Deadly Secrets: An absolutely gripping crime thriller

  ‘Can I ask why he left?’

  Taro nodded regretfully. ‘I’m afraid I had to fire him.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He was… dishonest. He stole from me…’

  Moss nodded. ‘How much did he steal?’

  ‘Nothing vast. I think it was fifty pounds.’

  Moss looked around at the cash register, which was alongside the wall, towards the plate glass window.

  ‘Did you inform the police?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What about the Jobcentre?’

  ‘I can’t say I remember. It was almost two years ago.’

  ‘He was signing on, and his advisor found him the job. Did anyone get in contact with you to find out why the job had ended so fast?’

  ‘Yes, I think someone did…’ His voice trailed off. He smiled again, and came closer, perching on the arm of the chair in front of her. He wore a tailored chocolate brown three-piece suit. A gold watch chain hung from one of the pockets.

  ‘Can I ask what kind of photography you do?’

  ‘Portraits, mainly. Young couples, bouncing bundles of joy…’ He indicated a display of portraits on the back wall. ‘Nine times out of ten, you put a baby in front of a camera and it screams its head off. Although, I do tend to scare children.’

  ‘Do you take any other kinds of photos?’

  ‘Weddings, but I tend to go along on the day.’

  ‘Any erotic work?’

  ‘Are you asking on a personal level?’ he said, grinning the wide grin again.

  ‘No,’ she said. He was a handsome man, but there was something about him that made Moss uncomfortable.

  ‘Sorry, bad joke.’

  She waved it away.

  ‘How would you rate Joseph as a photographer?’

  ‘I can’t say I got much of a chance, he was here for such a short time.’

  ‘Did he take photos for you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Photos of what?’

  ‘I let him do a session with a young couple who’d got engaged.’

  ‘Did he show an interest in photographing nudes, or anything more… I don’t know how to put it.’

  ‘Explicit? No. I’m not that kind of business… Look, I’m parched after a long morning, are you sure I can’t get you a cup? I can also look out my employment records to check if I made any other notes about Joseph and the contact I had with the Jobcentre.’

  ‘Okay, thank you,’ said Moss. Taro got up and went off through a door in the back, closing it behind him.

  Moss had a look around the photographic studio. There was a large machine at the back used for processing pictures. It was covered in dust and junk, and had a ‘one-hour photo’ sticker on the front. Above it was a cabinet, displaying all of the options for having your photos produced: cups, jigsaws, magnets, hats and cushions. Each one had a stock image of a young girl holding a yellow balloon. On another wall were the examples of past shoots that Taro had indicated earlier: mostly baby photos.

  Moss went over to the counter with the till. Behind it were shelves containing a trophy, and several plaques from 1991, when Camera Obscura won South London’s Business of the Year. An older version of Taro, presumably his father, was pictured with his wife and children, out the front of the shop.

  ‘You’ve found the embarrassing family photos,’ said a voice behind her.

  Moss jumped, and turned to see Taro standing directly behind her. She forced herself to smile.

  ‘I’ve just put the kettle on,’ he said. She could see there was a storm coming: the cloud outside was heavy and dark. The lights inside reflected the interior of the studio back at them from the shop window. ‘I’ve found my records about Joseph.’

  Moss came back to her chair, and Taro took the one opposite. He took a pair of glasses from his top pocket and put them on, then opened a folder. ‘I don’t have many people who come to work for me, but there have been a couple of assistants over the years. This is Joseph? I knew him as Joe,’ he said, holding up a passport photo of Joseph, taken in an instant photo booth.

  ‘Yes, that’s him,’ said Moss. Joseph stared up blankly, as most people do in ID photos, going through the motions. ‘I wanted to ask about your experience of employing him. Did he borrow any equipment? Did you meet anyone he was friends with or associated with?’

  ‘Is he under investigation?’ asked Taro, looking up from the folder, his face amiable and placid.

  ‘I’m afraid he’s dead.’

  ‘Oh, how awful. How?’

  ‘Suicide.’

  Taro took off his glasses and chewed one arm.

  ‘That really is terrible. When?’

  ‘Boxing Day.’

  ‘So recent… And over Christmas, too.’ Taro started to leaf through the folder. He found another photo, this time printed in 10 x 8 format.

  ‘I did take photos of him.’

  ‘I thought he worked for you?’

  ‘He did. Joseph posed for me when I decided to transfer over to digital, and I needed to test the new cameras. I think I hung on for too long to the old technology and processing methods.’

  The photograph was a full-length shot of Joseph, standing against the pale backdrop, wearing just a pair of jeans. He looked uncomfortable.

  ‘Why is he shirtless?’

  ‘He wanted some photos to give to a girl he was interested in,’ chuckled Taro. ‘Here’s another.’ He handed her a photo of Joseph standing in a crinkled pair of briefs. He was flexing his puny arms in what was supposed to be a macho pose, but it was the blank look in his eyes which bothered Moss. She’d seen that look before, a long time ago when she’d been fresh out of training college and had been assigned to work on sexual abuse cases. She’d seen that look on victims who had zoned out, and taken themselves to another place.

  ‘You say he asked for these photos to be taken?’ said Moss. She jumped as a kettle began to whistle out the back.

  ‘Yes. This is a photographic studio,’ said Taro, getting up. ‘I’m often asked to take strange pictures, although I always draw the line at photographing nudity.’ He looked at her for a moment, as the kettle continued to scream. ‘I won’t be a moment.’

  As soon as he’d vanished through the door. Moss took her phone out of her coat pocket. She had dialled Peterson’s number when Taro popped his head around the door.

  ‘Milk and sugar?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘This road has a bit of a black spot when it comes to mobile phone coverage. Perhaps it’s the trees.’

  Moss had the phone against her head as she heard the no signal tone. Taro smiled at her again, so amiably, and disappeared off to the screaming kettle. Moss was completely thrown by his behaviour. She moved to see through the door and noted that behind it was a long corridor. She heard the clank of the kettle and a spoon in a saucer at the end of the hall. She moved to the till and picked up the landline. It was dead. She then moved to the door and found it was locked. There was no key. Had Taro locked it when she came in? Hadn’t she noticed?

  This is ridiculous, she thought, trying to calm herself. She had been so concerned about doing her best, about being in charge of the investigation. She moved around the room with her phone held high, trying to get a signal.

  As she crossed behind the two chairs where they’d been sitting, she noticed that Taro’s folder lay open on his seat. There was a form inside from the Jobcentre, neatly filled in with spidery blue handwriting. Then there was a blank page of handwritten notes, and rows of figures. In the bottom right hand corner, in the same ink, there was a drawing. With shaking hands, Moss picked up the folder. It was a sketch of a face wearing a gas mask, intricately done and shaded using a black biro.

  Moss had her phone in her other hand, and she scrolled through to the image of the gas mask, drawn above the note to Joseph. Both the handwriting and the image matched: they had been drawn by the same hand.

  There was a faint rattle. Moss turned. Taro was standing behind her, holding two china t
ea cups.

  ‘Did you draw this?’ asked Moss, turning and taking a step back. The folder shook in her hand.

  ‘Yes. Yes, I did,’ Taro said softly. The tea cups rattled again as he gently placed them down on the small table.

  Moss opened her mouth to speak, but Taro moved swiftly to the door and flicked off the lights, plunging the room into a murky gloom. Moss hurried towards the front door, where a dim light came through the huge plate glass window, but she felt something hard hit her on the back of her head, and then everything went black.

  Fifty-Six

  Erika and Isaac had been to visit Edward again, and he had shown great signs of improvement. The nurse had got him up and walking, and he said his leg felt brand new, after years of having dealt with a twinge of pain in his hip. He’d said goodbye to Isaac, who had to return to London for work the next morning.

  On the way back to Slaithwaite, Erika asked Isaac to take a detour through a series of pleasant avenues with detached houses.

  ‘Can you stop just here,’ she said. He pulled the car to a halt outside a detached two-storey house. The front lawn was covered in snow, and a snowman sat close to the front door with a carrot nose, two black eyes and a red scarf. Christmas lights were strung around the eaves, and through the front window they could see a Christmas tree.

  ‘This is nice,’ said Isaac. ‘Why have we stopped here?’

  ‘It’s my house,’ Erika said, staring up at it sadly. ‘It’s the house Mark and I lived in for fifteen years.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Erika stared at it. A tear formed in her eye and she wiped it away.

  ‘I haven’t been back since the day he died. I had all my stuff packed up and put in storage, and I had an agency rent it out.’

  ‘Do you know the people renting it? Do you want to get out and knock on the door?’

  ‘No.’

  Isaac nodded. ‘How long are you planning to stay up here?’

  ‘I need to get Edward settled back in at his home. Find him a carer.’

  Her phone rang. She didn’t recognise the London number, but answered.

  ‘Erika?’ asked a woman’s voice, sounding worried.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s Celia, Kate’s wife. Moss’s wife.’

  ‘Hi Celia, sorry. I don’t have your number in my phone, I didn’t recognise it.’

  ‘Have you heard from Kate?’

  ‘No. I left her a message a while back but she hasn’t replied.’

  ‘It’s just that she usually calls me in the day. We had a silly row this morning, nothing serious, but she’s the kind of person who’ll ring and smooth things over. I phoned James and John McGorry, but they don’t know where she is. I’ve left her six messages.’

  ‘She’s now running a huge case. Believe me, it can make you lose track of everything.’

  ‘I know. Kate’s been very stressed out about taking over this case from you…’

  ‘She’s probably picked up bad habits from me. I tend to lose track of time working on an investigation…’ Erika’s voice tailed off. She only lost track of time because she never had anyone waiting for her to call. ‘She’s probably been called into a briefing meeting. She’ll have to be attending them now she’s acting DCI, and they can go on and on.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Celia. ‘Sorry, you must think I’m weird.’

  ‘No. I think Moss is very lucky. When I have rows with people, they often never speak to me again! If she calls, I’ll tell her to ring you.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And here’s the direct number for Superintendent Hudson,’ said Erika. She gave Celia the number and then rang off.

  ‘Everything okay?’ asked Isaac. Erika dialled Moss’s number, but it went straight to answerphone.

  ‘Celia says Moss hasn’t been in contact since this morning.’

  ‘And that’s unusual?’

  ‘For them, yes.’

  ‘I miss having someone who expects me to ring them,’ said Isaac.

  ‘Me too,’ said Erika, staring up at the house. ‘The wisteria, it’s grown so fast,’ she added, pointing at the high, thick branch which curled up the side of the house and snaked its way along the eaves at the top. ‘I bought that in a tiny pot, the day we moved in. We’d stopped to get some paint at B&Q and it was on this discount table. It was 70p. Mark said, don’t waste money on that little stick, it looks dead.’

  ‘I bet it’s pretty when it flowers,’ said Isaac.

  Erika nodded and wiped her eyes. ‘Come on. Let’s go. I just wanted to see it, but it’s just a place, a house. What made it a home was the people inside it, and we’re not there any more. There’s another family in there now.’

  Fifty-Seven

  Taro, or ‘T’ as he liked to call himself for short, hit Moss hard over the back of the head with a leather sap. He kept it in the kitchen drawer, and he’d pushed it into his back pocket as he was making the tea in the kitchen. His mind was whirring, but he wasn’t scared and he wasn’t panicking. She hit the floor hard, but it was away from the window and in the shadows, with the lights out.

  He listened to the clock ticking. A car trundled past on the road. He crouched down, holding the sap in his right hand in case she still had some fight left in her. He took her wrist with his free hand, and felt her pulse. It was beating slowly, rhythmically. He held his finger there. Feeling the life beating through her, moving it over the firm, pulsing nodule deep in her skin. He moved his hand around to the back of her head. Her hair was slick with blood. He stood and placed the sap back in his pocket. He stepped over her and moved to the window. The road outside was quiet. Retreating back into the shadows, he rolled her over.

  ‘Big girl,’ he muttered as he patted her down, kneading her breasts and running his hands between her legs. He held them there for a moment, savouring the warmth, then he switched his attention to her pockets. He took out her car keys, phone, wallet and warrant card. He placed them on the counter, by the till, then came back to her. With considerable strength, he bent down and picked her up in one fluid move, throwing her over his shoulder. He carried her limp body through the doorway, disappearing for a few minutes, then came back.

  He flicked on the lights. The carpet where she had fallen was clean and there was no sign of blood. He would be thorough, though, and give it a clean. He came back to the counter and retrieved her phone and car keys. Unbolting the front door, he came outside and walked down to the pavement. A smattering of cars was parked up in the permit spaces. He pointed the key fob to the right, and nothing happened, then he pointed it to the left, and the lights flashed on a dark Rover fifty yards away.

  T stopped for a moment. Thinking. He was surprised how calm he was. His heart was beating faster, and he could feel the blood pumping through his legs and wrists, but he was in control. He wasn’t panicking.

  He didn’t know if she’d told anyone she was coming. It was early afternoon. Police officers weren’t always the most sociable creatures; Moss might not be missed until the next morning, but when the alarm was raised, someone would eventually come and question him. He would need to acknowledge that she had dropped by, but he would tell anyone who asked that she’d left. He looked down at the keys and wallet. How would he make it look as if she’d left?

  A van from Lewisham Council’s gardening department rounded the corner up ahead. It was one of the ones with an open flat-back truck, used to transport grass cuttings and plants. He moved round to the driver’s side of Moss’s car and fiddled with the door, then quickly wiped the phone on his jacket. As the van drove past, he dropped Moss’s mobile phone onto the flat bed, amongst a pile of branches and dead leaves. He climbed into her car, and watched as the van paused at the traffic lights at the end, then drove on. Hopefully to the South Circular.

  Taro started the engine and drove the car two miles away, working rhythmically up and down the residential streets to avoid any CCTV cameras. He parked the car up at the end of Tresillian Road, a quiet residential street. He lock
ed the car, then, after wiping the key off, he dropped it down a drain.

  He walked back to the photography studio, the light fading as he passed, unhurried, through the streets. The lull between Christmas and New Year was the perfect cover for his movements. He didn’t see anyone. He almost wished he’d brought his gas mask with him, to have some fun. But he knew he had to get back to his studio and deal with the policewoman.

  Fifty-Eight

  Mrs Fryatt was sitting by the fire, drinking tea from her favourite bone china tea set, when the doorbell rang. It took her a moment to remember that there was no one else in the house to answer, so she heaved herself up out of her favourite armchair.

  It took her a while to get there, the size of the house and the stiffness of her legs from sitting for several hours impeding her speed. She opened the first door and went into the cold porch. Through the glass in the door she could see a black man in a suit, flanked by five police officers in uniform.

  A black man, she thought disapprovingly as she unlocked the door and opened it. He held up his warrant card.

  ‘Mrs Elsa Fryatt? I’m Detective Inspector James Peterson.’

  ‘What do you want?’ she answered imperiously. Despite her small height, the front door was raised up, so she was able to see most of them at eye level.

  ‘We have a warrant to search these premises in connection with the murder of Marissa Lewis,’ he said, handing it over.

  ‘This is no use to me; I haven’t got my glasses,’ she said, handing it back.

  ‘I’m not waiting for you to read it,’ said Peterson. He stepped up into the porch, suddenly towering above her. She put out her arms to stop him, and he gently lifted them away, and moved into the house.

  ‘You get your black hands off me!’ she cried. The police officers surged around her and into the house, and started pulling on latex gloves. ‘What are you doing? Why are you coming into my home?’

  A young policewoman started opening the small drawers in one of the occasional tables in the hall, and Mrs Fryatt tried to close them.