Watson.
Something in her tone chills Archer.
‘Miss Dunmore-Watson . . .’
‘Facebook,’ she replies. ‘He’s streaming live on Facebook.’
Archer feels her stomach twisting. She watches the grave expressions on her colleagues’ faces as they watch the screens in front of them. Quinn looks up from the screen and meets her gaze, his eyes wide.
‘I’ll call you back, Victoria.’
‘Wait! Don’t you hang up on me!’
Archer drops the phone and hurries to the hub. On the screens are three different Facebook feeds, each broadcasting the same scene but from different angles. There are three tall and broad vitrines filled with liquid.
There are no bodies yet inside.
Balanced precariously on top of each one is a bound semi-naked man with a crown of thorns and a noose around his neck.
Archer feels her heart start pounding. Her hand caresses her throat.
In the centre is Lewis Faulkner.
To his right is a young man she doesn’t recognise but to Faulkner’s left is Jamie Blackwell.