Read Online Cold Kill by David Lawrence - Free Book Online Page B

nervous energy taking him forward. He was muttering to himself. Stella could feel the anger – as if he were shedding flakes of fire. He stared at the photographs in turn. He read the vile little stories word by word. He was breathing through his mouth like a man who had just stepped off a running track.
    He said, ‘This is bad. This guy has to go down.’
    Stella was staring at a photograph of a woman who was turning to look over her shoulder, almost as if she had spotted her follower or heard the sound of the shutter-release. The movement had brought her into half-profile, the curve of her breast, the sweep of her hip; her dark hair was back in a pony-tail and she had clean, delicate planes to her face, a small, straight nose.
    Harriman moved to stand next to her. He said, ‘It’s Valerie Blake.’
    In the bedroom, they found more photographs, both on the walls and in a long row of albums. They found a laptop computer. They found locks of hair, fifty or so, arranged on a black display card, time and date carefully recorded.
    They found a notebook.

9
    I will call this one Anthea.
    I will call this one Beatrice.
    I will call this one Cherie.
    I will call this one Davina.
    The book was spiral bound and close ruled. The writing was as neat and evenly spaced as the writing on the walls. There were faint traces of dusting-powder on the covers. Forensics had done a rush job on the book, principally for DNA samples; Stella would let them have it back for dye and heat tests, ink analysis and so forth. It was a book you could buy in any stationer’s and the ink was fine-point fibre-tip.
    Harriman turned up at her desk with bad-joke coffee and a couple of report-sheets. She said, ‘Who’s cross-referencing the women in the pictures?’
    â€˜Maxine and Sue. They’re getting some help from the indexers.’
    â€˜Tell them that the names are not likely to help much. He’s naming them himself: going through the alphabet.’
    â€˜Some might be right.’
    â€˜Might be. But, if not, there’s nothing to go on except the faces; in other words, nothing to go on.’
    â€˜The missing persons files.’
    â€˜Missing persons with no names to match.’ She picked up his report-sheets and glanced at them. ‘How long before she came out?’
    â€˜Two hours. Let me tell you how many people knocked on the car window and complained about pollution.’
    â€˜You had the engine running.’
    â€˜Two hours? An airflow coming in straight from the Arctic. They’re calling it an ice-wind; listen to the weather forecast.’
    â€˜Duncan Palmer lives in a very middle-class area. People recycle; they ride bikes.’
    â€˜They drive fucking great SUVs that never see a rock or a patch of mud.’
    Stella was reading Harriman’s description. ‘Tall, sexy, blonde, slim.’
    â€˜I didn’t say sexy.’
    â€˜It’s between the lines.’ She put the report down. ‘You followed her to where she lives?’
    â€˜She went back to Palmer’s flat.’
    â€˜Did she now. And before that –?’
    â€˜Went shopping. Picked up some bits and pieces in a food hall: something for the rest of the day. Pâté, pasta, salad, two swordfish steaks. And etcetera. Me next in the queue with my cheese and pickle sandwich.’
    â€˜Then she went back.’
    â€˜No. She went to a place called Filigree. It’s a jeweller’s in the Hypermarket. She was looking at a 1950s Rolex Oyster.’
    â€˜Did she buy it?’
    â€˜They’re trying to find her a Patek Philippe, whatever that is.’
    â€˜Did she give a price range?’
    â€˜Up to fifteen hundred.’
    â€˜No kidding...’ Stella picked up Harriman’s report again and glanced at it, as if for confirmation. ‘A Christmas present,’ she said.
    â€˜Could be for her father, brother...’
    â€˜For her