ARCHER TRAVELS TO THE HOSPITAL in the ambulance as the siren shrieks at the London traffic to move aside. Jamie is lying on the cot, trembling, eyes closed.
‘Where are we going?’ Archer asks the medic, a pot-bellied Welshman with thin mousy hair.
‘The Queen Elizabeth. We should be there in under ten minutes. Did you swallow any of the liquid?’ he asks Jamie.
Jamie shakes his head but begins to gag. The quick-thinking medic grabs a yellow plastic bin from under the cot and places it beside Jamie’s head.
‘Puke in here,’ he says, gently.
Jamie throws up into the bin. The sour reek of vomit and formaldehyde fills the small space.
Archer prays this journey will be over soon.
The medic wipes Jamie’s mouth. Jamie looks toward Archer. The whites of his eyes are blood red, giving him an unsettling demonic gaze.
A weak smile creases his face.
‘Rest your head back,’ says the medic. ‘I’m going pour some solution into your eyes so please just relax.’
They arrive at the hospital. Jamie is rushed straight into A&E where he is given emergency treatment for formaldehyde exposure to his skin and eyes.
In the hospital bathroom Archer is standing at a sink in her jeans and bra, having just scrubbed the foul sickly chemical from her hands, clothes and boots with hand soap. An elderly woman with thin lips enters the bathroom and frowns at her.
‘Disgraceful,’ she hisses.
Archer ignores her and pulls on her shirt, which has damp spots where she’s tried to clean away the formaldehyde. Everything about the smell just reminds her of death and she wonders if it will ever leave her clothes.
Combing her damp dark hair with her fingers, she puts on her boots and coat, leaves the bathroom and heads to A&E.
She is troubled, something niggles at her like an itch from a phantom limb.
She sees a nurse sitting at the reception desk writing on a paper form.
‘Excuse me. I’m here for Jamie Blackwell.’
The nurse peers up from her work and regards Archer. She looks her up and down, taking in her dark hair and pea coat.
‘You’re her,’ she says in a thick West Indian accent.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘You’re the police officer in the video. The one that rescued him.’
In the rush Archer has forgotten about the broadcast of the murders and the fact the world is still watching.
‘How is he?’ she asks.
‘He’ll be OK,’ replies the nurse. ‘We’ve cleaned him up and there is no damage to his skin or eyes. Luckily, exposure to the chemical was minimal. You broke him out just in time. I can’t imagine what must be going through his mind right now, what with watching those other two poor men die like that. It gives me the shivers just thinking about it.’
‘May I talk to him?’ asks Archer.
The nurse smiles kindly. ‘Of course you can. He has been asking for you.’
Jamie is lying on a bed behind a curtain in a tucked-away, dimly lit corner of the Casualty department. His head is turned to the side, his eyes are closed. She enters quietly and touches his forearm. His eyes flicker open. The whites glow red under the bedside lamp.
He can see the discomfort in her face.
‘The doctor says they’ll be back to normal in a few days. I hope so, considering the amount of cleaning they’ve just gone through. They might as well have taken them out and plopped them in salt water.’ He smiles, weakly.
‘How are you?’
‘Been better. It’s not every day someone tries to kill you in such a theatrical fashion.’ He reaches for her hand. She allows him to take it. ‘You saved my life, Detective Inspector Grace Archer.’
‘What happened?’ she asks.
Jamie’s expression darkens and he looks away. ‘I thought I was meeting a client.’ He squeezes her hand softly. ‘I’m such a fool.’
‘Did you see him?’
Jamie shakes his head. ‘I woke in that room with the stench of formaldehyde. My hands were tied, I was cold and practically naked. He wore a mask with a bleeding “@” symbol on it. He held a knife to our throats one at a time and made us climb the ladder. He then put the rope around our necks and made us stand on top of the cabinets before he started filming.’
‘When did he leave?’
‘Some time before I saw the camera light come on and it started filming.’
‘How long?’
‘It’s hard to tell. Perhaps thirty or forty minutes.’
‘Did you get a sense of anything about him: how he spoke, his eye colour, his clothes, his build?’
‘It was difficult because he wore a rubber suit and the mask. He was certainly strong, athletic. Around my height. There wasn’t much light but I’m sure through his mask I could see dark hair.’
‘Did you see his face? Would you be able to recognise him?’
‘I’m afraid not but there was something—’
‘Tell me.’
‘I resisted and tried to push him away, but he threatened me.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He said, “Get up the fucking ladder!” I noticed an accent. I’m sure of it.’
‘What sort of accent?’
‘It was hard to tell as his voice was muffled but it could have been Scottish. Or Irish, perhaps.’
Archer is quiet for a moment, lost in her own thoughts.
‘What’s on your mind?’ asks Jamie.
Her brow furrows.
‘You look so cute when you do that.’
Archer doesn’t quite take the compliment in. ‘It’s just odd that he selected you.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I know you, this is my investigation and he chooses you for his exhibition.’
‘Could be a coincidence.’
‘Have you ever been to the Lumberyard Café?’
‘In Seven Dials?’
Archer nods.
‘I sometimes meet friends or clients there. Why do you ask?’
‘I think he uses that café as one of the places where he finds his victims. He sees them in the flesh and assesses their suitability. He then checks their Facebook, Instagram or dating accounts and uses their online content to understand them, connect with them and eventually hunt them down.’
Jamie’s blood-red eyes widen. ‘Wow. That’s quite a theory.’
‘Has someone connected with you recently that you don’t know?’ asks Archer.
Before he can answer, a thought occurs to Archer and she tenses.
Jamie can feel her stiffening. ‘What is it?’
‘Nothing,’ she replies.
‘Tell me,’ he urges.
‘The killer didn’t succeed in killing you.’
‘Thankfully . . .’
‘His work is incomplete.’
‘You think he’ll come after me again?’
Archer tries to sound reassuring. ‘I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe not. But we can’t discount it.’
‘You’re right.’
‘I’ll organise a police guard. Someone who will stay here all night.’
‘Can’t you stay?’
Despite herself, and Jamie’s brush with death, Archer smiles. ‘I’ve got work to do.’
‘No rest for the hero of the hour.’
The nurse enters the cubicle. ‘He needs to rest now.’
Archer nods. ‘I’ll come back in the morning.’
‘I’d like that.’
‘We’ll be moving you to the Urgent Care ward, Mr Blackwell. There is a private room there, which is free for now. Would you like that?’ she asks.
‘That would be wonderful, Denise. How are the views?’
‘If you like car parks you won’t be disappointed.’
‘I can’t wait. Thank you.’
‘You’re very welcome.’
Archer calls for a police guard and hovers outside the A&E department waiting for the guard to arrive. Ten minutes pass with no show and she exits the corridor relieved to be shot of the oppressive smell of disinfectant. In the cold dark car park she takes her phone and scrolls to Quinn’s number.
She hesitates for a moment and then calls him.
‘Hi,’ says Quinn.
‘Seems we were wrong about Faulkner.’
Quinn sighs. ‘Back to the drawing board.’
‘They were planted. The mask. The spray cans.’
‘Aye. Sneaky wee bastard. Whoever he is.’
‘How’s it going?’ she asks.
‘Fun times. We scoured the premises but found nothing yet. SOCO are there. The entire place is sealed off.’
‘That’s good . . .’
‘Hicks has already left.’
‘Oh . . .’
‘I know. Some shite excuse about his wife being ill. Complete bollocks. He was looking a bit peaky before he hurried off. No stomach for this sort of thing.’
‘No backbone,’ says Archer.
‘That too. Tozer and Phillips are back at Merrick’s house. He’s not there, which isn’t unexpected. How’s the patient?’
‘Doing well. He needs to rest.’
‘Did you talk to him?’
‘Not for very long.’
Archer sees a police car approach, with two uniformed officers inside. One is PC Simpson, the other is PC Neha Rei.
‘Did he have anything we can follow up on?’
‘He said the killer wore a rubber suit and a mask. He reckons @nonymous has an accent. Scottish or Irish.’
‘How sure is he?’
‘Hard to tell. He’s still in shock and just doesn’t realise it. There’ll be a lot going on in his head. Where’s Merrick from?’
‘Cornwall. He still has a Cornish accent.’
‘Perhaps Jamie got it wrong.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘Listen, Simpson is here to watch over him.’
‘OK.’
‘I have to go.’
‘Bye.’
PC Simpson is loitering nearby. Archer takes him inside to where Jamie is sleeping and instructs him to not leave his side.
‘I won’t let you down this time, ma’am. I promise.’
‘I’ll contact Sergeant Beattie and ensure someone takes over from you before dawn.’
‘Thank you.’