Each Day I Wake: A gripping psychological thriller: US Edition (14 page)

With care, so as to not disturb the piles of documents set out on the long table at the center of the Ives’ office, DS Lesley placed the file she was carrying in the last available space.

“As you requested, sir, here’s what we have on Stella DaSilva.”

“You’ve read the post mortem report?”

“Not much to be made of that. Looks like straightforward accidental death. Overdose. Opiates in the bloodstream - enough to kill a sumo wrestler let alone a nine stone woman.”

Ives picked up the report and started leafing through it. “Do you think anyone could ever intake that much heroin before passing out?”

“Hard to say, sir. It wouldn’t be the first time that some novice dealer got hold of a pure batch of the stuff and didn’t cut it properly. Addicts take what they think is just enough for their normal fix when in fact it’s enough to kill them.”

“Any other indications?”

Lesley pointed to the relevant page. “She did have abnormally high levels of insulin in her blood.”

“So, she could have been injected with insulin first. Then, once she’s passed out, the heroin?”

“There’s no other evidence to support that, Steve, but it’s a possibility. Or she could have been an undiagnosed diabetic.”

Ives rubbed his chin. “What else do we know about Stella DaSilva?”

Lesley brushed back a wisp of hair from her face. “Not much. Her real name is Della Brogan. As Meryl Price told us, she worked for Diamond Escorts. Which makes her a high-class call girl in all but name. It seems she was well known on the high life circuit, seen in the company of wealthy men, the likes of Tyrone Montague, the investment broker. Even made the columns of some of the less serious women’s magazines. No criminal record and that’s remarkable as she was in and out of children’s homes for the best part of her life. Her possessions were claimed by her brother, Marshall.”

“Anything more?”

“If you don’t mind me asking, can we afford to be this interested, sir? OK, she has a client who leads her to think he’s a serial killer, but in the line of work she’s in, she’s bound to hear that sort of stuff and worse from the fantasists and losers that make up her client list. She looks like a side issue. Unless you’re saying Markland
was
that client?”

“We don’t know that but you’d have to say that the names given for the girls by Meryl Price are eerily similar to those given to us by Markland. Too close to be any kind of coincidence.” Ives paused to take a drink from the water bottle beside him. “By the way, why haven’t we interviewed Markland again?”

“He’s no longer at home in Lichfield. There’s an alert out for him, but nothing back as yet, sir.”

“And his wife?”

“She says she doesn’t know where he is. I spoke with her on the phone. She was genuinely distressed. I think I believe her. I suggest we have a man there with her full time.”

Ives nodded his agreement. “So, back to Stella DaSilva.”

“Meryl Price mentioned some kind of record that DaSilva was keeping. Or should we be calling her Brogan? A diary or journal of some kind.” Lesley paused. “Don’t forget her brother. It might have been in the things of hers that he collected.”

Ives was pleased. “OK. Find out what you can about him.”

Lesley returned ten minutes later with what she’d found. “Marshall Brogan. Juvenile offender, in and out of children’s homes like his sister. He’s been straight since going into the Merchant Navy. We have an address in the East End. And a place of work. He’s a security guard at Canary Wharf. Works out of Canada One.”

“OK. Let’s talk to Brogan.”

Ives paused. “Anything else?”

“The other girls. The ones mentioned by Markland and now by Price. You want to say they’re more than just missing?”

Ives shook his head. “We can’t be sure, not yet. It’s too early to say we’re looking for a serial killer.”

Lesley smiled.

Ives knew that she’d made her point.

I found that my desk in
The Herald
office had been used as a file store and general drop off point for office junk while I’d been away and spent the first hours tidying and organizing my workspace.

When I started up my computer, I was surprised to find that the email stream was as full with messages as if I’d never been away. It was the main means that the workload of the team was managed. When Hamilton sent a message, he copied it to every member of the team, including me. When any member of the team replied, it was habit to copy in all the other members from the initial message. On an average day each member spent at least an hour going through the messages, sifting out the dross of services and products no one wanted, dealing with their own personal messages that had found their way onto their inbox and then, responding to what was important. But now, here I was looking at the accumulated workflow of the team for the whole time I’d been away.

I had to fight off a feeling of hopelessness that the system somehow continued independent of those it was meant to be supporting. As if somehow we were working for it and it continued whether we paid it attention or not as the system continued racking up messages oblivious to the fact that we weren’t there.

Then I realized that what I had before me was an asset as much as a problem. If anyone had been sending sensitive one-to-ones to other members of the team, those messages were not going to have been copied to all but the majority of messages sent were here and I could follow the flow of the investigation as it had been going on in my absence. At least in outline. From the meetings called, the reports filed, the minutes attached, I could start to build a picture of what I’d been missing.

But those missing weeks had produced a flood of messages and I knew I was going to have to be patient in allowing time to go through them all.

Yet I knew I needed to concentrate on what was of prime importance in my coming here.

I called up the
SurePen
site and typed in Della’s login and password. It was a strange thought. Her journal was protected by military level security but once the passwords were known, it was available to anyone anywhere in the world. A new idea of secrecy.

It was all here, all two years of her detailed account of her life in London.

I checked to make sure the printer had enough paper and started to print out the diary. By late afternoon I had all four hundred pages bundled together and safe in a locked drawer in my desk. I had two copies, one for myself and one for Brogan.

There was no time to start reading it. In any case, I had a strong sense that it would be unwise to let anyone here know what I was doing. But I’d arranged for Brogan to call at the office and, right on time, the phone rang. It was a call from Reception to say that a Marshall Brogan was waiting there to meet me.

I bundled Brogan’s copy of the diary into a file folder and made my way downstairs, trying to make this as unremarkable an exit as possible as I moved through the main newsroom. It was the hive of activity it was expected to be and I received no more than a few casual looks.

At Reception, I greeted Brogan as if he were an expected business contact. “Thanks for coming in. I have the documents here.”

Brogan took the file and thanked me. “Keep in touch.” I watched him as he left the building.

Back in the office, I began work on what was held on my computer.

If Janet and Josh Healey were right and I had knowledge of the missing girls before my accident, there should be evidence of that here.

I searched the computer hard drive for each of the names.

Cathy Newsome

Rebecca French.

Margot West

Felicity Jenkins.

To my surprise, the search brought up a series of hits for each of them.

There was an image of each, looking as if it was taken from an online profile page. There were details of the reports made about their disappearances, culled from local newspapers and published police and family appeals. There were biographical details of each, brought together from online profiles and submitted CVs taken from job search sites. In short, there was no doubt that I’d been interested in them.

I was struggling to hold onto the idea that, after all, Janet and Healey had been right. My visions of the girls being killed must be connected to the fact that I was investigating them, building a story about their disappearance. Somehow, I’d become so involved in the investigation that, in the trauma caused by the accident, I’d taken the guilt of their disappearance on myself and represented this in the visions.

Yet something I couldn’t suppress was all the time undermining this comforting scenario. What made me make this connection between the missing girls? Of all the women who were reported missing, why had I selected these four to be interested in? And why, when I was supposed to be working on financial wrongdoing in Hamilton’s team had I been continuing the crime journalism I was supposed to have moved on from by investigating these disappearances? There was some missing factor, something leading me to concentrate on these four to the exclusion of all others. I shivered. Or else another explanation was altogether more unavoidable, one I did not want to face. I had been the one killing these girls, just as I’d seen them in my visions of them.

I checked through the email inbox once more, searching for any recognition from anywhere else in the organization of my investigation of the disappearances and could find none.

If I’d been working on this in any legitimate way, it must have been in secret.

I checked again. Were these the
only
girls I’d been investigating? Maybe I’d been involved in a much wider enquiry and the four were just part of a much larger group? I was surprised by what I found. There was information on over fifty, mainly young, missing women. Something had been leading me to monitor them all.

The phone rang. Evan Hamilton knew I was here. He called me into his office and asked me to sit in the chair facing him.

“I didn’t know you were in. It will be good to have you back, Tom. I want you to know that.”

Something about the way he made a point of saying
will
led me to think this was not what was on his mind. “I’m ready to come back.”

He shook his head. “That’s just what I want you to understand, Tom. I thought I’d made myself clear in Lichfield that what you’ve been through is bound to have effects that are longer term than you’d like to think. I don’t want you to rush back in. That would be foolish. You’re bound to make mistakes. I asked you to take time and told you that we’re here to support you, every step of the way. Yet here you are, against my express advice.”

I tried to reassure him. “You’re right, Evan. I’ve still got some way to go and I value your advice. I don’t plan to be in every day. But there are times, like today, when I need to be here.”

He frowned. “So, what’s so important to bring you here today?”

I told him what I’d just discovered about the girls. “I didn’t know what to say to you in Lichfield when you told me about DI Ives’ questions, Evan. Now I know the answer. I’ve been investigating them. The evidence is on my hard drive.”

If I had expected interest and support from him, I was wrong. He rose from his chair, stood over me and struggled to contain his anger. “You were under strict instruction, Tom, when you joined my team that you should stop all your previous work and give your sole attention to the OAM investigation. No wonder we’ve failed to find the knock out punch when, against my express instruction, you’ve continued with this earlier project. You need to know that I mean to make this a disciplinary matter.”

I wished then that I hadn’t told him. But his hostility gave one good reason why I must have been investigating the missing girls in secret. If Hamilton had found out, this is what his response would have been.

I tried to move the conversation on. “OK, Evan, I understand why you’re taking a strong view. But if you need more results from the OAM investigation, why are you pushing me away from it?”

He sat back in the chair, seeking to regain his composure. “As I told you, Tom. You’re just not ready. OK, if you need to come into the office, do it if you must. But stay away from the OAM investigation and, in addition, stay away from having anything more to do with those missing girls. You’re not one hundred per cent, anyone can see that. Until you are, you can only do harm to what we’re doing here. Take the time. Make a complete recovery.”

I straightened in the chair. “Look, Evan. I don’t need that sort of protection. I need to get back to the story. Get fully involved. Please don’t deny me that.”

“I’m sorry, the decision’s been taken. There’s no going back on it. I’m stepping out of line to allow you any time at all here, you must understand that.”

“Might as well put me on gardening leave.”

“I can arrange it. You know that’s what I’d prefer.”

“There’s a reason you don’t want me back on investigative work, isn’t there? Why don’t you come clean and tell me what it is?”

He waved me towards the door. “I’ve told you. It’s for your own good. Until you’re sufficiently recovered.”

I left his office wondering why he wouldn’t level with me.

I knew I should call Janet. It had been too long since I’d left Lichfield and, apart from a brief call to let her know I’d arrived at Brogan’s, I hadn’t kept in touch. I’d been too caught up with what was happening here in London. It had taken longer than I expected to print out the diary and I was sure by now she would be worried about me.

When I dialed, she picked up straight away. “I thought you’d never call. Where are you?”

“I’m sorry.”

“And I said we’d never be parted again. I thought something must have happened to you again.”

“I’m safe. Don’t worry. I’m at the office. I promise I won’t leave you out of the picture as long as this again.”

She didn’t respond as I thought she would. “You’ve heard about Cathy Newsome?”

“I heard on the radio that her body’s been found.”

“Where do you think that leaves you, Tom?”

“Doesn’t it make sense of what I’ve been saying all along about the girls?”

“And that’s what worries me.” She paused. “Come home, Tom. We can talk about this much better here.”

Her voice was strained in a way I’d never heard it before. For the first time since the accident I had the feeling that there was something false in what she was saying. “Is there someone there with you, Jan?”

She hesitated. “It’s DI Ives. He’s patched in on a conference call line. He wants to talk to you again about Cathy Newsome. I’m putting him on.”

It was Ives. “We need talk, Mr. Markland. This is not a request.”

I tried to stall him. “I’ve told you everything I know about Cathy Newsome.”

He lowered his voice. “What if I told you that might not be the case, Mr. Markland?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“So stay where you are.”

There was no time to say goodbye to Janet.

I closed the line.

I’d told Janet where I was. Ives would not need to trace the call. Since he was based in London, he would be with me soon.

I was surprised that I thought of running.

Something I couldn’t quite understand told me that I had to be sure of what was written in Della’s diary before Ives interviewed me again. It was the best chance I had of knowing enough about what had been happening to me and those around me, essential to answer the inevitable questions that Ives had for me that would, I was sure, all point in the same direction – that he suspected me of Cathy Newsome’s killing. I could hear the change in his voice.

Yet why should I run?

What had I got to hide?

I made sure that my copy of Della’s diary was hidden from view and waited for Ives to arrive.