Trust Me by T.M. Logan

Author:T.M. Logan
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Bonnier Publishing Fiction

33

Gilbourne rubs his face with both hands, looking suddenly older in the soft light of the dining room.

‘I’m not exactly flavour of the month with my boss at the moment and I shouldn’t really share anything else with you,’ he says. ‘But I’m going to anyway, because a) my boss is an idiot and b) I want to keep you safe, and frankly I’m worried that you’re going to put yourself in more danger if I don’t give you a little bit of background.’

‘I understand,’ I say. ‘And it’s appreciated.’

‘This is a live investigation, so I need your word that this won’t go any further. Not to your friend.’ He gestures with a thumb towards the closed door. ‘Not to anyone.’

‘OK,’ I say. ‘You’ve got it.’

He considers me for a moment, taps the printout with his index finger. ‘This individual’s name is Leon Markovitz. Thirty-six years old. Last known address in Camden. Former tabloid journalist convicted in 2013 on various charges relating to phone hacking, burglary, breaches of privacy and bribing of public officials. Served three years in jail and then spent some time in a secure psychiatric unit after his release. No newspaper would touch him with a bargepole when he came out so he re-created himself as one of those true-crime fanatics, podcasts and what have you. He was one of our prime suspects in a serious criminal investigation last year, one of my cases. Arrested and questioned on two separate occasions.’

‘Questioned about what?’

‘A series of extremely violent offences – he had certain information about the victims and about the circumstances of those crimes. Information that was deliberately not put into the public domain, to separate the responsible party from the various internet nutters who ring in wanting to give a full confession. Facts that only the perpetrator would have known. Unfortunately the investigation ended up . . . falling short in other areas. In the end we didn’t have enough to charge Markovitz.’

‘Surely you’ve got an address for him? You could—’

Gilbourne holds up a hand. ‘Bear with me for a minute.’ He leafs through the papers in his folder. ‘As I mentioned, we’ve been doing a trawl of CCTV, including on St George Street where you said you were abducted on Tuesday afternoon. Camera coverage is patchy there but we did get an ANPR hit very close by that might be significant.’ I frown at the acronym soup and he adds: ‘Automatic number plate recognition.’

‘The BMW?’

He pulls another A4 sheet from the leather folder and slides it across the table to me. This one is not a blurry CCTV image taken from a distance, but a close-up head and shoulders of a man against a green background. A police mugshot like you’d see in a news report or on TV. An angry, hard face. A dark ginger beard, buzz-cut short hair. Thick neck. Nose kinked in the middle from some long-ago break.

An unpleasant buzz of fear loosens my stomach. I cross my arms over my chest.

‘That’s him,’ I say.

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