"Yes, I guess we do."
"The dog owner was from the University. Anthropology department. How about that for luck? He recognised the bone as human and called us.”
Yvonne said nothing but listened intently, nodding every now and then to encourage the other Detective along.
“We didn’t find her killer, and we had little in the way of clues, except for the rope. We narrowed that down to some used in the Cherwell boathouse – there was varnish on it, you see. The same varnish was used on the boats."
"Did you check out users of the boathouse?"
"Yes, we did, but the boathouse had been broken into in the weeks prior to Emma's disappearance. Several items, including rope, were taken. No-one had thought the break-in serious. It was treated as a minor crime at the time. Kids…you know."
"I see."
"The thief used gloves, so the burglary team didn't have much to go on. By the time we poked around again a year later, well, let's just say it left us none the wiser. Every lead we didn't have, ended at a brick wall.”
“Hmm.” Yvonne nodded expectantly.
“I was tearing my hair out. I was young and hungry and I badly wanted to crack the case for the parents.”
“Well I can understand that…”
“Yes, but you see…” The older man was now earnest, as he took another swig of his whiskey. “When we found her…amongst the bones of her ribcage…we found more bones. Tiny bones.” Walker took a deep breath, releasing it as he delivered the punch. “Emma was about six months pregnant.”
"Oh, no." eyes wide, she looked through John Walker at the poignant image he was painting for her. “Did her parents know?”
“No. They had no idea until we told them.”
“Did you ever find out who the father was?”
“No. We didn’t have fancy DNA techniques in those days.”
“What I really need to know, sir, is what position the body was found in? How did the killer leave her?”
“Difficult to know for sure because she was just bones. It may have been a kneeling position, with her head on the floor in front of her.”
“Like she was kissing the ground?”
“Yeah. Something like that. Does that help?”
“Perhaps.It’s a long-shot. Maybe too much of a long shot for me to investigate it further, but I think her death may be linked to our current murders."
“You think it's the same killer?” Walker didn't hide his surprise.
“I think it could be ,yes.”
"You'll keep me posted then?"
"I certainly will."
39
Things were quiet in chatroom. Lady Firebird was wondering where everyone was.
Lady Firebird: celine have you heard anything of butterfly recently? Or of tatiana or isobelle?
celine: No Lady Firebird, this one has not.
Lady Firebird: I do hope that they have not been roaming to the other rooms for it would not be wise for them to do so.
celine: It would not Mistress?
Lady Firebird: Indeed not child. There are some who would forcefully enslave them and keep them for their Cities.
Master SlaveStalker has joined the conversation.
Lady Firebird: Greetings Master
Master SlaveStalker: Hello Ladyfirebird and hi celine
celine: Lady Firebird was wondering what happened to butterfly, tatiana and isobelle
Master SlaveStalker: I had heard that they were roaming. I also heard from Master Fireeater that they have joined another chat City.
Lady Firebird: Then all is well. Though ‘tis a shame indeed for it was always good to see them here. I must away now. I have a young Master-in-training to attend. Love and honour to you both.
Master SlaveStalker: Aye love and honour.
Lady Firebird has left the conversation
Master SlaveStalker: Alone at last celine
celine: Aye Master. It is so good to see you. this one missed you yesterday.
Master SlaveStalker: and I you celine little one. Come kneel at my feet.
celine: slips quietly to the Master and kneels at his feet.
Master SlaveStalker: When are you coming to visit my dungeon? I promise to take very good care of you.
celine: this one is not sure Master.
Master SlaveStalker: do you not trust me? It so pains me to think that that might be the case for I do so love you and your shy little ways. You have a way about you celine which warms my heart. I want to show you how good life can be.
celine: Yes Master, this one trusts you but it is a big step.
Master SlaveStalker: don’t worry little one. I am happy merely to chat online with you. A home visit from you would just be a wonderful extra… but I can live without it.
celine: thankyou Master but this one does not want you to think that she does not wish to see you. Sometimes this one wants to more than anything else in the world.
Master SlaveStalker: Well that is good to hear, but we will talk no more of it today.
40
Her heart beat fast and painful. She felt the sweat building on her temples and sliding down her back. She dropped the kettle and gripped the taps to steady herself.
It was happening again. Overwhelming her. She stood,
shaking. Tasha heard the kettle clatter in the sink and came rushing in.
“Yvonne. Yvonne.” Her concerned voice cut through the DI’s condition and she released the taps.
“Are you alright?” Tasha placed a hand on Yvonne’s shoulder and spun her around.
“Yes, I’m fine. Really. I dropped the kettle. It’s nothing.” Erratic breathing belied her reply. She knew she was being scrutinised again.
“Here, let me.” Tasha lifted the kettle from the sink and filled it. Placing it back on its base, she switched it on.
“Yvonne, what happened?”
“It was a wasp,” the DI fibbed. “I thought it was going to sting me.”
Tasha looked for the non-existent wasp and frowned.
“Tasha,” Yvonne changed the subject. “You said that our killer may have attacked before?”
“I did.” Tasha paused, as the two trains of thought competed for dominance.
“How long ago might he have started?” Yvonne asked hurriedly.
“Well that depends.”
“On what?”
“On his age and the causes of his compulsion to murder.”
“Could there have been a gap between earlier and later killings?” Yvonne furtively wiped the perspiration from her upper lip.
“It’s possible. There have been several cases where serial killers have had a cooling off period of six months to a year, between murders. Either because of self-recrimination or to relive the last murder in fantasies, until the urge to kill again returned.”
“I was thinking of a bigger gap than that.”
“How big exactly?”
“How’s twenty four years sound?”
“Wow.” Tasha chuckled despite herself. “Gaps of several years have been known, but usually the killer has either been in jail or out of the country. Sometimes a stable relationship can lead to a long gap between killings. Twenty four years is a very long time though.”
“Well, maybe our man has spent some time in prison.”
“Or there are more bodies waiting to be found. Anyway, don’t keep me in suspenders. Tell me about this twenty-year thing.”
Yvonne grinned. “A woman’s body was discovered at Headington Quarry back in eighty-eight. She was a twenty-year-old student. I’ll get you a copy of the case notes, but she was found in a position similar to that of Kelly and Hannah. Her hands were tied behind her with rope.”
“And Headington Quarry is not that far from Shotover…”
“Exactly. I thought I’d get the team to look intol lifers released from prison in the last six months.”
“Good idea. I’ve been thinking about the killer’s positioning of his victims.”
“And?”
“He wants them viewed as objects of derision. Almost as though they are flaunting themselves and asking observers to take them. He’s a man who wants women to be seen only as sex objects.”
“Don’t they all?”
Both women smiled and the sombre mood was broken.
“You should do more of that.” Tasha’s gaze was intense and Yvonne lowered her eyes, warming the air with hot cheeks.
“Oh no, that would never do.” Yvonne turned to pour water on the teabags.
41
It was raining heavily. The wind whipped senescent leaves around like bullets. The Master looked hastily about him, as he opened up the boot of his car and took hold of the bound girl.
She was light. Malleable. He lifted her easily. One more look around and he carried her through the gate to the side of the library, placing her in the dirt. She started to move. Dammit! He'd been certain she was dead. He'd make sure this time.
His hands closed around her neck, as the wind tugged at his clothing. He squeezed her like a man possessed until he could feel neither resistance nor pulse. He dropped her in the mud and arranged her to his satisfaction, before pressing his feet into the squelching mess leaving one... two, three, four prints. Then he was gone.
A mere few hundred yards away, a local bus had parked outside the delicatessens on Headington High Street, hazard lights flicking through the rain. The driver was badly shaken and a young PC did his best to make sense of the details.
“Right, sir, you say two white males. Late teens and around five feet six to five seven.”
“Yes.”
“And they threw this bottle at you because you asked to see their passes?”
“Yes. Then they ran off somewhere into the park.”
The PC called his base. “Sierra Oscar from Bravo Quebec 22.”
“Bravo Quebec 22, go ahead.”
“We have details of the offenders for the assault on the bus driver, my colleague and I will carry out an area search in Bury Knowle Park. Could we have a backup unit out here, please? We’ll need to get a statement.”
“Yes. Yes. Wait one.”
The park was a mass of grey-black shadows as PC’s Smith and Gilchrist climbed the wall and made their way around the park. Their torch beams were penetrated obliquely by the driving rain.
PC Smith ran alongside the library towards the back of the park, half expecting to be jumped upon. He was just about to give up the search for the teenagers when his foot struck something soft and he fell head-long into the mud. Winded, he dragged himself up, cursing. He shouted to his colleague.
“Paul. Paul, over here!”
The woman was still warm. While PC Gilchrist called for an ambulance, PC Smith felt for a pulse. Not finding one, he placed an ear to her chest. He wasn't sure if he heard anything. He put a cheek to her nose but the whipping wind took away all hope of feeling her breath.
There was blood on his hand as he pulled it away from her head. He couldn't be sure how much blood she'd lost. He took off his regulation raincoat and wrapped it around her.
It was his call and while there was a chance of life, he thought ‘to hell with forensics.’ His one concession was to take out his pen and etch a circle around a group of possible offender prints near the feet of the victim. He would ask the paramedics to avoid these, if it was possible.
The ambulance finally arrived and Smith watched as the crew checked for signs of life. As they worked frantically, he heard one call out, "she's still alive! Get the oxygen!" He shivered more from relief than the cold.
42
It had taken several days to discover the survivor’s identity. She lay in a coma, in the intensive therapy unit of the John Radcliffe hospital.
Her parents sat quietly by her side, their faces drained of colour. Their hearts kept time with the mechanical suck and clunk of the ventilating machine and the constant beeps of the ECG monitor. Their eyes still betrayed their shock.
"I'm afraid your daughter's very poorly." The Consultant hung his stethoscope around his neck and embedded his hands in his white-coat pockets. "She has wires attached to her for monitoring her heart, and she is not able to breathe for herself at the moment. A machine is breathing for her. Seeing her will be a shock for you."
"Is she going to be alright?" Mrs Davis' eyes were large with fear.
"I'm afraid we don't know yet, Mrs Davis, but she is stable right now."
"How long will she be in a coma?" Mr Davis asked, holding his wife's cold hands in his.
"We can't answer that, just now. She could come out of it at any time. I'm sorry I cannot be of more help. Would you like to see her?"
The couple nodded, and quietly followed the doctor onto the unit. Being both shy of doctors and nervous of hospitals, they stepped timidly towards the bed.
Mrs Davis prayed quietly to herself. "Please god let her live. Please god let her live. Please god let her live." She sat down and touched her daughter’s face. Her tears were painful drops, which sank slowly into the bedcover.
Signs of manual strangulation were still visible on Michelle's neck, though the bruises were fading. Her head had been shaved on one side and the stitching of a head wound was clearly visible. Apart from the life-augmenting equipment, the ITU was silent.
43
SOCO painstakingly eliminated shoe impressions belonging to the emergency personnel. They were left with the circle of possible offender prints close to where Michelle had lain. As soon as the rain held off, casts were made of the prints.
The murder team discussed the latest back at St. Aldates.
"We have every reason to believe the attempted murder of Michelle Davis is linked to the killing of the Shotover women. If it is, we have the killer's shoe prints." Yvonne paced up and down in front of the gathered detectives. "Mike, did forensics get back to you about the estimated size of the offender?"
"Yes, ma'am. He's around six feet two and probably sixteen stone. His shoe size is eleven, and the right one has a distinctive crack across the bottom."
"Thanks, Mike. What else have we got?"
"The victim was positioned with her buttocks displayed, just like the others."
"We need to talk to the officers who found her. Have they handed in statements yet? "
Brian stopped sucking his pen. "Got them this morning, ma'am."
"Can I have a copy on my desk, ASAP. I want photocopies of their notebook pages too. Anything else?"
"Michelle had taken two weeks leave from work, and the last person known to have spoken to her before she left was her best friend Sarah Collins. Michelle’s father says the two of them work at the same Hotel in Brighton."
“Okay. It's important we speak to her and get a statement. Brian, you and I can do that. Deborah, can you speak to the parents? Find out if they know anything at all about where their daughter was planning to stay, and remember, you’ll need to go gently. Tash, anything to add?"
"We'll need to keep a watch on the ITU. I think our killer is probably too cautious to risk finishing her off, but we can't take any chances." Tasha pursed her lips.
"I'll have a word with uniform and make sure someone is posted there at all times. Anyone think of anything else? No? Okay, let’s get going."
44
There was a nip in the salty, gull-filled air as Yvonne and Brian stepped out of the car on their way to see Sarah Collins. They walked briskly along the white row Victorian terracing in Kemptown, Brighton, until they reached 'Sunny View'. A firm rap on the tarnished, brass lion door knocker brought a plump lady, in her mid forties, to the door.
“Mrs. Collins?”
“Yes…”
“I‘m DI Yvonne Giles from Thames Valley Police, and this is DS Brian Leech. Is it alright if we come in?”
“You’ve come to speak to Sarah? Yes come on in. She's been expecting you. She’s a bit upset at the moment, mind.”
“Thank you. We hope this won’t take too long.” Yvonne and Brian wiped their feet and followed Mrs Collins through to he
r living room, which was large and full of period features. The original wrought iron fireplace was striking and Yvonne gave in to the need to run her hand over the highly polished motif.
“I shouldn’t have let her go.” Sarah’s look was tortured, her eyes fixed on the highly patterned, olive wallpaper.
“Sarah, how long have you known Michelle?” Yvonne tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ears.
“About three years.”
“And how does she seem to you?”
“She’s a lively, bubbly, friendly girl. She’s my best friend.”
“Did you have any clue as to where she intended to stay on her holiday?”
“No, none. That is, she wouldn’t say.”
“Did you ask her?”
“Yes and she wouldn’t tell me. Kept saying that she wasn’t sure if she was going to go, or if it would work out.”
“If what would work out Sarah?”
“Erm,” Sarah looked uncomfortable. “She….” Sarah hesitated.
“Was she going to meet someone? A man, perhaps?” Brian asked, gently.
“Yes, she was, but she wouldn’t say who.”
“Someone she had met before?”
“No. I got the impression that it was no-one I knew – but she didn’t tell me that. I just felt it.”
“Was she posting or answering personal ads, do you know?”
“Not that I know. She never said. She didn’t find it difficult to get a boyfriend.”
“Was there anything else odd about her behaviour recently? Anything at all?”
Sarah thought for a few moments, “Well there was one thing…but it’s probably nothing.”
“Please, we need to know everything if we are to find out who did this.”
“Well, once or twice she talked about herself in a strange way.”
“In a strange way?”
“Instead of saying 'me' or 'I', she said ‘this one’ or ‘this girl’, or something like that. Then she realised what she said and quickly changed it. Then she’d go quiet. I thought it was odd.”
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