The Blissfully Dead (14 page)

‘OnT fans!’ Roisin wailed. ‘They’d hunt me down and kill me, I know they would! Some girl got glassed in the face by four fans just for getting her picture with Shawn – can you imagine what they’d do to me if I helped get him sent to
jail
?’

She was weeping now, so Carmella got up and fetched her the box of tissues – housed in some sort of hideous pastel knitted cosy thing – on the windowsill. Interestingly, Roisin’s mum made no move to comfort her daughter.

‘Listen,’ Carmella said kindly, putting her hand on the girl’s shoulder. ‘Don’t worry about that now. It’s very unlikely, and if the worst happened and you did, your name would absolutely be kept out of the press, you have my word on that. Now, how about I walk you to work? If we go now, you won’t even be very late, and we can talk on the way.’

Without your mother listening,
she thought.
Then I can find out what really happened.

Chapter 25
Day 8 – Patrick

P
atrick hauled himself out of his bronze Prius and made his way through the station car park, passing Winkler’s white Audi and noticing the gleam of the paintwork, the alloy hubcaps, the licence plate bragging that this car was brand new. Winkler had been banging on about his new motor for weeks, and Patrick couldn’t help feeling a clench of envy, especially when he peered through the window and saw how immaculate it was. No crumbled Wotsits on the carpets; no half-chewed
Haribo
stuck to the seats; no discarded toys in the footwell.
Bonnie
had systematically wrecked the interior of Patrick’s car and he needed to take it to one of those valet places, where silent Eastern
European
men would render it spick and span – until Bonnie got in it again. Still, it was all worth it, wasn’t it? He’d rather have crisp crumbs mashed into his upholstery than live Winkler’s shallow existence. Rather get a big goodnight hug from his daughter before settling in front of the TV for an evening of – albeit currently awkward – conversation with Gill, than live Winkler’s life: pumping iron at the gym, then heading to bed with his latest desperate woman.

He sighed. He hadn’t been to the gym in months, and when he tried to do press-ups at home Bonnie would invariably leap screeching onto his back. And going to bed with desperate women . . . well, there was ‘exciting’ desperate and there was the other kind. By the time Patrick reached the building, his mood had dropped from grumpy to foul.

Winkler was hanging about in the corridor, chatting up the custody sergeant, the two of them falling silent when Patrick walked past scowling, a fresh burst of laughter following him down the hall. He was in a good mind to go back there, ask them what was so fucking funny. But he was distracted by the beep of his phone. Carmella? He was eager for news from Ireland. But no, it was Gill, asking what he wanted for dinner, even though he’d only left her company an hour ago. He very much doubted he’d be home before midnight – she knew that – and he felt irritated, then felt bad for being irritated. He knew she was nervous today because she had a meeting with her chambers about going back to her previous job in a month or so. He badly wanted Gill to resume her work as a barrister, even though it would cause more nightmares with childcare, because he believed that if she returned to work, she would begin to regain her old self, and the nervy, anxious woman he lived with would become his strong and capable wife again. He knew it wouldn’t be that simple, but surely it would be a start? Something had to give. Because at the moment he was happier at work, dealing with Winkler and dead teenagers, than he was at home.

He replied to Gill as he sat at his desk, saying he’d grab a
takeaway later, not to worry, and wishing her good luck with the
meeting
. He ended the text with a single kiss (there were four kisses on Gill’s message) and then sent a text to Carmella, asking her how it was going. He hated waiting around like this.

He also felt antsy because at the moment they only had this one line of inquiry, if you didn’t count Winkler’s strand of the operation – which he didn’t. He knew from bitter experience how dangerous it was to focus on one suspect, to have tunnel vision in a case. In 90 per cent of investigations, the obvious solution was the right one. The prime suspect did it, the odds worked out. Human behaviour was depressingly but reassuringly predictable. But sometimes, as in the Child Catcher case, it was like trying to fathom a magic trick: misdirection, sleight of hand. Smoke and mirrors. Right now, all the evidence seemed to be pointing towards one
person
, but Patrick lived in fear of Plan A going tits up when you had no Plan B in place.

He opened his Moleskine notepad, plugged his headphones into his computer and opened Spotify. This morning, even The Cure couldn’t lighten his mood. He needed something that would block out the chatter and ambient noise around him while not distracting him too much. Aural wallpaper. He clicked on an Elbow playlist and got to work.

At the top of the first page, he wrote ‘ROSE’, adding ‘JESSICA’ in the corresponding spot on the facing page. In a space in the middle he listed the similarities between the two murders.

OnTarget fans.

Users of social media/fan forums.

Caucasian, teenage (14/15 yo), lower m/c, state schools, average height/weight.

M.O. of perp: strangulation, no sexual penetration, torture – cuts, sprayed with perfume, clothes and possessions removed.

On Jessica’s side, he wrote some extra details: her injuries were worse, displaying an escalation in violence. The cuts were deeper and, according to Daniel Hamlet, had been inflicted with more force. Jess had bruises on her face; some of her hair had been yanked out. Why was this? Had she fought, made him angry? Was it the kind of escalation sometimes seen in serial murders, where the killer got more extreme as he went along, more confident and frenzied, needing the greater violence to feel satisfied? Or had he hated Jessica more than he hated Rose?

Patrick pondered this last question. How had the killer chosen these two victims? Were the girls interchangeable or had they been targeted specifically?

He wrote this down too, with a thick question mark that made him itch with frustration. From what Wendy and Martin had found out so far, there was no sign of them interacting online except in the most superficial way. They had both tweeted and written about the same subjects, namely how much they loved Shawn, how amazing the last OnT video was, how much they despised a
Daily Mail
journalist
who had interviewed the band and described them as ‘vacuous puppies without the guts or gumption to say a single interesting thing’. The only thing that set them apart from a hundred thousand other OnT fans was the level of their online activity. They were – what did Wendy call them? – super users.

What were the other differences and similarities? Rose was found in a hotel; Jessica in a photo studio. They knew the studio had once been used by OnTarget, but there appeared to be no connection between the Travel Inn and the band. They had never stayed there, not in this or any other branch. No-one at the hotel had any connection to the band. So why had the killer chosen the photo studio, with its direct connection, and the hotel, which had none? The use of the perfume suggested deliberate symbolism. It seemed he wanted it to be known that their fandom had made them targets. Or was it, as Carmella had pointed out, just that both girls had been carrying the fragrance with them? Their mothers had
confirmed
that they both owned a bottle of Friendship. Maybe that was all it was.

Maybe, Patrick thought with a start, the fact that they were both OnTarget fans was a red herring. Could that be possible? After all, a large percentage of teenage girls in this country liked OnT.

He spotted Wendy at the other end of the office and called her over.

‘All right?’ she said. She seemed a little wary, like an office worker who’s been summoned by their boss, but, more than that, she looked tired. Knowing her exhaustion was caused by the long hours she’d been putting in, Patrick felt more pleasure than
sympathy
, sure that Wendy was going to make an excellent officer when she got some more experience under her belt. With her youthful looks and Black Country accent, Wendy struggled to be taken seriously. Patrick, with his tattoos, could empathise with that.

‘Wendy,’ he said. ‘I need to know if there’s any connection between the Travel Inn and OnTarget.’ He summarised what they knew so far. ‘Any ideas?’

She pondered a moment and then asked, ‘What room was Rose found in?’

‘Three-six-five.’

She snapped her fingers in triumph. ‘Thought it might be.’

‘Eh?’

‘“Room 365” is the title of an OnTarget song. It’s on the first album. It’s about wanting to lock yourself away with a girl 365 days of the year.’ She sang a snatch of the song, her voice sweet and
tuneful
.
‘And my baby comes alive/In room three-sixty-five,
three-sixty-fiv
e
.’

Patrick stared at her. ‘Why didn’t anyone else know that?’

Wendy gave him a little shrug. ‘You obviously didn’t ask the right person.’

He grinned at her and she appeared delighted to have been so helpful.

‘How are you getting on?’ With the new focus on Shawn
Barrett
, Patrick had lost track of what Wendy was up to. ‘I assume you haven’t found any direct connections between Rose and Jessica online yet? Nothing on the forums? Or on their computers?’

‘Nothing direct.’ Her eyelashes fluttered nervously. ‘But I am making good progress. I’m getting to know the girls who use the OnT forum, the other super users, gaining their trust. I’m pretty much ready to start a conversation about Rose and Jess now. I just need a couple more days.’

Patrick tapped his fingers on the desk. Was this a waste of time? Maybe it would be better to pull her off this task. Winkler kept going on about how he needed someone to help him with, as he put it, the donkey work. He would hate to bestow that fate upon her, but . . .

‘Please, Patrick.’

He looked up sharply.

‘Sorry, I meant,
sir
.’

‘It’s OK. You can call me Patrick when it’s just the two of us around. Or “boss”, if you prefer.’

She turned pink and met his eye and he realised his words had come out wrong.

Embarrassed, he said, ‘OK, it’s fine. If you’re sure you’re getting close. But if it seems like these young women don’t know anything useful, I want you working on something else.’

‘Of course. Thanks, er, Patrick.’

‘Any decision I make is for the sake of the case, so you don’t need to thank me.’

She deepened from pink to red, as bad as Gareth Batey, who was renowned for his blushes. Patrick sighed, wishing he could shake this prickly, irritated mood.

‘Listen, you look shattered. When did you last go home?’

‘Um. I can’t remember. Yesterday?’

‘Right. Well, take a few hours, go home, have a nap. I think you’ve earned a break.’

‘But I want to stay here and—’

‘Wendy, I’m ordering you to go home. OK?’

She opened her mouth to argue, but shut it again. ‘Thanks, boss.’

After she’d gone, he returned to his notebook, adding in what Wendy had told him about the ‘Room 365’ song, which seemed to eradicate any last doubt that OnTarget was the link here. He checked his mobile again. Still nothing from Carmella, just two more texts from Gill, telling him she had decided not to go to the meeting with her old firm because she had a headache, and that she’d called Patrick’s mum and asked her if she could drop off
Bonnie
for a couple of hours. For fuck’s sake! He thumped the mobile down on the desk, just as Gareth Batey walked into the office.

‘Boss,’ said Gareth, hovering sheepishly at the edge of the room.

Patrick looked up at him, frustration and irritation scratching at his skin. ‘Yes?’

‘I’ve been round all the fast-food places near the Travel Inn, like you asked. There are dozens of them and they all have tons of staff, most of whom work shifts, half of them not officially on the books, so trying to talk to anyone has been a total—’

‘Just cut to the chase. Does anyone remember seeing Rose that night?’

‘Well, no, but one guy thought he remembered seeing a girl wearing an OnTarget hoodie . . .’

‘Rose wasn’t wearing a hoodie.’

‘I know, but—’

‘So why are you telling me this utterly useless piece of information? And what’s going on with this key card? Has Peter Bell got back to you yet?’

‘I haven’t had a chance to chase him, boss, because I’ve been trudging round burger bars in Teddington.’

Patrick glared at him. His impatience with the case; waiting for Carmella to call; everything that was going on with Gill . . . It was rare for Patrick to lose his temper, but right now he felt like a bunch of toddlers were tugging on his nerve endings, shrieking, and it took every ounce of self-control not to point a finger at Gareth and yell,
‘Haven’t had a chance? I thought you took this job seriously? Get the fuck out of my sight and don’t come back until Peter fucking Bell has told you everything he knows about hackers and fucking hotel key cards and . . .’

But he still couldn’t stop himself shouting something almost as unprofessional in Gareth’s face. ‘You’ll be working in a burger bar in Teddington yourself if you don’t get some sodding results soon! Go and see Peter Bell, now!’

He stopped dead. Winkler was standing at the far end of the room, a sickening grin on his face. Gareth, who had gone pale, turned to follow Patrick’s gaze. Winkler walked off, waving, and Gareth hung his head.

‘Actually, DI Winkler needs help. Why don’t you go and talk to him? Find out what he needs?’

‘Yes, boss.’

Gareth hurried away, just as Patrick’s mobile started to vibrate. Carmella, at last. As he answered, he looked up and saw
Winkler
talking to Gareth through the window, resting a hand on the younger man’s shoulder. Probably best, he thought, if Gareth did Winkler’s donkey work for a day or two. Then Patrick would
apologise
to him for losing his temper.

He swivelled his chair away from them. He’d listen to
Carmella’s
report, and then he was going to go home and take his daughter to the park, try to shift this funk.