Small Justice

Book 0: The Sara Jones Cycle

by Terence Bailey

Genres: Thrillers

Synopsis

Burdened by the shame of a fresh secret she cannot share, Sara Jones is desperate to set back the clock. She reaches for past certainties, agreeing to consult on a series of ritual murders for London?s Metropolitan Police. As Sara pieces together the perpetrator?s heartbreaking motives, she sees how eerily alike the two of them are. Sara Jones grows ever-more certain she can catch this killer - but less-and-less sure that she wants to.

Release date: August 1, 2019

Publisher: Accent Press

Print pages: 320

Sample

PROLOGUE

Long before sunrise, two young women emerged from a house in the Elm Park area of Hornchurch, Essex. The younger one shivered and plunged her hands into the pockets of her black leather jacket. The older, already a couple years into her twenties, smiled reassuringly and said, ‘Cold?’

‘It was toasty inside,’ the younger woman replied. ‘Like we were in...’ She half-shut her eyes – it made the light from the streetlamp all streaky – and tried to think of somewhere famous for being sunny. In her mind’s eye she saw palm trees, and a beach, and teddy bears in swimsuits. But that wasn’t a real place. It was something she’d seen in a book, a long time ago. She sighed. On any other day, she could have listed a lot of real places. Right now, though, she couldn’t recall a single one. Finally, she shook her head and settled for, ‘Like we were in a hot country,’

‘You’ll be warm when we get going,’ the other woman promised. ‘Anyway, it’s not so cold. It’s early April.’

The girl shrugged. She couldn’t remember how cold April was supposed to be, either.

The block-paved driveway was nearly twice as wide as its neighbour’s, because this was an end-of-terrace house. That was why it could hold two cars side-by-side. One was a twenty-year-old Fiesta. It was rusty and dented, but true Essex royalty nonetheless. It had been built just down the road in Dagenham, back when the plant still made complete automobiles. The other car was foreign and newer – but not much newer. The young women headed for the Fiesta.

Inside, the girl in the thin leather jacket said, ‘Brrr! It’s just as cold in here.’

‘Give it a moment,’ replied the other, and started the engine.

By the time they’d reached the Dartford Crossing, the Fiesta was warmer. The window on the passenger side didn’t roll quite to the top anymore, and that meant a thin breeze whistled constantly through the car – but still, it was a big step up from their frigid start.

The driver snuck a glance at her travelling companion. ‘You remember Joe?’ she asked abruptly.

‘Who?’

‘Joe.’

The girl pondered this. ‘Uh-uh,’ she said finally.

‘Think hard, now... Nothing at all?’

The girl scrunched up her face and thought as hard as she could. ‘Nope,’ she said. ‘Not a sausage.’

The woman nodded; the tips of her afro brushed against the roof. ‘How about Bournemouth? You ever been anywhere near there?’

‘No.’

The woman grinned. ‘I know for a fact you have. You don’t remember a whole helluva lot, do you?’

‘That’s the thing,’ the girl said. ‘I don’t. I mean, I remember some stuff. I thought of a book I read once. And feeding chickens – I remember doing that. But those memories are like...’ She held a finger to the slit at the top of the passenger window. ‘Like this tiny sliver of wind. Everything else is on the other side of the glass. I don’t even know why I’m here.’ She shifted in her seat until she looked full-on at the woman driving. ‘And I sure don’t know where I met you,’ she concluded.

The woman laughed merrily. ‘I know you don’t, babe,’ she said. ‘But you’ve got to trust me when I tell you this – not knowing any of that stuff is a very good thing.’

ONE

Sara Jones walked up Harley Street, trying to keep four pizza boxes level in her arms. Overnight there had been cold late January rain, then the temperature had dropped. Now the ground was icy. Each time Sara passed one of the pear trees that lined Harley Street’s pavements she would steady herself with a forearm pressed against its cold bark. This, and an exaggerated gait, kept her moving and her pizzas intact.

As Sara crossed Queen Anne Street, she heard faint music – the opening of a song by Take That. Her ringtone. Instinctively, she tensed. On the northern side of Queen Anne, Sara scanned for a place to set down the warm, slightly soggy boxes. The marble steps of a private clinic were the best surface she could find. Fumbling in her handbag, she glanced at her iPhone’s screen. Sara did not recognise the number. She answered with trepidation.

‘Hello?’

‘Dr Sara Jones?’ a voice said. ‘This is Detective Sergeant Adeela Mir from the Metropolitan Police.’

Sara caught her breath.

‘Are you alright to talk?’

Sara could feel a warm surge behind her ears. What I’m feeling there, she thought, is pulsatile tinnitus. My blood pressure’s just gone mad. For months, the sight of a panda car had also set her pulse racing. Even the sound of her ringtone could make her feel queasy. ‘Actually, I’m running errands at the moment,’ she said.

Sara had often rehearsed what to say if questioned by the police. She kept the number of a high-priced law firm ready in her contacts list. Dr Sara Jones – psychiatrist, police consultant, and all-round respectable citizen – had been dreading a call like this ever since she’d committed murder.

‘Dr Jones, are you still there?’

‘Oh, yes,’ Sara said. ‘Sorry – distracted.’

An elderly couple emerged from the hospital and stepped over her pizzas with disdain. Sara grimaced apologetically. ‘May I ask what this relates to?’ she said.

‘I’d rather discuss it in person,’ Detective Sergeant Mir replied. ‘Is there a place we can meet?’

‘Not really,’ Sara told her. ‘I’m in the process of moving house.’

‘Oh... you’re not living in Brixton anymore?’

The day’s chill sank deeper into Sara’s bones. This woman had already researched her. ‘No... I mean, not always,’ she stammered. ‘At the moment, I’m in Marylebone. It’s where my new house – well, my house and office – will be.’

‘Then you’re close!’ Mir said. ‘Give me the address and I’ll pop right over.’

Sara closed her eyes. She touched the cold bark of a pear tree to steady herself. Her muscles sagged in a sign of subconscious surrender. ‘That would be fine,’ she sighed. ‘You can join us for pizza.’

On the corner of a cobbled mews just off Harley Street sat an eighteenth-century stable block. Until the previous year, it had housed the offices of a European investments firm. When the business owners relocated from London to Frankfurt, Sara had taken on the lease. Soon, the place would become her home, as well as the office of her new psychiatric practice. As Sara approached, pizza boxes level, she could hear the whine of a circular saw. To make the needed renovations, she’d been forced to scale a mountain of local bureaucracy. The new building was in one of Westminster’s conservation areas; Sara had needed separate permissions for every single alteration.

At least the process had helped keep her thoughts away from darker things.

The door to the newly-added entranceway was open. This had been installed so Sara’s partner Jamie could get upstairs without trudging past her clients. When Sara entered, she noticed her oldest friend facing away from her. Ceri Lloyd was clothed in worn jeans and an oversized man’s shirt. She had dressed for construction – or, at least, for supervising those actually building something. Right now, Ceri squinted at the ceiling, hands on hips. Although Sara could not detect it over the shrieking of the saw, she knew her friend was clucking softly, tongue against molars. It was something Ceri did when deep in thought. Finally, Ceri called out: ‘Where are the ceiling joists?’

A builder cupped his ear. ‘What?’

Ceri grimaced at the worker with the saw. He cut the power.

‘The ceiling joists,’ she repeated over the dying din.

The builder slackened his jaw in understanding. ‘Perpendicular to the new wall.’

Ceri nodded, satisfied. ‘Are you anchoring the floor joists, too?’

‘We weren’t planning to.’

‘Why the hell not?’ Ceri demanded. ‘They’ll be firmer that way.’

The builder looked helplessly to his foreman, who glanced towards Sara.

Ceri followed his gaze and noticed Sara standing in the doorway behind her. ‘Aha!’ she said, ‘pizza’s here!’ As an afterthought she added, ‘You should anchor your floor joists, fach.’

Sara looked upwards with a blank gaze. ‘Yes, I suppose I should.’

Ceri smiled victoriously at the builder. The floor joists would be anchored. ‘Take five, gentlemen,’ she called with a clap of her hands.

Sara set the pizza boxes on a work table. Numbly, she watched the builders converge. She was all-too-aware that soon, one of Ceri’s fellow officers would arrive to question her about the poisoning of a young man named Tim Wilson. It was an outcome Sara had been dreading for months. She would have to admit to knowing the man; it was certain Wilson’s partner had mentioned Sara to the police. Still, she planned to claim total ignorance of Wilson’s death. She was ready for her first reaction upon hearing the terrible news: a face tightening into shock and confusion. Perhaps, in her eyes, a sheen of sorrow for a life lost so young. Sara had been working on that expression for months, and could now throw it on like a worn jacket. What she would never do was try to explain anything. Sara knew that innocent people rarely justified themselves in an interrogation – they simply restated their innocence. That’s what Sara planned to do now. If there were any evidence against her, such intransigence would force Detective Sergeant Mir to disclose it.

Still chewing, Ceri wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. ‘The only thing that could make this pizza better,’ she said, ‘would be a stuffed crust.’

Distractedly, Sara said, ‘This place doesn’t do them.’

Ceri took another large bite. ‘It’s bloody Oxford Street,’ she rebutted, her words thick with mozzarella. ‘Someone must.’

Sara watched her friend’s jaw churning. Ceri had always been protective of her. If she were to hear DS Mir’s accusations against Sara, she would be outraged. And when indignant, Ceri acted like a Rottweiler with a bone – she tore at the evidence until she’d laid it bare. On this occasion, that habit might end up uncovering Sara’s guilt.

‘Have some pizza,’ Ceri urged.

Sara grimaced dismissively. ‘Not hungry,’ she said.

‘Hello?’ a voice sounded from the open second doorway. ‘Dr Jones?’

Sara looked over to see a woman in her early thirties, dressed in a blue suit and a white, open-necked shirt. She carried a brocaded cloth handbag that seemed too fancy for the rest of her attire. Sara wondered what that said about the sergeant’s personality. Noticing the silence, she realised she was staring. She shook herself into action. ‘Yes, I’m Sara,’ she said. ‘Please come in.’

Ceri eyed the new visitor with heavy lids as she stepped into the room. ‘Well, well,’ she muttered. ‘You didn’t tell me we were expecting company.’

Adeela Mir cast her eyes over Sara’s dusty ground floor. It was still all bare timber, wiring and cement. The builders had finished their pizza and were drifting back to their tasks. ‘This is your new home?’ she asked.

‘Upstairs, mostly,’ Sara said. ‘Downstairs will double as my office. I’m a psychiatrist.’

‘Oh – you’re returning to professional practice?’ the detective sergeant asked. ‘You haven’t done that since you moved to Wales.’ She thought for a moment. ‘That was roughly four years ago, wasn’t it?’

With a pleasant vagueness, Sara replied, ‘Maybe it’s time to get back in the saddle.’

Ceri stepped forward and extended her hand. ‘Bore da,’ she said. ‘I’m Ceri. You are?’

‘Err – hello.’ The detective turned to take Ceri’s hand. ‘I’m DS Mir from the Metropolitan Police.’

In the corner, a worker positioned a two-by-four and picked up the circular saw. For the second time in minutes, the saw’s whine filled the room. Ceri bared her teeth at him once more. This time, he ignored her.

Glancing back to Sara, Mir spoke loudly. ‘Is there somewhere we can talk privately?’

‘You said DS,’ Ceri mused over the din. ‘So, you’re a copper?’

Mir nodded politely.

‘Well then, let me re-introduce myself,’ Ceri said loudly. ‘I’m Inspector Lloyd from the Dyfed-Powys Police.’

Mir’s lips parted in recognition. ‘Of course!’ she said. ‘Ceri Lloyd. I read about you in the papers. You investigated those awful murders in Aberystwyth. The Daily Mail loved you!’

‘You have a good memory,’ Sara said flatly.

‘Not really,’ Mir admitted to Sara. ‘I looked you up this morning. The papers had a lot to say about both of you.’ She turned back to Ceri. ‘Are you visiting?’

‘Taking a bit of leave,’ Ceri said, angling her head at Sara. ‘Couldn’t trust this one alone with builders.’ She swept her arm towards the work crew. As the sound of the circular saw died, Ceri said, ‘These slick bastards would cheat the poor girl blind.’

In the hollow silence, Sara smiled at the crew awkwardly.

‘If you two need a place to talk,’ Ceri continued, ‘how about my room?’

She gestured up the stairs. Although the first-floor flat was in an almost-finished state, Sara and Jamie had yet to move in. They’d decided to wait until the rest of the house was less of a construction site. The shambles hadn’t bothered Ceri, though. Rather than sleep on their sofa in Brixton, Ceri had chosen to stay here in Central London. This had required Sara to buy a new bed and linens, but also had kept Ceri a full five miles away from Sara’s domestic life. It was a solution that made everyone happy.

But right now, using the space Ceri thought of as hers suggested she would also be present. That was something Sara was anxious to avoid. ‘You don’t need to hold my hand,’ Sara said to Ceri. ‘Stay here with the builders. I’ll be fine.’

‘Wouldn’t dream of leaving you alone,’ Ceri said.

Sara’s chest sank heavily.

Ceri turned to Mir. ‘I’m her oldest friend,’ she explained. ‘She’ll feel safer if I’m there.’

‘That’s perfectly fine,’ Mir said. ‘Lead the way.’

Ceri grinned and turned to the builders. ‘And I was just kidding, folks,’ she told them. ‘Not all of you are criminals.’

The upstairs part of the stables consisted of a reasonably sized sitting room, a bathroom, and a large double bedroom with an en suite. At the moment, the new bed was the room’s only furniture. Sara apologised as all three women perched on the mattress. Mir laughed.

‘It makes a change,’ she said. ‘I don’t usually conduct my business on a king-sized bed.’

Ceri smiled. ‘It’s the best place to do it,’ she said.

Sara tried to look at ease. Her friend would have found out what the sergeant was doing here, eventually – but Sara had counted on a chance to spin the story later. That wouldn’t be an option now.

‘Right,’ Mir said. ‘I just want to ask you a couple of questions.’ She reached into her handbag and produced a sheet of paper. ‘Do you recognise this?’

Sara tried to keep her hand from shaking. As she accepted the paper, images of what damning evidence it might contain flashed through her mind. An enlargement of her fingerprints, taken from the scene of the crime? Impossible, she thought – she’d worn gloves. Some personal item she’d dropped in Tim Wilson’s flat? Unlikely – she’d been careful. An image from a security camera she hadn’t noticed?

That was more likely.

Sara looked down. On the page was a colour photocopy of an illustration contained within rectangular borders. Overall, it was slightly larger than a playing card. The drawing was of a muscular grey creature spitting blood from its lips.

Sara’s brow creased. ‘What am I looking at?’

‘I was hoping you could tell me,’ Mir said. ‘It was found lying next to a murder victim in West Kensington. At first, I thought it might be some sort of tarot card, but it’s not.’

Sara stared at the woman blankly. West Kensington? Tarot card?

In the melee of Sara’s thoughts, the pieces connected. Detective Sergeant Mir was not here to accuse Sara of murder. Instead, she knew about Sara’s professional reputation as an expert on the occult, and was hoping for a consultation. This realisation made Sara’s breath grow rapid and shallow. Suddenly, she felt giddy with relief.

She also wanted to be a million miles away from this detective, now that she knew it was possible.

‘That’s the actual size of the card,’ Mir said.

‘Well, it’s definitely not tarot,’ Sara heard herself replying. ‘It’s possible it’s from some other divinatory system.’

Mir offered an uncertain shrug. ‘As far as we can tell, it’s not from any deck of mystical cards available commercially.’

Sara looked at the horrific creature on the card and wondered how to extract herself from this conversation. ‘It might be the image has no occult significance at all. It could come from a fantasy trading card game. There are a lot of those out there.’

Just as Sara was about to hand back the paper and bid the detective a fond hwyl, Ceri piped up. ‘D’you have a copy of the back of the card?’ she asked.

Mir blinked. ‘No. Sorry.’

‘If it’s from a fantasy game,’ Ceri went on, ‘it would have the manufacturer’s logo on the back.’

Sara’s nerves all screamed out at once: For heaven’s sake, Ceri, just let the woman leave!

‘That’s true,’ Mir conceded. ‘The reverse side is just solid grey.’

‘There you go,’ Ceri said to Sara. ‘So, it’s not from a game. But it’s got to be from somewhere. Does the card tell you anything else?’

Sara shook her head. In truth, what the illustration reminded her of most was a Roman Catholic prayer card. The artwork used the same highly-saturated colours, and was framed by a similar ornate border. The only difference was, the artist had replaced the image of a saint with a blood-drooling demon. Sara tried to return the sheet to DS Mir. ‘Sorry,’ she said decisively, ‘There’s just not enough to go on.’

Mir held up her hands. ‘Would you mind keeping it?’ she asked. ‘If anything occurs to you, I’d like to know.’

‘Good idea,’ Ceri said quickly. She produced her phone. ‘Give me your number.’ Ceri angled her head towards Sara. ‘If this one has any sort of brainwave, I’ll let you know.’

As the women exchanged mobile numbers, Sara stood pointedly and positioned herself near the door. Eventually, Ceri and Mir rose as well. ‘Actually, Sara,’ Mir ventured, ‘I came here hoping you might get even more involved with the investigation.’

‘I’m sorry?’ Sara said.

‘I’m asking you to do more than just look at the card,’ Mir explained. ‘From what I hear, you’re the Met’s best when it comes to this kind of thing. I’m sure you have a lot to offer us.’

‘The Met’s best?’ Sara repeated. She felt a prickle of irritation. ‘I’m not the Met’s anything.’ She shook her head in exasperation. ‘Forgive me, Detective Sergeant, but I’ve got a lot going on in my life right now.’ She gestured down the stairs. ‘As you can see. I really don’t need to get involved in a murder investigation.’

‘Sara!’ Ceri admonished.

Mir tried to mask her disappointment. ‘It’s OK,’ she said, laying a hand on Ceri’s forearm. ‘I understand.’

Sara realised how she must have sounded. ‘I don’t want to be rude,’ she said, ‘but it’s been a few years. And frankly, my last investigation was rather upsetting.’

If Mir had researched Sara’s past, she must have known the toll the Aberystwyth murders had taken on her personally. For one thing, they had led to her brother’s death.

‘No need to explain,’ Mir said. She accepted the paper from Sara. ‘I’m sorry to have bothered you.’

Ceri glowered at Sara and took the officer by the elbow. ‘Let me show you out,’ she said.

Sara stood at the top of the stairs and watched them descend. They lingered near the front door. Sara could not make out their hushed conversation, but fancied she heard Ceri whisper, ‘Don’t worry – I’ll talk to her.’

‘I think it’s high time you went back on your medication,’ Ceri said to Sara.

They walked along New Cavendish Street, towards a coffee shop on Portland Place. Sara glanced sideways at her friend. ‘You know something?’ she said. ‘You’ve become awfully sanctimonious since you quit smoking.’

Ceri cackled. ‘I was sanctimonious long before that.’ Her breath billowed into the frigid air. Wistfully, she added, ‘But I do miss my Marlboros.’

‘You’ve lost weight, too,’ Sara noted. ‘Who gives up cigarettes and loses weight?’

‘Every day, in every way, I’m getting better and better,’ Ceri said.

‘Anyway,’ Sara said, ‘Your advice comes too late. I’m already taking SSRIs again.’

‘You’re back on anti-depressants?’ Ceri asked. ‘That’s wonderful! Are you seeing Dr Shapiro, too?’

‘I was,’ Sara admitted. ‘But only to get the prescription.’

In fact, Sara had started seeing her old psychiatrist not long after poisoning Tim Wilson. The meds Dr Shapiro prescribed had helped balance her in the wake of that horrible event. The therapy itself, however, had proved less successful. There were simply too many things Sara could not admit to the doctor – like the way her mind would constantly replay one late-spring evening’s act of murder. Repeatedly, Sara would visualise herself opening Tim Wilson’s window. Easing her way through his dark flat. Watching his sleeping form. Creeping to the kitchenette. Pouring thallium into his drink. What unsettled Sara most was that, each time, her main question to herself was, what could I have done better?

It turned out Sara Jones was a perfectionist even when it came to murder. How could she have explained that to Dr Shapiro?

‘You don’t need analysis?’

Unconsciously, Sara edged away from her friend. ‘I’m fine.’

‘Then why were you so rude to the sergeant?’ Ceri asked.

‘I wasn’t. I simply don’t want to be part of an investigation. That’s in my past.’

Sara hoped her denials rang true. The real truth was more complicated. If Sara could assist police the way she used to – innocently, a dispassionate expert – she might enjoy the challenge. But that was not what was on offer. She would have to work cheek-by-jowl with people who could arrest her in a heartbeat – and the project itself would constantly remind her of her own guilt. There would always be a voice whispering there’s no turning back the clock.

‘What did you say?’ Ceri asked.

‘Sorry?’

‘You said, “There’s no turning back the clock.”’

Sara flinched, then s. . .