"And how long had this been going on for?"
"It only happened, I would say, in the last month or two before she went away."
"Thank you." Yvonne accepted the hot mug of tea given to her by Sarah's mother. "Sarah, did it ever seem to you that Michelle had low self esteem?"
"Not generally. As I said, she was lively and outgoing. Always the first to speak to others. If anything, I'm the shy one."
"Had she ever expressed a desire to have a new boyfriend?"
"Yes, she did. Well who doesn't? But she didn't find it hard to meet men. They were always asking her out. People she met at the Hotel for instance."
"Did she like anyone at the Hotel in particular?"
"No. She didn't really seem interested in anyone at the Hotel."
"Did she ever discuss with you the kind of man she wanted?"
"She used to joke and say she wanted someone rich and Masterful. I didn't take her seriously. I mean we all say stuff like that occasionally. I think she just wanted to wait for Mr. Right."
"Unfortunately she bumped into Mr. Wrong.”
They discussed with Michelle's usual routine at the Hotel and where she liked to socialise. The DI was pleased with Sarah's responsiveness, but still did not know how Michelle had started communicating with her killer. Neither did she have that information for the other victims.
When the interview concluded, the DI reached into her pocket. “Sarah, thank you. You have been most helpful. If you think of anything else, anything at all, please call me. Here's my card. If I don't answer, please leave a message and I will call you back as soon as I can."
Sarah held the card tightly, "I want to do whatever I can to help. Is Michelle going to be okay?"
"Doctors don't know, but we certainly hope so."
Yvonne and Brian stopped off at the Hotel and picked up copies of the guest lists for the weeks preceding Michelle’s holiday. Brian knew who would be spending time going through them all.
45
It seems you were right after all, and we have a serial killer on our hands. Sick son-of-a-bitch." Peterson paced the floor.
This was a turn up for the books. Yvonne wished they were in an interview room with the tape recorder switched on. Good job she was seated.
"Yes. It looks that way, sir!"
"Do we know yet how he’s recruiting his victims?"
"He may be advertising in newspapers or magazines. We’re looking into that right now, but people close to the victims are not aware of any of them wanting to find a new boyfriend. Except, maybe, for the latest victim Michelle. The internet is another possibility, but only one of the victims had a PC at home."
"I see."
"There's something else you should know, sir."
"Yes?"
"I’ve been looking back at the case notes from the murder of a young student, Emma Shilton, twenty years ago. I think her death might be linked to our case. I intend to go through the old statements and perhaps conduct one or two fresh interviews."
Peterson regarded her as though she'd gone mad. “I don’t understand, Yvonne. Don’t you have enough on your hands with the current cases? What the hell makes you think it’s linked?”
“There are similarities in the killer’s signature - he way he positioned the victim and how he tied her. Also, the area she was found.”
Peterson took a deep breath, letting it out slowly as he spoke. “Yvonne, I’ve got grieving relatives, an angry press, a terrified public and an irate Superintendent hammering at my door. Now you want to spend precious time digging up some twenty-year-old cold case? What if it’s nothing to do with these murders? What then? Twenty years is a long time. Who are you going to question?”
Yvonne gave a pleading look. “Please…"
"Alright, but you’d better be right. Keep me informed. I need something to give to the wolves at my door."
46
They flickered. Did you see that? I'm sure I saw her eyes flicker, Pete." Mrs Davis squeezed her daughter's hand tighter as she wondered whether to call the nurse again.
"No, I missed it love. She's not moving now." Wendy was crushed. Several times she could have sworn that she’d seen some movement, only to find that her over-tired brain had deceived her. Still she waited.
The grapes, bought more in hope than anticipation, had begun to wrinkle. Wendy could close her eyes and see every detail of the ITU ward, every facet of her daughter's face.
"Mrs. Davis. Mrs Davis?" The voice swam through the turbulent water of her thoughts.
"I'm sorry, nurse, what did you say?"
"Could we ask you to leave the ward for ten minutes? The Doctors want to examine your daughter. We won't be long."
"Yes, of course." The cartilage in Wendy’s knee clicked loudly, as she rose and brushed down her sweat-pleated skirt.
The activity in the corridor went unnoticed, as the tired couple made their way to the League of Friends. They drank, at speed, the tongue-blistering tea.
This happened often. Whilst they sat on the Unit, it seemed as though they had endless time to have refreshment but, as soon as they left the ward, there was the overwhelming urge to get back - just in case.
Despite his wife’s wish to the contrary, Peter Davis was not a religious man. That night, however, he crept to the altar of the hospital chapel and prayed.
47
The Master could barely believe what he was hearing. Not only had Michelle survived two attempts to kill her, but two plods just happened to be chasing vandals through the park within minutes of him leaving her there. With any luck she wouldn't come out of the coma and if she did? He'd deal with it.
48
Headington was busy. Queues of traffic grumbled as the lights favoured red. As soon as they hit green, Yvonne slammed her foot hard on the accelerator and raced into Old Road, turning swiftly right into the supermarket car park. Tasha rubbed the back of her neck.
The park’s sole occupant was an elderly man with a muddy carrier bag, picking his way through the litter bins.
The almost appetising smell of freshly-mown grass wafted on the cool air. Yvonne ducked, lifting the police tape over her head, as she entered the cordoned-off area. The grass inside was still uncut. The late afternoon air was alive with birdsong.
"Michelle lay just here." She pointed to the flagged area of mud and uncut grass.
"And are these the offender's prints?" Tasha knelt, examining the ground while Yvonne watched. It wasn’t fair of Tash to look so smart, even in Wellingtons. Feeling inexplicably conscious of her few extra pounds, she answered. "Yes, you look puzzled."
"Well, I wasn't happy when I saw the photos." the psychologist ran her hand over the earth. "Why leave so many clear prints? And the pattern, it's like he danced around."
"Some kind of ritual?"
"I think he left them for a reason."
"Do you think he wants to be caught?"
"Maybe,eventually, but I doubt he's ready for that yet. Treat the prints with caution. He may have left them to mislead you."
They re-traced the killer's route from the gate, as Tasha tried to second guess his thoughts.
"The murders are a message to someone." Tasha scratched her cheek.
"But to who?"
“Now that I can’t tell you.” Tasha laughed. “I’m a psychologist, not a clairvoyant.”
The DI's phone went off in her pocket.
“DI Giles...”
"Guess what?" It was her sergeant.
"What?" Yvonne shifted position trying to get a better signal on her mobile. "Come on Brian, spill."
"The rope used to bind Kelly and Hannah."
"What about it?"
"It contains traces of varnish." He blurted it out triumphantly.
“I knew it. Brian?”
"Yes?"
"I want you to have the rope compared with the rope found with Emma Shilton. The contact details you need are on my desk. Get onto it right away."
"I'm there, already."
"O
h and Brian?"
"Yes?"
"Make sure they compare the varnish, too."
"Right you are boss."
"And Brian...."
"Yes?"
"Don't call me boss."
49
The brown paper moved involuntarily on the dining table, as it reacted against being screwed into a ball. Graham beat his fist down on top of it, as though doing so would kill it dead.
“Why can’t they leave us alone?” he shouted, loosening his tie and opening the top button of his shirt.
“You’re overreacting Graham.” Catherine couldn’t understand why he was so tense. After all, the sunglasses had been sent to her hadn’t they? Someone’s idea of a joke. Again.
“Why do you do that?” Graham’s eyes irradiated the room with anger.
“Do what?” Catherine was afraid when he acted like this.
“Put me down. I’m not overreacting! I just hate this whole bloody thing, with this nut sending you presents.” Graham angrily shoved his chair under the table.
Catherine winced. “I’m not putting you down. I just don’t see the point in getting all worked up like this.”
He grabbed his coat from the back of the chair and glared broodily.
“I suppose you’re running off to your brother’s again. Why can’t you behave like an adult for once?”
“I can’t talk to you when you’re like this.”
“When I’m like this? That’s rich coming from you.”
The front door bounced against the catch with a noise like a gunshot and Graham was gone.
Catherine collapsed, deflated, into an armchair and shook her head in disbelief. How did their arguments escalate like this? Not that she should have been surprised. These days his outbursts were more the norm than the exception. Now, he had disappeared for the third time in two weeks.
She stood and slowly picked up the keys for the shop, from the table. Someone had to keep the money coming in.
Graham’s head was spinning as he put his foot down on the way to London. Someone knew something and was trying to expose him, but who? On top of this, he was alienating the one person in his life who added sanity.
When he arrived at Camden Passage market it was buzzing. He could see a customer bargaining frantically with his brother Michael, who had the stern, confident air of someone who wasn’t going to budge. For a moment or two, the bargain-hunter teetered on the edge. Then he paid up, just as Graham knew he would. Michael was very good.
A smug smile crept over Michael's face as he acknowledged his brother, “They’ll try and get away with murder.”, he shouted above the market bustle, rearranging some of the smaller silver items he had in front of him. Then: “What’s up with you? You look awful.”
Graham sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “Long story”.
“Try me.”
“I need the keys to the house.”
“What for?”
“I just need to get away for a couple of days.”
“Where’s your keys?”
“We had a blazing row – I forgot to bring them.”
“Another argument with Catherine? I thought you two had sorted out your differences.”
“So did I. So, can I have the keys?”
“I think you should go back home. Talk to her.”
“I won’t do that.”
“Look, you can’t keep running away.”
“I’m not running away.”
“And I’m not giving you the keys.”
“Why the hell not? You have no right to lecture me about my life. That house is as much mine as it is yours.”
Michael hammered his fist on the table for emphasis. “Dad wouldn’t have wanted you to constantly use his house as a refuge from your marriage. Why don’t you come over to my flat and we’ll talk things through.”
Graham was aware they were being stared at by shoppers. “Just give me the bloody keys” His voice was a menacing hiss. Michael reluctantly caved in.
“Leave it tidy. I’ve only just finished paying for the kitchen and redecoration.”
“Look, I’ve said I’ll pay half and I will.”
“You better.”
50
Tasha sipped her lager and lime, having long since lost the thread of conversation between the officers standing next to her at Peterson's garden party. She was disappointed that Yvonne wasn't here. She had hoped to see her this evening and she thought a few drinks would have lessened the tension she knew the DI was under. The psychologist knew that something more was troubling the DI. Tasha gave a wry smile, at least they were friends now - just about.
She was sure she had witnessed a panic attack in the kitchen, the other day, and had galvanised herself to get to the bottom of it over a few drinks tonight.
"I knew I'd find you."
Brian drew alongside her, his hand in the small of her back, slowly travelling downwards. Tasha stepped smartly forward.
"Brian. How's things? How's your girlfriend and baby?"
He barely masked the disappointment. He had already downed two pints. He couldn't make Tasha out. Was she frigid?
"Care for another drink?" He eyed her as though she were a new sports car that he badly wanted to test-drive.
"Yes, thank you. That would be great."
He smiled triumphantly and left to fetch the drink. Tasha grabbed her chance and slipped off to another part of the half-acre garden. Wandering through jasmine covered arches, she allowed the intoxicating tendrils to hold her for a few brief moments. It always amazed her, the effect scent could have on mood.
Finding a stone mushroom next to the lavender's final blooms, where the music and voices barely penetrated, she sat down to muse, playing with the plain silver ring on the small finger of her left hand.
She congratulated herself on escaping Brian's unwanted attentions. He was way off centre - not that he should have necessarily known that. There had been nobody since Rebecca.
51
Brian plopped the dense file on the desk, its bulging contents threatening to burst forth from the jagged tear in the well-worn cardboard jacket. His head hurting from the night before, this was hardly an auspicious start to his reluctant task.
She was off her rocker this time. He couldn't agree with her that Emma’s death was connected to the recent killings. To say the link was tentative was, in his opinion, a gross understatement. Yet here he was, charged with filtering through dozens of statements and multitudinous other disparate bits of information on the unsolved Emma Shilton case.
That was his consolation – that this case was still unsolved. However much he would deny it, he knew that he was just as guilty as the next copper of the conceited feeling that he could be the one to make the difference. Could be the one to crack a case which had eluded the relentless bloodhound of the law for twenty years. His one trepidation was that other girls would die if they were wrong. What it boiled down to, in the end, was one woman’s intuition. He told himself that the late hour, the size of the task and four-pints-too-many the previous night, had absolutely no bearing on his attitude to the task in front of him.
52
The picture-postcard grounds at the front of Christchurch College, thronged with Japanese tourists. Yvonne was reminded once again of the otherworldliness of the inhabitants of the ornate rooms and cool hallways. Her smart rap, at the door of one of the end tutorial rooms, yielded a red bow tie, just in front of her nose.
"Keith Jeffries." The middle-aged possessor addressed her coolly. His fast appearance made her wonder if he had been hovering.
She matched his coolness with an authoritative, "DI Giles, CID.", and he stepped back to allow her through with an exaggerated gesture. The feeling she had was that of being enticed into shallow water by a dangled maggot.
"I've come to ask you about an old student of yours."
"I know."
"Emma Shilton. You were her tutor back ..."
"In nineteen eighty-eight."
"Yes
." Yvonne cleared her throat. She perversely wanted to finish the sentence he had just cleanly dissected, but rejected this as churlish.
"What would you like to know, Inspector?"
He was too self-assured. Yvonne's gut reacted. There was nothing tangible, that would stand up in the Court of feelings-justification, but she wasn't taking to him.
"How well did you know her?”
"As well as I knew any other tutee." His eyes darted from side-to-side as he answered. Lids half-closed. Yvonne could almost see the neural messages buzzing across synaptic connections. Checking her out. Weighing up his options.
"Exactly what does that role involve?"
"I look out for them. They come to me with any problems and I do my best to help."
"Can you remember anything from the days leading up to her disappearance? Anything unusual in her behaviour or something she said, that struck you as odd?"
"Inspector, it was twenty years ago. Exactly what would you like me to tell you? That she danced naked in the streets and painted her face blue?"
"She was pregnant. Did she tell you that?"
"I don't recall."
"Surely something so important would have stuck in your memory, Dr. Jeffries."
"She didn't tell me everything. She didn't tell her mother and father, either."
“I know. Her parents were in the dark and were told by detectives."
"Not her parents. Her mother and father."
"I don't follow."
"It's Oxford tradition. Every student has two older students who look out for them, one male - the father, and one female..."
"The mother." Yvonne sighed, was she mad or was the world mad?
"Were you there at the College Ball the night she disappeared?"
DI Giles BoxSet Page 8