Trust Me - T.M. Logan Page 0,97

it into my handbag.

‘Thanks, Matt. I really appreciate it.’

‘So, this great story – give me a clue,’ he says. ‘A starter for ten.’

I lace my fingers together on the table in front of me. ‘In your piece, it doesn’t mention if there was a . . . sexual element to the attacks.’

He frowns at me over the top of his glass. ‘Because there wasn’t. According to the police, anyway.’

‘But you would have included that? I mean there wouldn’t have been a reason to leave it out of the story, would there?’

‘God yes, I would have included it,’ he says. ‘Absolutely. Why do you ask?’

‘Tara said victims of sexual offences get lifetime anonymity. So I assumed that because victim number three wasn’t named in the media, she had—’

‘No, the granting of anonymity was a police decision, because of the circumstances of the case and the nature of the attack, she was deemed to be an especially vulnerable witness. The Met line was that putting her ID out there would jeopardise her safety, and therefore jeopardise their ability to bring her attacker to justice.’

‘Because the Ghost might come for her again?’

‘If he knew where to find her. The family got an injunction as well, preventing her from being named in the media. Belt and braces job, kind of overkill really. Excuse the pun.’

‘Do you know much about the women he attacked?’

‘Well, victims one and two were street prostitutes working in and around Uxbridge. Both involved with drugs, both users, and Louise Taggart had been nicked a couple of times for low-level supplying as well. I was never able to nail much down about Zoe Clifton, but she had a flat in the same area. Some suggestions she was also on the fringes of sex work, but I couldn’t stand that angle up. Family never wanted to talk, but let’s just say it had the makings of a cracking story for us.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Mr and Mrs Clifton are loaded – their house is like something out of Country Life. It’s the kind of story my editor loves: pretty, posh, privately-educated girl, the apple of her parents’ eye, drawn into a life of vice. A shame the parents never wanted to play ball on an exclusive – fully anonymised, of course. Thought I’d wear them down eventually but they blanked me every single time. Thankfully, no one else got the story either.’

I take a small diary out of my handbag, flip to a blank page at the back and write the words UXBRIDGE FLAT? in capitals.

‘Was there ever a suggestion that the Ghost was linked to any other attacks?’ I say. ‘Any other murders?’

‘We had a couple of sniffs here and there but never anything definite. Nothing the cops would even go near confirming.’

‘Not even off the record?’

Simms gives a definitive shake of his head. ‘Nope. Not even then.’

‘So, this guy, this Ghost, he attacks three women in the space of a few months, and then stops? Does that make sense?’

‘I think the third one might have freaked him out. The first two, he kills them. Then for whatever reason he messes it up with victim number three. She survives. And knowing she was out there, knowing there was a living witness, he just wanted to crawl back under his rock. That’s my theory, anyway.’

‘Didn’t the police ever make any arrests?’

He takes another swallow of his pint of bitter, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

‘They pulled a few guys in. But the investigation had a weird feel to it, like it never really got off the ground, you know? Like they were late to the party and never caught up. Zoe’s estranged husband was arrested and it seemed like they were pretty sure he was their man. I mean, ninety per cent of the time it’s the partner, right? Or the ex.’

‘So what happened with him?’

‘He looked guilty as sin – at least on the circumstantial evidence – but they never charged him.’ Simms grins at me. ‘Poor old Dominic had the media camped on his front lawn for a fortnight, lost his job into the bargain. Then his house. Ruined the bloke.’

My glass is frozen in mid-air, an inch from my lips. Very slowly, I put it back down on the table.

‘Say that again.’

‘He lost his job, he was freelance and all his clients dropped him when he was linked to—’

‘Not that bit.’ I hold a hand up, unsure whether I’ve misheard him. ‘Dominic Church?’

He nods.

‘The police thought he