Copycat Killer Read online

  Remi greets Storm at the door of the house. “Everett here yet?” he asks.

  Remi shakes her head. “They’re running late. Everett didn’t like the sandwich he was given and has insisted on grabbing some lunch on the way.” She makes a face. “You’d think he might have lost his appetite given the condition in which he found his fiancée.”

  “And the friend Kris Caprio?”

  “Is still with him,” says Remi. “He was following the big star around like a loyal lapdog last I saw him.”

  “Good,” says Storm. It will be good to get an impression of them both at the same time. People always give away more than they think in the presence of their nearest and dearest.

  Hearing Storm’s arrival, a skinny figure with greasy slicked back hair dashes enthusiastically towards him. It is Phineas Finlay, the crime scene tech.

  “Just your key findings for now, Finlay,” says Storm, knowing Finlay’s tendency to go into an irksome level of detail.

  Finlay enthusiastically shows Storm the site of Raif Silverstone’s murder. “We think he opened the door to the murderer, and then went towards the stairs to call up to Lynesse Jones who was upstairs,” says Finlay cheerfully.

  Finlay retraced the killer’s footsteps and mimes every move with exaggerated enthusiasm. “The murderer followed him, and picked up this cat.” He points to a heavy statue of a cat lying on its side next and mimes swooping it down, crashing it into a skull. “And WHACK, WHACK, WHACK!” he finishes.

  The blood at the base of the stairs is brown now. There is no sign that it had ever been blue.

  “So? Was he an incubus?” asks Remi. Leo has no doubt messaged her.

  Storm nods. Beatrice Grictor had confirmed it. And according to Finlay’s evidence it looks like everything that Diana had seen in her dream was accurate. Either that or she came to the same conclusions herself when she was here.

  Remi seems to have picked up on his thoughts. “Diana said she dreamed the killer was watching them from outside the house.” She points to a window. “We found smudged fingerprints on the outside and one clear partial. Nice catch, huh?”

  Storm frowns. “Maybe.”

  “C’mon,” she says. “Incubus. Prints on the window. That’s two points to Diana.”

  “I hadn’t realized it was a competition,” says Storm.

  Remi makes a face.

  Finlay has been watching them, his lizard-like eyes flicking from one to the other. “An incubus?” he says. “Cool! Were they bonking? I bet they were bonking. I bet he killed them for bonking. That’s hot.”

  “Is there any evidence of that?” says Storm coolly.

  “Er… Well there were no fluids, no semen on the bedsheets, but maybe they hadn’t got round to it yet?” says Finlay.

  “Stick to the evidence,” says Storm tersely. “Leave the theorizing to us.”

  Finlay shrugs. He bounces upstairs, where he spouts at great length about Lynesse Jones’s death and re-enacts the gruesome savagery with relish.

  Storm’s eyes are on the mark left on the wall by the murderer. It should be in a more prominent position. Over the bed would have been a better spot. And Diana was right — the deep claw gouges that accompany DCK’s bloody pawprint are missing.

  Storm hears footsteps on the stairs and tells Finlay to shut up just in time to keep him from upsetting the grieving fiancé. A moment later an Agency officer enters the bedroom and, when Storm nods, he allows Jared Everett and Kris Caprio to follow him in.

  Everett looks older in person than in his pictures. In his mid-thirties, he is a decade older than Lynesse. Every bit of those years is showing on his face as he stares at the bloody, rumpled bed in horror as if seeing it for the first time. Perhaps it looks different now that his dead fiancée is no longer on it.

  “Would you like to wait outside, Mr Everett, while Officer Samson gets your things?” says Storm.

  Faced with the reality of being in this room, Everett seems to change his mind about getting his things himself. He nods his head. Officer Samson seems relieved. It will be easier for him to catalogue the things that are going to be removed and ensure they are nothing of evidentiary relevance without a Hollywood superstar barking at him to hurry up.

  Storm and Remi exchange a meaningful glance. They escort Everett and Caprio back downstairs to the kitchen where, at Everett’s insistence, Caprio busies himself making coffee for everyone. He is overly tall and gangly, his features too prominent on his long face. A failed actor according to the information that Monroe sent over. Clumsy too, splashing milk over the counter as he pours some into a mug. He doesn’t bother to wipe it up.

  Everett slumps into a chair at the kitchen table and buries his face in his hands. He looks every inch the grieving fiancé. His shoulders are even shaking. He clearly expects Remi to play the part of the beautiful female cop and comfort him.

  Remi knows it too. She gives Storm a slightly exasperated look. She places her hand on Everett’s shoulder and then, when Everett continues sobbing, she pats his back.

  “She was the love of my life!” Everett cries.

  “You must miss her,” Remi says in a gentle voice that no one who really knew her would fall for.

  Storm stands back watching, making sure his lips don’t twitch. When Caprio brings over the coffee, Remi takes the mug from him and gently places it in Everett’s hands as if it is an honor to do so.

  “She was the best thing that ever happened to me!” Everett wails. “And now she’s gone forever! Taken from me by some animal!”

  “You must feel terrible,” says Remi. “To not have been here when it happened?”

  Everett nods his head vehemently. “If I had been here I would have killed him. I swear!”

  “But you couldn’t be here?” Remi asks, gently nudging him in the direction she wants.

  “I had an acting job in Ireland,” Everett says. “I flew out last Thursday. Kris was with me.” He looks towards Kris for confirmation, and Kris immediately nods his head.

  “I should have taken her with me!” Everett wails.

  “Why didn’t you take her, Mr Everett?” Storm interjects.

  Everett turns wild eyes on him, seeming surprised, as if he had forgotten that Storm was there. “Because… It wasn’t convenient,” Everett blusters. “I mean… It was work. She wasn’t used to being on a set. She would have got in the way.”

  “I imagine she would have loved being on a movie set,” says Storm smoothly. “She would have been excited.”

  “I said it was work,” Everett snaps.

  “I’m sure it was the best decision at the time,” says Remi soothingly. “You didn’t know what was going to happen. I bet she called you every day because she missed you. Isn’t that right?”

  Everett looks at her gratefully. “Yes, she called me every day,” he confirms, as if this is a testament to his love.

  “So you must have been worried when she stopped calling you these past couple of days?” says Remi, sounding every bit convinced that this must be true.

  Even so Everett senses the trap. He seems momentarily surprised, but recovers swiftly. “No, there was no reason for me to worry,” he insists. “She called me on Thursday. That’s only a few days ago.”

  “First you said she called you every day,” says Storm. “And now you’re saying she didn’t.”

  Everett looks defensive. “We had a fight on the phone, all right?” he snaps. “But it wasn’t my fault. She started it. She was a hot-blooded succubus. She liked to fight over nothing.”

  Beside Everett, Remi manages to keep a straight face. Storm knows she is internally rolling her eyes at Everett’s stereotyping of his own fiancée.

  “So you admit you fought when you last spoke?” Storm says.

  “You’re twisting my words!” Everett snaps. But he looks disturbed, as if he knows he has been caught out. Something occurs to him, and he says triumphantly, “She was angry before she even called me! She said she’d had a fight with our housekeeper M
arta and fired her!”

  “Marta who?” says Storm.

  “I don’t know! Marta whats-her-name.” He gestures at Caprio.

  “Marta Perrone,” says Caprio.

  “It’s Marta you should speak to,” says Everett. “She must be the last one who saw Lynesse alive. Perhaps she left the door open and that’s how the killer got in! And why are you even questioning me? It’s DCK who killed Lynesse. All of the newspapers say so!”

  “Are you saying DCK had an accomplice?” says Caprio incredulously, looking from Storm to Remi for confirmation.

  “It is procedure for us to interview the victim’s partner,” says Storm, unwilling to disclose his suspicions at this early stage. The last thing he needs is for this to get out to the press, whose wild speculation will only hinder the investigation.

  “But I’m sure you have nothing to worry about, Mr Everett,” says Remi saccharine sweetly. “I’m sure you have a rock solid alibi. It’s just that we have to ask these questions and note things down for our records. It’s to make sure all our bases are covered for when killer is taken to court. You understand?”

  Everett nods. “Kris and I have been in Ireland since last Thursday to early this morning, when we flew back. We were together all week. You can check the flight records.” He tells Kris to give them details of the hotel he stayed at, and the name and phone number of his director friend who had invited him to the movie set.

  “And you went there to film a role?” says Remi, batting her eyelashes.

  “An integral supporting role,” says Everett smugly. “I couldn’t do the lead. I’m too busy with my vampire hunter show, of course.”

  “We’ve already called your director friend,” says Storm, diving in for the kill, and noting the sudden tenseness in Everett’s body. “And he said that he’d decided to axe the supporting part. You didn’t film anything.”

  “You— You spoke to him?” says Everett, looking flustered.

  “He said you stayed some days to watch the shooting, but then you left this Wednesday. Two days before the murder. Plenty of time to fly back here in time for Friday night, and then fly back to Ireland.”

  “It wasn’t me!” Everett explodes. “I never flew back early. Tell them Kris!”

  Kris Caprio nods. “I booked Jared into a nearby beach cottage for a few days. He needed a break. I stayed on set while he was away.”

  “So Jared has no alibi?” says Storm.

  “I do,” mutters Jared resentfully. “You people are worse than the reporters.”

  “Her name is Astrid Wikander,” says Caprio, with a sigh. “She’s the female lead in the Ireland movie. I’ll give you her number. Can you please keep it quiet? It’s the last thing we want in the press.”

  Storm exchanges a look with Remi. Talk about the unexpected. Astrid Wikander is one of Hollywood’s hottest young female leads, and Jared Everett’s icy-hearted ex-girlfriend. One who was furious when Everett dumped her for a succubus ‘whore’, as Wikander had once called Lynesse in a now-famous swiftly deleted tweet.

  Instead of one suspect, it now looks like they have two.

  Chapter 11

  DIANA

  On Monday morning I wake up gritty-eyed as ever from the same dream of murder, which was a hundred times worse now I know the victim’s names, and that they are already dead and nothing I can do will change it. All that is left is to put their killer behind bars.

  Or beneath the ground, suggests the little voice.

  Full of determination, I spring out of bed. Yesterday after Storm had escorted me out of the morgue I had stayed in the car park fuming. I had wanted to march back in and have another go at him for even implying I might be under suspicion for murder. His words are still echoing in my head. “You were right about James Fenway too, and look what happened to him.”

  As if I hadn’t felt enough guilt over James Fenway’s death. He should have been behind bars for what he did to his niece, not have had his head blown off.

  He deserved it, whispers the little voice in my head.

  “It’s not vengeance I want,” I tell her. “It’s justice.”

  Same thing, she says. I can almost feel her shrugging.

  Maybe it is. Maybe Raif Silverstone’s shattered spirit would have felt better knowing his killer would suffer. His remnant, his ghost if you will, had asked for my help. I’d promised him that. I’d vowed justice for Lynesse. I’m not going to back off simply because Storm will be disappointed in me. My promises have to mean something, because they’re to people who are dead and can’t do anything to help themselves.

  So all this anger I have been feeling lately, all of this rage and helplessness, I’m going to have to bottle it and use it, even if that makes Storm mad.

  Maybe he deserves to be a little mad. Like I was when I had stood outside that morgue spoiling for a fight and fuming about the fact that he must be inside talking to the cool, elegant Beatrice Grictor with her shiny red hair and big weepy eyes.

  I had finally persuaded myself that I should leave when Beatrice Grictor had come out, heading to her car after identifying her business partner’s body. On some mad instinct I had flagged down a cab and asked the driver to follow her. Like in the movies. I’d wasted a whole bunch of my money doing it, but I’d thought she’d be going back to her office, back to where Raif Silverstone used to work.

  Even when Beatrice parked in front of a London townhouse and I had paid my cab driver and I realized there might have been cheaper ways of finding their office, I had been glad. Because I had been doing something. I had taken action. And it had felt good.

  Beatrice had disappearing into what was clearly her home, not her office, and I had walked right up to her front door and seen the silver plaque beside it. Turns out I had found their office after all. Beatrice Grictor and Raif Silverstone had worked from her home.

  Which had made me wonder if they’d ever had a relationship, and whether she had mentioned that to Storm.

  Maybe she had. One thing was for certain. Storm would never tell me. He wanted me off this case.

  So that was where I was going to go today. Back to Beatrice’s house to find out what the hell is going on. The plaque at the entrance had said that Raif’s office was in there. I need to get into it.

  But what about your job? says the little voice inside my head. She is needling me. She doesn’t give a crap about my job.

  She is right, of course. I have a shift at my catering job this morning. I need it because the tips at Luca’s restaurant last night had been crap. But I’ve already lost three shifts at the catering job, and wasted a stupid amount of money on the cab yesterday. No way am I going to be able to pay my rent by Thursday.

  The only way to do it is if I win the wager and get that consultancy fee the chief promised me.

  So that’s your only option really, the little voice says. I can almost feel her dancing with sheer glee inside my head. She hates the catering job as much as I do.

  “Stop being so smug,” I tell her.

  I feed AngelBeastie and let her out on my way out to Beatrice Grictor’s house. It is in central London, so it takes a good long march to get there.

  The day is sunny and pleasant, and I am glad of it. I had planned to scope out the house from a nearby cafe that had a decent view of Beatrice’s front door, but all the window seats are taken. I end up having to sit outside with my tea, the cheapest thing on the menu, and hope that my floppy sun hat and sunglasses are enough to stop Beatrice from spotting me if she should come out. A damn fool I would have looked had it been cloudy.

  I nurse my cold tea for many hours, not drinking it because then they might make me leave. I see first a young lady in a smart little dress and a matching silk scarf enter the house with a key — I figure she must be the secretary — and then the comings and goings of several people who must be Beatrice’s patients.

  I note down the times they arrive and leave. Each appointment seems to be an hour long. At lunchtime, Beatrice’s secretary com
es out of the house and walks off down the street and around the corner. Beatrice does not come out. The secretary returns thirty minutes later, to my great relief. The secretary is a key part of my plans.

  Twenty-five minutes later another patient arrives and disappears into the house. I wait fifty minutes before I abandon my tea and dart over to the house, intending to ring the buzzer for the secretary to let me in. There is no need. The patient has not pulled the door shut. It is still slightly ajar.