The Thames Crossbow Murders E-Book

John Broughton

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

After a crossbow bolt kills a birdwatcher in a remote site on the Thames, the Metropolitan Police discover they have another serial killer on their hands. The killer leaves no trace, and Detective Inspectors Shepherd and Vance are faced with a puzzle that threatens to erupt into an international scandal.

Soon after, a virtuoso pianist loses his life in the same manner. The murders are all connected to the river Thames, but the waters are muddied by the involvement of British and Russian secret services.

After a man is arrested for the murder, Shepherd is certain that he is the culprit. But what do the international organizations have to do with the case, and who is the killer?

Leseprobe

THE THAMES CROSSBOW MURDERS

VANCE AND SHEPHERD MYSTERIES BOOK 3

JOHN BROUGHTON

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Next in the Series

About the Author

Copyright (C) 2022 John Broughton

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2022 by Next Chapter

Published 2022 by Next Chapter

Edited by Terry Hughes

Cover art by CoverMint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author’s permission.

CHAPTER1

NEW SCOTLAND YARD AND RAINHAM, LONDON

Detective Inspector Jacob Vance sighed heavily, not for the first time that morning, and stared at the recovered equipment on his desk. It amounted to a Nikon Coolpix P1000 point-and-shoot digital SLR camera, a small black notebook, a plastic carrier bag containing sliced bread and a silver thermos flask with its coffee still remarkably hot. The victim’s time of death was, according to the chief medical examiner, 24 hours before the discovery of the body. That happened at 11.55 this morning when he was found by another birdwatcher or birders as they called themselves, so it was surprising that the coffee was still drinkable.

A knock came at his door while he considered the quality of the flask.

“Come!” Jake smiled wryly at the department’s computer wizard, Detective Sergeant Max Wright and, particularly, at the dark rings under his eyes that spoke clearly of nighttime nappy changing duties. The detective inspector had been best man for Max last year at a lavish wedding reception held Fulham Palace, Bishop of London’s former residence. “What have you got for me, Max?”

“Not much, Sir, but that camera probably set our victim back over 1,000 pounds. The one I saw was £1,300. It’s ideal for bird photography because it has a 125X zoom with image stabilisation, and it zooms from 24 to 3000mm and, with an extension, to 6000.”

“So, our Mr Pearson was correctly equipped for his hobby, and the killer wasn’t interested in making off with his camera. Did you find anything about this Roderick Pearson?”

“His driving licence is clean and tells us that he lives in Romford.” DS Wright consulted a piece of paper, the worse for wear for being too long clutched in his left hand. “Risebridge Chase, in a property currently valued at £1,600,000, would you believe? Five-bedroomed, detached, in two acres of grounds with various outbuildings.”

“Do we know if he was married?”

“Well, with a house that size, Sir, it’s a fair bet. He must have had a pretty decent salary to afford it.”

“Leave me the address, Max.”

The sergeant looked at the scrap of paper and then at his boss with evident embarrassment. “If you have a pen and paper, Sir. This note is almost illegible, and all screwed up.”

Vance pushed a scratchpad across the desk and casually tossed a four-colour retractable ball pen with a rubber grip.

“Preferred colour, Sir?”

“Sarky sod! I’ll transfer you to traffic duty if you don’t write that address, sharpish!”

Wright grinned, selected black and wrote the street number as neatly as possible.

“It makes you wonder, doesn’t it, Sir?”

“When will you learn to speak with subject, verb and direct object, DS Wright?” Jacob Vance snapped.

“Sorry, sir. A guy with his income, tramping around in a deserted area of the Thames, photographing gulls, of all things!”

“Each to his own. I’ll break the news to his widow, if she exists, and find out what made him tick.”

“I suppose he could have afforded goodness-knows-how-expensive a camera.”

“Indeed, but think; this Nikon has the advantage of being compact, doesn’t need a tripod because, as you said, it has built-in image stabilisation and can zoom in on our feathered friends as close as you like.”

“You’re right, of course, Sir. But who would want to kill a birdwatcher?”

“Question of the day! Get back to work Max; see whether you can find out anything else about this Roderick Pearson.”

Vance watched the door shut on his brilliant computer expert and sighed heavily again. Who, indeed, would want to shoot a crossbow bolt through the throat of a well-to-do birdwatcher? Maybe his family or workmates could provide an answer. Certainly, forensics had given him nothing. It appeared that a ghost had shot Mr Pearson. A killer who had left no trace of their presence except for the 20-inch carbon pro bolt transfixing the victim’s throat. No traces of prints on the bolt, but with such a precise murder, Vance would have expected no less. He was already formulating an impression that the assassin was a professional hitman or hitwoman. The cleanness of the hit, remote location, and lack of trace evidence suggested that scenario.

Vance scowled at the plastic bag containing slices of wholemeal bread. That was evidently a lure to attract a melée of wheeling gulls. He pursed his lips and considered; sling a couple of pieces into the river, and the air would be full of the pesky critters. He couldn’t see the attraction himself. He had already studied the crisp close-up photographs of gulls, and the camera helpfully gave him the time and date of each shot. The spotter had even zoomed in on the leg of one bird to get details of the ring that an ecologist had placed on it.

With another sigh, Vance pulled the black notebook to him and flicked through the orderly entries until the last page. He stared at it and thought: “So, our Mr Pearson was alive and well at 11.41 am yesterday, which fits nicely with Dr Tremethyk’s estimated time of death.”

He referred mentally to the chief medical examiner, an overweight, friendly Cornishman whose appearance and speech mannerisms belied a brilliant mind and unquestionable professionalism. He scanned the last entry Pearson had ever written, admiring the precision of the notes and the man’s evident knowledge of his subject. It must be so; how else would he have known the scientific name for the Sooty gull? Ichthyaetus hemprichii, Vance muttered the words. “The irony of it, just when he thought he’d got lucky, he gets a bloody crossbow bolt through his neck!” He continued to study the entries. Coldharbour Point was as isolated and remote as the name suggested but not so distant by car from Romford. He would have to visit the scene of crime. Whereas he had the photographs taken by Tremethyk’s assistant, there was nothing like an on-the-spot examination to understand better the murderer’s psyche. He switched off his overactive speculation and focused on the page:

Coldharbour Point, August 12, 11.30am

Weather: overcast but bright. Temperature 18°C, wind speed 6 knots south-westerly

11.32 Sooty gull (Ichthyaetus hemprichii) – immature – migrant brown tail, white throat, bill slate blue. Mewing whistle. Location: perched on rock. f8 1/2500.

Note: vagrant. Not found in the UK. Maybe came on ship from Egypt or Middle East?

Brilliant sighting!

11.41 Caspian Gull (Larus cachinnans) – adult

A long, slender bill with sloping forehead. The legs pink, wings, and neck are longer than a herring gull. f11 1/2500.

Note: ringed with number P895. Return visitor, more common in winter on Thames.

Vance closed the notebook. It gave him an insight into the victim, but it was the murderer he wanted to understand. So, it was time to involve his former sergeant, the incomparable Brittany Shepherd, promoted for her all-round brilliance, especially for her contribution to bringing the notorious serial killer, Arnold Tibbet, to justice. Vance had a new and promising sergeant, Mark Allen, but he had not found the sounding board or flashes of intuition in the solid police officer that Shepherd invariably brought to a case. That was why DCI Ridgeway was happy for the two detective inspectors to work together as they had with the tram murders last year.

He rose slowly. Lately, his head had begun to spin whenever he stood up quickly. Was it his advancing middle age or something more sinister? “Probably only a stiff neck from too much sedentary work. A riverside walk will do me good.” He marched out of his office, deliberately striding swiftly until he came to Shepherd’s room. At his rap at the door, the familiar voice called on him to enter.

Now that they were colleagues rather than partners, Vance admired Brittany more as a woman than as a cop. Shepherd’s oval face was pale, contrasting with her short dark hair, cut in a 1920s straight bob. Her sapphire-blue eyes, turned-up nose and full lips made her the force’s sweetheart, while her lithe figure contributed to a certain bygone actress appeal.

Those disconcertingly enthralling eyes twinkled at him. “I knew it was you. Nobody else in the building has such a rude knock!”

“What do you mean? I didn’t just barge in, did I?”

“No, because you want help for your latest case, and you wouldn’t want to upset me.”

“How did y..? Aw, leave off, will you!”

She grinned triumphantly and asked: “So, what’s cropped up, Jake?”

“A birdwatcher, out early this morning, came across a body by the Thames at Coldharbour Point, Rainham, near the waste-disposal unit.”

“An out-of-the-way spot. Who’s the victim?”

“A white male, late thirties. We have an ID and address, too, thanks to Max. He’s Roderick Pearson of Risebridge Chase, Romford.”

“That’s a nice area, somewhat out of my price bracket, though.”

“That’s because you eat in fancy Japanese restaurants.”

“You should take Helena out for a Japanese meal instead of forcing her to make you enough steak and kidney pies to sink HMS Belfast. How did he die, then?”

“A single shot to the throat.”

“Calibre bullet?”

“Tunnel thinking again, Brit! Did I mention a firearm? No, it was a crossbow bolt.”

“Blimey, that’s a bit medieval, isn’t it?”

“Not really. Modern crossbows have telescopic sights and are extremely powerful. Plus, they are almost completely silent.”

“You’ve been doing your homework, Jacob.”

“I confess!” He smiled grimly. “You see, the bolt was a professional carbon affair, 20 inches long. It points to a certain type of weapon. But I’ll explain more later. I want you on this case because there are fewer clues than on a Tibbet investigation. We have zero trace evidence, no poems, no colours, zilch! Also, if Mr Pearson was married, I’d like to have you with me to console the grieving widow.”

“Unless she did it, Jake. Personally, I couldn’t live with a twitcher.”

“Don’t you like birds, Brittany? There’s a surprise.”

“Not bloody seagulls, anyway, noisy, pooping, greedy blighters!”

“Some people love them.”

“Well, I don’t. Let’s go then.” She had an afterthought: “But we should call around at Lambeth and hear what Doc Francis has to say. He’s always good for an insight or two, me dear,” she said, imitating Tremethyk’s Cornish accent startlingly well for a Mancunian.

In Lambeth, they found the medical examiner at work in the stomach-churning surroundings of his autopsy theatre. He had the body of an elderly female on the slab, with clear signs of bruising around her neck.

“It’s not suicide, boy,” he said laconically. “Oh, but I forget, this kind of domestic violence case is no longer in your high-powered league. You’ll be here about the crossbow killing, right?”

“Astute as ever, Francis. We wondered whether you’d formulated any of your insightful notions.”

“I can tell you with certainty that the crime was committed by shooting with a slightly upward trajectory. Since the killing happened on a level walkway, it means that the killer wasn’t tall or was tall but knelt to shoot. They shot the motionless victim from sideways on, in profile, like. He must have been concentrating on the birds for the murderer to have caught him unawares. The force of the bolt penetration suggests high velocity and amazing accuracy. You’ll be looking for a trained marksman.”

“A professional assassin?”

“Either that or a skilled amateur, me ’andsome.”

“Could the killer have been a woman, Doc?” Shepherd cut in.

“Nikita? Aye, of course, why not? Another thing, my gloomy friends…” His accent became more marked when he was disturbed by something. “The remarkable Dr Markham, our new mummy and her team, found absolutely no trace evidence at the scene. That also suggests a professional job. How is the doting father, by the way?”

“It does look that way. Thanks for your time. We’ll let you get on with your work. Since you ask, DS Wright looks like he could do with an unbroken night’s sleep.” Despite being accustomed to visiting the morgue over the years, Vance still hadn’t got used to the combination of odours, so he beat a hasty retreat with this parting shot. Some of his colleagues placed Vick ointment in their nostrils when calling on Tremethyk, but Vance refused to do likewise out of a false sense of machismo.

“Not exactly helpful, Jake,” Shepherd said as she drove away, heading for Rainham. “Doc Francis leads us to believe our killer could be short or tall, male or female. But we’re looking for someone who can handle a crossbow with professional accuracy. That might be a lead in itself. Whoever we’re after will need to stock up on bolts. Also, I wonder if there are archery clubs that offer firing ranges to crossbow users? It’s a start, anyway.”

“We’ll shelve that for the moment and concentrate on the scene-of-crime surroundings and the family.”

Shepherd parked on Coldharbour Lane, and the two officers walked down to the river, towards the railed walkway where the body had been found that morning.

Shepherd shivered and complained: “Bloody Desolation Row! It’s the perfect place for a murder; you can see how it got its name – it’s pretty bleak here.”

Vance pointed to the rocks to the west exposed by the low tide. “Gulls and a cormorant, too.”

“It’s a good view of the river, but look over there. Aren’t they old barges?”

“Something to do with the Second World War. Afterwards, they towed them here for flood defences, but now they’re abandoned. They’re concrete, you know; and they don’t float any more. And down there is the waste disposal company. They have the contract till 2024. I reckon they attract the gulls along with landfill sites across the river, recycling centres and outfalls. We humans keep the gulls in business!”

“More’s the pity!” Shepherd pointed to the chalked outline of a body. “Here’s where Pearson lay. The killer would have crept up the path and fired from as close as they dared come without alerting the victim through peripheral vision. I’ll tell you what; you stand in the chalk figure and stare at the river as if you’ve sighted a gull. I’ll creep up on you. Sing out when you see me out of the corner of your eye.”

She backed away, turned and began creeping up on the stationary man. “Now!” he called, and she froze. She was 20 feet away. Factoring in several paces farther back, she raised an imaginary crossbow and shouted: “Don’t move! Can you see me in your peripheral vision now?”

“No, but if I stand still much longer, I’ll freeze to death here.”

“It’s about 30 feet,” she said. “If they used a telescopic sight, they couldn’t miss.”

“Why they, Brit?”

“We don’t know if they are male or female. I’m keeping an open mind. I’m a woman, and I’m sure I could have hit your throat with the right crossbow, Jake.”

“Lovely thought, pal! Let’s get out of here. I don’t know about you, but it’s given me a shrewd idea of the kind of killer we’re looking for.”

“You say that, but we don’t know whether it was an opportunist – I mean, an impulsive random killing – or whether the murderer held a grudge against Pearson.”

“We won’t find out by standing here, Brittany. Let’s get over to Risebridge Chase.”

“Chase? Isn’t that a posh name for a street?”

Vance laughed. “No, I’d expect nothing less from a Manchester lass, but even you must’ve heard of Cannock Chase.”

“Yeah,” she said defensively. “So?”

“So, a chase is an area of unenclosed land formerly reserved for hunting.”

“Well, it looks like our hunter – Roderick Pearson – was the prey in this case.”

“Indeed, and I’ll bet the crossbow was a professional hunting weapon.”

They drove to Romford, almost as far as Chase Cross. The sat-nav informed Shepherd that she had almost arrived when they came to a bend, where a rickety five-barred gate leant permanently open. She accelerated down a long drive to a detached house set among a wooded estate.

“Lovely leafy area,” Brittany said admiringly. “It’s all right for some!”

“You talk first if a woman answers, Brit.”

That was their usual method. Most women felt less intimidated when faced with a woman officer. A glamorous strawberry blonde with blue eyes to rival Brittany’s answered the doorbell’s chimes. Brittany detested the melodious ringing tones, which she considered pretentious, but didn’t let her feelings show as she presented her warrant card.

“You’d better come in. Has anything happened to Rod?” the woman asked anxiously.

“Can we sit down? It’s Mrs Pearson, I presume.”

“What? Oh, please do. Yes, I’m Lindsey Pearson – Rod and I have been married eight years.”

“When did you last see your husband, Madam?” Jake asked gently.

“Has anything happened to Rod?” she repeated.

“Please answer the question, Mrs Pearson,” Shepherd said, smiling reassuringly.

“I-I think it was yesterday morning. He went down to the river. He’s a keen birder and amateur photographer.”

“And you haven’t heard from him since?” Brittany asked. “Is that usual?”

“Well, yes, because Rod told me that he had an afternoon appointment with an important client. He often takes them to dinner, and when he stays out late, he checks into a hotel rather than drive home and risk getting breathalysed.”

“Very sensible, ma’am,” Vance nodded approvingly. “What does your husband do?”

“He’s a stockbroker, and wealth management is his speciality.”

“I see.” Vance cast a meaningful glance at Shepherd, who understood at once. Their partnership was almost telepathic.

The female officer said: “I’m afraid we have bad news, Mrs Pearson. Your husband has died. I’m sorry I can’t break this more gently.”

The blonde’s face assumed an anguished expression. “Rod? Dead? That’s impossible! He’s so fit and full of life!”

“I’m so sorry, Mrs Pearson, but it’s true. Can I get you anything? Make a pot of tea or grab something stiffer?”

“Thank you, Detective Inspector Shepherd.” Brittany was impressed that, under the tragic circumstances, the poor woman had remembered her rank and name. “There’s brandy and glasses in the dresser. If you’d care to join…” At this point the tears ran down her face, smudging her make-up.

“Not on duty, much as I’d like to,” Shepherd called over her shoulder as she poured a generous brandy for the woman.

Neither officer missed how her hand shook as she took the glass. Their expert eyes told them that the widow wasn’t involved in the killing.

Lindsey Pearson gulped down a mouthful of brandy and shuddered at the impact of the alcohol. “W-was it a road accident?”

“Mrs Pearson, as far as you know, did your husband have enemies, anyone who would want to harm him?”

“No! He was very popular at work, the golf club and the tennis circle. Nobody! Was he..?”

“I’m afraid so, ma’am. Your husband was the victim of a terrible crime. I can tell you that it was swift, and he didn’t suffer. We’ll have to ask you to accompany us to identify the body. Later, we’ll explain better, and we’ll ask you more questions. Do you feel ready to come with us?” Jake asked.

“Are there children, Mrs Pearson?” Shepherd enquired.

“Oh my God, yes. Poor Daniel! He’s at boarding school. The Gidea Park Prep School. It’s not far from here, but we thought it better for him to board with the others. He looks so sweet in his uniform; it’s navy with azure piping and a white shirt.” She choked the last word as her sobs took over and shook her body. Shepherd stooped over her, raised the brandy to her lips and coaxed her into taking another sip or two. It did the trick as she regained some control and tried to say sorry.

“It’s quite normal, Mrs Pearson; no need to apologise for anything. We’ll take care of ringing your son’s school. The head teacher will know how to react. We have a specialist officer trained to give support over this difficult period, and she’ll deal with all your everyday and administrative problems. We’ll introduce you to her back at headquarters. If you feel up to the ride, lock up your home and join us outside. Take your time, Ma’am. Don’t worry; we’ll find who did this to your husband and bring them to justice.” Shepherd stated this with far more confidence in her voice than she felt at that moment.

CHAPTER2

NEW SCOTLAND YARD AND SOUTHWARK, LONDON

Shepherd gazed pityingly at Lindsey Pearson. The detective inspector, recently married, couldn’t bear to think what Lindsey was going through. What could Gillian Porter, the family liaison officer, do to help? Skilled at her job as she undoubtedly was, nothing she could do or say would bring back Rod Pearson. The harrowing ritual of official identification over, Mrs Pearson sat with red-rimmed eyes and pallid face in a comfortable armchair in Shepherd’s office. The detective inspector introduced the constable.

“Mrs Pearson, this is Gillian Porter. We think it’s best if she stays with you to help you sort things out over the next few days.”

“Hello,” said the constable, offering a hand.

“Call me Lindsey,” said the widow, shaking it.

“Tell me about your son,” Gillian said.

“I’ll leave you to it. DI Vance is waiting for me,” Shepherd said, somewhat relieved to consign Mrs Pearson to capable hands.

She knocked at Vance’s door and entered at his reply.

“How’s she bearing up?” Vance showed his concern.

“Not too well, as you might expect, but Gillian’s with her now.”

“Ah, Porter’s a capable officer in these cases.”

“What was it you wanted to tell me?”

“About the crossbow. As you know, it fired a 20-inch carbon bolt. So, we’re looking at the category of professional hunting bows. I found a range of weapons readily available to anyone aged over 18 on the open market.”

“You’re joking! Are you saying that anyone can buy a lethal crossbow without restrictions?”

“I’m afraid so. Put it this way, the last time there was a crossbow killing in our city, the senior coroner, Professor Paul Marks, expressed his surprise that the purchase of such crossbows was completely unregulated, telling the inquest he would be writing a report to the chief coroner expressing his concerns about the weapons, under section 28 regulations designed to prevent future deaths. But, as usual, to date, nothing has been done.”

“What about the bow, Jacob?”

“I’m coming to that. The one that caught my eye, among several other possibilities, is this,” he opened a yellow manila folder and handed her a printout. “I think the name drew my attention. It costs well over £1,000 and packs quite a punch.

Shepherd read the name of the crossbow and looked up with a rueful smile. “I see what you mean about the name: Killer Instinct Hero 380. That would appeal to our murderer!” She read the sales blurb aloud: “The Hero 380 packs a real punch in its compact, sleek frame. It’s suitable for both seasoned veteran and beginner bow hunters. Tough, lightweight, and comfortable enough for an easy shoot. This crossbow’s deadly accuracy goes beyond the standard 60 yards/54 metres. If you plan on filling your freezer with venison, this is the best crossbow for you.” She looked up with the same wry smile. “It says beyond 60 yards, Jake, so the 10 yards we paced out at Coldharbour Point was well within its range.”

“Yes, I know, and as you’ll see if you read on, it shoots a bolt at a speed of 380 feet per second.”

Shepherd whistled through her teeth in an endearingly masculine way.

She read: “It has a Lumix four times 32 IRW scope. What does that mean?”

“Basically, you can’t miss. You see four times larger than with the naked eye. It’s an infrared system, a sighting device combining a compact thermographic camera and an aiming reticle. If our murderer wanted to, they could shoot in the dark or high contrast light situations and still hit the target with deadly accuracy.”

Shepherd whistled through her teeth again. “I can see why Rod Pearson didn’t stand a chance of our perpetrator missing his throat. It says it’s lightweight with manageable draw weight. You know what that means, Jacob?”

“Yes, we can’t rule out a female killer.”

“And look, it says: ‘One of the best crossbows on the market for its quality and price. The compact Hero 380 can’t be beaten for accuracy at this level.’”

“I have read it, Brit. But that’s what I’m saying. Our killer would have been able to buy this or an even higher-grade weapon quite unhindered. Did you notice that this comes complete with a quiver of five bolts?”

“Mmm, which means they wouldn’t necessarily have to purchase replacement bolts if they settle for one killing or up to five. That makes our job harder.”

“By the way, my dear newlywed, I’ve sent your Russ to check out Roderick’s work colleagues. I’m expecting him back soon. How’s the wedded bliss?”

He had been best man for them in the summer, repeating his experience earlier in the year when Max Wright had married the head of forensics. This wedding was on a more modest scale because, unlike her predecessor, the bride did not boast a hugely prosperous father. Perhaps because of his unique relationship with Brittany, Vance had enjoyed the reception even more, albeit in literally less palatial surroundings. He ascribed it to drawing on a wealth of anecdotes about the bride, although, strictly speaking, the best man should talk about the groom. Since Vance hardly knew Russell Simons, he took the easier option. His speech was a success, especially because most of the guests, like the couple, were in the force and appreciated the humour aimed at embarrassing their darling Brittany. She had threatened her erstwhile partner with dreadful retribution, but it was all in jest. Now he’d reminded her of his stinging wit.

“Are you trying to take the bliss, inspector?”

He laughed at the play on words. “Not at all; I need to know that my long-time partner is happily married.”

“Well, I am because Russ is a true gent, unlike some people I could mention.”

The arrival of DS Russell Simons spared Vance the potential tongue-lashing building within the lithe frame of his colleague.

“Have you got anything for us, Russ?” Vance asked hopefully.

“Stockbrokers aren’t a very friendly crowd, sir. They struck me as independently minded and highly competitive, a bit arrogant. Even so, not one of his colleagues had a bad word to say about Roderick Pearson. I think admiration was the main sentiment I detected.”

“So, nothing to lead us to his killer?”

“The only person I could find to benefit from his demise was Brendan McKenzie, who has already taken over Rod’s portfolio and appointments. But I checked his alibi. It’s rock-solid. He was occupied and in the company of colleagues all the morning in question.”

Shepherd smiled at her husband. “So, it looks like his job had nothing to do with his death.”

“Oh, we can’t say that, Ma’am.” He pointedly respected her rank, but she noticed the twinkle in his eye. “I think we can rule out his colleagues, but his clients might be another matter.”

“Good thinking Russ,” Vance said, earning himself a glower from Shepherd. “Obviously the brains in the Simons household,” he murmured so low that Shepherd didn’t quite catch the remark, but she knew its nature. She reacted by saying: “Did you get a list of his clients?” Secretly she hoped he’d say no, to make her look better, but he opened a small briefcase and handed her four photocopies stapled together.

“Well done, Russ,” Vance said, meaning the compliment. “See what you can turn up. I’ll detail DC Allen to help you work through them. Look for alibis for the morning of the killing and check them carefully.”

Shepherd looked up; her cheeks were pink. “It’s going to take ages, Jacob. Russ, you can investigate with my DS and an extra constable. I bet these are all bigshots. It might prove hard to get hold of them.”

“It has to be done, Brit. Let me remind you that we have no leads. Somebody knew Rod Pearson well enough to go out to that godforsaken place and end his life.” Vance insisted.

“Unless it was an opportunist killing, Jake, in which case this will be a waste of time.”

“A lot of our work is unproductive, but, as you know, occasionally a long shot pays off. You’d best get off and gather your team, Russ. You can brief them yourself.”

“Will do, sir. It’s only a page each,” he quipped.

* * *

Meanwhile, in Fulham, in her riverside apartment, the stalker prepared the groundwork for Murder 2. She had begun three days earlier when she’d ordered a cello case from an online wholesaler. Her doorbell rang, and through the door viewer, she visually confirmed that her parcel had arrived. Signing for it, she brought the unwieldy item indoors. She found a knife in a kitchen drawer to slice through the packing tape to open the cardboard package. Removing the packaging foam sheets, she exposed the black fibreglass case it protected. The online caption had been 4/4 Ultra-Light Carbon Looking M Case. She lifted it out of its cardboard coffin and grunted approval. They had described it as weighing 3.8 kilograms, and she felt sure it was no heavier – now, she would test whether it was ideal for her purpose. With another satisfied grunt, she opened and closed the case to check the reliability of the closure. She opened it again, strode over to a cupboard and withdrew her crossbow and quiver. Carefully, she placed them inside the cello case, snapped it shut and lifted it, threading her arm and shoulder under the carry strap. This time, the weight met with her third, final sound of appreciation, a somewhat creepy, throaty chuckle. She set the case down on the sofa like a mother laying her baby in a cradle. “I’m ready for my research,” she decided, so she locked her flat and departed for the river. She headed east along the north bank of the Thames. It took her two hours to walk to London Bridge, but she was in perfect physical shape. Once there, she crossed the river on the pedestrian pathway and walked down to Tooley Street. She followed the path along to where it passed under the bridge, allowing her to admire the pavement, which she knew, illuminated underfoot at night. That would be interesting. She planned to be here later on, around 10 o’clock, to commit the next murder. But first, she had to select a victim, which meant returning here for reconnaissance at that hour. But now, her rumbling stomach needed attention.

She remembered the Boro Bistro, behind Southwark Cathedral, where she had eaten a delicious French meal a couple of years before. If she could eat there at 20.30, she’d have finished her dinner at a perfect time to do her research. Would they have a table? Maybe they’d accommodate a single person who hadn’t booked. She glanced at the display on her phone. It was only 18.25, so she’d try booking for her chosen time.

The friendly restaurateur obliged the pretty client with a recommendation to book a few days in advance next time. So, she strolled off, searching for a quiet pub for an aperitif. At 20.30 precisely, she took a seat in the restaurant. After studying the menu, she opted for a veggie burger: mushroom-and-thyme patty, tomato, Tomme de brebis and mixed-leaf salad. She also treated herself to a glass of Bordeaux.

She paid the bill and left the bistro at 21.07. Retracing her earlier route, she passed the cathedral and entered the underpass. Emerging, she sat on a low stone retaining wall around a flower bed. The wall made a comfortable seat for her to watch pedestrians on the broad footpath, but she soon abandoned this position as unsuitable. A quieter spot near the underpass would be ideal, so she walked back and only then noticed the plaque high up on the wall at the end of the short subway next to a flight of steps.

When she read the dedication to Historic Southwark, her heartbeat increased in equal measure with her determination. Wide-eyed with excitement, she reread it more carefully: Nancy’s Steps –These steps and arch are surviving fragments of the 1831 London Bridge designed by John Rennie and built by his son, Sir John Rennie. The steps were the scene of the murder of Nancy in Charles Dickens’ novel Oliver Twist.

What better place for Murder 2? She now had literary motivation to add to the real reason behind her crossbow murders. The Dickens connection might serve to set the police on the wrong trail. She smirked at the thought.

What better place to recce Murder 2? She sat down on the third step to watch the world go by. Occasionally, someone mounted the steps, giving her a curious look – that wasn’t good because she didn’t want to attract attention – but so few people were on the move here that it still seemed ideal for her purpose. At 21.45, a lone female jogger, wearing a two-piece grey sweatsuit and purple air-cushion trainers, proved the watcher right when she appeared running towards the bridge underpass. The stalker checked the time. Joggers were creatures of habit; she knew that because running was part of her own extensive fitness regime. Unlike this jogger, she preferred her regular early morning run when the air was cleaner. She cast a professional eye over the woman’s sweatsuit – zip, long sleeve crop top, elasticated waist, bodycon long pants, slim fit, showing her curvy body to perfection. This jogger took her hobby as seriously as the stalker herself; she smiled tightly and approvingly, deliberately keeping her head down as the woman sped past. She didn’t want to meet her eye. At that moment, the killer decided that she would return the following day at the same time to check on the jogger’s regularity.