Was he killed because of Cipher or for other private deeds outside the game?
Forensic Co-ordinator, Bindy Cardy, in charge of major crimes, and Home Office pathologist Laura Harper assess the body.
“Multiple stab wounds to the chest and neck, massive exsanguination. Well over 60 per cent loss,” Harper dictates, assertive eyes on me.
She takes a closer inspection of the wound on his neck, not perturbed by the stench.
“Two wounds to neck and shoulder, the murder weapon passed through the jugular.”
The wounds are photographed by CSI Beth Muirhead.
“The angle of the blade suggests the victim was struck while he sat. There are no defence injuries to the hands or arms, which would suggest the victim didn’t fight back.”
“Time of death?” I ask.
“The the victim has been dead for at least 72 hours.”
“Identification?” Cronwell probes, folding his arms across his chest, making it clear Hugh is not known to him.
“Victim was a Mr Hugh Baldwin. He lived alone and was discovered by the cleaner,” Cardy interjects.
‘What are we looking at?’
Cardy raises an eyebrow as if implying the question is futile.
“There are signs of forced entry on the patio doors, personal effects and high-value antiques are missing, suggesting a burglary. This could be a home invasion gone wrong.”
I study the gouges on the door. A burglary? Or fabrication in an elaborate charade to conceal the truth? My mind and heart quickly conclude the latter.
This was personal. The look of horror locked in Hugh’s marbled eyes insinuates he was terrified.
Cronwell appears rattled. He’s agitated, hands trembling, words mumbling through panicked breaths. I, too, feel afraid.
He stares at me. I sense we’re both in agreement. This was no burglary; it was an execution.
“There are signs, mainly from the blood distribution, that the killer cleaned up afterwards,” Cardy adds.
Cronwell ignores the remark and vacates the room. He will ensure the investigation is scaled back, with resources allocated elsewhere. There can be no link to Cipher.
Reporters gather at the tape cordon, the country lanes lined bumper-to-bumper with Sky, BBC, and ITV satellite trucks.
Hugh was a Crown Prosecution Service solicitor; all kinds of assumptions will be made regarding his criminal cases, and who he put behind bars. We must get it on record that his death was the result of a disturbed home invasion and no other lines of inquiry are being explored.
I follow Cronwell to the sea of pen-poised reporters. Cron‐ well adjusts his tie and dictates a holding statement.
“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. I’m DCI Christopher Cronwell and I’m leading this investigation. I can confirm we are investigating the death of a male.
“A body was discovered this morning. At this stage, we believe the death was the result of a home invasion. A formal identification has not been made; therefore, it would be inappropriate to comment further, other than to appeal for any witnesses to come forward.
“Anyone with information can contact us via 101 or Crimestoppers on 0800 555 111. Thank you.”
Reporters wave their pens and fire questions at him like bullets, requesting information about the cause of death.
I notice a brief, slight, nervous twitch as he turns his back on the crowd, refusing to answer any questions.
Cronwell offers a cold, steely, stare. I look away and follow him, head dipped to avoid the cameras.
We climb into his Audi A4. Without warning the car screeches away, leaving the chaos behind.
“We need to shut this down fast, Carmichael. We can’t have prying eyes on Baldwin.”
“What really happened in there?”
“I suspect he’s been done over by an angry husband.”
He shoots me a knowing glance.
“Collating Hugh’s love affairs is a monumental task!”
Cronwell ejects a baleful chuckle.
“What if it’s connected to Cipher?” I blurt.
I notice a brief, slight, nervous twitch and look away to evade Cronwell’s stare.
He slams the brake. His brow furrows, fiery eyes on me as his tone shifts gear.
“Keep your fucking mouth shut ... you hear me? I’ll sort it. We’re in the clear, there’s nothing linking him to us. Cipher must be protected at all costs.”
28
DI CARMICHAEL
WEDNESDAY 1 AUGUST, 9.15 AM
Hugh Baldwin lies upon an autopsy table at The Riverside Centre, the region’s mortuary, situated in Flax Bourton.
His bloated body is repugnant, leaking blood-stained foam from his nose and the corner of his mouth.
Bindy Cardy enters the room, joining Laura Harper, Beth Muirhead, and the anatomical pathology technologist, John Richardson.
Harper approaches the table. She’s wearing green scrubs, gloves, and an apron with matching olive Dunlop wellies.
She’s new to the centre. I gauge from the manner she holds herself, with broad shoulders, she is confident.
Harper signals she is ready. Muirhead slots alongside the corpse to capture images. She’s petite, shy of Harper’s 5ft 6ins frame but stands out with her vivid, four-way split pink and blue hair.
“The victim was a previously healthy 55-year-old man identified as Hugh Baldwin, a Crown Prosecution Service solicitor,” Harper announces.
Muirhead photographs the corpse at varying angles before his clothes are removed and the body exhibited. She’s the youngest of the trio, at 23, but oozes profound professionalism.
“The cause of death was stabbing. There are puncture wounds to the neck and anterior torso,” Harper announces.
Her studious eyes hover over the chest, thumb and index finger placed either side of one of the gashes.
“This chest wound penetrated the pleural cavity. The angle suggests the victim was struck while sitting upright.”
The camera flashes. Its clicking echoes through the chamber as the trio examine his throat.
“Severe neck trauma present. The weapon passed through the carotid and jugular arteries. Thyroid cartilage is cut, and the epiglottis and vocal cords are exposed.’
‘A ritualistic way of silencing the victim?’ Cardy muses.
‘Perhaps,’ Harper replies.
She proceeds by taking swabs and washes the corpse. All external injuries are photographed and documented.
Harper grips an L-shaped forensic scale to measure and record the copious wounds. She completes the task by inserting a steel probe into each of the cavities.
‘The puncture width is thin, just 1cm, and it tapers. It measures 5.5 inches deep. These wounds were not caused by a blade.”
“What caused them, then?” I ask.
Harper places the probe onto a tray and wipes her bloody fingers on her apron.
“Such tapered wounds could have been caused by a steel- reinforced stiletto heel.”
“A shoe?”
“Yes.”
“So, his killer was female?”
“I believe that may be the case. There are no defence wounds, which could indicate the victim knew his killer.”
Her findings do not sit within Cronwell’s or Cardy’s theory of a burglary. This death was about revenge.
29
EMILIA
FRIDAY 3 AUGUST 2018
I was a simple schoolteacher, now I’m a callous killer.
Sweet Emilia, the girl who hasn’t ever been in trouble or harboured a dark thought, has killed.
The Bristol Post and Weston Mercury newspapers ensure that Hugh’s death remains vivid. His face stares blankly at me from the front pages, with police appeals for information.
I can make out his face, but the words remain a scrambled mess. My eyes are too sore, as though a lemon juicer has penetrated each socket and rinsed them clean.
My nightmares are unbearable. His limp, bloodied corpse replays over and over.
> His wooded aftershave lingers, no matter how many times I shower and scrub my skin.
As I sit trance-like, the terror of everything I’ve endured pounds my mind like sledgehammers.
I drag a cashmere throw over my head, shielding myself from the memories. But underneath my safety net, I think about you, Dad.
I imagine you unshaven, body fuelled with red wine. Mum shouting and probing you for the reasoning behind your out-of- character behaviour.
I haven’t heard a single word from you, and I fear you are repulsed and have disowned me. There’s only one option; I confess to my crimes.
I drive to Weston Police Station in my pyjamas. I watch uniformed officers escorting detainees. It’s that sight that stops me from exiting the car.
Seeing them handcuffed, arms yanked behind their backs restrained, their lives on lockdown. I feel afraid. I cannot be locked behind bars.
The police will understand my motive. But then I think about the trial and how it would play out.
My attackers would hire barristers, at the top of their game. They would all pull me apart on the stand, call me a liar, a slapper, a whore.
I’d be painted as a slag who wanted to have sex with all of them. The thought of such an ordeal is terrifying. My only option is my continued silence.
I drive away helpless and depressed, and in a crazy moment, decide I should kill myself.
Hysterical, I head to Sand Bay, rally driving through the wilderness as I free my grip on the steering wheel.
Only, as my heart races, my eyes bolt. I can’t do it, having seen a glimpse of you, Dad.
The car screeches around a bend and takes my breath away. I slow to 50 mph, feeling pathetic. I can’t leave behind a battered body for you and Mum to identify.
There’s the possibility I’d survive and be stuck paralysed or brain dead, machines keeping me alive. There is no way I’d let you endure hospital visits, and the indignity of having you wash my face or pat my dribble.
I pull over in a lay-by and sob. The sea breeze lures me into the dark, hypnotised under its transcendent spell. It wants me dead.
I stumble on uneven ground. Thorns pierce my palms as I fumble against damp sand and weeds.
Waves thrash against the rocks, their raw power drawing me closer to the edge as the wind steals my breath.
I want to carve their names in the sand with the word ‘RAPISTS’ and ‘THEY DID THIS.’
My phone offers a distraction. It’s you, Dad. I long to answer and say my final goodbye, but I know you’ll talk me out of killing myself.
You ring 27 times as my cries echo through the bay, drowning out the ringtone. The phone screen flashes over grass blades glinting underfoot, pointing, and directing me out to sea.
I close my eyes and lean forward preparing to let go; to fall into the ocean and be pulled under.
On the verge of descent, my phone receives a voicemail. I want to hear your voice one last time before my soul departs from the world.
It’s your words that save me; again.
30
EMILIA
FRIDAY 3 AUGUST 2018
Realisation hits me, identifying my body having been submerged in water would be gruesome.
You and Mum would never erase the image. And you don’t deserve that.
I peel myself off the sand, stagger away from my death and slump behind the wheel, hypothermic.
Tears prick my eyes when I see your face. You stare aghast at my drenched body, trailing in the sand off my boots, and embrace me in a stunned silence.
Not once do you question what I’d contemplated. You know in your mind.
As I fall against your chest, tangled hair reeking of the ocean, the cold in my bones recedes. Memories of my happy childhood flood my head overriding the pain.
It takes me back to before I was broken, back to when I was six, splashing carefree in waves at Ladies Mile Beach. You’d always been there for me and are now, when I need you most.
Your fingers pluck a handkerchief and dab my eyes. I will survive this with you by my side, offering support. You’ll help to pick up all the shattered fragments and piece me back together.
You eye my apartment, littered with wine bottles. My cheeks flush. I’ve lost all pride.
I imagine the words running through your mind, “How could you live like this?’”
An expected touch startles me. You tug my arm, pulling me to sit alongside you, where you hold my hand. My heart soars. I need you so much it hurts.
Your strong-willed, independent daughter is no longer perfect. She’s broken, the remnants akin to a downtrodden, homeless girl.
I expose screenshots of Cipher and we discuss Hugh’s death. I’m fortunate you have the expertise to conceal murder.
Our litany of lies will be forever entwined like the tendrils from Jack & The Beanstalk. It will be our gruesome secret, that we will take to our graves.
Chilling words roll off your tongue. “Who’s next?”
I know from your tone, and the way your eyes bore into mine, that you mean every word.
Your eyes that are always so bright, are now dark with tinges of danger. I eye you curiously.
“Emilia, sweetheart, you have set yourself on a path of revenge. You cannot move on with your life while those monsters are out there. They must pay,” you say calmly.
I fall apart and you see the underlying damage that has been done. I’m lost, empty, and afraid.
The old Emilia is long gone. She’s been stolen from this world and isn’t ever coming back.
“You don’t have to do this on your own, darling,” you add, lifting your shoulders as though you’re shifting your own burden.
Our eyes interlock. You are harbouring disturbing thoughts which torment me. We both want them dead, rotting in Hell.
Everything changes in a heartbeat. In the most surreal conversation of our lives, that flow as though we are having a discussion on home improvements, you pledge to help me commit murder.
You map my future and we start to play with fire. You will teach me to become an accomplished serial killer.
31
RICHARD
FRIDAY 3 AUGUST 2018
I would do everything within my power to protect you. It was my duty. You would not go down for murder.
I incinerated your clothing and the bloody towels. I re-cleaned my house and valeted the car.
At the crime scene, I was electrocuted with fear. Tension crippled me as I ducked under the tape.
My armpits sweated against the paper suit, but your face spurred me to snap out of my stupor. I had to act professional and ensure I hadn’t missed any trace of you.
I calmed, equipped with the knowledge that no evidence linking you or me, had been unearthed.
The investigating teams had Baldwin’s death earmarked as a professional home invasion, due to my staging.
I was thankful you’d found the courage to ask for help, otherwise the scenario would have played out very differently and you would be behind bars.
A part of me knew you’d be going out of your mind with worry, but I had to ensure that, in the eventuality of any forensics being gathered, they were not linked to you.
Traffic cameras posed an issue. I accessed the police ANPR system to check for any cameras in the vicinity. Fortunately, we were in the clear.
When I felt it was safe, I visited your home. When you didn’t answer, it felt like a kick to the stomach.
I’d assumed you’d be waiting for me on tenterhooks, but as I stood on the doorstep, my heart crushed. I feared you’d done something stupid because I’d left you in solitude, mind going crazy.
I realised I’d been foolish. You would have been unable to cope with the sheer terror of your crime. You were still so young, still my little girl, one who didn’t have the guts of steel needed to absorb the magnitude of murder.
Using a hidden key, I let myself in, half expecting to see you hanging limp from the banister. Painted toenails highlighting the only colour l
eft on your body.
I also had visions of you slumped on the sofa with an empty bottle of pills and congealed foam on your chin. But there was no sign of you.
My heart pulsed on the verge of a panic attack as I climbed the stairs, hauling myself onwards like a madman, to reach your empty bedroom.
I made my final check inside the bathroom, praying you hadn’t killed yourself in the bathtub.
I didn’t want to find you dead. I wouldn’t be able to explain the circumstances of your suicide to Claire and Tom, or the chaotic Tube map wounds on your body.
Relief flooded through me at the sight of the empty bath. My ageing reflection stared from the mirror; under-eyes shadowed with anxiety. Every inch of me was swamped with loathing towards those beasts.
My head flooded with repellent images of your attack. No matter how hard I tried to push them away, they haunted me.
I thought of you and how worse memories would be taunting your mind, destroying what was left of my precious dear daughter, Emilia.
I dialled your mobile. You didn’t answer. I became frantic and told myself if your body was found, I’d only have myself to blame. You would have taken my absence as abandonment caused by shame.
Newspapers littered the floor. Hugh’s face stared out from under bold headlines, alongside discarded wine bottles. You’d sat alone and afraid.
I imagined you staggering through the darkness, intoxicated and vulnerable. I’d been foolish not to keep a closer eye on you.
Another wave of panic hit me that you’d handed yourself in. I imagined your chin dipped against your chest, hands shackled, awaiting interview.
I slumped on the sofa allowing my tears to drain while my calls went unanswered. I felt helpless and a complete failure as a father for not protecting you, as dads should.
Kill List Page 7