The Blissfully Dead (28 page)

The two detectives walked to Suzanne’s office, not speaking to one another. As soon as they got inside the office, Winkler said, ‘He’s lying, and he’s guilty. We need to get authorisation for a full search of his house, his office, his cars—’

‘Hold on,’ Suzanne said. ‘Patrick? What do you think?’

‘I don’t know for sure.’ He ignored Winkler’s puff of exasperation. ‘But what I do know is that Adrian’s almost certainly got one thing wrong.’

‘What?’ Winkler squared up to him.

‘Your theory about him lying because of the direction his eyes are going is, frankly, bullshit.’

Winkler blustered with outrage. ‘It’s not! It’s widely known that if a suspect looks up to the right, he’s lying, because he’s creating a visual construct, not a remembered one . . .’

Patrick resisted the temptation to roll his own eyes. ‘Yes –
perhaps
. A
right-handed
person. Hammond’s left-handed, as he just confirmed. Which means that the process is likely reversed. When he’s remembering, he looks to the right, and if he’s making stuff up, he’d look left.’

Winkler looked mortified and Patrick allowed himself a small moment of triumphal one-upmanship.

Suzanne interjected. ‘Can we stick to actual facts, please? It’s certainly suspicious that he won’t answer any questions about the children’s home. Who’s gone to talk to them?’

‘Gareth Batey’s headed down there.’

‘And is Carmella still in with the housekeeper?’

‘No. She’s writing up the statement now. But Miss
Wattana
stated that she’s never witnessed any teenage girls at Hammond’s house except when there’s been a party. Carmella said that Miss
Wattana
actually laughed when she was asked if she knew anything about Hammond’s sexual preferences. She said, and I quote, “He only like trains.”’

‘Yeah. Lying or not, he’s still a weirdo,’ Winkler said. ‘We need to search his house.’

Patrick put up a hand, refusing to get drawn into an argument with Winkler. ‘I think we’re looking at this all wrong.’

‘What do you mean?’ Suzanne asked. She had taken a seat behind her desk and in that moment the sun broke through the clouds outside, brightening the room, catching Suzanne’s hair.
She’s beautiful . . .
Patrick immediately stamped on the thought.

‘This case, it’s not about sex. Don’t forget, none of the victims, Rose, Jessica, Nancy Marr or Wendy, assuming she was killed by the same person, were sexually assaulted. There was no sign of any sexual activity at all. Winkler here is following a trail based on his belief that Hammond is a paedophile. But that doesn’t fit with the murders.’

‘No,’ Winkler said. ‘My belief is that Hammond is a paedophile, that all of the victims found out, and he killed them to shut them up, to stop his secret getting out.’

‘And that theory could still work,’ Suzanne said, ‘if Hammond isn’t a sexual predator. There could be other reasons he needed to keep Rose, Jessica and Nancy Marr quiet. Some other criminal activity. Drugs, for example. Maybe he deals drugs, sells them to OnTarget’s fans, to the kids or staff at the children’s home.’

‘Maybe,’ both Patrick and Winkler said at the same time.

Suzanne frowned suddenly. ‘Well, whatever it is, we need to decide what to do with Hammond. Patrick?’

‘We don’t have enough to charge him.’

‘Bullshit,’ said Winkler.

‘No, we don’t. Not without a DNA test on the underwear. If we charge Mervyn and then they turn out to belong to someone else . . .’ He didn’t need to finish the sentence. ‘Let’s see what Gareth comes back with from St Mary’s and get the underwear through the lab ASAP. How quickly can they do it if we ask them to make it priority one?’

Suzanne looked at the ceiling. ‘I’d have to ask Stretton to twist some arms, try to get it done overnight.’

‘And in the meantime, we hold Hammond. If the DNA matches Rose, if the children’s home can’t give us a good reason why he was there, then we can search his property. But if we go in now, tear his place apart without even knowing who those knickers belong to, we’ll all be famous. The dumbest police since the Keystone Kops. With you, Winkler, as the dumbest of them all.’

Chapter 46
Day 14 – Patrick

P
atrick loitered outside Suzanne’s office for a moment, watching Winkler stomp off towards the custody suite. Usually, it would give him great pleasure to piss Winkler off, but Patrick wasn’t feeling joyful right now, just satisfied that they had bought a little time. He needed to talk to Carmella. Because while they waited for the DNA results, there was another line of inquiry he was desperate to follow.

Carmella wasn’t at her desk, so he headed towards the canteen, hoping he would find her there again. As he turned into the
corridor
that led to the canteen, he saw Gareth Batey walking towards him.

Gareth stopped in his tracks when he saw Patrick.

‘Gareth.’

‘Boss.’

‘A word, please.’ He gestured towards an empty meeting room and the detective sergeant followed him inside.

Before Patrick could speak, Gareth said, ‘I need to report back to Winkler.’

‘Your new best mate.’

Gareth’s face as usual turned a shade of pastel pink. He was clearly having to work hard to maintain eye contact. ‘I need to report back to him. I’ve just been to—’

‘St Mary’s Children’s Home. Yes, I know. I’m leading this investigation, remember? And I’ve just been interviewing Mervyn
Hammond
. Tell me what you found out.’

Gareth hesitated. ‘But
. . .
Winkler told me to speak to him first. I mean, it was him and me who saw Hammond go in that place. Me and Winkler who’ve been tailing him. Adrian said you’d step in and try to take all the credit as soon as we got our man.’ Gareth’s eyes glinted in the artificial light, damp from the emotion it took to give this speech.

‘For fuck’s sake. Can’t you see? Winkler’s using you.’

‘No! He’s the only one who recognises my potential. You treat me like the canine unit treat their dogs. Loyal, useful but dumb.’

Patrick took a step back, shocked at the turn this conversation had taken. Gareth was visibly shaking now and Patrick was reminded of an argument with Gill, when she accused him of being uncaring, of taking her for granted. At home, he always admitted that Gill had a point. But here? What had he done to make the young DS feel like this? He tried to think back, was going to suggest that they arrange a meeting to talk about it – a necessary evil of being a manager, a higher rank, the kind of touchy-feely stuff he instinctively shied away from – when Gareth said, ‘Winkler’s a
better
detective than you.’

A flash of anger propelled Patrick towards the younger man, until their faces were just inches apart.

‘Say that again.’

‘You heard me.’

Patrick pulled himself up to his full height. But what happened next surprised him. Instead of reaching boiling point, the anger in his veins drained away as he realised how ridiculous this was. It wasn’t really like an argument with Gill; it was like being at school.

Patrick walked away and sat down, inviting Gareth to do the same.

Gareth stared at him, breathing hard, nostrils flaring.

‘Come on, Gareth, take a seat.’

To Patrick’s relief, the other man did as he was asked. He sat stiffly, his back straight, but he appeared to be calming down.

‘We can talk about this later, OK? When emotions aren’t
running
so high.’

Gareth nodded reluctantly. Now he appeared embarrassed.

‘Tell me what happened at the children’s home. What did they say about Mervyn Hammond’s visit?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Come on, Gareth . . .’

‘No, I mean they wouldn’t say anything. The manager refused to talk about it, and the staff were obviously hiding from me. All the kids were at school, so I couldn’t talk to them.’

‘Really? That’s very . . .’

‘Suspicious.’ Gareth had relaxed a little now, his body less rigid. ‘What have they got to hide?’

Before he could reply, Patrick saw Carmella walk past the room. He stood up.

‘All right. Let’s arrange a meeting, just you and me. I’ll talk to you later. I need to talk to Carmella.’

‘OK. Boss.’

‘Good man.’

Patrick hurried out of the room, calling to Carmella. As he
hurried
up to her, Gareth came out of the room and walked off in the opposite direction.

‘What’s up with your man?’ Carmella asked.

‘Gareth?’

‘Yeah. He looks like you just told him you don’t want to go out with him anymore.’

Patrick sighed. ‘Come on, I’ll update you on the way to the car.’

‘Where are we going?’

‘What would you say if I told you we’re going to talk to someone about erotically charged teenage fantasies involving boy-band members
. . .
and vampires?’

‘That I want a transfer?’

He smiled. ‘Come on.’

StoryPad’s British office was based in a converted warehouse close to Silicon Roundabout, where many of the UK’s Internet start-ups are based. Mervyn Hammond’s office wasn’t far from here, nor was Global Sounds Music. This investigation had drawn Patrick close to a world of glamour he’d once dreamed of living in. But now he’d seen what it was really like, he half-hoped the next murder investigation would start somewhere at the other end of the glamour spectrum, like the Kennedy Estate or an old folks’ home.

Patrick filled Carmella in on what he’d learned from Chelsea Fox, that she believed Jess and Rose had collaborated on a piece of fiction on StoryPad.

‘It’s the only link between them that we’ve been able to establish so far – assuming Chelsea isn’t mistaken.’

‘But there’s no connection to Nancy Marr through StoryPad?’

‘Hmm. I don’t think she’s quite their target market. But I spoke to one of Strong’s team who confirmed that StoryPad was in
Wendy’s
browser history, that she’d been looking at it in the days before she was killed.’

Carmella was checking out the website on her phone as Patrick drove. ‘I remember Martin mentioning it in one of the briefings, but, apart from that, I’ve never heard of it.’

‘Nor had I. But it’s incredibly popular among teenagers, especially girls. According to the “about” page on StoryPad, they’ve got over thirty million users, and there are something like ninety
million
stories on there. It’s pretty straightforward, really. Users can post pieces, either short stories or whole novels, which are divided up into chapters, and other users can read and comment on them. I guess the users compete to get as many reads as possible because then they get ranked higher, which leads to more reads. It’s like a big popularity contest. Plus, of course, it gives these girls an outlet for their creativity.’

‘I used to write poems, but I never wanted anyone to read them,’ Carmella said. ‘Ugh – cringe.’

‘Same with me and lyrics.’

‘Really? Were they any good?’

‘No, they were shit. But this is the Instagram generation, isn’t it? They share everything and they all want to be famous.’

‘You’re sounding like a grumpy old man again.’

They reached their destination and pulled up in a courtyard outside the old warehouse. ‘It goes without saying,’ Patrick said, ‘that the most popular category on the site is fan fiction, and stories featuring OnTarget make up about fifty per cent of that. I looked through some of it last night. My God, some of it is almost
pornographic
. They call it “shipping”, short for “relationshipping”, and imagine these
. . .
trysts between members of the band.’

‘And between band members and their fans?’

‘Yes.’

‘And the vampires?’

‘Oh, in a lot of the stories, Shawn and Blake and co happen to be immortal blood-suckers with a thirst for the blood of virgins.’

‘Well, I know what
I’ll
be reading tonight.’

They walked towards the front door. ‘I’m guessing you weren’t able to find anything that Rose and Jess had co-written?’

‘No. Either it’s buried so deep that I missed it or it was deleted.’ He paused for a moment, fixing his strategy in his mind. ‘It might be nothing. But if I’m right and Mervyn Hammond does turn out to be another false lead, this is all we’ve got.’

Chapter 47
Day 14 – Kai

K
ai had only slept for two hours in the previous twenty-four since the party at Mervyn Hammond’s house – which was extra-annoying, because he was truly worn out. Never again, he thought, would he be persuaded to dress up in a stupid bow tie and an apron so long that it had come down to his shins, making his legs look even shorter, working his arse off for six quid an hour. Slave labour, that’s what it was! Not to mention the ingratitude of everyone involved. As far as he was concerned, it totally had
not
been worth it just for the sake of being in the same room as OnTarget and all those other D-list celebs. Hell, he got to be in the same room as OnTarget at the book signing just days before, and all that had involved was queuing in Piccadilly for an hour or two. The only thing that really made the whole thing worthwhile was what he’d left at the house. Now that
had
been funny.

His hands were still bright red and chapped from loading and unloading the dishwasher, and once he’d forked out for a solo cab home – that took two hours to arrive – he only had £23 wages left. He had assumed that he and Jade would be splitting the cab fare, but oh no, she had ‘sorted herself out’, as she’d informed him at the end of the party, the chill in her voice almost frightening. She had refused to tell him how she was getting home – but he could guess. That frigging bodyguard, doubtless.

Since then he had rung her numerous times, and been round to her house twice, but her phone just rang out, then went to
voicemail
, and nobody had come to the door despite him leaning his finger on the bell for ages. He remembered Jade telling him that her mum, Alison, was going away for a couple of days. He’d been excited at the prospect of having Jade and her small council house to himself for a while, without having to make small talk with
Alison
, who scared him, with her wrinkly lips from decades of
sucking
on fags and God knows what else, and her enormous arse. Jade hated her too, although she pretended that they were ‘bezzies’ when she wanted to ponce twenty quid off her.

Now, with a pang, Kai realised that Jade might well be taking advantage of her mum’s absence by temporarily shacking up with Kerry the bodyguard. The thought of it gave him such pain that he felt murderously angry. If there had been a kitten nearby, he’d have twisted its head right off, no question.

Shame he couldn’t do the same to Kerry.
As if.

‘Where are you, bae?’ he cried in an anguished voice, addressing the bathroom mirror in his house and noticing another new crop of zits as he did so. Kerry the frigging bodyguard didn’t ha
ve zits.

A sudden inspiration occurred, and he slapped the side of his head at his stupidity in not remembering before: the tracking app!

A couple of weeks back they had both installed a phone-tracking app on their phones so that if they got separated at the OnTarget gig at Twickenham, they’d be able to find each other by identifying where the other one’s phone was. Jade had once got really upset when she lost him in Guildford Spectrum, and he’d been well pleased at his resourcefulness when he found and installed the app. She had twined her arm around his neck and cooed into his ear what a genius he was, and how much she loved him . . . Mind you, he thought, she wouldn’t be so chuffed with him if she knew what he’d done afterwards, when he’d told her he was un-installing the app so that she needn’t worry about him keeping tabs on her. Instead, he’d slid the app into a folder on Jade’s iPhone screen, buried among a load of other apps she never, ever used. The folder was labelled ‘Health’, so she’d never notice that the phone-tracking app was in there.

Holding his breath, he clicked on to the app on his own phone. A green pulsing circle on a map indicated that Kai’s phone had found Jade’s.

Kai punched the air and zoomed in on the map. To his
puzzlement
– and then anger – Jade appeared to be very close to the Thames, near Hampton Court, in a place called Platt’s Eyot. It looked like there was a little wood nearby and he immediately
imagined
her leaning against a tree with the bodyguard, her legs purple with cold and her skirt up around her waist.

Fuck him
, thought Kai, sliding a carving knife out of the knife drawer in the kitchen – making sure his mum, who was watching afternoon telly in the next room, didn’t hear him – then grabbing his parka and calling out a goodbye on his way past the living room.

He could get the train from Wimbledon to Hampton Court, he knew; he’d seen the station stops. On the map, the river and wood didn’t seem very far from the station. He didn’t even hurry, particularly – with the app working, there was no rush. He’d be able to find her. And when he did, the bodyguard’s muscles would be of no use to him. All the muscles in the world couldn’t stop you from getting stabbed in the back, could they?