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Tessa

The blood didn’t faze me, though it splattered the kitchen in a burst. Gunshots to the head do that, especially when fired point-blank. The victim sprawled on the tiles, her head propped on a drawer of pots and pans. The coroner would give a proximate time of death, but I’d felt the dead woman’s hand. Not yet cold. She’d been alive for dinner the night before. Her last supper. Later, home alone, I’d wonder about the cleanup. Blood thickens and cakes, is not easily erased. Julia D’Abdo, twenty-two, details not yet known, died in a Maida Vale walk-up. Now it was cordoned off with gaudy police tape, a constable on guard at the door. It wouldn’t be a crime scene for long, though. Quickly and surely, the flat would be relet. Ours is a crammed city. In a matter of weeks, someone would be making coffee in the postage-stamp kitchen, someone who might find the pink tint of the grout between the floor tiles appealing. If that person only knew.

I knew. One glance told me I’d seen this before. To start, there was no indication of forced entry. The murderer had had a key or was invited in, which meant the victim knew her killer. Neither were there signs of struggle, giving weight to the theory that her killer was no stranger—that or the victim had been surprised, with no chance to fight back. And unless he’d come calling in a hazmat suit, the culprit would have been spattered with blood. Nothing indicated that he had used the toilet, tub, or kitchen sink to wash it off. So the killer had left stained, but dark clothing could mask the gore, especially at night.

The murder bore other hallmarks of recent deaths—two so far, the victims both young women, each shot at close range. If, as looked likely, this was the latest unfortunate in the same string of killings, then unless the murderer had finally slipped up, there would be no prints, no hair, nothing but another victim of a serial killer, one we were nowhere near bringing to justice. A ballistics report would hit my inbox by early afternoon, but I’d bet a week’s pay the bullet would have the same markings as those used on the other two women.

The pressure on us to solve these seemingly related murders was intense. This sort of sin—salacious, unpunished, fear inspiring—was a field day for Fleet Street and its electronic offspring. Corpses sell papers, pretty corpses even more so. By six weeks after the first murder, the fallout was acute; West End restaurants and nightclubs suffered as women stayed away. In turn, many men were giving up the prowl. Cause and effect, and the effect was a lot of pissed off, pent-up people. London was frightened. This case had to be cracked and soon, or heads could roll, including mine.

Compounding the difficulty of finding a solution was the fact that all our efforts to establish a connection between the victims had hit a wall. Neither woman appeared to have known the other. Both frequented the same select nightspots. Both were beautiful blondes in their early twenties, as was Julia D’Abdo. This, however, was where the similarities ended. One of the victims, Elena Lukomsklej, was a Polish immigrant who had worked as a hotel clerk; the other, Katherine Morrison—known as Kate—had been an undergraduate at Cambridge. There existed CCTV footage showing each victim on the night of her death, entering or leaving establishments, dancing, chatting. Yet it didn’t show either of the girls leaving with someone—except for the Polish victim departing with a female friend who had been questioned and was certainly innocent.

Also, there was no evidence that either victim had been sexually assaulted. The murderer, it seemed, was not motivated by any twisted, wanton desire. Each woman died swiftly, without fuss. The answer to the question of “why” could lead to the “who,” the killer, but we had no why, so we had no who. We had no answers, which was maddening to everyone except, one could assume, the killer.

My mind mulled over this troublesome mash as I descended to the ground floor flat, entered, and approached a forlorn older female seated at the kitchen table. The female PC I’d spied earlier loomed nearby, silent. I turned to Detective Inspector Peter Lazarus as he ended a call on his mobile.

“She’s the one?” I inquired softly.

DI Lazarus nodded. “Moira Meehan,” he whispered.

I approached the woman with a kind smile but moved past her to the kitchen counter where I found a battered jug kettle, which I filled and switched on. I searched the cabinets for cups and tea. From the refrigerator came a liter of milk. I kept silent until I had in hand two mugs of caramel tea, which I placed on the table. I pushed one of the mugs in front of Moira and sat down opposite her.

“Mrs. Meehan, I’m Detective Inspector Tessa Grantley,” I said.

“Miss Meehan, thanks very much,” Moira Meehan corrected me. She accepted the mug with a “Ta.”

“I understand you found the body,” I said and added, “That must have been a shock. Are you up for a few questions?”

“I’m not going anywhere. Don’t think I could; not an easy thing, finding that.” Moira sighed. “I won’t say finding her; it wasn’t her anymore, you see.”

I saw and agreed with a nod. “You cleaned for Ms. D’Abdo?”

“Half day every other Thursday, plus a few loads of washing. She wasn’t very tidy, I must say.”

“Did you know her well?”

“Can’t say I did. She was a client . . . must be going on three years now. Referred by another client, as I call them. We met at the start. She told me what she wanted, checked me out I suppose, and found me harmless—which I am, by the way—gave me a key.”

“You still have the key?” I asked. “I’m told the door was unlocked when you arrived. Is that right?”

Miss Meehan nodded. “It is, and I do.”

“Did anyone else have access to the key, Miss Meehan?”

“They did not. I’m very careful with my clients’ things.”

“I’m sure you are. Please continue. I interrupted you.”

“Yes, well, we settled on a price, Ms. D’Abdo and I, and the Thursday morning routine. She said mornings weren’t good, I remember, that she wasn’t a morning person, but Thursdays she was always out of the flat early. I only saw her maybe half a dozen times after I started. Always smiling, always left me something for Christmas, which was very nice indeed. Pretty one, she was.”

“I’d like to speak with your other client, the one who referred Ms. D’Abdo to you.”

Miss Meehan fumbled an old flip-up mobile from a frayed handbag, pressed buttons, and handed it over. I found a pen and pad to write down the contact details.

“She may have been a wee bit wild, Inspector, but no more than lots of girls her age, you know? Sowing her wild oats. She didn’t deserve this,” Miss Meehan said. “No she did not.”

I reached out and took Miss Meehan’s hand, which proved the right move. Tears came; I walked around the table and enfolded this poor, crumpled soul with no more to tell.

“No she did not,” I echoed.

The Daily Mirror won the name game. Their front-page article on Julia D’Abdo’s killing dubbed this gruesome spree the Execution Murders, which struck me at first as redundant. These deaths had rattled many lives since the first shooting four months ago and had taken over mine. Blanket media coverage brought us thousands of tips, a lot worthless, some plain daft, all requiring follow-up. The night before—the last night of Julia D’Abdo’s life—I’d worked late, leaving after ten, unaccompanied as usual. I wasn’t plagued by the fear that had captured female Londoners since the killings began, for I didn’t consider myself suitable prey: a brunette, too old at twenty-eight. And okay, not pretty enough to be noticed. And when was I ever in a posh nightspot? I hadn’t been for years. As I walked to the tube, it had seemed to me the streets were quieter than usual. It was a work night, though, and it wasn’t as if the West End was deserted. Buskers juggled in Trafalgar Square, sang in front of St. Martin-in-the-Fields. Theaters and restaurants looked fairly busy. People were about. They seemed content, which was more than I could say for myself. I just wanted home and bed. Or maybe not.

It wasn’t like me to keep going past the Underground entrance, but that night I did. The mild, dry weather played an enticing role in my decision, but so did the notion of doing something spontaneous and unnecessary. No one was waiting for me—at home or anywhere—unless you counted an ill-tempered cat. So I dared myself to change my boring, mildly dreaded routine. If I couldn’t or wouldn’t have fun, at least I could watch others enjoy themselves. A whiskey sounded good, single malt, and I’d have no trouble finding someplace pouring. Rain or shine, London’s always pouring. My westerly path took me into the neighborhood specked with clubs the two murder victims had frequented. I wondered how crowded the clubs would be but didn’t plan on checking; I intended only to walk, browse a bit, and unwind from the day. It felt good being out. I worked with a cast of thousands but yearned for human contact, a nod or a smile, even from an imperfect stranger. So I walked without purpose, and while it sounds dramatic to say it, the walk changed my life.