Читать книгу Magic Lantern - Alex Archer - Страница 13

5

The streets were packed near the East End alley where the fourth Mr. Hyde murder had taken place. Annja instructed the cabdriver to get as close as he could, then paid him and walked the rest of the way.

She didn’t like being at a crime scene. Several of the digs she’d been on had been crime scenes, as well. But there wasn’t the immediacy of present-day death.

A logjam of onlookers, police and emergency teams filled the narrow street. Flashes went off from cell phones and pocket cameras. A cold breeze, shot through with patchy fog, blew in from the Thames. The blue lights of the police cars whipped across the apartment buildings and stirred the shadows.

Despite the number of people, Annja got close enough to see a middle-age woman sprawled half on the curb and half in the street between parked cars. Blood darkened the sides of the cars. Bloody handprints streaked the back windshield of one.

“She fought him.” A woman in her late forties or early fifties stood in front of Annja in a faded house robe with a grape Popsicle in one hand, talking to an older man. “’Course, didn’t do her no good. Poor thing couldn’t get away from that madman.”

Annja nudged closer. “Excuse me.”

The woman looked back at her.

“Did you see what happened?”

Her eyes narrowed. “You’re American?”

“Yes.”

“Thought so. I recognize the accent. And yes, I did see what happened. I called in the bobbies. My name is Jane. Jane Morris.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Morris.”

“Are you a reporter?”

“Something like that.”

Jane regarded her suspiciously. “I don’t see no notepad.”

“I’ve got a very good memory.”

“No camera, neither.”

Annja nodded toward the policemen as they started out into the bystanders. “Anyone who’s taken a picture is likely to have their phone or camera removed as part of an effort to collect evidence.”

The woman watched as the police officers gathered the cell phones and cameras. Of course, the law enforcement officers didn’t get them all because the crowd started dispersing. The ones who had their grisly souvenirs were intent on keeping them. They’d pop up on Facebook, blogs and Twitter within minutes if they hadn’t already.

“This is my first murder,” Jane said in a low, confiding voice.

“Could you tell me what you saw?”

The woman pointed the Popsicle at the murder victim. “I saw that poor thing fighting with a proper big bloke. He was huge. Like some kind of gorilla. Shoulders out to here.” She placed her hands about three feet apart and the Popsicle dripped on the neck of the man ahead of her.

The man cursed and shot her a nasty look. He took a step away.

“Sorry, love.” Jane licked the Popsicle momentarily dry. “She hardly had time to cry help. I was standing up there.” She pointed at a balcony on the third floor of the nearby building. “I called the police immediately.” She shook her head sadly. “But I knew it was too late.”

“The man got away?”

“Of course he did. A man who can stomp in a woman’s head like he’s stepping on a peanut? No one around him is going to stop him. We don’t carry guns like you Yanks.”

“Do you know who the woman was?”

Jane shook her head. “Looked like she was a waitress, from the way she was dressed.”

Feeling ghoulish, Annja surreptitiously took out her sat-phone and brought up her Twitter account. Keeping the phone hidden from the police, she scrolled through the news and didn’t have to go far before she found the first tweets about the dead woman.

Audrey McClintok. A twenty-seven-year-old waitress at a diner.

Annja put her phone back in the pocket of her Windbreaker. So far, none of the victims had anything in common except for being women. The ability of the man to kill and disappear was chilling.

“Well, now here’s something.” Jane sucked on her Popsicle.

Two uniformed policemen pushed through the crowd, backing people off and heading straight for them. Probably wanted to talk to Jane, since she’d reported the murder, Annja thought.

They stopped in front of Annja. The oldest of the two was grizzled, and his bleak eyes indicated he’d seen too much over the years. “Ms. Creed.”

She nodded.

“DCI Westcox would like a word with you, miss.”

“Now?” The last thing Annja wanted to do was get involved in the murder investigation.

“Yes, miss. Now.”

The two policemen had flanked her and she got the distinct impression turning down the detective chief inspector’s invitation wasn’t an option.

“This way, miss.” The older policeman waved her forward and the crowd parted once again.

Along the way, bright flashes from cell phones and cameras temporarily blinded Annja.

* * *

“DIDN’T TAKE YOU FOR A looky-loo, Ms. Creed.” DCI Alfred Westcox was a tough, no-nonsense cop. Probably ten pounds underweight, he looked as if the excess had been hammered off him. He wore a trench coat and hat, and the tie clipped to his chest lifted as the wind gusted. His cottony white hair matched his eyebrows and mustache. He wore thick glasses over his watery blue eyes.

“I’m not.” Annja respected how the chief inspector ran his business, but she wasn’t happy with the way she’d inadvertently ended up on the wrong side of him.

Westcox didn’t like her any more than he did any of the other media people gathered around for the story. In fact, she didn’t know why he’d singled her out. There were plenty of others on hand.

“Yet here you are, Ms. Creed. In the middle of my murder investigation.”

“I came out to see if I could help.”

“Really?” Westcox cocked a dismissive eyebrow. “You? I don’t know why that idea never crossed my mind.”

“Your time would be better served solving Audrey McClintok’s murder, than coming down hard on me.”

Westcox took a deep breath and his nostrils flared. “Who gave you that name?” He glared at the two policemen who had fetched her.

“Not me, sir.” The grizzled man stood his ground.

The younger man took a step back. “Nor me.”

“Brought her here straightaway. Just as you said.”

Annja didn’t like the two men taking heat for something that wasn’t their fault. “It wasn’t either of them. I got the woman’s name off Twitter.”

Westcox turned his glare on her.

“Someone tweeted about the murder. Probably someone in the neighborhood who recognized her.”

“Or it was the killer.” He raised his voice to call, “Peters!”

A younger detective in a Windbreaker turned toward his superior.

“Get your mobile and give the lab a ring. Put one of the computer lads on to the Twitter accounts. Find out who put up posts regarding this unfortunate girl. I want their names, addresses and a chat with them.”

“Yes, sir.” Peters turned away and pulled out his cell phone.

Another uniformed policeman trotted up to Westcox. “The coroner is here, sir.”

At the end of the street, Annja saw a new vehicle with flashing lights.

“Get him over here so we can shut this circus down.”

“Yes, sir.” The policeman turned and fled.

“Now you, Ms. Creed.”

“I don’t know why you’re taking such issue with me.” Annja met the man’s gaze full measure.

“I was told this absolutely amazing story about a botched robbery last night. Apparently a few young Asian gang members held up a restaurant not far from here.”

Annja kept her face devoid of emotion.

“The restaurateur and his lucky daughter—and even the gang members—all tell the same fabulous story of a red-haired American woman with a sword who interfered with the robbery.”

“Okay.”

“Would you happen to know anything about that?”

Annja didn’t like lying, but in this case the truth wasn’t something she was prepared to tell. “No.”

“Why would the woman with the sword run off like that?”

“Perhaps she heard how appreciative you were of anyone trying to help with your investigation.”

The grizzled officer laughed, then quickly covered it with a coughing fit. “Sorry, sir. It’s this bloody fog.”

Westcox glared at him, but the man stood with his eyes averted.

“You’re not here to help me with my investigation, Ms. Creed.” Westcox returned his attention to Annja. “If you interfere, or turn vigilante with a sword, I’m going to lock you up.”

“All right.”

That answer seemed to take Westcox by surprise. He stood there for a moment. “I don’t much care for your nose in my case. Your particular television show seems dedicated to prattling on to the feebleminded about ghosts and ghoulies.”

The accusation touched a nerve. Annja liked what she did for Chasing History’s Monsters and was tired of defending her work.

Before she could speak, Peters turned back to him.

“Chief Inspector.”

“What?”

“I’ve accessed the Twitter feed regarding the murder.” Peters pointed at Annja. “They also appear to be aware that Ms. Creed is with you.” He held out his cell phone for Westcox to see.

Annja saw it, as well. Someone had snapped a picture of her talking to the detective chief inspector.

“Whoever took this is assuming you called Ms. Creed in for a consultation regarding the Mr. Hyde murders.”

Westcox looked apoplectic. “No one has even said this is a Hyde killing.”

“Actually, someone has. Mr. Hyde himself has tweeted in and claimed credit.”

Annja responded immediately. “Trace the tweet.”

“Computer forensics is already on it.”

“This is a break,” Annja said to Westcox. “Hyde has never tweeted before.”

“And he may not have…have tweeted now. Someone else may have done that. We can’t jump to conclusions.” Westcox shoved his hands into his trench coat.

“I wouldn’t dream of it, Inspector.” Despite her respect for the man’s job, Annja had had enough. She wasn’t the only person interested in the Mr. Hyde story. The number of people taking note of the murders was growing every day. He had no right to lean on her while she was simply trying to do her job. “Are we done here?”

Westcox hesitated. Finally he gave a brief nod. “We are. But watch your step, Ms. Creed.”

“I always do, Inspector.” Annja walked away as the haggard-looking coroner hunkered down beside the woman’s corpse. She headed into the crowd without looking back. She’d seen more than she’d wanted to.

“Annja! Annja!” A young female reporter with blond highlights held out a microphone while a camcorder operator trained his sights on Annja. She raised a hand to block the sudden bright light.

“Ms. Creed, what kind of help do you expect to give Detective Chief Inspector Westcox regarding the Mr. Hyde killings?” That came from another journalist, one with an Irish accent.

Annja ignored them and headed for the other end of the street. A few of them followed her, but gave up when she hit the cross street.

Her phone rang. Caller ID showed it was Doug Morrell. She didn’t want to take the call, but she knew if she didn’t Doug would just keep calling back.

Just as she started to answer, a dark Jaguar S-Type glided to a stop at the curb. Both passenger doors opened and two men holding pistols got out.

“Ms. Creed. Get in the car, please.”