Mimic Page 5

  ‘In the back,’ she replied distractedly, her conversation with one of the regulars taking precedent.

  Heading through the door, he took out his address book to find the number for the Forensic lab.

  ‘Doctor Sykes,’ a voice answered.

  ‘It’s Chambers.’

  ‘Ah, Detective! Do you want the good news or the bad news?’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘There were trace amounts of Alphonse Cotillard’s blood on one of the weights you brought in. You found the murder weapon.’

  ‘Prints?’

  ‘Wiped clean.’

  The door swung open, smacking Chambers in the shoulder.

  ‘Sorry, darlin’,’ a woman apologised as she squeezed past with a stack of dirty dishes.

  ‘And the needle?’ Chambers asked once she was out of earshot.

  ‘It’s the right diameter. Not much else to say about it. But the glass, although shattered, is curved and covered in tiny black marks. It’s a syringe; I’d stake my career on it. I know what you’re going to ask next, but the answer’s no – any trace of pancuronium bromide, if there ever was any, has been washed away. But the needle and syringe prove that your two investigations are almost certainly connected.’

  ‘So, what’s the bad news?’

  ‘The blood on the glass: it’s not Sleepe’s.’

  Chambers punched the wall in frustration: ‘Doesn’t mean he didn’t do it.’

  ‘It doesn’t. But I’ll run it through the computer all the same. See if anything comes up.’

  ‘Let me know,’ said Chambers, hanging up the phone and heading back out to the table to update Winter.

  ‘So … we head straight to Hamm’s office and tell him he was wrong, right?’ asked Winter, now up to speed. ‘… Right?’

  Chambers looked unsure: ‘He’ll take it off us.’

  ‘But …?’

  ‘It won’t be enough without the drug, and there was no trace.’

  Winter sighed: ‘OK. So, what do we do now?’

  ‘Split up. You head back to the leisure centre. See what you can find … And check whether Henry John Dolan was ever a member there.’

  ‘And you?’

  Chambers hesitated: ‘I’m sure I’ll find something to do.’

  CHAPTER 7

  Jason Donovan’s ‘Too Many Broken Hearts’ was providing an unwelcome backing track to the meeting, made worse by the fact that nobody was talking. Fighting every fibre of his being not to join in for the final chorus, Winter tried yet again to extract blood from a stone:

  ‘Anyone you might’ve seen him talking to? Perhaps someone you hadn’t seen around before?’

  On arriving back at the leisure centre, he had asked the duty manager to gather everyone who had been working the night Alphonse Cotillard died. The result: six gormless teenagers, one of whom he was pretty sure had fallen asleep.

  ‘Anything at all?’ he tried, looking hopeful when a hand shot up in the air, only to realise it was just a yawn. ‘… Thank you. You’ve been most helpful.’

  As his languid audience shuffled back to work, he went to speak with the manager.

  ‘Teenagers, huh?’ the young man scoffed.

  The guy looked like a child wearing two thirds of a fake moustache.

  Nodding politely, Winter pulled an evidence bag from his pocket containing the locker key retrieved from the shower-room drains.

  ‘Would you or anyone else know when one of the lockers is missing its key?’ he asked, knowing he was grasping at straws.

  ‘Detective, we didn’t even know when someone was getting murdered up there. So … No,’ he answered flippantly, but abruptly changing his tone on noticing Winter’s expression. ‘Unless someone reports losing their key, we wouldn’t routinely check.’

  ‘And is there any way of knowing which locker this belongs to?’

  ‘If the tag’s gone …’ the young man shrugged unhelpfully. ‘The only way’s to try them all.’

  Winter sighed: ‘Thought you might say that.’

  Just one of the numerous drawbacks to whiling away one’s time beneath disused railway arches is their open invitation for the purpose of public urination, a drawback that Chambers suspected he’d trodden in as he sheltered from the rain. Across the street, an illuminated window threw a welcoming glow over the cobbles. Teeth chattering, he tucked his hands under his armpits and stepped out of the puddle, eyes fixed on the familiar roller door.

  Able to disregard any locker with a key already protruding from it, it had only actually taken Winter fifteen minutes to locate the correct one. A satisfying click later, he heard the ransomed twenty-pence piece drop and was pleasantly surprised to discover the locker still full. He reached in and removed the jeans, retrieving the wallet stuffed into the back pocket as a set of keys dropped to the floor. Excitement building, he unfolded a paper driving licence belonging to Alphonse Cotillard.

  Pulling the rucksack out, he took a seat on the bench and started to unpack it: a screwed-up jumper … a lunch box … a water bottle … a selection of textbooks … a diary. He opened it up and flicked through to find the most recent entries:

  … don’t know why Jordan is being such a jealous bitch about it.

  He turned the page:

  … feeling so torn, like it’s a choice between my future and my mum not killing herself.

  Next page:

  Hopefully I’ll see Robert again tonight. He gets me, especially as he went to Cambridge himself. ‘Prosperous Paupers’ – that’s what we call ourselves. Sometimes we talk for hours after training. He’s such an inspiration and has taught me so much. His passion for his work and his art is …

  His art. Winter had read enough and needed to share this latest development with Chambers. He tucked the diary into his coat pocket and shut the locker back up, holding on to the key as he rushed out of the changing rooms and straight into one of the teenagers he recognised from the unproductive meeting.

  ‘Sorry,’ he apologised, stepping around her, when she stopped him:

  ‘Actually. I was waiting for you,’ she told him, looking anxiously down the corridor. ‘Can we talk?’

  ‘Sure,’ he said, following her through the nearest exit and out into the night.

  The heavens had opened while he’d been inside, so they didn’t stray beyond the boundaries of the covered entranceway. When she offered him a cigarette, he accepted, lighting up as they stood watching the rain for a moment.

  ‘I didn’t want to say anything in front of the others,’ she started, closing her eyes as she inhaled a blissful breath of smoke. ‘Long story short: I complained about this guy before and he lost his job over it, but none of them in there believed me. You won’t tell them, right?’

  Winter could barely hear her over the sound of the downpour.

  ‘Not unless I really, really have to,’ he answered honestly.

  The girl nodded, apparently satisfied.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Jordan.’

  ‘Well, cheers, Jordan,’ he said, gesturing to the cigarette in his hand while trying desperately not to choke on it. He didn’t smoke, but knew that finding common ground was the best way to get a teenager to open up.

  ‘I liked Alfie,’ she said sadly. ‘Alphonse. You know … really liked him.’

  ‘Cool,’ wheezed Winter, aware that he was overcompensating.

  ‘It was like … the two of us against the world, if that makes any sense? I tended to notice where he was going … who he was going there with.’ She took a steadying breath. ‘There was this man … like a really creepy sort. Not anything wrong with him in particular, but you know how you just get a feeling sometimes? Anyway, he kept coming in to see Alfie. I’m talking about every night. Kept touching his arm and stuff when they were talking. He was there the night … That night. He was there, and he hasn’t been back since.’

  She dropped her cigarette to the ground and stamped on it as though it were a particularly repellent spider, so W
inter followed suit, glad to be rid of the horrible thing.

  She gave him a strange look: ‘You still had like half left.’

  ‘Yeah, but I had the best half,’ he told her wisely, taking out his notebook. ‘Any idea what this man’s name is?’

  ‘Robert.’ She shook her head: ‘No idea about a surname though.’

  ‘Can you describe him?’

  ‘Your age, maybe,’ she shrugged. ‘Weird hair – like a bowl cut – always in his eyes. He was thin. Athletic … Tall.’

  ‘That’s all really helpful,’ said Winter, jotting it down.

  ‘Oh, that’s nothing,’ she told him. ‘By the third time he’d shown up, I had a go at getting him to sign up for membership to get some details out of him. But he wasn’t having any of it, so I followed him out to his car.’

  Winter kept his expression neutral but could feel his heart beating faster: ‘Happen to get a colour or make?’

  ‘Vauxhall Cavalier. One-point-six litre. Maroon. Tax disc stamped in Wandsworth. Got his number plate too,’ she said, handing him a folded piece of paper.

  Winter looked simultaneously stunned, grateful and rather ill: ‘You’d make a hell of a detective one day.’

  She smiled bashfully. ‘Like I said, he creeped me right out … You don’t smoke, do you?’

  ‘No,’ he admitted, opening the door and hurrying her inside. ‘So, I’m going to go throw up for a bit and then I’ll get right on this,’ he promised, already making a beeline for the toilets to implement step one of his two-step plan.

  The lights went out.

  Keeping to the shadows, Chambers watched Tobias Sleepe lock up for the evening, his suspect not noticing him in the archway when he jogged past through the lashing rain, nor when he turned his van around, two bright beams sweeping the perimeter like a searchlight.

  Watching the darkness swallow the rusty vehicle, Chambers darted over to the roller door and then up the fire escape to the vulnerable office window. Checking the coast was clear, he jabbed his elbow through one of the ill-fitting panes, the crack of the glass lost in the building storm. He reached through and loosened the catch, opening it just enough to clamber across the desk and land ungracefully on the other side.

  Switching his torch on, he shut what was left of the window and placed a branch he’d found outside amongst the broken glass to make it appear as though a flying piece of debris, rather than a desperate detective, had caused the damage.

  He began by flicking through the paperwork on the desk, searching for any mention of The Thinker, Rodin, Pietà, Michelangelo, swimming pools, hospitals – anything that could link Sleepe to the murders. Moving on to the drawers, he soon grew frustrated, finding nothing bar invoices, tax returns and photographs of restoration projects at various stages.

  Giving up, and conscious that every minute he spent in there was a minute gambling with his career, he opened the door to the main room. The statues below cut unnerving silhouettes in the gloom – like four sentinels lying in wait.

  Making his way down to ground level, he froze when his foot knocked something heavy off the final step. Sounding like a thunderclap in the silence, it hit the hard floor before rolling into a metal tool chest.

  Everything went quiet once more.

  Bracing himself, Chambers shone the torch over the damage.

  ‘Shit,’ he muttered on seeing the incriminating trail of liquid leading across the room and still flowing copiously from a metal can.

  Deciding there was little he could do about it, he moved on to the pulley system. He traced his light the length of the thick rope, from the excess coiled around the winch all the way to the noose-like end, his eyes growing wide as he spotted something.

  He quickly moved round to better see the inner edge, where coarse threads sprouted from the main weave, the colour darkened through years of usage and grime. But he’d definitely seen it: dried blood and what looked like human hair.

  His breathing quickening, he pulled a pair of disposable gloves from his pocket and had just found an evidence bag to collect some samples when the sound of wet tyres approached … the hum of an engine … a vehicle pulling up directly outside. Switching off the torch, he stood motionless, listening but hearing only the pelting rain.

  Suddenly, the metal door slid open.

  Taking cover behind the closest of the statues, he flinched when the spotlights above buzzed to life and then heard unhurried footsteps approaching.

  ‘There you are!’ announced Sleepe victoriously.

  Chambers held his breath, expecting to be confronted, but then heard the jangle of keys, followed by the sound of footsteps leaving … but then they paused. He risked a glance round the statue but was only able to see Sleepe’s shadow as it crouched down to pick something up off the floor. Chambers winced, already knowing what it was.

  ‘Hello?’ Sleepe called out. ‘Is there someone there?’ Chambers watched the shadow arm itself with a large tool. ‘If there’s somebody there, come out now!’

  The footsteps drew nearer.

  He was trapped in the middle of the room with nowhere to go and nowhere to hide. Edging around the statue in time to the footfalls, Chambers knew he was only delaying the inevitable, that he would be discovered at any moment, the open shutter tantalisingly close and yet so far from reach. But then, a gust of wind slammed the office door violently, attracting Sleepe’s attention.

  ‘Somebody up there?!’

  Chambers watched him take one last look around the room before slowly making his way up the steps. He dashed across to the next statue, making sure he hadn’t been heard before going for the next one. Crouching behind a bronze saint, he could feel the wind on his face, the rain splashing the back of his hand. He’d made it out.

  ‘Shit. Shit. Shit,’ he whispered, looking back at his evidence hanging in the centre of the room. He couldn’t leave it, not when he was so close.

  Sleepe entered the office.

  Seizing his opportunity, Chambers sprinted out into the open. With time for neither gloves nor evidence bags, he grasped a handful of bloody rope fibres, hoping he had some hair in there as well as he tore out through the open door.

  Holding the branch in his hand, Sleepe heard someone run past his broken window. He hurried back out onto the walkway and looked down over the main room, where the suspended rope was swinging wildly like a snare that had failed to go off. But from his elevated position, the wet footprints were as clear as day – weaving between his statues before returning for something, and then escaping into the storm.

  Thursday

  CHAPTER 8

  Chambers and Winter weren’t speaking to each other.

  The frosty silence had endured the length of Wandsworth High Street while they negotiated the morning traffic. The next red light blurred across the windscreen as the ‘drizzle’ turned into something between ‘spitting’ and a ‘light shower’, the British having about a dozen different terms for essentially the same thing: yet another miserable day.

  Chambers huffed: ‘Are you planning to sulk the whole way there?’

  ‘I just don’t feel you’re giving him a chance.’

  ‘I agreed to meet him, didn’t I?’

  ‘Reluctantly,’ scoffed Winter.

  ‘I’m just not sure he’s “the one”,’ said Chambers, pulling them one place forward in the queue.

  ‘And your guy is, I suppose? My guy couldn’t be more perfect,’ argued Winter. ‘He’s tall. He’s athletic.’

  ‘He lives at home with his mum,’ Chambers pointed out.

  ‘At least he’s not old.’

  ‘My guy’s experienced. Plus, he’s smart.’

  ‘So is mine!’ snapped Winter. ‘He’s a lecturer at a university!’

  ‘My guy works alone because he owns his own business.’

  ‘Oh yeah? Well, my guy …’ Winter trailed off, realising that perhaps the conversation was starting to sound a little odd. ‘All I’m asking is that you keep an open mind until Sykes gets bac
k to us with the test results.’

  ‘Of course I will,’ said Chambers, finally making it through the lights and turning into the residential roads. ‘Look, we’re here,’ he announced, pulling up outside a charming terraced cottage where an army of ceramic gnomes fished, wheelbarrowed and climbed around the immaculate front garden. ‘Not exactly Scaramanga’s lair, is it?’

  ‘Shut up,’ Winter bit back, climbing out.

  He gestured towards the maroon Vauxhall Cavalier, then led the way through the picket gate and up to the front door. They both reached for the doorbell at the same time.

  ‘You want to?’ Winter asked impatiently.

  ‘No. No. All yours,’ Chambers smiled, taking his hand back.

  He looked around at the cheerful ornaments while the musical bell played its tune: there was a tiny rock pool complete with trickling water feature, a couple of well-chewed dog toys, and just about every newspaper in circulation waiting on the step.

  A distorted shape approached the glass. Three sets of locks later, it finally opened the door to them.

  Winter went to introduce himself, but then completely forgot what he was going to say, both detectives just staring at the bizarre-looking man. As the teenager had described, he was tall, hair poker-straight and mousy brown, cut into layers that seemed to move independently of one another and, as stereotypes of his profession dictated, he wore defecation-brown trousers with a tweed blazer. What she’d neglected to tell them about, however, was his almost insect-like characteristics – his beady little eyes darting about from behind thick round glasses, a toothy pursed mouth that looked primed to take a bite at them.

  ‘Detective Constable Adam Winter from Shepherd’s Bush Green Police Station, I presume?’ he said, breaking the silence.

  ‘Umm. Yeah,’ replied Winter, a little surprised he’d remembered their brief phone call with such accuracy. ‘And this is—’

  ‘Chambers,’ Chambers interrupted his colleague. ‘… Just Chambers.’

  The man regarded them, almost seemed to study them, for a moment.

  Feeling uncomfortable, Winter smiled nervously: ‘Thank you for seeing us.’