Flawed Beauty Read online

  Obviously pleased with himself, he turns towards Erin to make his next point. “Analysis confirms that these samples are a synthetic cotton and polyester blend consistent with the type of material used in making jogging bottoms and hoodies, DCI Blake.”

  Pleased at the reinforcement that hoodie guy could be their man, Erin thanks Gladwell and asks him to continue.

  He briefly refers to the two false eyelashes found on Shreya’s cheek, but unable to add anything new, he continues and points to the enlargement of the glass fragment found amongst the shards of broken pottery.

  “As I first suspected, this is indeed a piece of the screen from a Samsung Galaxy cell phone. Most likely, and in my opinion, it’s from either an S9 or S9+ model.”

  Prior to the start of her interview today, Praneeta had confirmed to Terri that her cousin’s cell phone was a Galaxy S9. Before Gladwell can continue, Erin gets back to her feet.

  “This phone is another focus for us, people. DC Potter, I want Shreya Singh’s phone records for the last six months. I want to know who she has been messaging and calling and if any names come up that are unknown to her cousin Praneeta.

  “Pull her bank records as well. Check her debit and credit card receipts to find out what she was spending and where she was going.

  “DC Thorne, I want you to organize another sweep of the area around Rushcroft Lane. I want that phone found.”

  Both officers confirm their understanding, and Erin turns back to Gladwell to ask about the lipstick and mascara samples taken from Shreya’s ear and cheek. “Anything interesting from those, Malcolm?”

  Looking disappointed with himself, Gladwell shakes his head. “Nothing, ma’am. I was provided samples of the cosmetics worn by Praneeta and her friends on the night of the murder, but none were a match. I’m sorry.”

  “That’s okay,” Erin says. “You’ve been extremely helpful.” She gestures for him to retake his seat and then asks, “Anybody else have anything to share before we call it a night.”

  Her audience remains silent, and Erin asks again, “Anyone? Anything at all? Speak now or forever hold your peace.”

  Nothing is said, so Erin concludes the briefing. “Okay, thank you, guys. Good work today. Let’s make sure tomorrow is even better. Good night all.”

  The team trickles out, leaving Erin and Terri alone in the briefing room. They head to the conference room together to finish the preparation for the next day’s press conference. When they are done, Terri asks Erin if she would like to grab a quick drink before heading home. “Just the one to wind down? You look like you need it.”

  She is not wrong about her needing a drink, but after a moment to consider, Erin politely declines. “That would be nice, but probably not a good idea. I think I’ll just call it a night.”

  Completely misunderstanding the intent of Erin’s refusal, and making no effort to hide her annoyance, Terri angrily shakes her head. “You really need to get over it. I was asking you to join me for a drink, not to sleep with me.”

  Shocked by Terri’s accusation, Erin doesn’t hold back. “Seriously! You think I turned down the offer of a drink because I was afraid of you seducing me again. I think you’re the one that needs to bloody well get over it. I turned you down because I want to have a clear head for the press conference tomorrow morning. Nothing else. Get over yourself, DI Marchetti.”

  Deeply embarrassed, Terri starts to blush and stammers an apology. “Look, I’m… I’m sorry. I just thought…”

  “Just forget it,” Erin stops her. “It’s been a long, tough day and I just want to get home for a soak in a hot bath. I’ll see you around eight tomorrow morning for a last review of the conference set-up. Oh, and call Tony on your way home to check if he’s okay. Call me if there is anything I need to know.”

  Without another word, Erin leaves and Terri is left alone in the conference room feeling like a complete idiot. “Good job, DI Marchetti. Way to put your bloody foot in it.”

  Chapter Four

  Tuesday 19th March 2019

  The press conference is due to kick off at 11 am, and as always in a murder case, interest and attendance from the media is high. By 10.55, the room is at full capacity. From the wings of the stage, Terri points out the weasel-faced journalist in the center of the front row staring directly up at the podium.

  “Looks like your friend got here early, boss. And he couldn’t have got any bloody closer to the front if he tried.”

  Erin stares at him for a few moments but doesn’t pass comment. Instead, she asks where DS Bolton is. “If he’s not here in a couple of minutes, we’ll need to start without him. Has he—”

  Before she can finish, a flustered and out-of-breath Tony Bolton appears behind them. “I’m sorry, boss. I was sorting out some problems at home.”

  Obviously concerned with starting the press conference on time, but not wishing to appear completely heartless, Erin asks, “Anything we can help with, Tony?”

  “No, no. All good,” he replies, shaking his head. “Just a bit of stress with Rhonda over the separation.”

  “I’m sorry. It’s a tough time,” Erin says sympathetically. “If you need to excuse yourself this morning to go and see her, it’s no problem. We can manage this morning without you.”

  “Thanks, but that won’t be necessary, boss. We spoke last night, and again this morning. We agreed that she should go and spend some time with her sister in Spain. She’s trying to fly out later today or tomorrow, and I’m hoping the change of scenery will do her good.”

  “Okay, that’s probably a good idea. In that case, let’s get this show on the road.”

  . . . . . . . .

  Taking her place behind the podium with Marchetti and Bolton seated on either side, Erin makes a final adjustment to her microphone. She then asks the audience to quieten down, and with all those present in the room focused and expectant, she clears her throat and begins.

  “Ladies and gentlemen of the press, thank you for coming this morning. For those of you that don’t know me, my name is Detective Chief Inspector Erin Blake. I’m the senior officer in charge of this enquiry, and I’m accompanied this morning by my colleagues, Detective Inspector Teresa Marchetti and Detective Sergeant Anthony Bolton.”

  Reading from the prepared statement, she continues, “At just after 6 am yesterday morning, Monday the 18th of March, the body of a young Asian female was discovered by dog walkers in the yard of an abandoned property in Rushmore Lane, Bootle. The young woman was positively identified a few hours later as Ms. Shreya Singh, aged twenty-three. She was a junior accountant at the practice of Messrs. Daniels and Peacock in Bootle and was an only child residing in the family home in Nelson Street, Bootle with her mother, her aunt, her uncle and cousins.”

  The sudden appearance of a recent picture of Shreya on the screen behind her causes a flurry of excitement and camera flashes. Although she knows her words will fall on deaf ears, Erin holds up her hand and asks anyway, “Please, if I could ask you all to refrain from taking any more pictures for now. There will be a full briefing pack including photographs made available for each of you at the end of this press conference.”

  The clamor gradually dies down and Erin continues. “Thank you. Due to the particularly heinous nature of this young woman’s death, I’m personally appealing to each and every one of you to make this your number one story for as long as it takes to bring her killer to justice. We strongly believe that if not caught soon, her killer will—”

  The rest of her words are lost under a barrage of questions from an audience impatient for more details. Erin has experienced more than her fair share of press conferences, however, and unfazed by the onslaught, she allows the questions to continue unabated for another thirty seconds before slowly raising her hand again. “Ladies and gentlemen, you know how this works. I’m happy to take your questions, but one at a time, please.”

  A dozen hands instantly shoot up, including the hand of the investigative journalist from the Liverpool Echo
. Not wishing to make it too obvious that she is keen to hear what he has to say, Erin deliberately looks beyond him to a young woman in the third row. “Yes, the lady in the red blouse. Please state your name and your question.”

  The young woman is in her mid to late thirties with long blonde hair scraped back into a ponytail. She stands up holding a notepad in one hand and a microphone attached to a small digital tape recorder in the other. “Good morning, Chief Inspector. Victoria Atwood, Bootle Daily Gazette. Is it true that the killer disfigured the victim’s face prior to killing her?”

  “I’m sorry. I can’t comment on that,” Erin responds bluntly.

  Referring to her notebook, the reporter asks, “But that is what you meant when you said, ‘due to the particularly heinous nature of this young woman’s death’ – am I right?”

  Turning to DI Marchetti, Erin quietly mouths, “I’d love to know who bloody feeds them this information. Then she says to the reporter, “Again, I’m sorry, but I can’t comment on that.”

  “So, what about a cause of death?” the young woman demands. “Is that something you can comment on?”

  Erin nods. “Yes, I can. Our current working theory is that cause of death was the result of a blunt-force trauma to the skull. We believe the murder weapon was a hammer. And, more precisely, we believe the murder weapon was a claw hammer.

  Thank you, Victoria. I’ll open the floor now to the next question please.”

  Not quite done, Ms. Atwood remains standing and shouts, “Was the victim raped or sexually assaulted, Chief Inspector?”

  “No!” Erin responds adamantly, shaking her head. “The evidence collected as of now does not indicate any sexual element or motivation for this crime. Now, if I could ask you to please retake your seat and give somebody else a chance to speak.”

  The floodgates reopen, and under a deluge of questions, Erin is forced again to ask the press to settle down. When the noise in the room has dropped to a reasonable level, Erin points to a journalist on the back row. “Yes, the gentleman at the back, in the beige suit. Your name and your question please?”

  “Thank you, Chief Inspector Blake. Norman Bayside, crime correspondent for the Wirral Observer. Has a suspect been identified yet? Do you have any leads?”

  “My officers are working on a number of solid leads,” Erin replies.

  “That’s not exactly what I asked,” Bayside mutters, shaking his head and frowning. “Have you identified a suspect yet?”

  Erin gives Terri the nod, and a moment later, the best available picture of their primary suspect appears on the screen.

  The assembled members of the press once again go crazy taking pictures, and this time, it requires Erin to raise her voice to be heard and to restore order.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, please settle down. All currently available images and anything else we know about this person will be made available in your press packs at the end.”

  “Who is he?” a voice shouts from the back of the room.

  “Is that the clearest picture you’ve got?” another person asks.

  Raising both her hands to appeal for calm, Erin firmly replies, “Ladies and gentlemen, what you are looking at is a CCTV image of the current primary person of interest in this case. And, yes. In answer to the other question, this is the best picture we have currently. Our team are, however, working on trying to enhance the image, but until then, I would ask you all to assist us by publishing this picture today in both your online and print editions in the hope that some of your readers might recognize this person.”

  A free telephone number appears on the screen under the image, and DI Marchetti uses a handheld microphone to advise, “If any member of the public believes they have information that could help identify this suspect, or they have any other information relevant to the death of Shreya Singh, they can call this number twenty-four hours a day to speak confidentially to a member of our team.”

  She then adds, “We would caution strongly, though. If anybody does know this person, or thinks they recognize him in the street, they should not approach him directly. We believe this person to be highly dangerous and he should not be approached or challenged by any member of the public under any circumstances.”

  While Terri has been speaking, half a dozen of the more persistent journalists have kept their hands in the air. As before, Erin casually scans the room before she lowers her eyes and settles her gaze on the reporter seated directly below her in front of the podium. “Yes, the gentleman to my front. Your name and your question please?”

  The scruffy-looking journalist stands up and uses the back of one hand to casually brush away a stray clump of lank, greasy, black hair from across his eyes. When he speaks, his accent is thick Scouse through and through. “Good morning, Chief Inspector Blake. Edgar Balmain, chief crime correspondent for the Liverpool Echo. Chief Inspector, do you have any reason to believe the killing of Shreya Singh could be linked to any other recent murders in North West England?”

  As of this morning, Terri and her team have made little to no progress in wading through the unsolved murder case files for Merseyside and the North West. The answer to the question, then, is a firm no, but Erin takes the opportunity to ask a question of her own.

  “Thank you, Mr. Balmain. We are not currently aware of any information to suggest a link to other unsolved murders in the North West, or any other part of the UK. May I ask, though, if you yourself have any information to the contrary?”

  The same self-satisfied smug expression from the previous day reappears, and although Erin suspects it’s probably not needed, Balmain theatrically refers to his notebook anyway.

  “Well, far be it for me to do your job for you, Chief Inspector, but if my memory serves me correctly, wasn’t there a young man brutally murdered and horrifically disfigured on Boxing Day last year? It was shortly after the Merseyside derby between Liverpool and Everton at Anfield, wasn’t it?”

  Erin knows exactly who Balmain is referring to and moves quickly to close him down. “I’m sorry, but those circumstances were entirely different. Darren Pope was an Everton fan on his way home from the match. Although no arrests have yet been made in that case, the facts to hand suggest that he was attacked by rival fans and was most likely killed unintentionally.

  “As for the disfigurement you’re referring to, the Merseyside Police pathologist has confirmed those injuries were inflicted by one or more Stanley-type utility knives of the type commonly carried by football hooligans.”

  Playing up to his fellow journalists, Balmain animatedly shrugs and raises his hands. “Ms. Blake, football hooligans carry Stanley knives in this country to slash the faces of other hooligans. Darren Pope’s nose was cut off and placed in his mouth and his face was cut to ribbons. That’s hardly indicative of an unintentional killing or a random act of football violence, is it?”

  Recalling fully the details of the murder and momentarily caught off guard, Erin flushes with embarrassment.

  Relishing his moment in the spotlight and pressing home his advantage, Balmain continues before Erin is able to compose a fitting response. “And what about Shelley Wilton? Another horrific murder and disfigurement just four days later on the 30th of December. She was on her way home after drinking with friends in a bar close to the Arndale Center in Manchester. She had hydrochloric acid thrown into her face before she was killed and dumped in the Manchester Ship Canal.”

  “I’m vaguely aware of that case,” Erin says. “But it’s under the jurisdiction of the Greater Manchester Police and I have limited information at this sta—”

  “But surely both forces talk to each other and share intelligence?” Balmain interrupts sarcastically. “This is not the 1960s, Inspector. There is such a thing as the National Crime Database.”

  Annoyed at his tone and deliberate misquoting of her rank, but conscious not to lose her cool in front of a room full of journalists, Erin takes a breath and politely thanks him for the information. “Thank you. My officers will look
into both these cases as part of our ongoing investigation in due course.”

  If Erin was expecting Balmain to be satisfied with her assurance, she is sadly wrong. He shakes his head and raising his voice sneers, “I suggest that you do a damn sight more than just palm these cases off to a couple of junior officers to look into in due course, Chief Inspector Blake. You have a serial killer on your hands. A serial killer that has killed at least three times in the last four months.”

  “We don’t know that,” Erin snaps. “Until new information is received to connect the murder of Shreya Singh to any other open investigation, we will continue to treat her murder as an isolated case.”

  Balmain shakes his head and tuts to himself, “New information, Chief Inspector. Do you mean new information such as the fact that all three of these young people could have been considered extremely good-looking by today’s definition? Or the fact that at least two of the three were killed by a blow to the head from a hammer. Or how about the fact that all three had their faces terribly disfigured in one manner or another? Are these facts not enough for you to suggest that there could be a link?”

  Any earlier side conversations and murmuring from the assembled journalists stop completely in anticipation of Erin’s response. The room is now deathly quiet, and the atmosphere has changed to something more reminiscent of a trial than a press conference.

  Conscious also that she is the one on trial and what she says next could potentially make or break her career, Erin considers her words extremely carefully before opting for a somewhat neutral response. “Thank you again, Mr. Balmain. This information has been extremely helpful, and I can assure you, I will personally be looking into the deaths of Darren Pope and Shelley Wilton as a matter of urgency. I trust that meets with your satisfaction?”

  “It’s a start at least,” Balmain replies with a smirk.

  “Thank you,” Erin says with a polite nod. “Now if that’s all, we’ll move on.”