by James Nally
‘In short, we’ve got no witnesses, no forensics, no weapon, no motive, no suspects.’
His new underlings shuffled awkwardly and murmured. The hectic chaos of the incident room told me they’d been living, eating, smoking and drinking Marion’s murder for over four weeks now, without a result. Shep was gambling that they’d respond to a good old-fashioned half-time rollicking. He was smashing metaphorical teacups against dressing room walls.
‘All this points to an opportunist, says Professor Richards, a maniac on the loose with a knife and a hatred for women, a Lone Wolf Killer who has escalated to this level of violence … unhindered by us blundering cops.’
Nice touch, I thought, driving a wedge between Professor Richards and ‘us blundering cops’.
‘The Prof’s Lone Wolf Killer is a curious chap. He will have stalked Marion for a few days, maybe even weeks, learned her movements. But on the day he decided to kill her, he didn’t stalk her. He waited with his trusty murder kit on Sangora Road, for her to come home from work. Somehow, he talked his way or barged his way into her flat. Ever the gentleman, he let her pick up her post first, before following her up the stairs and stabbing her forty-nine times.’
‘DS Shepard, with respect, that is a rank over-simplification of the stranger killer theory,’ barked McStay, the Scottish terrier.
‘That may be so, but you see I didn’t study psychology or forensics or any of that stuff. I didn’t even go to university. I’m an old-fashioned cop. As you all know, before the computers and the psychologists, we were taught to look for two things: probability and motive. And we all have a pretty good record at this, let’s not forget. So let’s deal with probability first. We all know the stat – virtually all murder victims know their killer. Random attacks are extremely rare. That’s a fact.
‘That leaves motive …’
Shep was playing every card he had. I’m just a workaday cop like you, I don’t understand all that high-falutin’ psychology stuff, I just catch baddies like we used to in the good old days, before computers and mandatory solicitors and taped interviews and internal disciplinary procedures.
Shep made a big play of producing the piece of notepaper from his pocket.
‘This was found hidden in Marion’s handbag yesterday. I’ve confirmed that it’s a match for her handwriting and I’ve spoken to the intended recipient.’
The room leaned forward as one.
‘This is a letter Marion was writing to an old school friend who now lives in Glasgow. Allow me to read you the content.
‘Dear Andrea, I’m so thrilled that you’re coming down to London and staying with us. I really need to offload to someone about Karen. I could write pages but I would rather wait till I see you. Obviously don’t mention it to any of the girls. Last time we got together of course she was there and everyone was saying how nice she seemed. I felt like shouting ‘no she isn’t! You don’t know her!’
I will fill you in on the whole story when I see you. Peter tells me Karen’s off to Ireland in a couple of weeks for a weekend. I’m saying nothing until she’s gone. I hope I don’t sound bitter and twisted.’
Shep let it hang and slowly folded up the paper. McStay asked to see it.
‘Now, who can say that Marion didn’t have an enemy?’
No one breathed.
‘I rang Andrea last night. She told me that Marion felt that Karen was obsessed with Peter, and constantly trying to involve herself in their lives.
‘This letter suggests to me that Karen was the third person in their marriage. Marion was “saying nothing” until Karen went to Ireland for the weekend. What did she mean by this? Was she about to confront Peter about his affair with Karen? This has to be our focus now.’
Murmured agreement: he was winning them over, some at least.
‘Tomorrow, I want you to split into four new teams – I’m breaking up your partnerships just for a few days, freshen things up a bit – and I want you to focus on Peter and Karen. Were they once an item? Was he sleeping with her? Was Karen, as Marion’s closest friend Andrea has expressly stated, obsessed with Peter Ryan?
‘I want one team to go back to the Pines old people’s home where Peter and Karen worked. If anything was going on between them, at least one colleague will know.
‘Karen’s people must know if she has a thing with Peter, either now or in the past. I want a team to talk to her family, friends, ex-boyfriends.
‘Another team can do the same with Peter: talk to everyone he’s ever known in London. Was he or is he a player?
‘And finally,’ he said, looking at McStay, ‘I need you to take on the toughest job of all. Go back to Marion’s family and find out what they know. Marion must have talked to someone about why she disliked Karen. She wasn’t the disliking kind. Something was up.’
McStay wasn’t buying it.
‘Are you telling us, DS Shepard, that we’re now focusing solely on Peter and Karen? Based on one undated, half-written page of girlie gossip?’
Shep looked at him, confused. McStay held up the note and decided to spell it out.
‘She doesn’t actually state here that she suspected Peter and Karen of having an affair. She says nothing of the sort. There’s no anger or suspicion, just irritation. I’ve heard worse in the staff canteen. And I trust you’ve read the pathology report. No woman could have carried out this crime.’
‘No, but a woman and a man could have,’ said Shep.
McStay refused to budge: ‘They have solid alibis. Both of them. You clearly have some sort of personal grudge against Professor Richards. I think that’s why you’re ruling out the stranger theory. Well, what if her killer strikes again while we’re looking the other way? The wrong way?’
I had to agree with McStay: Shep wanted to prove Richards wrong so badly that he’d donned blinkers. I’d seen Peter and Karen the night they found Marion. Both had been deeply traumatised and clearly in shock. You can’t act emotions like that.
Shep changed key: ‘I’m not ruling out the Lone Wolf Killer theory, McStay. I just think it’s about time we eliminated the most obvious suspects in this case once and for all. That’s Peter, her new husband and Karen, her husband’s work colleague and friend whom Marion clearly disliked. As for the stranger theory, I happen to think that needs a fresh pair of eyes. That’s why I’m putting DC Lynch on it.’
‘What?’ I stopped myself from saying.
McStay turned and looked at me: ‘You’re giving this to the new kid?’
‘He’ll liaise with Mulroney and Gibson. That’s why I’ve brought them in. Sometimes fresh eyes see new things.’
McStay turned back, still shaking his head.
‘Guv, you said you want us to get on with this tomorrow. What about today?’ asked one of the younger DCs.
‘Ah, yes, this afternoon we’re going on a team-building exercise.’
Groans all round.
‘To the pub,’ Shep smiled. Everyone looked around in confusion.
‘I’m serious,’ said Shep, ‘you’ve all been through the wringer. I think we need to finish our chat over a few pints.’
An hour later, among the cut mirrors, etched glass and faded Victorian grandeur of the Falcon near Clapham Junction, opinions and gossip vied for air supremacy with thick cigarette smoke. I wondered if policing was the unhealthiest profession in the world, maybe even elbowing out journalism in the wheezy sprint to early death.
Privately, some of the officers told me about the ‘Big Dog’ culture of DS Glenn’s team. They all felt that Peter Ryan hadn’t been properly investigated. But the pack leaders – DS Glenn, the Professor, Barratt and McStay – had ruled out Peter and Karen from day two. I’d pass this on to Shep later, though he probably guessed as much already.
Shep got stuck into McStay, Barratt and a real ale chaser. He tirelessly reassured them that the Lone Wolf Killer line of enquiry remained open and live. Within a couple of hours, he had them rolling on their backs.
As drink took hold, m
ore damning claims emerged about Peter. Officers said he ‘loved himself’. The only woman on the investigation team – a brunette who looked capable of taking any one of us in a fist fight – swore he’d flirted with her.
‘I mean, his wife’s barely cold. What a slime ball,’ she gasped. Within a week of Marion’s murder, Peter had emptied both her personal bank accounts and got a refund on her annual rail ticket.
‘Disgusting,’ said Shep.
‘Shows what a ruthless bastard he is,’ said someone else.
I decided to join in: ‘Well, I suppose it’ll tide him over until her life insurance pays up.’
That got a good laugh.
‘Actually that’s a good point,’ said Shep, ‘have we checked whether he gets anything for her death?’
The silence told us no one had bothered. I couldn’t believe it: life insurance, one of the oldest motives in the book. Shep and I exchanged a fleeting look of disbelief. But we needed to win the team over today, so said nothing.
I was taking a leak when Shep came crashing in. He checked the cubicles, then stood at the latrine next to me: ‘Did you see that Scottish git’s face when I read out Marion’s letter? Can you believe he demanded to see it?’
‘He just can’t accept that they messed up, Guv.’
‘Well done on finding it, Donal. Otherwise we’d never have persuaded them to target Peter and Karen.’
‘No problem, Guv. You’ve definitely got them onside now, most of them at least. The junior officers are saying they never felt Peter had been properly looked into. But they were overruled.’
‘That’s good to hear. Honestly, the day you stop listening to other opinions and ideas, you’re no longer a manager but a tyrant.’ I recalled Fintan’s description of Shep as a dictator. He seemed the opposite to me.
‘Of course he’s right in one way,’ said Shep, shaking his cock vigorously, ‘the letter tells us nothing on its own. We still don’t have one solid piece of evidence. Someone will have to cough tomorrow.’
I waited so that he could wash his hands first.
‘Guv, about me looking for connections to other stranger attacks,’ I started, ‘I do worry that maybe I lack the experience …’
‘Nonsense Lynch, it’s common sense. If anything catches your attention, flag it up to Mick and Colin,’ he said, shaking his hands and ignoring the dryer. He looked at me and read my anxiety.
‘Come on, these fuckers spent four weeks looking for a Lone Wolf Killer. I’m not expecting you to find one because there isn’t one. I just have to keep McStay onside. You can be sure he’s reporting back to Glenn who’s reporting back to the Commissioner. You’ll do fine, Lynch.’
He left me drying my hands and hoping to God he was right. If not, some maniac slasher was roaming London unchecked, seeking out his next victim.
Chapter 19
The Falcon pub, Clapham Junction
Friday, August 9, 1991; 19:00
I left the pub with a mouth like Gandhi’s flip-flop and a head like Christmas afternoon. The sweltering, petrol-drenched early evening air didn’t help.
Shep had united the team but I still felt odd man out. I’d no experience. No allies. I needed to pass this test to become a fully-fledged member of a murder squad. My career hinged on making a good impression.
I let the booze unfetter my mind so that I could once again run with the illogical idea that Marion was trying to steer me to her killer from beyond the grave. What if Marion’s spirit somehow knew that I’d end up working on her case? What if that’s why she came to me on both those occasions? But why had I failed to crack the clues she’d given me? This seemed to let the whole concept down.
I began to wonder: if I returned to the murder scene, would she come to me again with a fresh clue? Once again in my life, booze galvanised me. I decided to give it a go.
Sangora Road was ten minutes’ walk. I’d get as close as possible to number 21, then see what happened.
No matter how slowly I took it in the screaming low sun, I got there breathless, a little delirious. Heat to an insomniac must be like thick-crust pizza to an anorexic: it knocks you out.
At the bottom of the road, I stumbled into the Roundhouse pub, craving its cool inner gloom just for a few minutes. I took my pint to a window seat out of the sun. My eyes – still scored by the glare – struggled to adjust to the darkness. I tried to focus on something midway between shine and shade, and settled on the people sitting outside enjoying their evening meals. Couples, friends, families chatted, gossiped, laughed. Beyond them, a grandstand view of the steps to number 21, just a half dozen doors up the road. The carefree revelry seemed disrespectful and shallow. Didn’t these people know what happened here a few weeks ago? Didn’t they care?
As I drained the glass, a flash of auburn hair on the sunny street caught my eye. I put the glass down and stared hard through the alfresco diners. She stood on the pavement, side-on to me, just staring towards 21. I knew that thick, curly, blood-red hair. I knew that dowdy, flowery dress. I blinked hard and fast to make sure she wasn’t a hallucination.
‘Marion?’ I mumbled.
‘Marion!’ I called, loud enough for the drinkers inside to look my way. Someone on the outside table stood, blocking my view. I jumped to my feet.
Still she stood there, motionless, oblivious.
‘Marion!’ I shouted. Now everyone on the outside tables stared.
‘Fuck it,’ I thought, and made for the door.
I got outside and scanned the pavement: there was no sign of her. I jogged up to where she’d stood and looked around. She’d vanished.
As I walked on towards 21, I noticed the To Let sign in the front garden. I wondered who’d cleared out Marion’s stuff. Who had painted over the bloodstains on the wall and scrubbed them out of the carpet? Knowing estate agents, they’d probably raced here with buckets and J-cloths. I was certain they wouldn’t be mentioning the grisly murder to any would-be tenants.
I didn’t want anyone thinking I was some sort of crime scene deviant, so as soon as I reached the steps to Marion’s house I wheeled left, back past the pub towards the Common. I looked left to cross the road and saw her: Marion, motionless on the pavement of Strathblaine Road. Again, she was staring towards 21. Her hair blazed scarlet along with the raging low sun. This time I didn’t panic. I walked steadily up towards her.
‘Marion?’ I called out gently. She didn’t respond.
‘Marion!’ I cried loudly.
Next thing, I found myself walking past the pub again. I turned to look where I thought I’d just been. She was gone. Had that actually happened? I felt rattled, disorientated, scared. What was happening to me? I aimed for the shade of the nearest tree on the Common.
I felt in no doubt now: Marion was breaking through to me from the other side. She was hijacking my subconscious, I presumed to help me find her killer. It was illogical, supernatural, an affront to logic. But it was the truth.
I lay down to better cling onto the tree and the wildly spinning world.
Chapter 20
Clapham Police Station, South London
Saturday, August 10, 1991; 10:00
While the rest of the squad were out focusing on Peter Ryan’s relationship with Karen Foster, I was office-bound on the paper trail of Marion’s Lone Wolf Killer.
DS Glenn’s team had made strenuous efforts to get their hands on the case files for every unsolved stranger attack on a woman in London over the past four years. Some were on the computer system, the rest were in box files strewn across an empty office floor.
The Met police was in the throes of ditching its old manual ‘card’ system for computers, so records were a mess. By now, a few stations had everything on computer. Some had part of their records on computer. More still hadn’t even started the process. As a result, lots of paperwork was in transit. And we all know what happens when paperwork gets moved about.
Not that getting hold of case files from other murder squads proved simple at the best
of times. Bitter rivalries simmered between many senior officers and, as a result, their CID teams. Most Detective Chief Supers ran their ‘manors’ like personal fiefdoms. They resented other teams snooping around and cracking their outstanding cases. It was petty, small-minded and dangerous – nobody dared stock-check the number of deaths caused by police teams who had failed to cooperate or communicate. The Met hoped technology would tear down these walls of ego and secrecy, and that computers would one day crack crimes all on their own.
I clicked open the folder named Unsolved, then the file named Overview and congratulated myself on my initiative. It was a painstakingly prepared report of the records that had been requested, but not received from stations still converting to the chip. Someone had optimistically dubbed these files: ‘Currently Misplaced’.
A second file contained a comprehensive list of sexual offenders recently released from prison. None of their prints matched those found at Marion’s murder scene. Each had been interviewed and eliminated from the investigation. I had to hand it to Glenn’s team: they were thorough, dogged, methodical – eager hounds chasing the wrong scent.
The third file was a report penned by forensic psychologist professor Laurence C. Richards BSc, MSc, FRSA; criminal behavioural analyst.
Despite Shep’s cynicism, if there was a Lone Wolf Killer (LWK) lurking somewhere in these files, I wanted to know how to identify him. Before I waded through hundreds of offences, I needed some sort of criteria to narrow down the suspects: a sort of LWK Modus Operandi tick list. I was terrified of missing a vital clue, leaving the killer free to strike again.
I quickly realised that Professor Richards’ chief skill was to deliver lots of general, common sense observations with absolute certainty. Whoever killed Marion must have escalated to that level of extreme violence. He will have forced his way into homes before and attacked women at knifepoint. This was ‘his thing’.