The furthest room was what appeared to be the cutting and editing room. A man sat on a swivel chair, slumped over a desk that held a bank of monitors and equipment used to edit audio footage. They were covered with the man’s blood.
Miller stepped up to the man and peered down at the back of his head, where a huge hole showed her where the suspects stood when they shot him. The man had headphones on, so must not have heard the suspect enter. “It appears to be a single gunshot to the back of the head.” She looked to Sheila for confirmation.
After filming the scene with a small camera, the pathologist asked her to help move the victim. When they lifted his head, a portion of his face was a bloody, pulpy mess, where the bullet had exited. “I concur. I can’t see any other entry wounds, can you?”
Miller saw that a monitor in front of the man was broken. “It went straight through him, into that.” She took out a pen and poked about in the remains of the monitor, looking for the projectile. “This must be the producer. Inspector Gillan said his name’s Kurt something.”
Hayes stood beside Miller. “What have we got?”
“Single gunshot to the back of the head by the looks of it. I’m not sure how this guy didn’t see the intruder coming in. It’s not a huge room, and the door’s in his peripheral vision. Personally, I’d see that door open.”
“Maybe he was too engrossed in what he was doing.”
Miller nodded. “Maybe.”
Hayes looked down at the slumped body. “I’ve checked, and the building doesn’t have any cameras outside. How can this place be so high-tech, yet not have any cameras either inside or outside. We’d best pray the neighbours do.”
6
From what Miller speculated, Hayes agreed. It would appear that the suspect had entered without the victim noticing. How, was anyone’s guess. Perhaps Sheila was right: the victim was glued to the monitor. He had headphones on. “We know his name’s Kurt something.”
Miller took the victim’s wallet out of his trousers. “Austin. Kurt Austin. He’s local. Born in 1964. He has an NHS exemption card, and four, no five credit cards. Oh, and a business card for here. He calls himself a producer.”
Hayes took the card from her partner. “Right, we need to find out as much as we can about him anyway. Any of these victims could be the intended target, Colin Fisher, Brandy Reid, or this poor guy.” Hayes checked the corners of the room for cameras.
“Shall we move on to the next one?” Sheila, the pathologist, walked out of the room.
“With three victims, how are we going to find the suspect?” Miller asked.
Hayes was thinking the same. In all her time on the force, she’d never investigated a triple murder before. With three victims, she wondered who the intended victim was herself. If she were a betting person, she would put her money on it being the star, Colin Fisher, but she might be wrong.
Not that she knew anything about Brandy Reid. The co-presenter might have had a past that caught up with her; it could be an ex-boyfriend, or jilted lover for all she knew. It was folly to suspect Fisher. She hadn’t even seen the body yet, and already she believed he was the target. “We’re going to need help whittling down the suspect pool. We can’t handle this case alone.”
Allowing Miller to go ahead, she followed her partner to the second crime scene. The first thing she noticed: the blood, lots of it, over the carpet, bed covers, everywhere. Lying naked, her dead eyes staring up at the ceiling, Brandy Reid showed off her wares.
There were stab marks on her chest and stomach, together with a bullet wound in her chest and forehead. The brown carpet beneath her was red. Hayes made a note of where the shooter could have stood, although, judging by the mess below, it looked like Miss Reid had been sexually molested before they shot her.
“One in the chest and one in the head. It couldn’t be any clearer if you ask me. This was a professional hit, but the knife wounds don’t fit the MO of an assassin.” Miller crouched and studied said blade wounds. “What kind of hitman does this?”
“It puts her in the front-running, though, doesn’t it?” They needed to get lucky on this one, or it would become a drawn-out investigation. Hayes didn’t want that. “We’ll see what trace the SOCOs come up with, but I’ve changed my mind. I think Miss Reid might be the target. Look at those stab marks, how deep they are. Whoever did this knew her intimately.”
The pathologist nodded grimly. “Poor woman. No one deserves that.” She shook her head, turned to the door. “Shall we?”
“After you.” Hayes followed Sheila out of Brandy’s dressing room, across the hall to Colin Fisher’s. When Hayes entered, she couldn’t help but notice Colin’s dead body sprawled on the blood-soaked carpet in front of the door to his en suite shower room.
Hayes studied the body. “A single shot to the chest and another to the forehead. I’m definitely thinking an execution.”
SOCOs walked in and started filming the crime scene. The room was suddenly a hive of activity, with white-clad professionals marking the room, bagging evidence, dusting for prints and recording everything. “Let’s do a walk-through,” Hayes suggested.
Miller, Sheila and Hayes strolled out of the dressing room to the front of the building, to the hallway between the two recording studios. The radio presenter’s husband stood inside the doors, still trying to get past security. “It’s all right. We’ll take it from here, sergeant.”
“Make sure he doesn’t get past.” After whispering to her taller partner, Hayes met Henry Curtis at the front doors. “Is there somewhere we can go and talk privately, Mr Curtis?” Her question was greeted with a nod. She followed him to a small conference room at the front of the building.
There was room
