Authors: Robert Bryndza
L
inda looked drained
when Peterson entered the interview room. Her hair was tousled, and she didn’t look like she’d got much sleep in her cell. The solicitor finished polishing his glasses and put them back on.
‘Here, I got you a coffee, Linda,’ said Peterson, sitting opposite and pushing the takeaway cup towards her. The solicitor saw Peterson had a coffee of his own, and looked annoyed that he hadn’t been included.
Peterson tilted up his cup to the light. ‘Look, they never get it right; I said my name was Peterson. They’ve written “Peter Son”.’
Linda stared at him for a moment, and then reached out for her cup and checked the side.
‘They got my name right,’ she said. She turned the cup and her face broke into a smile. ‘Oh, and they drew a little cat! Look!’ She twisted the cup round so Peterson could see.
‘I thought you’d like that.’ Peterson grinned.
Linda’s eyes narrowed. ‘I see what you’re doing,’ she said. She sat back and pushed the cup away. ‘I’m not that easy.’
‘I never thought you were,’ said Peterson. He read out his name and the time and the interview tape started recording.
‘Linda, you said yesterday you didn’t have a cat.’
‘No. I don’t,’ she said, cautiously sipping at her coffee.
‘Did you?’
‘Yes, I did,’ she said softly. ‘His name was Boots.’
‘Boots?’
‘Yes, he was black, but he had four white paws, like he was wearing boots . . .’
The minutes ticked by, and Linda became quite animated, talking about Boots. She was just telling Peterson about how Boots used to sleep under the covers with her, with his head on her pillow, when the solicitor interrupted.
‘Look, DI Peterson, what has this got to do with your investigation?’
‘I’m talking about my cat, thank you very much,’ Linda snapped back.
‘I’m working for you here, Miss Douglas-Brown . . .’
‘Yes, you are, and I’m talking about my fucking cat, okay?’
‘Yes, very well,’ said the solicitor.
Linda turned back from the solicitor to Peterson. ‘I’m sick of people who think cats are just pets. They’re not. They’re such intelligent, beautiful creatures . . .’
B
ack in the observation room
, Moss and Crane were watching. ‘Keep her talking about Boots,’ said Moss into a microphone. Inside the interview room her voice came quietly through the earpiece Peterson wore.
‘Did Boots have a middle name? I had a dog called Barnaby Clive,’ said Peterson.
‘No. He was Boots Douglas-Brown; that was quite enough. I wish I had a middle name, or even a nicer name than just boring old Linda.’
‘I dunno; I like the name Linda,’ said Peterson.
‘But Boots is so much more exotic . . .’
‘And, what happened to Boots? I take it she’s not still with us?’ asked Peterson.
‘He, Boots was a HE. . . And no. He’s not with us,’ said Linda. She gripped the edge of the desk.
‘Are you okay? Is this upsetting to talk about how Boots died?’ pressed Peterson.
‘Of course it was upsetting. He DIED!’ shouted Linda.
There was a silence.
‘Okay, this is good, Peterson, keep on at her. We’re breaking her down,’ said Moss, in his ear.
T
he Douglas-Brown
house was silent, and felt heavy and oppressive with secrets and unanswered questions. Erika hadn’t noticed how long she’d spent in Linda’s bedroom, staring at the family photos and absorbing the sadness emanating from Linda’s possessions. She was now moving down the corridor, still clutching the photos of Boots the cat, and checking to see what was behind the doors. She passed empty guest bedrooms, a large bathroom, a huge linen closet, and two picture windows in the corridor which looked onto the bare back wall of the house next door.
At the other end of the floor, at the furthest point from Linda’s room, Erika found David’s bedroom. The door was open.
In comparison to Linda’s, it was stylish and bright with a large metal-framed double bed, and a long mirrored wardrobe. A poster of Che Guevara was framed on one wall, next to a Pirelli calendar showcasing a beautiful blonde for January, her arms crossed over her bare chest. There was a faint smell of expensive aftershave, and on a large desk was a silver MacBook laptop, which was open, and beside it an iPod, docked into a large speaker set. On the wall above was a rack with six pairs of Skullcandy headphones in assorted bright colours. Erika spied a phone charger snaking out from behind the desk, and she pulled out her iPhone and hooked it up. A few moments passed and, when she saw it starting to charge, she switched it on. She went to the open MacBook, and brushed her fingers over the trackpad. The screen lit up, showing that a password had to be entered. Large black-and-white prints of Battersea Power Station, The National Theatre, and Billingsgate Fish Market adorned the remaining wall space. A large set of shelves was stuffed with books on architecture, ranging from paperback guides to enormous coffee table photo books.
As Erika glanced along the bookshelves, a bright blue cover caught her eye:
Swimming London: London's 50 Greatest Swimming Spots.
Erika pulled the book out and began to leaf through photos of swimming pools and lidos in London. A creeping feeling began to emerge from the pit of her stomach.
B
ack at Lewisham Row
, Moss and Crane were watching the interview unfold on the video screens. Peterson was listening as Linda talked about Boots, her beloved cat. There was a knock, and Woolf put his head round the door.
‘This just came through for DCI Foster,’ said Woolf. He handed Moss a piece of paper. She scanned it quickly.
‘This is from Linda Douglas-Brown’s private Harley Street physician. He states she is mentally unfit to be questioned by the police.’
‘Jeez, what are we dealing with here?’ said Crane.
‘Who brought this in?’ asked Moss.
‘Diana Douglas-Brown; she’s shown up with another lawyer,’ said Woolf. ‘You need to stop this interview.’
‘We’ve been told she knows nothing, and yet this document is hand-delivered just before seven in the morning?’ said Moss.
‘You know I have your back, but this goes high up. Establishment stuff. I can see the edge of the cliff approaching,’ said Crane.
‘Just a few minutes more, Woolf. Go back out, come back in ten.’
Woolf reluctantly nodded and left.
‘Okay, Peterson, push her harder,’ said Moss, into the microphone.
‘
H
ow did he die
, Linda?’ asked Peterson, back in the interview room. ‘How did Boots die?’
Linda’s bottom lip was now trembling and she gripped the coffee cup, running her finger over the tiny cartoon cat. ‘None of your business.’
‘Were your family upset when Boots passed?’
‘Yes.’
‘Andrea and David, they must have been younger, too?’
‘Of course they were younger! Andrea was upset, But David . . .’ Linda’s face clouded over; she bit down hard on her lip.
‘What about David?’ asked Peterson.
‘Nothing. He was upset too,’ said Linda, flatly.
‘You don’t look too convinced. Was David upset, or wasn’t he, Linda?’
She started to breathe fast, sucking in air and blowing it out, almost hyperventilating. ‘He . . . was . . . up . . . set . . . too,’ said Linda, her eyes wide, looking at the floor.
‘David was upset?’ pushed Peterson.
‘I JUST SAID HE WAS! HE WAS FUCKING UPSET!’ shouted Linda.
‘I think this is getting—’ started the solicitor, but Peterson went on.
‘David’s away at a stag party, isn’t he, Linda?’
‘Yes. I was surprised at how hard it was to let him go,’ she said. She froze, and frowned.
‘He’s only gone for a few days, hasn’t he?’ asked Peterson.
Linda was now crying, tears pouring down her cheeks.
‘It’s okay . . . He’s coming back, Linda . . . David is coming back,’ said Peterson. Linda was now gripping the desk and her face was red, her mouth curled up.
‘My client is . . .’ started the solicitor.
‘I don’t want him back,’ Linda hissed.
‘Linda, why don’t you want David back? It’s okay, it’s me; you can tell me,’ said Peterson. He could feel the air almost prickling with intensity in the interview room.
‘Far away,’ said Linda darkly. ‘I want him gone far away . . . Gone . . . GONE!’
‘Why, Linda? Tell me why; why do you want David gone far away?’
‘BECAUSE HE KILLED MY CAT!’ she suddenly cried. ‘HE KILLED BOOTS! Killed Boots! No one believed me! They all thought I was making it up, but he killed my baby cat. He killed Giles’s cat too, and made it look like it was me! That fucking bastard . . .’
‘David? David killed your cat?’ said Peterson.
‘Yes!’
‘How did he kill him?’ asked Peterson.
Linda was now turning purple, gripping the desk, trying to rock it, but it was bolted to the floor. The words were pouring out of her now. ‘He strangled him . . . He strangled him . . . Like, like . . .’ Linda bit down on her lip so hard that a spot of blood oozed out.
‘Like who, Linda?’
‘Like those girls,’ she finished, in a tortured whisper.
E
rika’s hands
were shaking as she began to leaf through the book in David’s bedroom. As she flicked through the pages, her heart pounded faster. She saw a section for the Serpentine Lido, another for Brockwell Lido, Hampstead Heath Ponds, The Serpentine Lido – all of the murder scenes, apart from the Horniman Museum. In each section, notes had been written around the photos and text in a manic hand. On some pages, the notes filled all of the blank space around the photos, noting where the entrances and exits were, whether there were CCTV cameras, what the opening times were of each location, where the best place was to take a car and conceal it nearby.
Then Erika reached a double-page map in the back, where all the locations had been marked out and circled. It was identical to the map in the incident room. Erika dropped the book with a thud, and went to the desk, where her phone was now switched on and charging. She picked up the phone and started to scroll through, searching for Moss or Crane’s extension number back at Lewisham Row.
Then she sensed movement and a shadow behind her. A hand closed over hers, ripping the phone from her grasp.
C
hief Superintendent Marsh
had entered the observation suite just as Linda had broken down, revealing David as the killer. He watched with Moss and Crane in horrified silence as Linda lost control. She was raging, pulling at her hair, her face red, spittle flying from her mouth,
‘David killed Boots in front of me; he strangled her! No one believed me when I said he did it! No one! They all thought I was lying! That I did it!’
‘You said David killed girls? Which girls?’ asked Peterson.
‘Girls . . . The type you pay for. He spent so much on those girls . . .’
‘What do you mean, spent so much?’
‘Money, you fucking idiot!’ roared Linda. ‘And not his own money. Oh no! Daddy paid it off. Daddy paid it off, but wouldn’t buy me a new cat . . . Because they said I’d lied about David killing her; they believe HIM over ME. A fucking murderer. Am I worth less than a murderer? AM I? Dad was happy to spend thousands. THOUSANDS!’
‘Why did he have to spend thousands, Linda? Who did he give the thousands to?’ asked Peterson.
‘To Igor, Andrea’s fucking fuck buddy! For the girls.’
‘And your father paid him off?’ asked Peterson.
‘He gave Giles the money to pay him off! And he’s given David money to leave the country. ALL THAT MONEY AND HE WOULDN’T BUY ME A LITTLE KITTEN!’
Linda tilted her head back and brought it crashing down on the tabletop. She lifted it and brought it crashing down again.
‘Stop! Stop!’ cried Peterson. The solicitor had now retreated to the corner of the room. Peterson went to the wall and triggered the panic alarm. It blared out around the station. He turned and looked up at the camera. ‘I need help in here, NOW!’
‘
W
here’s DCI Foster
?’ asked Marsh, back in the observation suite.
Moss paused, the colour draining from her face. ‘Jesus. She’s gone to the Douglas-Brown house.’
E
rika spun round
and found herself face-to-face with David, who was standing across from her in his bedroom. He was dressed in a green sweater, a dark body warmer, and jeans. He pulled the SIM card from her phone and broke it in two with a small snap. He dropped the handset, and there was a cracking, splintering sound as he ground it into the carpet with the heel of his boot.
Erika regarded David’s face. It was as if his mask of youth and attractive confidence had fallen away. His nostrils flared; his eyes blazed. He looked evil. She could see it all so clearly now. She had been so stupid.
‘I thought you were away, David?’ said Erika.
‘I will be away. On a
stag weekend
. . .’
Erika looked down at the book. It lay on the carpet, its pages open to the map of London.
‘It’s not marked in the book, but you killed Andrea, too, didn’t you?’ said Erika, evenly.
‘Yes. I did. Pity really; she was much more fun than Linda,’ said David. ‘I can see what you’re thinking. Why Andrea and not Linda?’
‘Is that what you’re thinking, David?’
‘No. Linda has proved to be an asset. She’ll take the rap for Andrea’s murder. Igor Kucerov will go down for the whores – they were
his
whores after all. And Ivy Norris – well, that piece of trash belonged in the ground.’
‘Can you hear yourself?’
‘Yes, I can,’ sneered David.
‘Why did you do it?’
David shrugged.
‘You can just shrug it off? That I don’t believe,’ said Erika.
‘Believe it,’ he hissed. ‘You think you can analyse me. Rationalise what I did, why I killed? I did it because I CAN.’
‘But you can’t, David. You won’t get away with it. There will be consequences.’
‘You wouldn’t know what it’s like to grow up privileged and powerful. It’s intoxicating. Watching how people defer to you, and to your parents. Power reeks from your pores, and it infects people around you. Power corrupts, envelops, entices . . . The more powerful my father becomes, the more he fears losing it.’
‘So he knew you killed Mirka, Tatiana, Karolina?’
‘Of course . . . Not that he was thrilled, but they were Eastern European girls; they all think they can suck and fuck their way to greatness.’
‘What about Andrea? She was your sister! Your father’s favourite!’
‘She was threatening to tell Mother; she said she was going to go to the fucking press! Stupid girl. First lesson of life in the establishment: keep your mouth shut. Or someone will shut it for you, permanently.’
‘I can’t believe your father was willing to cover even that up; to let it go that you killed his beloved daughter.’
‘Shut up. You don’t know what you’re talking about. He fears a fall from grace more than anything else. He fears that the other wolves will descend and tear him apart . . . Fear is more powerful than love. He found himself with the choice to save Linda or me. Linda’s halfway to being off her fucking rocker anyway, and she hated Andrea so much, she probably would have done it herself.’
‘Linda wouldn’t have killed Andrea,’ said Erika.
‘You’re sticking up for her now? Jesus. Well, I suppose most people feel pity for her when they’ve paid a visit to her bedroom . . . You know, when my friends used to come for sleepovers we’d find her little cat and lock it in one of the huge petty cash tins from my fathers’ office . . . We’d make her do all sorts to get the key back.’
Erika forced herself to keep eye contact with David. ‘Boots. That was her cat.’
‘Yes, dear old Boots . . . Linda used to go into terrible rages when she didn’t get her way. I used one of these to dispose of Boots . . . Strangulation, in case you were curious. Have you ever tried to strangle a cat?’
‘No.’
‘Kill a rabbit? You Slovaks like a bit of bunny, don’t you?’
‘No.’
‘It’s the
claws
with cats. They go ballistic. They put up an admirable fight for survival.’
‘Your parents are intelligent people. They must have known it was you who killed the cat?’ said Erika.
‘That’s the problem when you delegate your child’s upbringing. Hiring nannies, you just play a walk-on role. You see the children before bath time, an hour here and there.
Don’t come too close, darling; I’m dressed up for the evening out
. . . You child becomes a bunch of statistics: he got an A in Maths, he can play
Für Elise
on the piano . . . Let’s get him a polo pony so we can mix with the polo set . . .’
David seemed to drift off for a moment, and then came back to the room. ‘Anyway. I take it your questioning of all concerned has been fruitless? My father has made their silence very lucrative. And Linda will take the rap for killing Andrea; I made her promise.’
‘Why would she promise?’
‘I said that if she did, she could have another cat and not have to live in fear of me disposing of it.’
‘You can’t be serious,’ said Erika.
‘I am. She’ll plead insanity; end up in some expensive clinical facility for a few years. My father will probably bung some orderly a few quid to poke her in that aching place between her thighs . . . They might even let her have a cat. She’ll give a little pussy to get a little pussy . . .’ David started to laugh. It was high-pitched, unhinged.
Erika took the opportunity and made a dash for the bedroom door, but David was quicker. He grabbed her, his hands encircled her neck and he slammed her into the bookcase, knocking the air from her lungs. But this time she was ready for him; she brought her arm up and punched him in the nose with the heel of her hand. There was a satisfying crack as the cartilage snapped, and his grip loosened. Erika managed to push him away and made for the door, but he caught her arm just before she was through, and wheeled her back round. She slammed into the desk, and he was on her again. Blood was now gushing down his chin, and a look of pure rage contorted his face. Erika kicked and flailed, all the while gasping and trying to force air back into her winded lungs. She thrashed under his grip but he held on, trying to control her arms, climbing on top of her. He successfully pinned one of her arms down using his knee.
With her free hand, she scrabbled around on the desk and grabbed a smooth paperweight, and smashed it against his ear. He lost grip on her and she managed to scramble from under him, again making for the door, but he recovered quickly, throwing out one of his long legs and tripping her up. She fell, and he loomed over her, his face now a mess of blood, coating his teeth as he gave a manic grin. She fought, scratching and kicking, fighting like an animal to get out from under him, but he pinned her down. Lifting his arm, he punched her in the face: once, twice. When he struck her the third time, Erika felt one of her teeth hit the back of her throat, and then everything went black.