The Career Killer Page 9

  ‘Dad, you’re retired,’ she said, almost pleading. ‘You know the doctors said you’ve got to take it easy what with your blood pressure and all.’

  He leant forward in his chair, his eyes dancing. For the first call in forever, he seemed his old self. ‘Oh, come on, Boop, I’m quite safe here in my office. Can’t hurt to just talk, can it? I practically wrote the handbook after all.’

  It was true. He had authored several chapters in the Met’s Murder Investigation Manual, a fact which had not escaped those Elsie had trained with, and one which had not helped combat her reputation for trading on her father’s name.

  He continued to rattle off the different types of murder, almost word for word, from his own manual. ‘Gang, confrontation, jealousy, revenge, reckless attack, racially motivated... what’re we dealing with here, Boop?’

  He had not yet mentioned the last category of murder, the kind that Elsie knew could make or break a new DCI’s career, the so-called “unusual cases”: serial murder, mass murder and terrorism. It was hard to get the experience necessary to be allocated such cases. The Met operated on the principle that to investigate a serial killer the senior investigating officer had to have experience of investigating serial killers. It was a nice idea in principle – no family wanted a rookie investigating a relative’s death after all – but it soon fell apart in the cold light of day. The unusual cases were so rare that virtually nobody had any experience. It was why Elsie needed this case. If she solved one, she’d be a shoo-in for the next unusual murder, and then, in no time at all, she’d surpass even her old man’s reputation. It was the quick way out of the doldrums and onto a career path that would see her investigate the most interesting, unusual and dangerous of cases.

  ‘Possibly none of those...’ she paused, his use of “we” ringing in her mind. It was bad enough for her colleagues to think she needed his help. Now he actually was helping, and, much to her irritation, she still needed him despite having attained the rank of DCI years younger than he had. She swallowed her pride. ‘I may have two connected victims.’

  ‘Two?’ Dad echoed. ‘You’ve got your first serial?’ He beamed, his grin widening so much that he was a caricature of his usual bombastic self.

  She cocked her head to one side and shrugged. ‘Maybe. Or possibly a copycat. The thing is, I only pulled the second case.’

  ‘And so, you’ve got to hand it over.’

  A notification flashed up on her phone indicating that her tea had been steeping for the required three minutes. Once the tea strainer had been removed, Elsie made a beeline back to the sofa with her mug in hand. She kicked discarded clothing out of her way as she went. This week’s workload, combined with the unrelenting tiredness, had put paid to any chance of doing the domestic chores. She made a mental note to make sure to put a load on before bed otherwise she would have to go to work in the morning wearing a bikini and her finest woollens, the last of her clean clothing. ‘But,’ she said, ‘it’s not definitely a serial...’

  He pursed his lips and glared at her the way he used to do when she was a child. ‘Don’t be daft, Boop. This is me you’re talking to. Do you think it’s a serial?’

  Four times in one conversation. He never used her childhood nickname this much.

  ‘Yep,’ she said, suddenly glum at the prospect that her big case was about to be snatched away.

  ‘Then you’ve got to follow the rules,’ he said. ‘Who’s the SIO for the first case?’

  ‘DCI Fairbanks.’

  He gave a sharp intake of breath. ‘That old fool’s still going? God help us all.’

  ‘Still want me to hand it over?’

  ‘I’m ‘fraid so. You can’t run your cases effectively in isolation, and even if a dimwit like Fairbanks is in charge, the best chance of getting justice is by handing it over and letting him run both cases together. Now, no more work, how’s progress on Operation Grandson?’

  Not this again. She rolled her eyes. ‘About as far along as I’ve got for the last ten years. Had another dreadful date tonight.’

  He coughed, apologised, and then said, ‘He can’t have been that bad?’

  She didn’t want to say it outright. Raj was a letch who just wanted her for sex. Instead, she rambled on about the many other reasons he was a douchebag. ‘He spent the whole date trying to impress me with how incredible his life was, how much money he had. He kept rabbiting on about his holidays here and there, his latest car, and his amazing job. Not once did he ask a single question about me, about what I wanted, about who I am. Sorry, but your grandpa days will just have to wait.’

  ‘You’re being too hard on yourself, Boop.’ There was a sadness in his eyes she couldn’t quite put her finger on. ‘It’ll happen sooner or later. I don’t want to put a dampener on your Saturday night. Want to go back to telling me about the case after all?’

  ‘Sure,’ she said cheerfully. ‘I’ve got a woman found dumped in the old church at St Dunstan wearing a wedding dress that was much too large for her despite the fact she appears to have lived a man-free existence.’

  ‘Not engaged then?’

  He had jumped to the same conclusion she had, the same conclusion that Stryker had spent the afternoon disproving by searching both church and civil records for notification of intention to marry. ‘No chance. The best evidence we have is a thread suggesting the killer is tall, six foot two plus. On the other hand, trace fibre evidence on the dress comes from several women. Can’t imagine there’s a six foot two Amazonian-height serial killer with a dress fetish on the loose. God knows if I let Fairbanks have this, he’ll run with whatever theory lets him do the least work possible.’

  He guffawed heartily. ‘He hasn’t changed then. So, what do you think happened?’

  ‘I think our killer is a man, physically powerful, and that he managed to drive to St Dunstan in the East, lug a body from the road to the bench, and then get out of central London without anyone seeing him and without tripping a single CCTV or ANPR camera.’

  ‘Boop, in my forty years on the force, I never once pursued a criminal that clever. There’s always a clue. It’s just not possible to be the invisible man in the way you’re describing.’

  ‘That’s where the evidence is leading me.’

  ‘No way,’ he said with a shake of his head that caused his grey-flecked beard to swing from side to side. ‘It’s an insane theory – and your first proper murder to boot. Make sure you get a EuroMillions’ ticket tonight. I hear it’s a rollover.’ He gave a hearty laugh that quickly became a hacking cough. He waved off her concerned look.

  ‘Fine,’ she huffed. ‘What do you think happened?’

  He coughed again, this time the coughing lasted a full thirty seconds.

  ‘Dad, are you alright?’

  ‘Fine,’ he said, almost too quickly. ‘I’m just going to grab a glass of water. BRB.’

  ‘For God’s sake Dad, you don’t say “BRB”.’ It was no use. He was long gone.

  Echoes of coughing sounded across FaceTime. By the time he was sitting back down in his office in front of his iPhone, Elsie was convinced something was up. ‘Are you sure you’re okay, Dad?’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ He waved a dismissive hand. ‘Where were we? Oh yes, your serial killer Amazonian. Absurd. Totally absurd. Run me through how your evidence got you there again, slowly this time. I’m an old man, you know.’

  She did. She went through every last detail so far, leaving nothing out.

  ‘Have I taught you nothing, Boop?’ he said. ‘Remember Occam’s razor. Always assume the simplest explanation is most likely to be true. That blonde hair could have come from anywhere. It could be someone the victim knows, someone the killer knows or someone who tried on the dress in a shop once. It could even have blown in on the wind. St Dunstan in the East is a high traffic area, and any defence counsel will explain away the hair without breaking a sweat. You’re fixating on the wrong thing and you’re missing the bigger picture.’

  In a heartbeat, she
was a little girl again, suffering through one of Daddy’s lectures. She set her jaw, and said tersely, ‘What do you think you’re seeing that I’m not?’

  ‘The first vic, the one that the papers are calling Nelly, she got stabbed through the heart, didn’t she? I assume your second victim is the same.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. Stryker had called before her date to confirm that, and the formal autopsy report would be added to the incident room board first thing in the morning.

  ‘It screams love and betrayal to me. Not only stabbed, but through the heart, and, given the lack of defensive wounds, both victims knew their killer. Who’re they dating?’

  ‘I had the same thought, Dad. The trouble is, Layla Morgan didn’t have a man in her life, and nor did Fairbanks note anything about a partner in Boileau’s casefile either.’

  What she didn’t need to say was that Fairbanks’ file was wafer-thin in contrast to the man himself.

  ‘Bull,’ Dad said, slamming a meaty fist on the desk in front of him. ‘There’s a boyfriend or husband behind this, you mark my words.’

  ‘I’m open to the possibility, Dad. No doubt Fairbanks will be too. I’ll pass on your thoughts to him tomorrow. Now,’ she said with a yawn, ‘I’m going to have to turn in. It’s been a long couple of days and I’m shattered.’

  ‘Alright, Boop. Sleep tight. I love you.’

  He hung up before she could say “I love you too”. And yet, it was so bizarre he’d said it at all. Dad never said he loved her. Why was he being so affectionate?

  Chapter 12: Digital Footprints

  When Matthews arrived early on Sunday morning, the Yard’s hot-desking area was dead. She picked a desk near the break room for easy access to the mud that passed for coffee around here and settled in for a long morning. It took her only a few moments to arrange her desk precisely as she liked it. The slightest mess irritated her so her breakfast – granola, diced fresh fruit and yoghurt – was arranged in three identical plastic tubs ready to be combined.

  This work wasn’t strictly on the clock as the boss hadn’t authorised overtime. There wasn’t much point if the case was going to be passed over to DCI Fairbanks anyway. That wasn’t a bad thing – Fairbanks had far more experience as did the rest of his team. The idea of Elsie’s team investigating a serial murder for their first case together terrified Matthews. It would be far less risky for them to cut their teeth on a simpler case that wouldn’t kill her nascent career. The last thing she wanted was to start her first out-of-training gig with a blemish that wouldn’t go away.

  She needed to keep her nose clean and prove she had done everything she reasonably could have. If things went to hell, Matthews wasn’t going down with the sinking ship. That was why she’d come in so early.

  The killer couldn’t have picked a better time to kill.

  Everything moved at a snail’s pace at the weekend and Sunday was even less productive. Even the DNA database team didn’t work Sundays. Without access to resources at the weekend or a proper budget, DCI Mabey had two hands tied behind her back. Matthews wanted to find something she could contribute – something tangible, something with paperwork to prove her worth – so that if the case did go ahead, she was pulling her weight... and if it didn’t, she could point out that she tried her best to steady a sinking ship.

  The obvious place to start was Layla Morgan’s web presence. DI Stryker had found one tiny facet of it on Instagram under the handle @LushLaylaM. What he hadn’t done was a proper deep dive into every footprint that Layla had left around the web.

  Because they already knew who Layla Morgan was and where she lived, Matthews had a great data set to work with. She started a fresh document and wrote down everything they already knew.

  Name: Layla Priscilla Morgan

  DOB: 05/03/1995

  Address: 28B Kingwood Road, Fulham. London

  From those scant details, Matthews could hit up the most obvious databases for more information: the electoral roll, 192.com, and Experian. They confirmed what she already knew; Layla had never moved house.

  It only took one little bit of extra information to spider out. She Googled the username @LushLaylaM. Not much came up. It appeared that Instagram was Layla’s sole social media account. That couldn’t be true. A woman that young who had never posted a drunken selfie or unflattering photograph? Her entire web presence had been curated so as to convey an air of success, sophistication and money of which she really had precious little. Layla seemed to live by the mantra that the boss had seen scrawled on her bathroom mirror – Fake It Until You Make It.

  There had to be a “before” footprint, a hint of who Layla Morgan had been as a teenager. Everything that came up on Google was less than two years old as if Layla Morgan had sprung into existence sometime during 2017 without having been photographed before then.

  The earliest Insta photos were less polished, the kind of mirror-selfie shots that every woman takes. The difference was Layla had been vain enough to share hers online. Matthews clicked the “images” tab in Google and then clicked the little camera logo. Two options popped up, one to search for an image by a web URL and the other to upload the image.

  Matthews picked the former and searched for the first photo that Layla had ever uploaded to Instagram. This sort of search would show where else that photo had been used on the web. It was a simple, cheap way to find someone online and it almost always worked.

  Bingo. Layla had posted the image all over. There was a post on Reddit, the world’s largest forum, asking for feedback on her make-up. Matthews added that username to her document. Facebook showed an account on which the photo had been a profile picture. The rest of the account was locked down – Layla had set it to private so there was little to be found there.

  Then there was an old Myspace profile. It had long since been abandoned. Thankfully, Layla wasn't among the users hit by the infamous server migration data loss scandal. Photos had been posted for several years going back to Layla’s childhood. Even then she had been a poser, standing aloof from the crowds. Back then she hadn’t been quite so skinny and she looked much better for it. Anorexia had taken a heavy toll as the years wore on. Interesting but not actionable intel.

  Back to Reddit. Layla had posted for years. There were memes aplenty, vapid comments that weren’t worth reading and hundreds of posts about make-up and modelling.

  What stood out among the dross were Layla’s comments about anorexia. Not only was she suffering herself but she touted her services as a “ProAna Coach” on a “Thinspiration” subreddit, offering to teach others how to keep to infinitesimally small calorie limits. It made Matthews sick. The idea that those suffering from what was, in her opinion, a mental disorder banding together to not only survive anorexia but to promote it... it boggled the mind.

  Some of the comments she replied to were horrendous. One teenage girl had written:

  “I hate my body n bcoz of it, I hate myself.”

  Layla was one of dozens of users to pop up and offer to “coach” these young ladies.

  These people genuinely thought of anorexia as a lifestyle choice rather than a life-threatening disorder. Layla had found a community of like-minded individuals, each wanting to be reminded on a daily basis how “fat” they were so they could “stay strong”. The self-loathing was indicative of something bigger, perhaps depression or low self-esteem. No wonder Layla had fallen prey to a serial killer. She was uniquely vulnerable and needy. She had been quick to help others degrade themselves, to further entrench mental illness. Matthews’ sympathy evaporated. Perhaps Layla wasn’t quite the innocent-in-white that the dress suggested.

  Working backwards through the comments, Matthews found one in which Layla mentioned that she kept an online “Thinspo” journal. She’d even linked to it.

  Matthews clicked through to a blog entitled “Thinspo Layla, One Girl’s Journey to a Beautiful Body.”

  There was post after post. Some were numbers like the in-out figures that DCI Mabey had found
in her journal. Others were photos of her meals. Still more were photos of her getting thinner and thinner, each captioned with a message saying how fat she felt.

  Occasionally, she paid tribute to her own Ana Coach. Many of the commenters – presumably other young girls – asked who her coach was. Matthews didn’t think that Layla’s “coach” was the killer – the posts were the better part of a decade old – but she couldn’t stop herself reading on.

  Layla had responded to one of them.

  “He’s an older guy. He hasn’t got anorexia himself but he’s helped LOADS of girls achieve their Thinspo Dreams. I send him daily pics of my scales as well as body checks. Some are in my underwear and some are nude so he can see me from all angles.”

  Yuck. Layla had been seventeen when she’d written that. Wherever girls showed vulnerability, there was always a creep ready to step in and take advantage of that. Layla hadn’t just been perpetrating the ProAna problem, she’d been victim to it first. Matthews wondered just how many girls were perpetuating this vicious cycle.

  She carried on reading.

  “If I miss my targets, he gives me punishments. He’s very strict. He makes me humiliate myself for him so I won’t mess up again. I know it’s a weird relationship but it works. I’ve lost ten kilograms since he started coaching me. Accountability really helps my Thinspiration.”

  It got worse and worse. Matthews dreaded to think what the punishments entailed.

  Layla Morgan hadn’t just become a victim.

  She’d been one for a very long time.

  Chapter 13: The Choice

  It took Elsie until nearly midday on Sunday to find DCI Fairbanks. He was in the Soldiers Rest just across the road from his Stratford abode. He was having lunch alone, though looking at the sheer volume of food piled up on his plate, Elsie could have been fooled into thinking he was feeding a family of four.

  The pub didn’t feel like the right venue to be handing off a case of this magnitude. To so casually pass it over meant giving up on Layla Morgan and Leonella Boileau thus consigning Nelly’s family to the anguish of a half-arsed investigation. Elsie couldn’t deny that it was a relief though. An investigation this big needed experience, a strong team, and even then, it was the sort of case that could end a detective’s career if it went awry.