CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Greg paced in his office. He had managed to make the five-hour trip from Carlisle to London in a little under three hours. But that had been almost a week ago. And they heard nothing. He filed the missing person reports quickly, but no one ever found anything. It was as though Molly Hooper, with no identification cards or accounts or job, disappeared into thin air.
He was constantly in a panicked frenzy. He tried to pull two and two together, but always wound up with three. What was he missing? There had to be something. Something huge. Something he missed in the surveillance tapes.
He and Detective Inspector what's-his-name had looked through surveillance cameras set up in the woods leading up to the private cabins, and found their first lead in the form of a small green car, speeding along, coming back the way it came.
Unable to look through the windows, however, they had no clue as to the identity of the driver. However, they were able to make out a bumper sticker from a rather popular car dealership in London, announcing that you too could rent a car as new and posh as that one.
And thus the investigation returned to London.
While he sped along on the thruway, he had his mobile pressed to his ear, calling the rent-a-car company on the bumper sticker of the vehicle in question.
"No," He said as the correspondent on the other line asked if he'd be interested in renting a new silver Jaguar. "Actually. I'm looking for the car with the license number – "
He averted his eyes from the road for just a moment, to the slip of paper he'd copied the number down on. A chorus of horns blared in his ears as he began to swerve from the lane.
Readjusting his car, he returned his eyes to the paper momentarily and read off the number.
The correspondent typed something into a computer, judging by the telltale clicking noises from the other end, and then said, "I'm sorry Detective Inspector. Are you sure that was the number in question?"
"Of course."
"It hasn't been rented out in weeks." The correspondent said. "The last time it was taken out was two weeks ago, by an Agatha McCauley."
Greg frowned. "Is it in the car park?"
"Moment," The correspondent quickly put him on hold.
He changed lanes, passing posh sports cars and big supped up trucks with astounding speed.
The correspondent returned. "Sorry. It's there in its designated spot. I could check the security videos, if you'd like."
Greg, figuring he knew how it would go, thanked the correspondent for her help, and hung up his mobile, shaking his head.
He wanted to punch the wall. He'd never felt so utterly incompetent, useless, or less suited for his job. And that was saying something.
In the video, the stalker had mentioned being in London – that he was taking her back. It wasn't that hard of a conclusion to draw, particularly after the rent-a-car.
She was in London. Somewhere in the city. Greg could have punched a wall. Molly was there, but he didn't know where. It was maddening.
It felt like a wild-goose chase. They had their first lead, but it seemed to lead them nowhere. Another dead end.
But, he wouldn't settle for a dead end. Not this time. This case wouldn't close – he wouldn't let it. He'd find Molly, and he'd find her alive, even if he had to bend the rules or be a bit unorthodox, he'd do it for her.
He'd bent rules before, it nearly cost him his job, but he never regretted it. His moral compass was too strong in any one direction. Even if he had to go against the very system he was at the core of, he'd do whatever it took to save her.
The clock was ticking. Paxton and Birdie both were murdered before they were even found missing. How long exactly did Molly have? Greg could have pulled his hair from his scalp.
What leads did they have? They had nothing to go on.
Nothing. No, there was always something. If nothing else, that's what Sherlock had always told him.
He never thought he needed him for a case more than he did in that exact moment. He needed somebody who was better than the boys at Scotland Yard. Somebody who could figure anything out by a single glance.
Only, he didn't have that luxury anymore. Not since Sherlock jumped off the roof at Bart's. Now it was up to him – and he was at a loss.
All right, Greg, he thought. Think.
What was completely new? Completely out of the box?
The obvious connection all three girls had stood to be their gender, personality, and anti-social working conditions. Was there anything else? They were all in London. That meant that, at least for the past fifteen years, the killer lived in London. Which meant…well, he hadn't the foggiest idea.
Well, there were no witnesses. Which probably meant that either he was damn careful or he could easily blend into a crowd and hide in plain sight.
There were no fingerprints. That could mean that the stalker, whoever it was, had his prints burned off. Which, could, in turn, mean he had access to the acids that burned it off. And, he would have had access in college. So, a science student?
Then he remembered the laptop. It had fingerprints. Untraceable fingerprints, but they were definitely there.
Well, bang goes that theory.
The fingerprints they did find weren't in any census or records. So, what might that mean? Illegal immigrant? With a northern English accent? Well, he supposed that an accent was easy enough to fake – actors did it all the time, after all.
What else was there? He got into the security tape, made it short circuit. So, he must have been a technology wizard or something. Who knew how to clean up a crime scene so it was immaculate. A forensics student, then?
He sighed. This was harder than it looked.
What possible connection did all three of the girls have? Did the stalker just pick random girls off the street? Random sweet-looking girls?
He watched interviews over and over again, replaying the surveillance tape over and over again.
Interviewing Billy Morrison once more, he asked if he knew of any possible connection. Anything at all.
"I dunno nothin'," Morrison said. "Can't think of nothin'."
"He mentioned you, the stalker," Greg pressed. "You don't know anyone who seems a bit off?"
"'Course I do," Morrison said after a moment. "I live next door t' a drug dealer – see all sor's. But…nah. Can't think of no one who'd have a connection 't Ms 'ooper."
"Then did any of those people wind up in Bart's recently?" He asked, thinking maybe that could be the connection.
Morrison thought for a bit. Then he held his hands up. "'Ell if I know. I'm tryin' 't get clean, Detec'ive – don't associa't wiv 'em no more."
That was the final quote on the matter, and Greg was compelled to let the man go. And he was back to square one. Nothing connected.
Leaning back into his chair in his office, Greg shook his head, trying to figure this out. Setting his face into a deep frown, shaking his head solemnly, going to replay the surveillance video again. That voice. He'd heard that voice before. It was so familiar. Why couldn't he place it?
"Damn it."
He watched it over and again with the enhanced audio, listening to everything. Trying to get the voice. He compared it to witnesses from both Paxton and Birdie's cases. The inflection was unique, something about it should have set off a flag.
With a sigh, he tried to recover any sort of analysis he could. The man – whoever he was – calledhim by first name. Though, that probably didn't say much. The nutter thought he was in a serious relationship with Molly, after all.
There was something else, however, that proved to be a bit off. Molly's reaction. There was static at first, but then a confused, "What are you doing here?"
That, at least, narrowed things down. She knew him, the stalker. She'd known him and hadn't suspected him. Someone who worked at Bart's with her, maybe? A neighbour in her building?
Suddenly, a window popped up on his computer screen. First instinct told him to close it, but as he moved the little arrow over to the red X in the corner, he noticed something odd. A low quality video showed what appeared to be a security tape of Molly's flat. He recognised the mop of dark hair entering the room on the still as Donovan.
Setting his brow, he moved the arrow back to the pop-up, and pressed play.
The security tape started with Donovan entering the flat. "All right," She said, moving away from the door. "Let's have a look around."
Shortly after, Anderson entered followed by another forensics pathologist and Collin Porter.
"I'll check for prints," Anderson muttered.
The other pathologist began taking photographs. "Isn't this pointless? Why are we wasting our time?"
"Why else?" Anderson muttered on the computer screen. "Greg's got a hard-on."
"What d'you mean by that?" Collin asked, sitting on a sofa and opening a net book.
"Oy, Porter! Don't contaminate the scene," Anderson snapped as Collin stood up abruptly. "And he's wasting our time – as usual – because of his own attachments."
"Why would it hurt to have a look around?" Collin inquired. "Sorry if it's obvious…"
Donovan sighed. "The only thing it'll help is that it might let us know if it's the same guy. If the scene's clean, then it probably is. But, it doesn't matter because we know no one outside of the tenants and Scotland Yard has been through here."
Greg grimaced. He realised the past few years hadn't exactly been the best for building a strong, fraternal team bonds, but that didn't warrant insulting him when he wasn't on the scene.
It always hurt to hear people talk badly about you behind your back. Of course, that wasn't the problem at hand. He'd worry about that later, he resolved. Or, if they really had an enormous problem with him, they could change divisions. But, he shook his head, ridding his mind of the added insult to injury, focusing on the video over his laptop.
"What about the photograph?" Collin cocked his head to the side childishly.
Donovan shrugged. "That's where things get weird. I don't know."
The team shuffled around the flat for a few more minutes. Greg watched in real time, confusedly watching the dusting, camera flashing, and looking under microscopes. Donovan shuffled around, overseeing the matter, looking in rooms and circling around.
The other pathologist took a photograph of the cat bowls. "Doesn't she have a cat?"
"So?" Anderson asked, checking for prints on the windowsill.
"Well, she didn't know about it, right? Wouldn't her cat start hissing or something from an intruder? I know they aren't the most protective of creatures, but she still might've noticed something off. Maybe the cat got drugged."
"Oh," Anderson said, nodding. "And the type of tranquilliser might lead us to him."
Collin's mouth divided into a smile. "That's actually pretty fucking brilliant."
Donovan nodded in agreement. "All right, let's look for it."
The team began to look under the furniture, in different rooms, and nooks and crannies that seemed as though it might tickle a feline's fancy.
Anderson whistled as he peered into a cupboard.
"That's not how you call cats," Collin said rolling his eyes. He lowered onto his hands and knees, and began to coo, "Here, kitty, kitty, kitty."
The video stopped. Greg couldn't believe his ears. He played back the surveillance video from the cabin, back to the one from Molly's flat. The repeated quote on constant loop in his brain.
No time to say anything before he ran out the door, he simply threw on his coat. He only stopped for a moment to quickly check for the address to his destination.
He didn't wait to call for reinforcement, simply running to the car by himself, with nothing else on his mind.
It was ill-advised, but he couldn't think of anything else.
He couldn't believe it and he pressed on the gas pedal and bolted through stop signs, the siren blaring.
It'd been right in front of him the whole time. In front of all of them. One of their own. A man with access to all of the private information about the case. All of the private information they had at Scotland Yard. Exactly how easy had it been to find all of Molly's information on that government software?
Oh, Hell.
A man from the Yard. How could Collin Porter have gotten through background checks? He obviously knew his way around a computer, could make anything disappear. Even his connection to Celeste Paxton and Shaelee Birdie.
That must have been it, he'd erased all record of attending Kings College or frequent visits to the library. Hell, he probably struck his fingerprints from all records, too.
Fucking computers, Greg shook his head, thinking of all the potential evil Collin committed from one end of a laptop with a simple hit of a track pad.
Greg drove forward, not listening to the clock ticking, the police radio ongoing. The pounding in his ears, however, drowned it out.
How could this happen? How had he not noticed? And to think, he'd actually thought well of Collin – thought he was a bloody arse from the beginning, but an arse is better than a psychopathic serial stalker and killer.
The car almost flipped as he took a turn too sharply but continued on. He wasn't expecting to find Molly, going to Collin's flat. But he did expect the perpetrator to be there, and he'd lead them straight to her.
He could only hope he'd have enough time. That he'd make it before anything happened to Molly.