DI Giles BoxSet

by Anna-Marie Morgan

  “Very.” Walker’s nod was emphatic. “Apart from an inch or so of shallow surface removal, the hole left behind by the dog was a perfect fit for the shaft of the bone. He just popped it out like a bloody cork.” Walker finished, sitting back in his seat.

  “Well then, the killer took them. I agree. I don’t think there can be any doubt.”

  “What I wanted to know, Professor,” Yvonne’s look was pensive, “is whether you think the site had been disturbed after the body was buried.”

  Samuels showed them more of his scribbles. “It hadn’t been disturbed in my opinion.”

  “You seem very sure.”

  The Professor knew where this was leading. “The earth was compact around all of the bones and inside the skull which would not have been the case if the killer had returned to take a memento after the remains were skeletonised.”

  “So he extracted the baby from Emma, cut out the bones of the left arm, and some of the ribs, and then buried the baby with its mother.” Tasha spoke for the first time, her mind rapidly adding to the psychological picture of the killer she carried around with her every day.

  “That would have made one hell of a mess…” Brian frowned. “Where would he have done it?”

  “Perhaps he did it as he buried them,” Samuels suggested.

  “Well if he did, that confirms our man’s coolness under pressure!” Tasha frowned, “I mean he would have needed some time.”

  “And nerve.” Yvonne leaned back in her chair and her gaze travelled around them all. “The baby must have held great significance for him. I mean why not just take a bone from Emma as his trophy. That would surely have been quicker. He was out in the open, anybody could have come along.”

  Tasha nodded “Which all adds to the suspicion the father was the killer.”

  Yvonne watched as Walker arched his back with satisfaction and tapped his protruding belly with his hands. She guessed he’d be following this was with a very large scotch.

  81

  The bed shook accompanied by the horrible sound of teeth clacking. It took three nurses to hold her down to prevent her from being harmed during the seizure. Already there were bruises along her arms where the first attempts to grab a hold had failed. The male nurse holding her legs no longer had his feet on the floor as he used most of his body weight to strengthen the hold.

  “Watch her tongue,” the male nurse warned, worried that she might bite it off. He shifted his weight as he saw the dark, wet patch seeping out from underneath the patient. “She’s lost bladder control.”

  “Where’s Haines?”, one of the female nurses called in frustration. “He should be here already.”

  The sound of feet running down the corridor heralded the double doors banging open and Dr Haines bursting in.

  “She’s fitting…” a breathless nurse informed him without looking up from her task of holding down an arm.

  “How long?”

  “Five minutes…”

  “Get me 100 milligrams of Diazepam.”

  The doctor swapped places with the nurse who ran to the trolley and ripped open a syringe packet. Small bottles clinked as she pushed them aside to reach the diazepam and invert it. With calm efficiency she handed the furnished syringe to Haines, who searched for a suitable vein.

  “Keep her still please.” His voice impatient, he squeezed the remainder of the air from the syringe before plunging it in.

  82

  Michael concentrated on the task of closing down his stall for the day. He tripped and dropped one of five small boxes he was carrying as a stack.

  “That bloody useless boy,” he called out. He kicked the offending trainer shoe, carelessly left behind by his hired help. He hadn’t seen Yvonne and Brian approaching. He appeared tired and unshaven – not the cool, controlled Michael she had witnessed the first time they met. She waited for him to put the boxes away.

  “Michael Swann. I’m DI Yvonne Giles, we met…”

  He swung around rapidly. “I know who you are.” The words came through clenched teeth. “And now is not a good time.”

  “Perhaps you’d have preferred us to question you in front of your customers?”

  “Look, I thought I’d told you everything I know.” He was obviously not in the mood to be questioned but having taken half a day out to come back down to London, Yvonne was not going to let him brush them off.

  “Not quite Michael.” Brian’s voice held a hint of menace' “Why didn’t you tell the DI that you danced with Emma on the night of her disappearance?”

  Michael picked up a cracked, brown leather jacket and put it on.His eyes wandered from side-to-side. as he spoke. “One dance? So I didn’t tell you. Big deal, the sky isn’t going to fall in. What is wrong with you? I don’t know anything about Emma’s disappearance.”

  “You told me that you only chatted to Emma very briefly. You didn’t mention that you danced with her.”

  “Must have slipped my mind.”

  “How was she, during the dance?”

  “How was she? What do you mean?”

  “What was her mood? Did she seem worried or distressed in any way?”

  “No, she didn’t.”

  “Was she excited? Did she like you?”

  “No.”

  “Did you have a sexual relationship with her?”

  “No.”

  “Some of your friends said that the dance was the last time they saw you at the ball. What time did you leave?”

  “Around two am”

  “Your friends put it at eleven pm”

  “Well, they’re wrong.”

  “We have the results of the DNA tests, for the paternity of Emma’s baby. The foetal DNA matches yours.” This was truthful. The fact that it also matched his brothers wasn’t necessary to mention at this point.

  Michael stopped dead. He just stared at them, his eyes black, the pupils dilated.

  “Yes, that’s right Michael.”

  “Am I under arrest?”, he asked, finally.

  “Did you murder Emma Shilton?”

  “For God’s sake, no I didn’t.” He was evidently distressed now and they didn’t have enough to charge him.

  “Then you’re not under arrest, but we will want to speak to you again.”

  83

  The colour drained from Graham’s face, which took on the colour of the alabaster statue of Aphrodite he was holding. Words failed him and he so desperately needed to find words. Soothing words. Miraculous words. Words that could put everything back in its place and stop Catherine looking at him as she looked at him now.

  At times, he had hated her. Hated her for being so perfect. Hated her for the guilt that he felt. Hated her because he was so imperfect.

  “Why?” she asked, tears streaking her face and strings of saliva between hanging between her lips. “I loved you.”

  “Because they were there and they wanted me.” That was lame. Not the words he needed at all. He loved her. Right now, in that moment, faced with losing her, he had never been more certain of anything.

  “And Emma?”

  The sharp trill of the phone cut through the thick, emotional air. Graham picked it up, unsure why except that it provided temporary respite from the self-loathing and the recriminations still to come.

  “You bloody idiot!” The voice was the cracked, accusing voice of his brother, Michael. “How could you? You were engaged. Did you kill her, Graham?”

  Graham slammed the phone back down. He crumpled to the floor sobbing. Catherine called the police.

  They turned out his pockets in custody and bagged his belongings. He'd said nothing at all on the way and still remained silent as they took his shoes, his belt and his watch.

  Yvonne took Tasha in to the interview room where Graham was sat next to his solicitor, who was busy giving advice to deaf ears. She began the interrogation in a low, firm voice.

  “Graham Swann. You have been arrested on suspicion of first degree murder. You do not have to say anything but it m
ay harm your defence if you do not mention now anything which you may later rely on in Court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand?”

  He nodded but his gaze was vacant, and aimed somewhere at the middle of the table that separated him and his the DI and the psychologist. His solicitor ruffled papers, next to him.

  “For the tape, Graham Swann nodded.”

  “I didn’t kill Emma.”

  “Did you have sexual relationship with her?”

  “No.” He shook his head. “I had sex with her. I only had sex with her one time.”

  “When was that?”

  “God, this’ll kill Catherine.”

  “When was the time you had sex with Emma Shilton?” Yvonne kept up the pressure.

  “It was at our College Christmas party. We were both drunk.”

  “Did she tell you that she was pregnant?”

  “No.” He looked up at this point. “Was she? I didn’t know. I really didn’t know.”

  “I put it to you, Mr Swann, that you did know and that you killed Emma to stop Catherine from finding out.”

  “No.”

  The solicitor put out his hand. “My Client has already stated that he did not kill Emma Shilton.”

  Yvonne looked to Tasha who nodded and placed a photograph on the table.

  “Do you know what that is?”, Yvonne asked softly.

  “It’s a scan.”

  “That’s right, Graham. It’s a scan. A scan of a foetus. A six month old baby. Ever seen a six month old baby before Graham?” Yvonne’s voice was still soft.

  “No.”

  “Not when you ripped one from the womb of Emma Shilton?” Yvonne simulated the ripping with one hand, her voice taking on a higher pitch.

  “No. No No.” Both Graham’s hands flew to his head, as he held his ears and scrunched his hair with his fingers. It seemed as though he would pull out huge handfuls.

  “This line of questioning is hugely distressing to my client and you have offered no proof of these allegations.”

  Yvonne produced a see-through polythene bag sealed with the red police tag. “For the tape, I am showing the suspect Exhibit BL1, a patchwork leather purse.” Then to Graham, “Recognise this?”

  They received a muffled reply.

  “Could you speak louder for the tape please?”

  “Yes. Yes I recognise the purse.”

  “Thank you. Where have you seen this purse before,s Graham?”

  “It was sent to my wife.”

  “What has this to do with my client’s murder allegation?”

  “It belonged to Kelly James. One of the more recent victims of what we believe to be a serial murderer. The killer used the same signature and the same rope in both the Emma Shilton murder and the most recent killings.”

  “You suspect my client of being the Shotover Sadist?” The solicitor was aghast.

  “Did you send this purse to your wife, Graham?”

  “No.” Graham’s jaw fell open. “Why would I send my wife a murdered girl’s purse?”

  “What about this?” Another evidence bag was produced. It contained a gold chain, with a small Celtic cross. “For the tape, I am showing Mr Swann a gold chain – Exhibit BL2. Graham, have you seen this before?”

  “Yes. It was sent to my wife.” Graham sounded totally dejected.

  “My client is tired.” The solicitor's brow furrowed like a ploughed field.

  “That chain belonged to murder victim Hannah Wilson. And this?” Another evidence bag containing a pair of Ray bans. “For the tape, I am showing Mr Swann a pair of dark-tinted glasses – Exhibit BL3.”

  “They were also sent to my wife.” Graham's face was grey as he slumped back in his chair.

  “That’s right, they were. They belong to Miss Michelle Davies who right now is lying in a hospital bed trying to regain her memory of the horrific things which happened to her.”

  “You have still not produced evidence to prove that my client was involved in any of these attacks.”

  “Finally for the tape. Exhibit BL4. A handwritten note addressed to the defendant’s wife, which suggests she ask him about Emma and, I quote, ‘the London whores’.”

  “You’re surely not suggesting I would send that to my wife?”

  “Each of the victims of the Shotover Sadist had travelled to London. Did someone discover that you were luring them there?”

  “No!”

  “Luring them there to torture and kill them?”

  “No. Look, I go down to London sometimes on business. I visit my brother there. I stay at the house that was my fathers. I’ve slept with prostitutes.” Graham began to sob. “I thought that that was what that letter meant. Prostitutes.”

  “Can these prostitutes confirm what you are telling us?”

  “Look, I can give you the name of the madam and the work names of the hookers.”

  “Interview suspended two twenty-five pm.”

  “He’s not the killer is he?” Yvonne was deflated and confused.

  “He certainly seemed to be telling the truth, and why would he send a letter to his wife incriminating himself?”

  “Desire to confess?”

  “Do you really believe that?”

  “No.”

  “Neither do I. But I think the killer must bear a grudge against either Catherine or Graham, or both.”

  “And Michael may still be in the frame”

  84

  Haines’ hands were deep in his pockets, his expression grave. Mrs Davies clung to her husband not wanting to hear but needing to know.

  A nurse popped her head around the door and felt the atmosphere. “Sorry,” she said, as she ducked back out. Haines breathed deeply.

  “I’m afraid your daughter had a very bad seizure today. It came out of the blue. We believe it was as a result of the head injuries she received.” He paused as though to find the right words. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but Michelle didn’t recover. We intubated her and put her on life support but we lost all vital signs. She's alive now only because of the life support machine. I am so very sorry…”

  “No. Don’t tell us that. It’s not true. She’ll recover, I know she will.” Mrs Davies shook her husband. “Tell them she’ll recover, John. Go on, tell them.”

  “She’s gone, Sheila.” Her husband said gently, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. “She’s gone.”

  “But she spoke to us last night. Before we left,” Sheila said pulling away.

  “Come on.” Her husband pulled her close again.

  “I’m sorry to ask this of you right now when everything is so raw, but your daughter was registered as an organ donor. She wanted to help someone else live after her death.”

  Mrs Davies looked shocked, as though she couldn’t believe what the doctor was asking her.

  “Yes.” Mr Davies spoke very quietly. “It’s what she wanted. But not yet, we need time.” He drew the doctor’s eyes to his wife.

  “Of course, forgive me. I’ll leave you alone with your daughter.”

  85

  Yvonne stood at the foot of the bed. Her hand rested on the cold, metal clasp of the clipboard hanging from the bedrail. If she tipped her hand forward, she could raise the chart to read it. Temperatures and heart rates. Tell-tale graphics. The peaks and troughs of a dying girl’s last days.

  With plastic tubes, wires and electrodes extending to and from her, she lay like a chimera: part human, part machine. Her pale flesh still bore the scars of her tormentor’s cruelty.

  Her parents had finally left for sleep, after almost thirty six hours of staying at her bedside. Mrs Davies had not left until she had been assured that the life support would not be switched off in their absence, even though a time and a day had already been set. This time and date would be etched on the death certificate just as the torture of this girl was etched on her skin.

  The containers of ice would be there waiting, ready to receive her organs.

  Next to the neatly-tu
rned bed, were freshly-cut white lilies, whose perfect form helped the room feel peaceful. A nice touch of humanity by the nurses who had bent the rules for the family. The DI walked to the cabinet and bent her head to them.

  She remembered that scent and the memory took her breath. A different hospital and a different room but the beeping of the heart monitor and the wheeze and thud of the ventilator were the same, marking the time of the dying.

  She took his hand and felt the warmth and reassurance of it. This warm, large hand had held hers through some tough times and she'd been so sure it would always be there. How wrong assumptions could be.

  As she held that strong hand in hers, and ran her fingers over the soft downy hairs on the back of it, she wondered whether he was aware of her in some subconscious way – of her trying to bring him back with pure force of will.

  Ice-cold saline ran into his veins from the drip hanging above the bed. At times she became fixated on those droplets as they fell like sand in an hourglass and scattered the surface of the saline pool at the bottom of the bag. Beneath his ankles and wrists lay opaque plastic bags filled with ice.

  “His temperature is too high,” the doctor had said. “If we can’t bring it down there is a danger that his organs will fail.”

  They bombarded her with questions then. “Do you know if he has an allergy to any drugs?”

  “No, not as far as I know.”

  “Has he ever had an adverse reaction to latex?”

  “No. I don’t think so.”

  In a moment of lucidness, although he could not speak, he had drawn her hand towards his chest where tubes extracted a pus-like viscous fluid from the raw gash gouged during the crash.

  “It’s taking away the bad stuff so you can get better,” she had said, feeling impotent. She fought back tears with screwed up eyes.

  “I need you…” she whispered. “Help me. Help me stop him.”

  When the door creaked behind her, she let go of the girl’s hand and turned her face to the monitor to hide the tears which burned a hot course down her cheeks.