Last Breath

  Erika grinned. ‘Okay, this is really good everyone, and thank you for coming in this weekend. I know it’s been a slog, but now we have a partial, I need to ask a little more from you all. We need to keep working to trace the journey he took after abducting Beth. We need to work our contacts,’ she said, checking her watch. ‘Let’s get on to TfL. Now we have a partial number plate it should speed things up with their image recognition.’

  * * *

  Two hours later, a batch of video files came through from Transport for London.

  ‘Okay let’s see what we have,’ said Crane, downloading the files. Everyone gathered round his computer. He clicked on the first. ‘Here he is, 8.28 p.m.,’ he said, as a time-lapse image on the screen showed a blurry side-on image of the blue car moving past a petrol station forecourt. Crane minimised the screen and pulled up the next video file. This time the car was pictured head-on and passing some traffic lights; they could even make out a white face through the windscreen, but the whole image was blurry.

  ‘So he goes past here at 8.30 p.m., and again cha-ching, we’ve got that partial number plate: J892,’ said Crane, grinning up at Erika.

  ‘So he’s obscured the number plate again.’

  ‘But not well enough this time,’ said Peterson.

  ‘Crane. Where does he go next?’ asked Erika.

  Crane clicked on the third video file, which showed the blue car from behind, moving past a traffic camera mounted high above the road, and away until the image became blurred.

  ‘Where does he go? Did he turn right?’ asked Peterson.

  ‘Or is he going over the brow of the hill?’ asked Moss.

  ‘There isn’t a hill,’ said Erika. ‘Look, at the next car, it signals right.’ They played the footage a couple more times.

  ‘Is this still Tower Bridge Road?’ asked Erika.

  ‘Yes,’ said Crane.

  Moss went to a nearby computer.

  ‘Where does that right turn-off lead to?’ asked Peterson.

  ‘Tower Bridge Road turns off to Druid Street, and it’s a dead end,’ said Moss, working on her keyboard.

  ‘How much footage did they send through of each file?’ asked Erika.

  ‘They only sent two minutes of each,’ said Crane.

  ‘If Druid Street is a dead end, then he would have had to come back out at some point,’ said Erika.

  ‘Unless the car’s still parked there,’ said Peterson.

  ‘I want someone from uniform to go over and check out Druid Street,’ said Erika. ‘It’s a long shot, but we need to see if the car is still there. In the meantime, I want CCTV footage from this Tower Bridge Road camera for the twenty-four-hour period afterwards. Just in case.’

  ‘Hang on, boss. We don’t need to send uniform division over to Druid Street,’ said Moss, looking up from her computer.

  ‘Why not?’ asked Erika.

  ‘They’re already there. The body of a young woman has been found. Police are on the scene.’

  Chapter Seventy-Four

  It was just after 2.30 a.m., when Erika, Moss, and Peterson turned off the main road into Druid Street. They were waved through the first police cordon, and parked behind two squad cars and a support van lining the pavement. The streetlights were out on the cul-de-sac, and Erika counted six houses. Number four was busy with officers moving in and out, and bright lights shone from the open door. The rest of the houses on the cul-de-sac were dark, apart from one at the end, where a young couple stood in the light of their porch, watching.

  Erika and the team approached the police tape with their warrants, and explained that the murder scene may be part of their investigation. They were given crime scene overalls, and suited up before they ducked under the tape and made their way to the front door. They were then met in the cramped hallway by DCI Mortimer, a grey-haired man Erika had never met. He was friendly but a little wary.

  ‘We’re not trying to crash your case,’ she explained. ‘I just want to know if you have an ID on the victim. We’re investigating the abduction of a nineteen-year-old girl called Beth Rose.’

  ‘We need to formally ID this one, but it’s not Beth Rose,’ said Mortimer. ‘We believe it’s a thirty-seven-year-old white female called Bryony Wilson. At least that’s what we’ve got from the ID on her.’

  He led them down the hallway and through the first door on the left into a small living room. A sofa had been pulled out and behind it lay the body of an obese young woman with a length of telephone cord tight around her neck. Her face was bloated and purple.

  Two CSIs were crouching down and taking swabs from under the victim’s fingernails, which were black.

  ‘Tommy, can you get me a close-up of the face and neck,’ said a voice Erika recognised. The crime scene photographer leaned over and took a shot and then stood back, revealing Isaac.

  ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘I didn’t think this was part of your investigation.’

  Erika quickly explained why they were there.

  ‘This poor girl was strangled,’ said Isaac. ‘I don’t think she was killed in here. This carpet is fairly new and can you see there are marks where she was dragged. There are also carpet burns on the backs of her thighs, which would indicate that she was still alive when she was dragged through, although only just… There’s bruising to her face, and the wrists; there are fingermarks just below the right hand.’

  The crime scene photographer leaned in and took another shot. The flash dazzled Erika, and the small white light swam in her vision for a few seconds. She smiled at Isaac. He nodded. They came back out in to the hallway with DCI Mortimer.

  ‘Who found her?’ asked Peterson.

  ‘Her cleaner,’ he said. ‘There was also a carving knife on the floor here, but no blood. Which leads me to think she was trying to defend herself. We need to check it for prints.’ He indicated the kitchen, and they followed him down the hall. ‘She was found with her handbag; all the cash and cards were in there, so I’d rule out this being burglary.’

  The kitchen was small and cosy, with a view out over a tiny dark yard. A row of orange streetlights illuminated four large gas towers. Laid out on a small kitchen table with two chairs were the contents of Bryony’s handbag.

  ‘The cleaner did the living room last,’ said Mortimer.

  ‘So she cleaned up the dirt and the forensic evidence?’ added Moss. Mortimer nodded.

  Erika went to the contents of the handbag laid out and labelled in clear plastic bags. Bryony Wilson’s work ID caught her eye. She picked up the evidence bag and stared at it, turning it over in her hand.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Moss.

  ‘This ID. Look. Bryony Wilson worked for Genesis,’ said Erika.

  ‘If she works for them, then that’s the connection,’ said Peterson.

  ‘But what the hell is the connection?’ asked Moss.

  Chapter Seventy-Five

  Erika, Moss, and Peterson left the crime scene and removed their crime scene overalls, depositing them in bags for the crime scene manager.

  DCI Mortimer accompanied them out, and one of his officers met them at the front gate.

  ‘You need to see this, sir.’

  They all moved across the road, to where a police support van was parked with the headlights on full beam. Just in front of it, a uniformed officer stood beside a drain, the cover removed, and was training a torch down to where another officer wore blue crime scene overalls and was lying on her side on the tarmac, with her arm deep in the drain. Just as they reached her, she pulled out her arm, her sleeve black and grimy, and in her gloved hand she held a muddy cracked mobile phone. She placed it in a clear evidence bag.

  ‘This is getting weirder by the minute,’ said Peterson. ‘If the blue Ford pulled into this street, or when it pulled in, it would have been on this side of the street.’

  ‘We need to find out who that phone belongs to,’ said Erika.

  ‘If it’s Beth’s it counts out us knowing where he took her, if he dumped the phone
here,’ said Moss.

  ‘But what has Bryony Wilson got to do with all this?’ asked Peterson.

  ‘If that’s all, I need to get back into my crime scene. Let’s keep in contact by phone,’ said DCI Mortimer.

  They thanked him and went back to their car parked at the entrance to the street.

  * * *

  Erika put on the heaters, and they sat in silence for a moment. The glowing clock on the display showed it was coming up to 4 a.m.

  ‘What do we make of all this?’ asked Erika, turning to face Moss, who was sitting in the back. Peterson turned also, hooking a long arm over the back of his seat.

  ‘Okay. Bryony Wilson worked for Genesis. All our victims have been found in dumpsters owned and managed by Genesis. She’s the obvious link to the killer,’ said Moss.

  ‘You think she was involved?’ added Peterson.

  ‘Beth Rose was abducted just after 8.15 p.m. Twenty minutes later, the car comes here. Bryony could have been involved,’ said Erika.

  ‘We’re looking at a couple who kill?’ asked Moss.

  Erika drummed her fingers on the window. ‘We need to have her house pulled apart. Check for anything suspicious, computers, forensics, people who knew her. I also want to pay a visit to the office where she worked. There are seventeen Genesis offices in London alone. We now have this one office where she worked. What time do you think it will be open?’

  ‘I wouldn’t expect people to start arriving for work until eight thirty, nine a.m.,’ said Peterson. ‘So that’s four, five hours.’

  ‘What’s the chances of us getting home and back in time? There’s rush hour to take into account…’

  ‘Maybe we should find somewhere to bunk down for a couple of hours, get some sleep,’ said Moss.

  Peterson nodded. Erika looked out into the darkness and a fine sheen of rain began to fall.

  ‘Thank you, both of you,’ she said. ‘I know we’ve been on the go for hours, but we’re getting closer. How long since Beth was abducted?’

  ‘Coming up to fifty-seven hours,’ said Moss.

  ‘Shit,’ said Erika. ‘What if we’re too late?’

  Chapter Seventy-Six

  Beth had lain on the cold floor of the cage, drifted in and out of sleep, and lost track of time. The cold and the lack of food sapped her energy. Despite the bandage on her arm, the blood continued to seep through the crepe material. Her jeans were wet, but it was dark and she couldn’t be sure if she’d wet herself, or if it was blood.

  She now knew who was keeping her captive, but she cursed herself for not paying attention to the news. She’d heard her friends at drama school talking about girls who had been abducted and then left in dumpsters. She’d been through stages of blind panic, screaming the place down, and then calm resolution. At one point she’d started to cry, thinking that her dream of fame would now come true – but it would be as a murder victim.

  In the darkness she had felt around several times at the padlock which fastened the chain behind her neck, but lifting her bound hands stretched the cuts on her arms and made her hands slippery with blood.

  Once or twice she’d thought he was coming back, when there were some bangs and shudders, but then she heard a terrible wailing sound. Was he keeping another girl here?

  ‘Hello?’ she yelled. ‘Hello who’s there?’

  The scream came again.

  ‘It’s okay. I’m here! My name’s Beth… What’s yours, can you speak?’

  The scream came again, and it was long and low. It went on for a minute, and then Beth realised it was the wind. It was the wind blowing through something. A metallic clanking noise coming from above, like something metal flapping.

  ‘It’s a vent, some kind of air vent,’ said Beth, hope rising in her chest. She listened to the moaning of the wind as it increased in pitch, and the bash, bash, bash of the metal.

  She scrabbled around on the damp rug, running her hands over it until she found the edge where she had tucked the small safety pin. Her fingers were cold and stiff and it took several attempts with the tiny clasp. She finally opened it out, finding it hard to grip it in her bloody fingers. She put her hands up to the back of her head. There was a little slack in the chain, and she pulled the padlock up and, after a few tries, rested it upside down in the crook of her neck. She found the keyhole, and pushed the pointed tip of the safety pin inside.

  ‘Now what?’ she said. She gave a dry laugh, which sounded nothing like her. She pushed in the pin and twiddled it about, jiggling it harder when nothing happened. ‘Come on,’ she hissed. Suddenly the safety pin snapped, and she was left with just a short piece of metal, and the safety head.

  ‘NO!’ she cried. ‘No, no, no!’ She felt around the padlock but the rest of the pin wasn’t in the lock. Then carefully she ran her fingers over the lock and down the chain, but there was nothing. She scooted around, and put her hands by the edge of the cage to feel if the pin had fallen out onto the floor. She hadn’t heard it fall, but where the hell was it? What if he found it when he came back?

  * * *

  Her feelings of despair and panic had risen as she’d spent the next few hours trying to find the small piece of safety pin, but there was nothing. Her hands were numb and she felt faint. She was going to die here. She was going to die. Beth shivered and pulled at the thin blanket folded under her. It was damp, and her legs were starting to cramp at being forced to sit upright with her neck chained against the mesh. She curled herself up into a ball as best she could to stay warm.

  To stay warm, and wait for death.

  Chapter Seventy-Seven

  Just as Beth fell into a disturbed sleep, Erika and Moss were sitting in the front of the car. It was just after five thirty in the morning, and they were parked on the ground floor of a multi-storey car park on Tooley Street, opposite London Bridge train station. Their parking space looked out over the Thames, which was a churning brown colour under the lights from the buildings lining the embankment. A large tugboat rolled past on the water, shining a bright light and spewing out thick smoke from its funnel. A long, flat barge was dragging behind it, churning up the water. Peterson was laid out on the back seat, snoring.

  ‘Does he always snore like that?’ said Moss, shifting uncomfortably in the passenger seat and looking back. Erika nodded and sipped her coffee, resting the cup on the steering wheel.

  ‘Moss. Are you on Facebook?’

  ‘Yeah. Why?’

  ‘I’ve never really done social media…’

  ‘I’m on it, cos Celia’s on it. And Celia’s on it because her brother lives in Canada, and we can see pictures of their kids, and they can see our pics of Jacob. Although I’ve told Celia to stop uploading so many.’

  ‘Why don’t you like her uploading so many pictures?’ asked Erika.

  Moss shrugged. ‘I know she’s proud of our little son, I am too, but it’s not his choice, is it? And you never know who is lifting off the pictures.’

  ‘That’s the thing,’ said Erika. ‘People don’t realise what the word “sharing” means.’

  ‘It’s not a difficult word, boss.’

  ‘No, but the dictionary definition of “sharing” is, “a part or portion of a larger amount which is divided among a number of people, or to which a number of people contribute”.’

  ‘That sounds about right.’

  ‘But when you “share” on social media, don’t you give away something of yourself? Your privacy. Information. Social networks are free, aren’t they?’

  ‘Yeah. That’s another reason we’re on it: we can talk to Celia’s brother, my mother, well, Celia talks to that old bag more than I do.’

  ‘And that ability to communicate is a good thing, but in return for a free service, don’t they want to find out everything they can about us? Our killer probably didn’t have to leave his house or his bedroom until he was about to grab the victims. He found out everything about them online. Where they were going; what they liked to do; their habits. And people don’t
realise they’re giving it away. If a stranger came up to you on the street and wanted to know where you were going next, or what kind of films you like, if you’re married or single, where you went to school, or where you work, you’d be a bit freaked out… The same if they wanted to have your phone for a few minutes to scroll through the photos. But the same people blithely stick it all online for everyone to see.’

  ‘Course, people don’t see it like that,’ said Moss. ‘They put things on social media to show off. Look at my new car; look at my house.’

  ‘Look at my little boy,’ finished Erika. Moss nodded ruefully.

  ‘No wonder famous people sue to have their kids’ faces blurred out… I don’t think it’s people being stupid though. I think most people find their lives boring, and uploading their achievements, things they’re proud of, it validates them.’

  ‘They don’t think who might be watching them,’ said Erika. ‘I wonder if Janelle and Lacey, Ella and Beth knew?’

  ‘Jesus, when you put their names together, that’s heavy. Four girls.’

  ‘Three. We’re going to get the fourth. She’s not going to die,’ said Erika. They sat in silence for a moment, then another tugboat pulled past, and its horn blared out twice.

  ‘Christ on a motorbike! What was that?’ cried Peterson, waking up and banging his head on the inside of the door.

  ‘Snoring beauty is finally awake,’ said Moss. ‘Actually, snoring and farting beauty.’

  ‘Piss off, Moss, you’re the farter. I’ve spent plenty of long car journeys with you.’

  ‘Ha ha,’ she said, reaching back and slapping him on the backside.

  He rubbed his eyes and sat up.

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Quarter to six,’ said Erika.