Now You See Me (9 page)

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Authors: Sharon Bolton

BOOK: Now You See Me
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I
GOT TO MY USUAL CAMDEN HAUNT AT TEN THIRTY. THE PLACE was just starting to fill up and the music was loud enough to drown out any possible conversation. I took my drink out to the piazza and wandered over to one of the horse statues, already regretting the impulse that had brought me here.
I'd spent the afternoon trying (and largely failing) to find something to do. Even at a distance from the team I could sense that the mood around the station had shifted. The possibility of Geraldine Jones's murder being just the start changed everything. As I heard Joesbury pointing out, the goalposts had been stretched the width of the entire bloody football field.
At the end of the day I'd nipped into the ladies'. It was empty. A minute later, the door opened and someone entered the next cubicle. I'd just pressed the flush button when I heard the sound of my next-door neighbour vomiting. I washed my hands and waited for her to stop.
‘You OK?' I asked, when I figured she had. ‘Can I get you anything?'
I waited a few more seconds, but there was no response. I turned to leave, but behind the door, where it had missed the hook and fallen to the floor, was a blue trench coat. Tulloch's. Guess I wasn't the only one feeling edgy.
So I'd come out on a whim, knowing that an evening in my flat with nothing but my own thoughts could drive me half daft. And
there'd been that tune I simply couldn't get out of my head. ‘My Favourite Things'. It made no sense. I hadn't thought about that old game in years, but it was like the dam I'd built in my head was rupturing, letting through old memories like trickles of water.
I wasn't even sure any more what had been on the list. Flowers maybe, and perhaps books. Ponies, definitely ponies. I'd loved equine creatures of all shapes and sizes, even donkeys – which was probably why I liked the Camden Stables Market so much – but cute, plump, cheeky ponies had been my favourite.
If I left now, I could still get the Tube home.
‘Where did you disappear to Friday night?'
I turned round and looked up. The fair-haired man I remembered from my last visit was casually dressed for Sunday evening in jeans and a white, short-sleeved button-down. A college sweatshirt was around his shoulders. The casual style suited him more than the business suit he'd been wearing early Saturday morning. I glanced down. His shoes looked expensive.
‘You ran like the Furies were after you,' he continued when I didn't reply. He was better looking than I remembered and a bit older. No wedding ring on his left hand. He was over thirty-five, he'd probably have his own place.
‘I'd left the gas on,' I said.
He smiled. ‘Was there an explosion?'
I smiled too. ‘Not yet.'
 
I left his house just after two, pleading an early start at work. He got up with me, offering to get me a cab. I told him I'd called someone already while he'd been dozing. He seemed almost reluctant to let me walk out of the door.
Uncomplicated, unconditional sex with a beautiful stranger. Wasn't that most men's fantasy? It was what I offered and I was never surprised by how easy it was to get a man I'd barely met to invite me to his home. What did surprise me was the number who wanted to see me again. I usually left my number, with a couple of the digits in the wrong order. Maybe on the other side of London a happily married mother of four was getting all my booty calls.
When the front door closed and his footsteps faded away down
the hall, I stood for a few seconds on the top step, breathing in the cool night air, waiting for my ride home.
My early encounters with men and sex were abusive. Nothing so very unusual in that, but I realized some years ago that women with my history have a choice. All too often they become wary, fearful of intimacy of any sort, and then clingy and dependent if a decent man does come along. Some avoid men altogether, taking matters into their own hands, if you get my drift. Then there are those who take control.
The minicab pulled up after two minutes. The same driver has been taking me home in the small hours for a couple of years now. He greets me like an old friend.
Oh, I know what I do comes with a built-in risk, I'm not stupid, but I've become a pretty good judge of man-flesh over the years. On the rare occasions I get it wrong, I can look after myself. Keeping yourself fit, being able to handle difficult physical situations, is part and parcel of being a young police officer. If all else fails, which it hasn't yet, I plan to show the bugger my warrant card and threaten him with a night at the local nick.
All things considered, I'm not remotely scared of a bit of male aggression. I have more than enough of my own to counter it.
Back at my flat, I climbed out of the cab, paid the driver and wished him goodnight. Finally, I was feeling genuinely tired. Like I might actually sleep at last. I made my way down the steps.
I was still wearing high-heeled shoes, so when the hand grabbed the back of my hair I was thrown completely off balance. There was nothing to brace myself against, no way to fight back, as I was pulled down the last two steps and into the shadow beneath. A weight I hadn't a hope of resisting pushed me forward until my face was up against the wood of my front door. I felt something cold and hard press against my neck and knew there was a knife at my throat.
‘This is how easy it is,' said a voice in my ear. ‘This is the last thing Geraldine felt.'
W
ITHOUT WARNING, THE WEIGHT PUSHING AGAINST ME moved away. I almost fell but managed to grab hold of the door-frame. Taking a deep breath, I turned round slowly.
Mark Joesbury was shaking his head at me, like I was something forced into his way but far beneath his notice. In his right hand he held his car keys. It had been a key, not a knife, at my throat.
‘Are you out of your fucking mind?' he said, in a voice that would have carried easily up to the street.
‘How dare you touch me?' I spat back at him. ‘I'll have you up on a charge for this—'
‘Oh, you're really going to tell Tulloch you were out shagging your way around north London when she specifically told you to come home, lock your doors and go to bed?'
Any second now, he'd wake the people in the upstairs flats.
‘Why the hell are you following me, you sad, pathetic—'
‘There is a man out there who gets off on slicing women open.' Joesbury took a step closer, lowered his voice just a fraction. ‘You narrowly missed a close encounter with him on Friday and, just in case this hasn't sunk in yet, he knows your name and probably where you live.'
‘That does not give you the right—'
‘Shut up,' he went on. ‘Most women in your position would be scared shitless. How come you're not?'
‘I haven't the faintest idea …' Any second now I'd wake the people upstairs.
Joesbury was so close I could feel his breath on my face. ‘This is your last chance to tell me voluntarily, Flint,' he said. He wasn't shouting any more, just quietly furious. ‘If you know anything about Friday night's stabbing that you haven't already owned up to, I strongly advise you to cough up now.'
Raindrops and roses
. Pale-blue eyes, staring into mine.
‘Because if you don't and I find out,' he continued, ‘I will wipe the frigging floor with you.'
Deep breath. Get hold of the last of my nerve. ‘Go fuck yourself,' I managed.
For a second, just from the look in his eyes, I thought he was going to hit me. Then he got a hold of himself, taking a deep breath himself and letting it out slowly. He shook his head again, and I didn't think I'd ever seen anyone look at me with quite such contempt.
‘Given the choice, I'd wipe my hands of you, Flint,' he said. ‘I think you're trouble. But Dana, for some reason, has taken a bit of a shine to you and she cannot deal with any more stress right now. So for her sake, I'm giving you a warning. Keep your nose clean or I'll break it.'
At that moment, he looked perfectly capable of doing so. ‘You are way out of line,' I told him.
He stepped closer still, clearly one of those men who use their size to intimidate. ‘You are a member of the Metropolitan police service,' he said. ‘I suggest you try and remember that. And I really hope you're not up to anything you shouldn't be in Camden. But if you are, I'll find out. Watch your back.'
He'd turned away and was heading for the steps when I came to my senses. I could not let this man launch a serious investigation into me. He was halfway up before I found my voice.
‘DI Joesbury.'
I watched him register the change in my voice, saw his shoulders moving as he took in another deep breath.
‘I go to Camden for sex,' I said, quietly, but knowing he was listening hard. I let my jacket slip off my shoulders and saw him turn as it fell to the ground. The dress I was wearing was sleeveless, held up by thin straps.
‘I don't have a regular boyfriend and I don't want one,' I went on. Joesbury didn't move. I saw the light from the streetlamp was turning his skin a soft gold. ‘But there are times when what I can do on my own just isn't enough. Can you understand that?'
His right hand clenched around his car keys and he took a step forward. He was coming back down the steps. What the hell had I done? I hadn't planned for this, would never be ready for this, and how could I not have realized before – Mark Joesbury scared me.
I'd stepped backwards, could feel the stone wall cold against my skin. Joesbury saw the panic in my face and stopped moving. His eyes narrowed and we stared at each other for a second longer.Then he turned, climbed the rest of the steps and disappeared.
I stayed where I was for a long time, long after I heard his car drive away. I didn't even bother picking up my jacket. When I could no longer be sure whether I was trembling with fury, fear, or just plain cold, I made my way inside.
27 October, eleven years earlier
 
T
HE GIRL SLIPS BAREFOOT ACROSS THE CARPETED LANDING. She stops at the bathroom door, leaning close.
‘Cathy,' she says, in a voice that even she can barely hear. ‘Are you in there?'
Silence behind the door. She sees her warm breath condense against the cold paintwork and taps gently with one finger. ‘Cathy, are you OK?'
She hears the sound of a tap running, then the towel-ring banging against tiles.
‘Cathy,' she tries again. ‘There's nobody else upstairs. Let me in. '
Cathy isn't answering. The girl tries the door handle. It moves, the door doesn't. Locked.
She waits for another second or so, then steps away, heading back towards the bedroom. The light is still on. She sees the bloodstained clothes on the carpet and turns back again.
‘Cathy,' rapping louder this time. The TV is on downstairs, she won't be heard. ‘Cathy, are you bleeding again?' No answer. ‘Cathy, this is serious. They said this might happen. If you've got an infection we need to get you seen. Please Cathy, just let me in. '
She waits. And waits.
Annie
‘London lies today under the spell of a great terror.'
Star
, 8 September 1888
Friday 7 September
 
‘D
ETECTIVE INSPECTOR TULLOCH, HOW CERTAIN CAN you be that the killer won't strike again tonight?'
‘I can't be certain of anything,' Tulloch replied, in the measured tones we'd all come to be wary of. ‘But, for the third time in ten minutes, there is no reason at this stage to believe we are likely to see another incident like the one on the 31 August.'
We were at New Scotland Yard for the latest press conference. Tulloch was at the front with Southwark's borough commander, Chief Superintendent Raymond Puller, and her immediate boss on the Murder Investigation Team, Detective Superintendent David Weaver. They'd had to admit that the team were following up no solid leads in the Geraldine Jones killing. Hours of tramping around the Brendon Estate and endless conversations with Geraldine's family and friends had turned up nothing we could work on. Pete Stenning had even taken the Jones's au pair out for a drink, hoping to catch her off guard. Everything had been meticulously inputted on HOLMES. Nothing.
‘DI Tulloch, how ready are you to head up an investigation of this magnitude?' called a voice from the floor. ‘Given the events of last year …'
The two men on the platform exchanged glances and the chief superintendent stood up. ‘Thank you, ladies and gentlemen,' he
said. ‘As the investigation into the death of Mrs Geraldine Jones continues, we will release information as it becomes appropriate.'
Tulloch and Weaver both got to their feet and followed the chief out. Those of us at the back filed out before the reporters could collar us.
Since Emma Boston had run with her Ripper copycat story just three days ago, the investigation had been bombarded by media interest. And the public had caught Ripper fever with a vengeance. Attendance at the nightly Jack the Ripper tours around Whitechapel had increased fourfold. Tulloch had even been invited to appear on
Good Morning Britain
to discuss the nation's newfound interest in Ripperology. She'd declined.
I had one reason to be grateful to Emma. I was referred to, in the papers, as ‘an unnamed young detective'.
By the time we got back to Lewisham, daylight was fading. Stenning, Anderson and I had all gone to the press conference in one car. As we approached the rear door of the station, I caught sight of a green Audi with Mark Joesbury at the wheel pulling into the car park. He hadn't been at the press conference. In fact, he and I hadn't spoken, had barely seen each other, since our encounter outside my flat four days ago.
The two men went ahead as Tulloch's silver Mercedes pulled up behind Joesbury's car. She climbed out and, without speaking, walked over to him. When she got close enough, he pulled her towards him and she dropped her head on to his shoulder.
Feeling like a peeping Tom, I spun round, dived along the corridor and headed for the stairs. At the top, I walked straight into a young Polish girl who works in the cafeteria. She'd been carrying a tray overfilled with dirty crockery.
‘Watch where you're going,' I snapped, above the sound of shattering cups and saucers.
The girl's eyes opened wide with shock and she dropped to her knees.
‘Oh God, I'm sorry.' I knelt down beside her, feeling like a real heel. ‘It was my fault,' I said. ‘I was going too fast, look, let me …'
By the time we'd cleaned up the mess, the rest of the team were settled in the incident room.
‘Good of you to join us, Flint,' said Tulloch. She seemed to have
shrunk. The press conference had taken a lot out of her. As had the frustration of the past few days.
‘OK,' she went on, as I perched on a desk at the back. ‘Can someone confirm what extra uniform presence we've got out tonight?'
‘Just about every constable available has been drafted in,' replied Anderson. ‘The section heads will be along shortly for a briefing. We're going to concentrate activity on and around the Brendon Estate. All the CCTV cameras are in working order and we've got extra staff monitoring them.'
‘What about in Whitechapel?' asked Tulloch.
‘They've increased their numbers as much as they can,' the sergeant replied. ‘They're going to have a bigger headache than us, though. They've already got bozos hanging round the sites of the original murders.'
‘He won't strike in Whitechapel,' said Stenning. ‘Not knowing half the local population's out looking for him.'
‘We don't know he's going to strike at all,' sighed Tulloch.
There was movement behind me as the section heads of the various uniformed divisions arrived for their briefing. Tulloch thanked them all for coming and, a second later, I was called to the front. Still not allowed officially to join the investigative team, I'd spent the past few days doing little other than brush up on everything I'd once known about the Whitechapel murders. An urgent online order had delivered just about every book on the murders currently in print. By this stage, I could have given a Ripper tour myself, and the team had been drawn together now to hear what I had to say about the second canonical Ripper murder.
‘Annie Chapman was in her mid forties, short, overweight and missing several of her teeth,' I said, spotting Mark Joesbury at the back, his eyes on his shoes. Around the room, all other eyes were travelling from me to the blown-up photograph of Annie Chapman in the mortuary. It showed a plump, plain face surrounded by dark, curly hair.
I didn't need to look at my notes. I told them the story of the last night of Annie Chapman's life, of the killer who'd struck without making a sound or leaving a trace. Twice while I was speaking, Joesbury glanced up, caught my eye for a split second and looked back down. When I mentioned that she was last seen alive at five
thirty a.m., I saw several people looking at the clock. Five thirty a.m. was less than ten hours away.
‘Any truth the Ripper was a member of the royal family?' someone called from the back. Tulloch and I shared a look. She nodded at me to answer.
‘You're talking about Prince Albert Victor,' I said. ‘He was a grandson of Queen Victoria and in direct line to the throne. There are two theories relating to Prince Albert. The first is that he was suffering insanity brought on by syphilis and that he went on a murderous rampage of the East End. It doesn't really stack up because, as a member of the royal family, his whereabouts at the time are a matter of public record. It's pretty much impossible that he carried out the murders himself.'
‘What's the other theory?' prompted Tulloch, and I got the feeling she wanted me to speed up.
‘The second involved a Masonic conspiracy,' I said. ‘According to this one, Prince Albert entered into a secret marriage with a young Catholic woman and had a baby daughter. The woman was locked up in an asylum but the child's nursemaid, Mary Kelly, escaped with the child to the East End and told what she knew to a group of prostitutes, who then hatched a plot to blackmail the government. The prime minister at the time was a Freemason. He brought in a few of his Mason buddies and the story goes that they lured the women into the royal carriage, where they were murdered in accordance with Masonic rituals.'
‘Is it possible?' asked one of the uniformed sergeants.
‘Unlikely,' I said. ‘For one thing, the women were killed where they were found. The amount of blood at the scenes and the lack of any in the surrounding area make that pretty clear. And the attacks just don't seem like calculated executions, they were done in a frenzy, by someone barely able to control his rage.'
‘OK, OK.' Tulloch was on her feet now, looking at her watch. ‘Thanks, Lacey, but we can talk about Ripper suspects all night and I'm not sure it'll take us anywhere. Let's get out there, shall we?'
Quickly, the station cleared. As groups made their way out of the building I could almost see the tension hovering above them. Waiting for something bad to happen; it was always so much worse than actually dealing with it.
 
 
‘Anything in particular you're looking for?' one of the CCTV operators asked me.
I'd gone back to my old station at Southwark, covertly following the rest of the MIT, and had made for the room where all the CCTV cameras across the borough are monitored. Thirty television screens are permanently broadcasting live footage. The operators can zoom in on any particular image in seconds and the detail is impressive. Look at people sitting outside a pub and you can see the ice gleaming in their drinks.
‘DI Tulloch just wants me to watch for a while,' I lied. ‘See if it jogs my memory about last week. Can you see any of our people?'
They began switching screens and we spotted several members of the MIT, parked in cars on street corners, wandering past pubs and shops. Mark Joesbury's car was parked about two hundred yards from the murder site. The driver door opened and he got out. Then DS Anderson appeared from the passenger side. As I watched the two men disappear into the estate, I wondered, for the hundredth time, about Joesbury's threat to have me investigated. And whether he'd actually followed it up.
A figure in a blue coat caught my eye on a screen higher up. Dana Tulloch was crossing the square outside Southwark Cathedral.
If Joesbury had done the most cursory of searches, he'd have found out that I joined the police aged twenty-six, a little over three years ago after a spell in the RAF reserves, that I got good marks on all my training courses, had studied for a law degree in my spare time and was accepted on to the detective programme the first time I applied.
If he'd accessed my personal records – unlikely, but if he had – he'd know that I'd studied law at Lancaster University, but had dropped out before completing my second year. He'd know that when I was fifteen I was cautioned on the street for having a half-smoked joint in my pocket, and that a year later, I was admitted to hospital having taken too much GHB in a nightclub. On my release the next day, I'd been given another police caution.
I watched Tulloch pull open the main doors of Southwark Cathedral and step inside. I stood up, thanked the two operators and left the room.
If Joesbury had really gone to town, he might have learned that I was born in Shropshire, that I never knew my father, and that my brother and I were raised by grandparents, and occasionally in care, after my teenage, drug-addict mother found the responsibilities of parenthood too great to deal with. He might know that after my grandparents died and my own drug problem escalated, I'd spent several years just drifting, living off the grid. He might even know that my brother lived in Canada and that he and I hadn't spoken in years.
That had to be it. I hoped.

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