The Thames Crossbow Murders

Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

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 n***d 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.

Sitting on the same step the next day, the stalker checked her watch. A wristwatch was sometimes more convenient than a smartphone for glancing at the time. At 21.40, a female jogger appeared down the street, approaching steadily. Was it the same woman? The sweatsuit was red this time. The killer stood and moved into the darkness at the centre of the underpass, lit only by the LED lights running along under the middle of the pavement. The effect was similar to illuminated green and blue marbles, changing position and colour. The ingenuity of London planners pleased her.

The oncoming jogger either didn’t see her or didn’t care, in any case, she didn’t break stride but ran past without a glance, exactly what the killer hoped for. It was the same woman with a pleasing range of jogging kits. That carefree attitude would be the death of her, the stalker thought with a chuckle.

The only difference the next day, apart from a meagre anticipation of two minutes, was that the stalker had a cello case propped against the wall and a pro crossbow in her hand, c****d and ready to fire. It was child’s play. Through the sight, compensating for the gloom, the killer positioned the crosshairs over the woman’s heart, waited until she reached Nancy’s Steps and released the bolt. The grey-clad young woman reeled sideways and fell on to Nancy’s Steps, which was perfect for the smirking killer. Hurriedly, she thrust the bow back into the case beside the quiver. The stalker had been so confident of her kill that she had left the quiver where it was. It helped her pack speedily, just a matter of seconds until the smart closure clicked shut. She was instantly on her way out of the other side of the subway, hopefully unseen, but if seen, apparently a young female musician hurrying to a rehearsal or a concert.

Fifteen minutes later, a university student came upon the jogger’s body and rang the emergency number. He expressed no doubt when telling the operator that the jogger was dead.

Very soon, DI Shepherd took an internal call on her desk phone, informing her of a second crossbow murder. As she set down the receiver, she noticed a note from Gillian Porter: Accompanying Lindsey to fetch Daniel home from school. Shepherd nodded and smiled; Gillian knew her job. Next, she hurried to Vance’s office, failed to knock, and burst in, saying: “Jacob, we’ve got another serial killer on our hands, come on!”