Page 8 of Butterfly Assassin
“We found a backpack wedged under the bin,” Miller replied.
“Crossford’s?” Michael perked up. The last two bodies had been found with nothing but their wallets.
“Possibly. There’s a wad of bloodied tape inside it along with a towel and a bottle of water.” He shot a pointed look at Michael. They both knew what that probably meant. Illegal fighting. Otherwise that tape would’ve ended up in a bin somewhere, not shoved in someone’s bag to avoid leaving evidence behind. “We’ll know for certain when it’s been to the lab for analysis.”
Maybe this’d give them the break they needed. “I’ll ask them to put a rush on those when we get back. Can you do the same when you drop it off?”
“Yeah. I want to catch this bastard as much as you do.”
They left Peters to do his thing and walked back over to join Frank at the edge of the crime scene.
“Anything interesting?” Frank asked, slipping his notebook back into his coat.
Michael filled him in on what they’d discussed with Peters while Miller moved away for a moment to talk with some of his men.
Frank hummed as he listened, glancing at the road behind them. “You know,” he said when Michael finished, “there’s at least two buildings within a ten-minute walk of here that are empty at the moment, one awaiting renovation, one in the middle of it.” He rubbed at the back of his neck. “They both have underground car parks. Either one would do for the sort of thing Smith likes to organise.”
The SCTF, the met, and the City police were all aware of the illegal fights that took place in and around the city. They even knew who was behind them—Daryl White, also known as Mr Smith.
But they had no proof.
Or any witnesses.
Would this time be any different?
Smith had a long reach, and so far they’d found no one willing to come forward.
Miller joined them again, and Michael addressed him. “Any witnesses other than Ms Wells?”
“No. Not yet anyway.” He waved at the buildings on either side. “No one hangs around here at night. Well, no one who wants to talk to the police, anyway.”
“So no one saw anything. Typical.”
“According to Ms Wells, she left here at six last night, and the alley was empty. Bins aren’t collected for another two days. She was probably the first one here this morning.”
“What was Crossford doing here then?”
Miller consulted his notebook. “There was a receipt in his wallet from McDonald’s at Liverpool Street. Makes no sense for him to come back this way. He lives in the opposite direction, so why not get on the tube there and head home?”
“You reckon he was meeting someone?”
“Maybe.” Miller gestured over his shoulder with a thumb. “Pretty suspicious place to meet. Nothing legal was happening in that alley.”
Michael refrained from stating the obvious. He glanced up at the sides of the buildings. “Any CCTV in the area?”
“Nothing helpful.”
“Hopefully we’ll get something off that bloodied tape.”
Miller grunted. “And let’s hope it leads us to someone willing to talk.”
MICHAEL LET his head fall back against the seat. They’d left Miller to his crime scene and were now fighting their way through London traffic headed back to their office. They couldn’t do much until all the evidence had been collected anyway. There’d been a lot of refuse littering the ground around Crossford’s body. Who knew what was relevant to their investigation and what wasn’t? But that backpack… Michael had a feeling the information that held would be a game changer.
Frank tapped on the steering wheel as they sat at traffic lights. “You think this all leads back to Smith?”
“Fuck knows.” Michael scrubbed a hand over his eyes. “We know the first victim worked for him.”
Victim number one had been a bartender from one of Smith’s legitimate clubs. He’d turned up dead outside the back entrance to the club, after hours—throat ripped out. Five puncture marks at the edges of the wound, coupled with the level of damage caused, all pointed to the slash of a shifter’s claws. They’d found hairs on his clothes, ones that didn’t belong to the victim and didn’t match anyone from their databases either. They also belonged to a human male, not a shifter. And considering he’d been working in the club all night, they could’ve belonged to anybody.
