The Career Killer Page 13

  He held up his hands. ‘ERU?’

  ‘Don’t you know anything? The Evidence Recovery Unit. You must have heard of ’em? Part of the Specialist Forensics Service. You sure you’re a copper? Let me see some ID.’

  He flashed his newly minted Metropolitan Police warrant card and mumbled something about being new to the force. She shook her head and took pity on him despite his stupidity.

  ‘Right, why don’t you give ’em a ring and see if they can speed up your samples. My brother-in-law works over there. Tell him you know me – my name’s Bertha by the way – and I’ll make sure you’re at the top of the pile, okay, love?’

  Three frustrating hours later, he had his first results. The dresses from both crime scenes had multiple DNA samples on them. There was one DNA sample in common that had been found on both dresses which confirmed what Elsie had believed as soon as she saw the less-definitive fibre evidence.

  The DNA sample in question wasn’t in the Met’s National DNA Database. As they expected, it belonged to a man. No surprises there.

  The killer had left his DNA behind at both crime scenes. They had him.

  Now all they had to do was find him. Before he killed somebody else.

  Chapter 19: The BFF

  The most called number stayed in Milan until Wednesday morning when it disconnected from Wind Tre, an Italian mobile phone network. It was in Malpensa Airport at the time, northeast of central Milan. If the owner of the phone was heading home to the UK, and the fact that it disconnected from the Wind Tre network at almost exactly the same time as a flight left suggested it was, then it was odds-on that Layla Morgan’s closest friend or relative was on flight RYA332 from Malpensa to Heathrow and would land one hour and fifty minutes after departure.

  Thanks to a quick heads-up from Ian, the uber nerdy tech who was now Stryker’s BFF, Elsie was able to be there to meet the plane. A stout, dour man from the UK Border Agency had met her in the short-term car park and escorted her right past security and onto the tarmac so she could wait for the plane. The wind whipped through her as she stood patiently until the plane had landed and rolled to a stop less than fifty feet away. She still didn’t know who the number belonged to before she arrived, but the moment she saw the passengers start disembarking, she had a sneaky suspicion that it might be the woman roughly her own age who descended down the plane steps with the elegance of a dancer. Despite the frigid weather, the girl from the plane was dressed in little more than a dress with a silk scarf wrapped around her neck. She looked runway ready rather than jet-lagged and strode confidently towards the gate. If she wasn’t a model, she ought to be. It had to be her.

  Just in case it wasn’t, Elsie planned to ring the phone and listen out for a ringtone. As she dialled, she hoped the owner’s phone wasn’t on silent otherwise she’d have to stop every passenger until she found it which wouldn’t make her very popular.

  Her hunch paid off. The lithe woman’s phone rang seconds after Elsie hit the dial button. As Elsie approached, the woman answered in a childlike voice that grated like nails on a chalkboard.

  ‘Hello? Ugh, if it’s you again, stop calling me, you weirdo.’

  Elsie approached her slowly. ‘Everything okay?’

  She sniffed and looked up at Elsie. The woman was tall by normal standards and seemed perplexed to meet a woman even taller than herself. ‘No. Someone keeps calling and saying nothing. It’s like so creepy.’

  Up close, the woman wasn’t half as attractive as she had looked from a distance. Now the trim figure appeared unnaturally waiflike, the face frozen as if it had been paralysed from Botox injections, and she wore enough make-up to last any normal woman a month. Forget foundation, this woman had built the entire house.

  ‘I’m afraid that one was me,’ Elsie said. ‘DCI Elsie Mabey, Metropolitan Police. And you are?’

  ‘Étoile.’

  Elsie rolled her eyes. ‘No, your real name.’

  The woman fished a passport out of her clutch bag and held it out with the photograph page facing Elsie. Her name really was Étoile. As Elsie read the name, she flashed back to being in French class as a teenager. Étoile meant “star”. It was the kind of moniker that suggested class and elegance. The child in front of her was pompous and presumptuous. She’d clearly adopted it to try and present herself as more than she was.

  ‘It’s like a mononym like. I changed it proper and everything.’

  ‘Like Prince,’ Elsie said. Or Voltaire, she thought. Not that the woman in front of her would get the reference.

  ‘Nah, like Twiggy,’ Étoile said. ‘She’s a model too... well, she was, like fifty years ago or sommat.’

  Twiggy couldn’t be that old, could she? She’d been big in the sixties. Elsie quickly did the maths and realised that Étoile couldn’t be too far wrong.

  ‘Okay,’ Elsie said. She resisted the urge to ask Étoile her birth name. It wasn’t important. ‘Étoile, would I be correct in saying that you know Miss Layla Morgan?’

  ‘Why?’ Étoile said, her tone suddenly sharp. ‘What has she done this time?’

  This time? Elsie let it lie. ‘Are you family?’

  ‘No,’ Étoile said. ‘Her family’s all dead as far as I know. Her mum ‘n’ dad are gone like and she never had no siblings.’

  ‘Aunts? Uncles?’ Elsie began to run down the priority list for next of kin.

  ‘Nothing. She made a big deal of being all on her lonesome at her parents’ funeral, couldn’t shut up about it like. Look, I got a taxi to catch.’ She made as if to barge past Elsie who responded by extending an arm to block her path.

  It seemed there was no family member left alive to identify the body which meant it had to be a long-standing friend. It appeared the only friend that Layla had ever had was standing right in front of Elsie, and she didn’t seem friendly in the least. ‘I’m afraid not. I’m sorry to inform you that Layla Morgan is dead.’

  Étoile didn’t seem surprised. ‘Is that like why she didn’t come to Milan?’

  She’d stopped trying to push her way through so Elsie lowered her arm and then gestured for them to walk towards passport control. Étoile had flown in on a budget airline which meant that the terminal was a long walk from the plane. ‘Was she supposed to?’

  ‘Yep,’ Étoile said with a firm nod. ‘I’d booked a twin suite and everything. Well, our agent did. I’d rather have had my own room... which I guess I did in the end.’

  Twin suite? Elsie thought, a pang of jealousy shooting through her. Not even a twin room. Elsie had neither the money for a suite nor a friend to share it with. It was a bit weird that Étoile had flown no-frills while splashing the cash on a Milanese hotel. In Elsie’s experience, Italian hotels weren’t too friendly on the purse.

  ‘Did you often travel together?’

  ‘Sometimes,’ Étoile said. ‘I set her up with my agent. That’s like totes why she even got the audition. He keeps sending us out for the same stuff.’

  ‘Not worried about the competition then,’ Elsie said.

  ‘As if, that skank couldn’t steal my thunder if it struck her dead.’

  So disrespectful. Elsie looked at Étoile incredulously. ‘Aren’t you sad your friend is dead? You’ve known for less than five minutes and you’re already disrespecting her memory.’

  ‘I guess. I’m... sorry?’

  It was a question rather than a statement.

  ‘Where were you on the night she died?’

  ‘Hang on... you don’t think I had anything to do with it? She killed herself, didn’t she?’ Confusion reigned on Étoile’s face before the realisation that Layla had been murdered dawned. ‘No way! She was murdered? Cool!’

  Elsie stopped dead in her tracks. Cool? She stared at Étoile and the younger woman stepped backwards with a cowed expression.

  ‘Where were you on Friday night?’

  If she were guilty, Elsie would have expected some sort of a reaction. Instead, Étoile acted as if she got asked for an alibi all the time. She sim
ply checked her iPhone’s calendar and then turned to show Elsie the entry. ‘I was travelling and then landed in Milan at like three that afternoon.’

  Sure enough, the screen read ‘Audition, Milan’ all day and showed an address somewhere in the backstreets of the Quadrilatero della Moda. Elsie made a note of the details just in case. It was a compelling alibi.

  ‘What were you in Milan for?’

  She shouldn’t have asked. Étoile launched into the details at a million miles an hour, her enthusiasm undeniable. ‘It was for this new silk manufacturing company. They’re launching these new scarfs. Think Liberty of London but even nicer if that’s even possible. I’ve wanted to work with them for ages and so did Layla. Their stuff is to die for.’

  Despite her enthusiasm, only her lips moved. Her forehead remained totally still. Elsie had to force herself not to react.

  ‘Layla wanted to work for them? I thought you said she had no chance?’

  It was too obvious. Étoile struck Elsie as callous, unsurprised, and she might even have benefitted from Layla’s death. The model hesitated for a moment before answering. Elsie just watched her, letting the silence sit heavy between them until Étoile felt compelled to say something, anything just to fill the void.

  ‘Well, yeah. She was supposed to be there. They wanted a whole range of heights and body types. She isn’t my competition. We’re just not in the same market, not that she’d beat some of the girls out in Milan. They’re like almost as gorgeous as me. When Layla didn’t show, we just thought she’d finally realised she’s not in our league. The poor thing said she was running out of money. It was silly that she’d spend her money flying out for something she was never ever going to get.’

  For the moment, Elsie ignored the money thing. If Layla had been heading for the infamous bankruptcy court in Carey Street then Knox ought to be able to find that out as she’d already been tasked with confirming the source of Layla’s money and home.

  ‘Why wouldn’t she get it?’ In Elsie’s opinion, Layla was better looking than Étoile by far.

  Étoile snorted. ‘Have you seen her? That girl had no hope.’

  How rude, Elsie thought. So much for them being friends. ‘What was wrong with her?’

  It took Étoile an enormous effort to avoid reeling off Layla’s many perceived flaws. ‘Look, she’s nice okay. But she’s too thin. Modelling totes isn’t ProAna anymore and she’s a tiny little thing. Was a tiny little thing. There’s demand for like so-called alternative models. She could’ve done that sort of work. She just wasn’t tall enough or pretty enough to go mainstream and the silk scarf gig was like really really big league.’

  It was a bit rich for Étoile to criticise anyone else for being too thin. She herself was so slender that it would easily be possible to wrap two hands around her waist and have the fingers meet. Elsie far preferred her own physique, a little curvier like real women and still slim enough to pass the police fitness exams without skipping a beat.

  ‘Did you get the gig?’

  Her question was met with a languorous shrug. ‘Who knows? I should get a call either way in a day or two. I’d be surprised if I don’t.’

  Elsie wanted to retch. The sheer arrogance was mind-boggling. Instead, she forced the conversation back in the right direction. ‘Did Layla have a man in her life?’

  ‘If she did, she kept it quiet.’ She looked as sceptical as she sounded. It was almost as if she truly believed that Layla had been so unattractive that it would have been impossible for her to find a partner.

  ‘Or a woman?’

  ‘Hah. No. She definitely liked men.’

  Just to be sure, Elsie asked about a wedding. It had been Uncle Bertie’s big theory. ‘No fiancé then?’

  Étoile pulled a face. ‘God no. There was no way Layla could have kept that quiet. She was a right blabbermouth.’

  Elsie bit her tongue, looked at the motormouth in front of her, and smiled politely.

  ‘I’m afraid you’ll need to come down to the station and give a formal statement.’

  ‘But I’m due to fly out to—’

  Elsie cut her off. ‘She was your friend, right? This won’t take long. Besides, if she hasn’t got any family you get to identify the body.’

  As Étoile picked up her bags, her expression brightened. ‘Oh... I think she might have like a cousin or something somewhere? Maybe you don’t need me after all.’

  ‘The more the merrier,’ Elsie said. ‘Come on, let’s get you through passport control.’

  Chapter 20: Trust but Verify

  Drudge work. That was what it was. The jumped-up little tart who’d taken over Murder Investigation Team 18 was such a hypocrite. She knew she was trading on Daddy’s good name. Once upon a time, Knox had served under then-Inspector Peter Mabey. He’d been alright, unlike pretty much every boss she’d had since.

  She didn’t feel guilty for calling in sick. After a decade and a half on the force, she’d earned her first proper sickie. She needed the time to think about how to get back on top. The DCI job ought to be hers. This Mabey girl was a train wreck waiting to happen. Elsie was inexperienced, overworked, and far too young.

  Knox knew she deserved the job. She was long overdue a promotion. One dodgy disciplinary hearing – not even her fault – and she’d been cast aside like yesterday’s supper. The new boss was almost a decade Knox’s junior and her inexperience was self-evident. Mabey had given Stryker nearly all the good work leaving Knox to dig through the paperwork with Matthews. The sheer cheek of it. All her experience and here she was sat next to one woman almost young enough to be her daughter and working for another.

  Even Matthews wasn’t talking to her. It seemed she thought Knox was a bad influence. So what if she’d planned a bit of team bonding on Friday night? How was she to know that some woman would get herself murdered just as they sank their third round of mojitos? It was just plain unfair. Despite condescending to leave her beautiful office and come into the incident room in search of company, Knox had to work in silence without even a bit of chit-chat to break up the day. The task ahead of her was especially dull as she had to find Layla’s money. It ought to have been easy. Any home as nice as hers in the London borough of Hammersmith and Fulham, one of the swankiest in West London, would easily be worth a couple of mil once it was tarted up a bit. The only problem was she didn’t own the place, a fact that immediately became apparent when Knox looked up the house on the land registry’s website.

  She elbowed Matthews and pointed at the screen. ‘Look, Georgie, the vic didn’t even own her own house. She didn’t rent it neither.’

  Curiosity was enough to break Matthews’ silence. ‘Go on, tell me, who owns it then?’

  ‘They do,’ she said and pointed. Matthews leant forward to squint at the screen.

  ‘Who on earth are Meyer & Griffith LLP?’

  Google came to their aid. Meyer & Griffith LLP were a solicitors’ firm that operated out of a post office address in Old Street.

  ‘I’ve seen this before though,’ Knox said with a knowing tap on the side of her nose. ‘They’re trustees, ain’t they?’

  The young woman pulled a face. ‘You what?’

  ‘Trustees, love. It’s a swizz the rich tossers pull to avoid paying inheritance tax. Hand your house over to a trust, live in it all the same, and when you pop your clogs, your kids get the house and the taxman gets shafted because technically the house hasn’t changed hands so there’s no tax to pay.’

  What she didn’t tell Matthews was that she’d benefited from a trust herself. It hadn’t been much, but it had meant that her first divorce wasn’t totally ruinous. Her scumbag ex couldn’t touch the flat. His face hadn’t half been a picture when he’d found out. There he was in open court, suing for divorce and dreaming of a big payday, and wham, that little bombshell had put paid to his gold-digging ambitions.

  ‘Blimey!’ Matthews said. ‘One rule for us and one for them, eh?’

  ‘The rules always favour the rich
, love.’

  ‘What’s this mean for our victim?’

  Knox paused to let the photos of Layla’s home float into her mind: beautiful but worn and dated. ‘Well, she couldn’t flog the house. And she didn’t spend much keeping the place in good nick. If I had to guess, I’d say she was broke.’

  ‘But she had lovely stuff in her house!’

  ‘Having well nice stuff and earning enough to keep having nice stuff are very different concepts, Georgie. If she inherited a nice wad and then blew the whole lot, she could look like a rock star and still have nought more than tuppence to her name.’

  It was a weird situation. Layla Morgan looked every bit the successful socialite and model. Her Instagram was filled with photos of her partying at London’s swankiest spots from the subterranean tiki bar of the stars to the legendary Raffles nightclub on the King’s Road in Chelsea.

  ‘But didn’t she bank at some fancy pants bank?’

  Again, Matthews was right. The victim had been carrying her debit card on the night she died, a fact which had helped rule out robbery as a motive. Mabey had found a number of bank statements. The account number on those statements matched the one on Layla’s debit card.

  ‘Problem is, Georgie, we know she did have money. What we don’t know is if she’s still loaded. She’s been spending it as if it’s going out of fashion. Could be the well’s run dry.’

  It was obvious money wasn’t Matthews’ bailiwick. It simply wasn’t something she thought about. In the months that Knox had known her, Matthews had given up her life story. She’d gone from her parents’ home in Hampshire on to Cambridge, stayed there for far too long living in halls, and had then moved to London to join the Met’s grad scheme. She’d never had to think about money, never had to plan or budget beyond the basics. Her life was simple, mundane, and easy with it. She was, in Knox’s opinion, so thoroughly cosseted that she may as well have lived in a nunnery.

  Knox held out her hands, exasperated. ‘It’s like this, love. Layla obviously had some money. I’d bet my life she inherited it because she clearly earned fuck all as a model. She burned through her dough faster than it came in to show off and keep up wif da London social scene so her inheritance wouldn’t have lasted forever now, would it? Her Insta shows her chucking her wonga around ta try ‘n’ buy her way ta success. It didn’t work.’