Deadly July: Amber Fearns London Thriller, #5

By Denise Yoko Berndt

Summer in the city has never been so deadly.

 

In the sweltering July heat of London, a young woman's life is brutally snuffed out, her strangled body discovered in a seedy Marylebone flat. For the Metropolitan Police, the hunt for her killer has only just begun.

 

Compelled by the horrific crime, former police officer Amber Fearns can't resist when her old colleagues desperately call for her brilliant mind and unique perspective to help crack the case.

 

But when a second woman is found murdered in an alley in Soho, Amber and the investigation team face a twisted riddle that grows more shocking at every turn. Is a serial killer on the loose, taunting them at every step?

 

Can Amber connect the crimes and unmask the perpetrator before another life is lost? 

 

Plunge into the dark streets of London and the pitch-black soul of a killer in Deadly July, a gritty crime thriller from Denise Yoko Berndt.

 

Fans of hardboiled British police procedurals will be riveted until the very last heart-stopping twist.

 

Deadly July is ideal for readers of Biba Pearce, Lynda La Plante, Robert Bryndza and Martina Cole.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Denise Yoko Berndt
• Release date: Apr 22, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224124145

Denise Yoko Berndt

Mit zwei der erste Büchereiausweis, mit sieben die erste Kurzgeschichte, das konnte ja nur böse enden. Erst Songtexte für verschiedene Künstler, dann mehrere Drehbücher und 2006 der erste Roman: The Poriomaniacs – Dead in Dornbirn. Nach insgesamt vier Krimis um die Girl-Rockband The Poriomaniacs erschienen bislang drei Tübingen-Thriller, zwei Thriller mit Schauplatz München und seit April 2020 die London-Thriller-Reihe um die Ermittlerin Amber Fearns. Wenn sie nicht gerade irgendwo auf dieser Welt für das nächste Buch recherchiert, hält die Autorin sich am liebsten in London auf.

Book preview

Contents

Contents

Deadly July

1

2

3

4

5

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10

11

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Acknowledgements

Sources

The Author

Copyright Page

Deadly July

Denise Yoko Berndt

A note to readers outside the UK:

As this book is set in England it follows the spellbinding conventions of British English spelling.

So please bear with the characters as they scoff biscuits while travelling around some of London's most notorious neighbourhoods.

Happy reading!

1

My silence should be worth a little more.

She raised her hand and rubbed her fingers together. They held five twenty-pound bills, and she probably wanted to provoke him.

He eyed her. How much do you have in mind?

She lowered her hand and fanned out the twenties, then she slipped the money into the pocket of her short robe. Its thin, shiny fabric was bright red.

How cheap she looks. The garish make-up, the slutty outfit.

He almost laughed.

She's a hooker. Don't forget that. A hooker who thinks she can blackmail you.

She raised her eyes, looking at him with her chin thrust forward.

What's next? How much dough will she ask for?

Five hundred. Every month.

He raised an eyebrow and a corner of his mouth, hoping she would recognise his expression as mockery.

She jutted her chin even higher. You'll be getting off cheaply.

You think so?

She nodded. But was that uncertainty glimmering in her gaze?

So four hundred more for July. Then five hundred every month from the first of August? Cash, or would you rather have it wired? He stared at her cleavage. Will I at least get something in return? Something to sweeten the deal?

Violently, she shook her head, causing her long, silky black hair to fly. No. That costs extra.

Rolling his eyes, he heaved a sigh. I thought so. He took a step toward her. Let's do it like this, then. That—he pointed at the pocket where his hundred pounds had disappeared—is for tonight, and then you'll get five hundred more from me this month.

She seemed to consider the deal as she bit the inside of her cheek.

Doesn't look too flattering. Someone should tell her.

Well, what is it?

She shook her head. Four hundred more. No sex.

Oh, come on. Don't be like that. You weren't so coy on the phone. We have a deal.

Another shake of the head. Find someone else.

But I'm here now, aren't I? He pointed at her outfit. You're all dressed up, looking really hot by the way, so let's get going.

She took a step back. Her gaze flickered. I want you to leave. Now. Her voice trembled, ever so slightly yet unmistakable.

He stood there, relaxed, his hands in his pockets, his head slightly lowered. He watched her very closely.

Don't you hear? I want you to leave. Get out of here! Right now! Her voice was loud and had a slightly hysterical undertone.

She approached him, trying to get past him to the door.

He couldn't let that happen. He grabbed her by the upper arm and spun her around to face him. Before she could cry out, he put his hands around her neck.

Her eyes widened, pure horror in her gaze.

He squeezed.

She jerked her arms upward and struck powerlessly against his hands, his forearms. She tried to hit him in the face.

He dodged her without any problems.

I am stronger. You don't stand a chance.

He increased the pressure.

Her body went limp.

Without taking his hands off her neck, he dragged her behind the screen shielding the bed from view. After placing her unconscious body on the floor, he bent over her.

When he was sure she was dead, he let go. He shook out his hands, retrieved his money, and looked around the shabby little room.

A mobile phone was on the nightstand, and he pocketed that as well.

When he left, he didn't pull the door shut but left it ajar.

So that you'll be found before you're rotten and stinking. It would be such a pity for that pretty face.

2

Amber stood in front of the Prince Charles Cinema, deep in thought. All of London was groaning under the heat of the July day, and the sun was burning down from a cloudless sky. All the green spaces of the city were literally overrun by sun worshippers, and she was seriously thinking about going to the cinema? In broad daylight?

I'm sure they have air-conditioning. And Reservoir Dogs is a movie I've wanted to watch again for a long time. It'll be much more fun at the cinema on a big screen than on Netflix.

She checked her watch. It was almost forty minutes until the screening started. Amber calculated when the movie would end.

I could go out for something to eat right afterwards then go home.

But then what was she supposed to do with the remainder of the evening?

She checked at which later times the film would be screened at the small art house cinema in Leicester Place.

If I go to the seven p.m. screening, it won't be so weird. Until then, I can walk along the river or relax in the Victoria Embankment Gardens.

Relax? With hundreds of sun-starved office workers and tourists in the Victoria Embankment Gardens? She wouldn't even find a square inch of free lawn there.

Indecisively, she glanced back and forth between the movie poster and her wristwatch as the smartphone in her handbag vibrated.

The display showed a number, not a name. That meant the caller wasn't in Amber's contact list. However, she could tell from the area code that it was a London number. She took the call.

Amber? Rosa Allen here, Metropolitan Police Service. We worked together a little over a year ago on Operation Violet.

The kidnapping of little Nica. Amber remembered the case all too well. Detective Chief Inspector Allen had led the investigation together with DCI Christopher Walmsley.

Amber straightened her shoulders and turned her back on the movie poster. A call from DCI Allen could mean only one thing.

We desperately need your help. We are extremely short-staffed. Yesterday, a prostitute was murdered in Marylebone. We need you as an outside consultant. Amber heard Allen take a deep breath. I hope you're not on holiday too.

Amber smiled. No, she wasn't on holiday, even if she almost felt a little like a tourist with her thoughts of afternoon visits to the movies, dinner in Chinatown, and sunbathing in the Victoria Embankment Gardens.

I'm near Leicester Square at the moment. I could come right over.

The relief in Rosa Allen's voice was palpable. That would be fantastic. I'll give you a brief overview of what we know so far, then you could look at the crime scene afterwards. Amber heard paper rustling on the other end of the line. You'd be working with Detective Inspector Pola Williams.

Pola got a promotion? Amber's smile widened. She had come to appreciate Pola as a colleague over the past few years.

Yes, about a month ago, Rosa Allen said. I know you usually work with DI Gibson, but unfortunately, he's on holiday until Monday. She sighed. As are so many other colleagues.

That's right. Danny is in Cyprus with his girlfriend. He's constantly posting quaint photos on Facebook. Quaint and deadly boring.

Amber almost laughed as she remembered the sunrise over the ocean that Danny had shared with his Facebook friends the night before. Beach holidays were not Amber's thing at all; she preferred to stay in the city in the summer, no matter how hot it was.

I'll be there in about twenty minutes, she said, ending the call.

She stowed the smartphone in her handbag and started moving. Her gaze fell on a telephone box, a rarity in Central London in the age of the mobile phone. Amber often wondered whether the last remaining red telephone boxes were kept on just as decoration so that tourists could take selfies for Instagram in front of them. With the cameras of their smartphones.

But right then, she wasn't interested in the phone box as such. What interested her were the cards stuck in the small glass panes between the red metal frames.

Amber could still remember the days when the telephone booths in Central London were plastered all over with those postcard-sized advertising leaflets. Back then, a visitor often couldn't see inside the booth because of all the cards. Or out, if they were inside the booth.

That was in the nineties, more than twenty years ago.

She took a step closer. A total of four flimsy cards were stuck to the outside of the phone box. Three were colourful photos of scantily clad women, each with a snappy slogan that advertised the ladies' special services. Below that was a phone number. The fourth card was different. Of light-yellow cardboard, it featured a drawing and a sentence that seemed almost poetic in contrast to the texts on the other three cards—Ignite the Magic of Sensuality —followed by a phone number.

Amber reached out and took the card. I can't believe anyone still advertises like that nowadays. I would have thought they're all online now. She held the light-yellow card next to the other three, and the differences were like night and day. The photos were garish, vulgar. The card she held, which invited one to ignite magic sensuality, seemed alien next to them.

I wonder if the woman behind this card has any success with it. Or do the men who are looking for this kind of service here in Soho prefer to call the other numbers?

The numbers on the cards that left no room for the imagination. There were voluptuous curves in tight latex, bright-red plumped lips, and slogans that couldn't have been any less creative. Bondage, S-M, water sports, and unspecified VIP services were on offer.

Amber turned away from the phone booth, the yellow card still in her hand. Apart from the slogan and telephone number, there were the words near Edgware Road and a drawing of a female silhouette. The card had no clue as to what exactly the range of sensual offers included.

If you're the curious type, you'll call this number. If you're into bondage, you'll probably phone one of the others.

Amber slipped the card into her handbag and continued on her way. She dodged a group of tourists who were so busy taking pictures that they didn't pay attention to where they were going.

Isn't Edgware Road also in Marylebone? At least part of it?

When Rosa Allen had mentioned Marylebone, the image of a high-class call girl had immediately appeared in Amber's mind—a woman who worked for an exclusive escort service and charged hundreds of pounds for her services. But of course, Marylebone also had its less pleasant corners. For example, near Edgware Road.

I wonder if the murder victim also used such cards. If so, what kind? The vulgar variant or the creative one?

Amber quickened her steps. Maybe Detective Chief Inspector Allen could give her an answer.

3

The colleagues at the scene found a handbag in a locked wardrobe. Inside was a driver's licence, a University of London student ID card, and a mobile phone that was completely switched off. The ID photos clearly show the dead woman. Her name was Allison Sardis. She was twenty-two. Born on November eleventh, 1998. The driver's licence gives an address in a small Lancashire town, Fleetwood. Probably the address of her parents. Unfortunately, that's all we know about her so far.

Have the relatives been notified yet? Amber asked.

Rosa Allen checked her watch. Should be done by now. I'm sure the Lancashire colleagues will be in touch any moment. Rosa handed Amber the printout from which she had read the information about the murder victim. This is for you. I'm going to take you to the incident room now. DI Wyle will see to it that you get the necessary log-in information. As I said, you'll be working with DI Williams and then with DI Gibson from Monday.

Amber's briefing had taken place in one of the conference rooms. She followed Rosa Allen across the corridor to the open-plan office where the investigative team was working.

The case, by the way, goes by the name Operation Okapi, Rosa said as she pulled open the door.

A buzz of voices greeted them; it was obvious that the investigation was still at its beginning. Even at first glance, Amber could see that desks were still being adjusted, computer monitors wired, and swivel chairs brought to the right height.

Next to the door was a single desk. Detective Inspector Stephanie Wyle, the office manager, had taken up her position there. Amber and Steph had known each other for years and had worked together frequently before Amber resigned from the police for personal reasons.

After a brief greeting, Steph led Amber to three desks arranged in a T-shape in the centre of the large room.

Pola has already claimed this one, Steph said. One is for Danny, who will be back on duty on Monday, hopefully well rested after two weeks off. So you still have your choice. She grinned at Amber. You go ahead and get settled in, and I'll send someone to bring you a laptop and a mobile phone.

Pola had chosen the desk that formed the crossbar of the T. It already held a laptop and some printouts and pens.

Amber opted for the table that faced the door. That way, she could always keep track of who was coming and going.

Tough luck for Danny. I bet he won't like sitting with his back to the door. But that's what he gets for going on holiday for two weeks.

Hi, Amber. Pola Williams appeared next to her, a mug of steaming coffee in her hand.

Congratulations on the promotion, Amber said.

Thank you. My hard work has finally paid off. Pola sat down and took a sip from her cup.

Amber frowned. What did she mean by that? Pola had sounded almost a little offended, as if her promotion had been long overdue.

I'm probably reading too much into it. She probably just didn't know what to say. Amber pulled her chair out from under the desk and sat down as well. Since she didn't have a computer and a smartphone yet, she felt a little superfluous.

She cleared her throat. Rosa has already given me some initial info. When was the body found?

Pola looked up from her screen. Early this morning at a studio flat on Bradley Street. A neighbour noticed the door was ajar. She pointed at her laptop. We already have a transcript of the interview, so you can read that as soon as you get a computer.

What about evidence?

Pola gave a theatrical sigh. Forensics are still at work, but we've already heard that there are plenty of fingerprints, fibres, and the like. The big question is which of them, if any, belong to the murderer. He probably wasn't her first client of the day.

Any idea what the cause of death was?

She had strangulation marks on her neck. Unfortunately, we don't have a time for the post-mortem yet.

Amber leaned back in her chair with her arms crossed. Pola wasn't very communicative, and getting information out of her was like trying to get blood from a stone. Briefly, Amber wondered if she should bridge the wait for her computer with a visit to the tea kitchen, but then she asked another question. Will we go to the crime scene later?

Yes, as soon as Forensics are done. But that may take a while. Pola didn't even lift her eyes from the screen.

Amber pushed her chair back. Tea kitchen then maybe talk to Steph for a minute. She really wanted to know who else was on the team and who was on holiday. So far, except for Pola and, of course, Steph, Amber had spotted only a few familiar faces in the open-plan office of Operation Okapi.

4

Siobhan flipped open the small wooden box. Inside were black divider cards with tabs that showed the letters of the alphabet. A to C, D to F, and on to W to Z.

The box was originally intended for index cards with addresses, but Siobhan had misappropriated it years ago. It contained a very special collection.

The cards inside the wooden box were all the same size, four by six inches. Many were white, but most were printed on brightly coloured paper.

Siobhan flipped through her collection. She was sitting on the couch in the living room, the box in front of her on the low coffee table, and next to it were two cards she had found that day.

We have to go.

Siobhan looked up. In the doorway stood her boyfriend, Damien, ready to go out.

Is it that late already? She looked at her watch, and it was just before four in the afternoon.

We promised to pick up the booze she ordered from Oddbins on our way.

It won't take us two hours to do that.

It's rush hour. It'll take us forever to get to Wembley, and then we'll have to find a parking spot too. Damien jingled his keys.

Siobhan stood and pushed past Damien. I'm ready, just need to put on shoes. She crouched in front of the shoe cabinet in the hallway. Where were her dark-blue ballerina flats?

What's that?

Siobhan tugged the shoes she was looking for out of the cluttered cabinet and went back into the living room.

Damien sat on the couch, holding one of the new cards.

I collect them. Been doing it forever. Siobhan balanced on one leg and slipped on her left shoe.

Wow. How many do you have? That's incredible.

She sat down next to Damien on the couch. I've never counted them. But yes, there are quite a few by now. I only take the ones that are somehow special. All those cards with photos of tits and asses don't interest me.

"This one is funny. Awaken Your Inner Woman, and that drawing." Damien held out a card with a black-and-white design.

Yes, that's an older one. I once read in a magazine that a lot of the men who go to prostitutes in London do so in order to be able to put on women's clothes. It's been a while, though, so I don't know if that's still such a trend. Siobhan laughed and tugged on her friend's sleeve. Who just said we had to go?

I did, but we have a few minutes to spare. Damien flipped through the file box. I knew you were interested in art and design, but this?

It's kind of an art form, too, isn't it? The Wellcome Collection has thousands of these cards in its archives.

What's so special about these two that you put them out? Damien pointed at Siobhan's new finds.

I found them during my lunch break today. I was just going to put them away. She stood up. It's getting harder and harder to find cards that are funny or even artistic. Like I said, most of them are just photos of big breasts and even bigger bottoms with a phone number underneath, printed on cheap, thin paper.

Damien slid the two cards into the file box and flipped the lid closed. Your desire is my command, he said as he stood and followed Siobhan into the hallway.

Good line, right? She reached for her handbag then pulled open the front door.

I'd like to take a closer look at this collection of yours, Damien said.

Siobhan looked over her shoulder and winked at him. I can imagine you'd be interested.

5

Amber looked up at the facade of the two-storey building, which had seen better days. The plaster was peeling, and the formerly white paint had turned a dirty grey. On the first floor was a small grocer's selling Middle Eastern specialties, and a tiny mobile phone shop. Both shop windows were plastered with handwritten signs promising specials of various kinds.

The two upper floors have been divided into a total of six studio flats. The dead woman was found in the middle flat on the second floor, Pola said. She nodded to the constable, who was standing in front of the narrow front door between the two shops. DI Williams, she said, holding out her badge to him, this is Amber Fearns, outside consultant.

The constable noted their names on a clipboard then held the door open.

Thank you. Amber smiled at him as Pola wordlessly rushed past and went up the steep, narrow staircase.

It's a miracle that a place like this still exists in the middle of London, what with all the gentrification going on, thought Amber as she followed her colleague. The stairwell was narrow, and there was a musty smell, as if the house hadn't been aired out for years.

The tiny landing on the second floor was covered with a worn carpet whose tendril pattern in various shades of green was barely recognisable.

The middle door was open, and a figure in a light-blue protective suit knelt on the threshold, taking notes on a tablet. When the figure looked up, Amber recognised Detective Sergeant Sara Marsh.

Haven't Forensics finished yet? Pola asked.

Yes, they have. I just haven't got around to taking that thing off yet. Sara stood. No signs of forced entry. She must have let the murderer in.

He probably had an appointment with her, Pola said.

Sara stepped into the tiny studio flat, and they followed her. There was no entrance area, and the front door led directly into the main room. To the left was a small kitchenette, and to the right was a screen that only partially covered a queen-size bed with red-satin sheets. That door there leads to the bathroom, and the one over here belongs to the wardrobe where we found the handbag. There were also jeans, a T-shirt, and espadrilles in there. Probably the clothes she wore when she came here.

Where was the body? Pola asked.

Sara swiped across the display of her tablet and handed it to Pola. Then she pointed at the bed. Next to the bed, on the floor.

Amber stood next to Pola so she, too, could look at the photos on the tablet's screen. A young, slender woman in a gaping negligee of bright-red shiny fabric lay on the short-pile grey carpet.

Pola enlarged the photo. Amber could see that the woman was wearing a tiny thong of black lace and a matching bra. She was barefoot, her toenails painted red. She was lying on her back so that she was staring sightlessly at the ceiling.

Pola flicked to the next photo, a close-up. The strangulation marks on the victim's neck stood out in deep purple against her unnaturally pale skin. The woman's eyeballs showed red pinpoint haemorrhages, and her lips were half open.

Amber took a step to the side. She would look at the photos later at the Yard, but she wanted to get an overall impression of the crime scene.

She walked toward the bed. The pillow looked as if it had been fluffed recently, and the sheet was smooth. Amber looked around. No photos, posters, or other decorative items were on the walls. In contrast to the unkempt facade of the house, the room seemed to have been painted not too long ago. Even the carpet looked relatively new and clean.

The kitchenette was a different story. There, the forensics team had worked thoroughly, as evidenced by the numerous black stains left by fingerprint powder.

The first thing