ARCHER HAS A RESTLESS NIGHT’S SLEEP, stirring often throughout the night. She wakes the following morning to the sound of voices chattering on the street outside. She yawns, stretches and rises from her bed and peers through the curtains. Outside are two men; one is showing the other his phone screen. She knows what they will be looking at. One man is talking rapidly and gesticulating with his arms as if he has never seen anything like what his neighbour has just shown him.
She hopes he hasn’t and never does again.
She has no doubt the #FatherSonAndGhost video is still online and has propagated across the Internet. The whole world will have seen it. The families and friends of Lewis Faulkner and Thomas Butler will have seen their loved ones cruelly executed online. They will have seen Jamie’s narrow escape from death and Archer’s role in his rescue, too. There will be stills, gifs and memes spreading across the Internet like pollen.
‘Good morning!’ calls Grandad.
She peeks out and sees him in his pyjamas, standing in the doorway of his bedroom.
‘Morning, Grandad. How are you?’
‘A bit rundown, but I’m OK. I’m going back to bed, Grace, if you don’t mind. I just needed to pop to the men’s room.’
‘Can I get you anything?’
He raises his hand and yawns. ‘No, no. I took two sleeping tablets and haven’t quite woken up. Are you off to work?’
‘Yes. You haven’t seen the news then?’
He shakes his head. ‘I’ve been sleeping. Besides, it’s all gloom and doom. Can’t be doing with it.’
Archer smiles. ‘Sleep tight, Grandad, and call me if you need anything.’
‘Will do.’
She showers and dresses in dark jeans and a plum-coloured woollen jumper. Switching on the television, she boils the kettle and pops a slice of granary bread into the toaster. Flicking through the channels, she lands on a news report covering the murders at Twyford Abbey. A helicopter is flying over the scene giving an aerial shot of the site below, which is ringed with police tape and guarded by five uniformed officers. The anchor has a smug look about him. His face has a weird sheen and his square jaw seems to move as if it has a life of his own. Next to him is a female anchor who watches the camera with a grave expression as he gives a stilted running commentary on the events broadcasting on the screen behind him.
‘We’re looking over the scene now where MP Lewis Faulkner and medical student Thomas Butler were murdered last night by the serial killer, the so-called @nonymous. The police have sealed off the area and are conducting their investigations as we speak. The killer live-streamed the murders. We have confirmation by the police that they have a suspect . . . and I think we might have a picture.’ The anchor looks beyond camera. ‘Do we have a picture?’
Oliver Merrick’s mugshot appears in the corner of the screen.
‘Yes, we have a photo.’ The anchor looks down, reading from his notes. ‘He is . . .’
The female anchor finishes his sentence. ‘Oliver Merrick, forty-one years old. An accountant based in North London and originally from Cornwall. Police advise that you do not approach him. The police contact number is on the screen too. Please call that number if you see him .’
Archer picks up a buttering knife and taps it on the worktop. She has read Merrick’s file. He is out of shape and five feet eight with no history of being athletic, fit or strong. Could he really be @nonymous?
The screen begins to flicker and then goes black.
‘Ah, the joys of live television,’ laughs the male anchor. ‘We should be back live at the scene in a moment. In the meantime, what do we have coming up on the show, Susan?’
Susan smiles and bares teeth that are unnaturally white. ‘Thank you, Pete. We have a fascinating segment on the decline of tea drinking in the nation’s capital and at 10.30 we ask, which of our new royals do you most admire, and why?’
Archer is about to switch off when the live feed flickers back to life.
‘We’re back live at Twyford Abbey,’ says Pete. ‘It’s an extraordinary story. There was a third victim last night. A survivor saved by the police. He is local businessman, Jamie Blackwell. Here in the studio I have a friend of Jamie’s, Victoria Dunmore-Watson.’
What the hell is she doing talking to the media?
Dunmore-Watson is a thin woman with a turkey neck and long glossy hair.
‘Hello, Victoria. You raised the alarm yesterday. Is that correct?’
‘Not yesterday, actually. I raised it two days ago, and would anyone listen to me? No! It was a total waste of time.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘They don’t give a damn.’
Pete laughs and turns to the camera. ‘Please accept our apologies for Miss Dunmore-Watson’s colourful language at this time of the morning.’
Victoria looks like she couldn’t care less.
‘Sorry,’ she says, half-heartedly.
‘So please tell us what happened.’
‘I was talking to Jamie around three or four. I can’t remember. Anyway, he was going to meet a client, so he said, but I thought it was probably a date with some sla— girl from Tinder.’
‘The dating app?’
Archer butters the still-warm bread.
‘Yes. His cab dropped him outside a building and then someone knocked him out. I heard him fall and then I heard the killer breathe down the phone, like really heavily.’
‘How did you feel?’
‘I was terrified. I didn’t know what to do.’
Archer chews her toast and takes a sip of the hot tea.
‘You called the police?’
‘Yes, I spoke to some woman, but she was really unhelpful.’
‘Was that Detective Inspector Archer?’
Archer stops chewing and sets down her mug.
‘Yeah. That’s her name. She and Jamie know each other, you see.’
‘So, what is their relationship – are they dating?’
‘Yes, but perhaps more than that.’
‘Did he meet her on Tinder?’
‘Wouldn’t be surprised.’
Archer grimaces, her mug hovering an inch from her mouth.
‘Jamie has a thing for her. He likes her.’
The screen behind the anchor changes to a photograph of Archer kneeling over Jamie’s body seconds after his fall from the vitrine.
‘That’s a special shot, isn’t it?’ says the anchor. ‘A reversal of the knight in shining armour.’
‘If you say so,’ Victoria replies with a nonchalant air.
Archer feels her stomach turning and presses hard on the remote control off switch. She knows there will be comeback for Dunmore-Watson suggesting that she and Jamie are in a relationship, regardless of how new and insignificant it is. She needs to get to work quickly and stamp out that fire before it spreads, if it hasn’t already.
Pulling on a khaki raincoat, she tightens the belt at her waist and pulls up the collar. It’s inadequate for the cold morning but she can’t face the whole day with the smell of formaldehyde on her winter coat. She bundles it into a bin liner and takes it with her as she leaves the house. She’ll drop it at the dry cleaner’s on Bedfordbury on the way to Charing Cross Station.
As she leaves the house on Roupell Street, her phone rings. It’s DCI Pierce.
Fuck.
‘Good morning, ma’am.’
Pierce doesn’t return the greeting, but sighs heavily before saying, ‘Like most of the country, DI Archer, I’m sure you have seen the news this morning.’
Archer swallows. ‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘We’ll discuss that later. In the meantime, I’m removing you as SIO for the @nonymous murders. DI Hicks will take over. Please show him the same support he has given you.’
Archer’s heart sinks. ‘But, ma’am . . .’
‘Briefing first thing. I expect to see you there.’
With that the DCI ends the call.
*
Quinn is sitting at his desk, fingers banging on the keyboard. He doesn’t look up when she walks in. Sergeant Beattie is talking on the phone and nods a ‘good morning’ as she hangs up her coat. She mouths a return ‘good morning’ and sits at her desk.
‘Morning,’ she says to Quinn.
Quinn stops typing. ‘Did you see the news?’
Archer sighs.
‘Good luck today.’
The rest of the team trickle in. Hicks, Felton, Pike, Tozer, Phillips and Klara. Klara’s face is pale, her eyes wide. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she mouths to Archer.
Archer feels her stomach knotting. Why is Klara sorry?
Pierce is last to arrive. She stands at the entrance with an air of grandness, playing with an enormous set of keys in one hand, her owl-like eyes watching, judging Archer.
‘Everyone, we’ll have an update in the incident room now,’ announces Pierce.
The team gather inside.
‘DI Hicks, please start,’ says Pierce.
Archer tenses and feels the eyes of the team looking in her direction, searching perhaps for a trace of anger or shame on her face, but her expression remains fixed and unemotional.
In his droning voice Hicks begins to summarise the events of yesterday evening, clinging on to his folder like it’s some sort of safety blanket. After the longest five minutes he stops talking and coughs, hesitating before continuing, ‘Might I just say thank you to DS Quinn and DI Archer for their quick thinking in rescuing Jamie Blackwell.’
He leaves it there and moves on to the next topic without leaving room for any applause or team appreciation. Not that Archer requires any.
‘Thanks to Klara, we know that each victim, dead and erm . . . alive, used dating apps. Megan Burchill used Tinder, Thomas Butler used Grindr, Jamie Blackwell used Tinder, we think. The killer used fake profiles and pictures and pretended to be someone else. To use the modern term, these victims were “catfished”.’
‘Are we able to identify the killer’s phone number from the app data?’ asks Pierce.
Klara answers. ‘I’m looking into it. I’m running a program that tries to unmask hidden phone numbers. Hard to say how successful it will be. The killer knows what he is doing and has expertly covered his tracks so far.’
‘Keep trying, Klara,’ says Pierce.
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘Pike and Tozer will be talking to the victims’ friends and families today. Phillips and Felton will review the CCTV. DI Archer . . .’
‘A moment please, Rodney,’ interrupts Pierce. ‘DI Archer, I understand you and Jamie Blackwell are acquainted. Could you please explain your connection?’
All eyes turn to Archer, but she keeps her cool.
‘I’ve met him a couple of times. We’re not friends.’
Pierce’s probing eyes penetrate Archer as if she’s searching beneath some lie. ‘Not friends, you say.’
‘We have met three times, possibly.’
‘I see.’
Archer holds her gaze with a calm expression. Inside, a fire rages.
‘Tell me, DI Archer. You are single?’
Silence in the room.
‘What relevance does my relationship status have to the investigation, ma’am?’
‘I was curious as to whether you have any experience with dating apps. Perhaps you could share it with us. It might help understand the killer a little more. Don’t you think?’
Archer feels the hairs on her back rising.
‘I’m not sure that I do “think”, ma’am. I don’t use dating apps. I’m not against using them. I just don’t see a dating app as a preferred avenue for me to be with someone. Also, I’m not sure my partner would appreciate it.’ Despite the fact that their relationship is over in her eyes, Archer feels no guilt at using Dom to support her statement.
‘Very well. Can we move on please, DI Hicks?’
Hicks turns to Archer.
‘DI Archer, did you manage to speak with Jamie Blackwell?’
‘Very briefly. He said the killer was dressed in rubber overalls and mask, so it was almost impossible to get a facial description. He did catch a glimpse of dark hair and described him as strong and athletic with an accent that was possibly Scottish or Irish.’
Quinn says, ‘Oliver Merrick has a Cornish accent, although I wouldn’t describe him as athletic. That said, it’s possible since I last saw him that he’s been on a diet and become a gym bunny.’
Hicks continues, ‘About Oliver Merrick: we know the car that took Elaine and Jordan Kelly was his. Also, Forensics worked through the night and are compiling their report this morning. They already told us that amongst the junk at Twyford Abbey was a discarded bottle of disinfectant with fingerprints that we have matched to Merrick. So, it looks like Merrick is our man. We have a watch on his house right now and are widening the search.’
Hicks takes out a copy of the same mugshot used on the news that morning and pins it on the board.
‘Do we know where he was last seen?’ asks Pierce.
‘North London, apparently. We’re looking into where that might be,’ says Hicks.
‘Very good. I want you to find Merrick. Do whatever it takes. He is our man.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘Use whoever you need to help you.’
Hicks opens his mouth to speak but Pierce raises a hand to silence him. ‘DS Quinn and DS Felton, please help DI Hicks.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ they reply in unison.
‘You and Felton can go together. I’ll check out some of Merrick’s old haunts,’ says Quinn to Hicks.
‘Suits us,’ replies Hicks.
‘We should not discount the fact that the killer failed to kill Jamie Blackwell,’ says Archer.
Pierce turns to Archer and blinks. ‘Then you must check in with your friend and get him into a safe house.’
Pierce’s emphasis on ‘friend’ silences the room and all heads turn to look at Archer who bites her tongue. ‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘OK, everyone. You know what you have to do. Get to it.’
As the team disperses Archer sees Quinn talking with Hicks and Felton. Moments later, Quinn pulls on his jacket and leaves.
She approaches Pierce. ‘Ma’am, what’s going on? Why have you demoted me from the investigation at this crucial stage?’
Pierce levels her gaze with Archer. ‘Something’s not quite right about you. You have been involved with two of the killer’s victims and I want to know why.’
‘Two? I only know Jamie.’
‘Really? I received the phone records from Mike Hamilton’s phone. It seems you and he were having quite the conversation. You were going to sell him your story. How much did he offer you?’
‘What? That’s impossible. I never offered him anything. He wanted it but and I rebuffed him.’
‘Of course you did.’ Pierce sighs and leaves the incident room.
In that moment the extra pieces of the puzzle begin to fall into place.
‘Shit!’
She needs to talk to someone immediately and hurries across to Klara’s office.
‘I’m so sorry, Grace. I know about Hamilton’s phone. Pierce insisted on seeing the records.’
‘Don’t worry about that. Listen, my phone was stolen and smashed by that moped rider and it wasn’t working for two days. Remember?’
‘Yes.’
‘When I took it to the Apple Store the sales guy told me the sim was missing.’
‘Perhaps it had fallen out.’
‘But then when my new sim was activated I started getting these messages from Mike Hamilton asking to follow up about a conversation I never had with him.’ Archer feels her skin crawl. ‘Oh God . . . My phone really wasn’t smashed. It must have been switched.’
‘By who?’
‘It was him. @nonymous. Perhaps he knew Hamilton was taking an interest in me and my phone was a way of getting closer to him for his revenge. Perhaps it was also a way of tracking progress with the investigation. He had my photos, my emails, my WhatsApp. That bloody device opened up a lot of opportunities for him.’