Game Point

by Malcolm Hollingdrake

  Caner continued. “I should say it’s my belief at this early stage, that the spot chosen was no accident. I believe that the victim was brought here, let’s say that it was convenient. From my assessment, that branch was a perfect height, but we should leave that to these people. Time of death approximately two to three hours ago but not definitive as you know,” Cyril smiled and raised his eyebrows. “I’ll have a clearer picture later.”

  “Cause of death?” Cyril sucked on his electronic cigarette but inhaled no vapour. He looked at it realising that the battery had also given up the ghost. He returned it to his pocket.

  “Now here’s the funny thing. Although the corpse is naked, the clothing was removed post mortem. I’m fairly certain of that. I also believe that she was stabbed through the right eye, the weapon or blade penetrating the brain. Judging by the tape covering the eyes, the entry wound indicates that the weapon was very narrow and very long. Apart from marks where she was bound and strung up by the wrists, there’s no further tissue damage. Maybe sexual but no genital trauma noted here but we’ll see when we perform the full examination. Clinical and somewhat calculated if you ask me.” The doctor paused, noting Cyril’s inquisitive expression. “Look Cyril, as I’ve said, once we have her back and the autopsy is done, I’ll have some facts for you but that’s all I can say for now. You’ll be attending I take it?”

  Caner did not wait for a response but politely pushed past, his bag lifted to his chest to prevent it from touching the trunks of the young trees that seemed to be everywhere.

  The Scene of Crimes’ Manager walked towards Cyril and handed him an iPad. Cyril removed a glove before flicking through the images that were on screen. Occasionally he turned his head to judge the perspective before spreading his fingers to enlarge a certain element of the image.

  “They’re with you now but thought you’d like to take a quick shufty. No sign of clothing or a weapon. We’re taking a number of imprints, the ground is fairly rich in those. We’ll do a fingertip search once we’ve cleared here. The park’s been sealed.”

  Cyril followed the route back. Owen was leaning against a van as he emerged from the woodland, chatting to one of the Forensic team. The rain had stopped for the time being. Owen noticed Cyril emerge, smiled and tapped the female Scene of Crime Officer on the shoulder. She turned and followed Owen’s stare, the conversation was over.

  “Miserable bugger, Caner,” observed Owen. “Didn’t take me on apart from a perfunctory nod. Always looks like he’s lost a tanner and found a penny…mind working with the dead on a daily basis must affect you at sometime.” He found no response in Cyril’s facial expression. “I’ve called through for someone to get a photograph of the missing woman to compare with that of the body. It’ll be back at the station on our return.”

  Owen smiled and winked at the CSI to whom he had been talking as she turned to leave.

  “Friendly chat, Owen, or business?” Cyril tried again to retrieve some menthol vapour from his e-cigarette as he spoke but was unsuccessful. “I suggest you keep your professional opinions on Caner to yourself when in the company of, let’s say, other colleagues.” Cyril turned and looked at the white-suited figure walking back to the trees. “Careless talk, Owen! Careless talk! I take it you’ve been too busy to organise door to door along Harlow Moor Lane and Drive and the roads backing on?”

  “Not standing idle whilst you head off into the wilderness and the unknown, Sir.” He smiled, trying to regain his equilibrium after receiving Cyril’s pointed criticism. “They’re starting here shortly, closest to the scene. Also called in for news coverage to be ready for social media and the local press.”

  Cyril simply smiled. Keen, he thought, before heading for the car. Sometimes misguided but keen as mustard.

  The officer who was ordering the traffic moved towards Cyril.

  “The lady over there lives in this house and witnessed something last night. I’ve asked her to wait to have a word, Sir.”

  “Excellent, well done! What’s her name?”

  “Miss Allen, Dorothy Allen.”

  Cyril smiled and put a hand on the PSCO’s shoulder before moving off towards her. “Thank you!”

  “Miss Allen? DCI Cyril Bennett and this is DS Owen. Thank you for waiting. I believe you saw something that might be of interest?”

  “Has someone died?” She didn’t wait for a reply. “I sleep in that room there, live in the upper apartment.” She turned and pointed to a second floor square-cornered bay window. “Last night I couldn’t sleep and sat in the bay. I could see the streetlights further down the road were on but the light opposite wasn’t working. Strange, really, as they’ve only recently been installed with those bright LED ones, but for some reason this one opposite is a reluctant light!”

  She paused and smiled. Cyril wondered if that was all that she had to tell him but then she took a deep breath.

  “At two thirty I saw someone get out of a car at the top of the road, a woman I’m sure. She waited for the car to leave and then she quickly came down the road; seemed to be a bit unsteady on her pins.” She noticed Cyril’s reaction to the word. “Pins, her legs, Inspector.”

  Cyril nodded his understanding and smiled.

  “Just opposite here she stopped and looked around as if she were checking to see if there was anyone about. She looked up but because of the net curtains and no bedroom light I don’t think she saw me. She then nipped into the bushes and trees. I assumed she was going for a pee. A night out, drink and then feeling the cold we’ve all been there.” She smiled and looked at both officers for reassurance.

  Owen nodded. “A bit tricky for a lady.”

  Dorothy seemed to relax. “It was then that I noticed another person moving across the road; I thought it was a man this time. He entered the tree line just higher up. I have to admit it made me smile. Here I was thinking she was answering a call of nature when all along she was answering a much stronger call. Don’t see much of that at this time of year. In spring and summer you’d be amazed at what goes on in those trees and bushes.” She raised her eyebrows and tutted. “Disgusting some of the things I’d say.”

  “What happened then?”

  Cyril turned and looked at the line of foliage and trees running to the left of the road.

  “Nothing, neither reappeared. Besides, I checked my bedside clock and it was two-fifty eight so I went back to bed. The next thing I heard was your people outside. I took something to help me sleep.”

  “Can you show me exactly where they both entered the trees?”

  She smiled and nodded before walking across the road.

  “He entered here and she…” She walked five or six paces to the tape before pointing. “… there.”

  Cyril turned to Owen. “Find the Crime Scene Manager and mention that they need to broaden the area. Point out the two specific entrances identified and get it sealed off. Thank you, Miss Allen. Here’s my number. If anything else comes to mind then please call me anytime. We’ll need to speak with you again but I’m grateful for your help this morning.” Cyril held out his hand and shook hers.

  She smiled and walked back across the street, occasionally looking at the card she had received before turning back on reaching the pavement.

  “Inspector! One thing. After a few minutes there was what I can only describe as an occasional red glow that came and went in the trees about there.” She pointed and waved her hand giving a vague direction. “I’ve never heard of professional girls taking their welcome sign with them, have you?”

  Cyril simply smiled and thanked her again, immediately realising that a red light would allow vision in the dark whilst maintaining good night vision once the light was switched off. He now knew that after what Caner had suspected and the information about the red light, that the murder was most definitely planned.

  Owen returned. The police tape was then adjusted to close off the upper entry point.

  “That was lucky, Sir. Might have missed some vital evidence. N
ice lady! Strong breath though… must have enjoyed an evening curry!”

  Cyril looked at Owen. “Didn’t notice, Owen.”

  Owen just raised his shoulders before returning to the car. He removed the fluorescent jacket and tossed it into the back seat. Cyril’s phone announced he had mail. He checked. An image of the missing woman appeared.

  “We have a match, Owen. It’s Valerie Atkins’s body.

  He slipped the phone into his pocket and climbed in. “There’s a connection, Owen. Our friend here was murdered with a fine object inserted into the brain through the right eye. Coulson died in a similar manner; one entry from the front, the other from the rear. I doubt we have a coincidence. Who did this might be one and the same.”

  He removed his dead e-cigarette and simply sucked on it. Owen looked across and smiled inwardly before starting the car.

  Chapter Five

  “It’s either a fine surgical implement, some type of needle or a long pin that’s been used in both murders.” Julie stood looking at the head-scan images taken from both brains; to Cyril they were but two similar coloured, intricate yet beautiful patterns.

  “Both implements have the same diameter and although it may not be the same instrument that was used to commit both murders, the dimensions and length appear to be very similar. It’s conjecture at this stage, the depth of penetration will be determined by either the weapon’s length or the force applied. Neither appears to have hit bone, only penetrated the soft tissue. We’ve located some fine, oxidised residue from the adhesive tape that covered the eye. When the implement was extracted, minute surface elements adhered to the sticky perforation within the tape. So, it’s not stainless steel or a modern surgical material.”

  “Bicycle spoke?” Cyril offered tentatively again, but seeing Julie’s immediate shaking of the head, he did not pursue it.

  “Early medical implement or long pin, industrial or… the steel used in ladies’ hatpins. After all, ladies of the Social and Political Union, Suffragettes to you and me, Cyril, were ordered to remove their hatpins whilst in court. You can understand when you see the length of these potential weapons.”

  Cyril burned inside. He hated being lectured to on the bleeding obvious, and particularly on subjects of which he felt he had a degree of understanding. He knew just who the SPU were. To make his point he responded by informing Julie that cities like Berlin and New York had banned the wearing of such ‘weapons’ in the early part of the twentieth century. Sadly, it did not make him feel any better, it just sounded foolishly pompous. He looked away.

  Julie blushed slightly realising that she had touched a raw nerve. “As you rightly say, Cyril, a hatpin would make a perfect weapon.”

  Cyril looked at the scans one more time and as his embarrassment subsided, he simply smiled and winked.

  “Charles Horner, the famous Victorian Yorkshire hatpin designer and maker. Some of his pieces are wonderfully elaborate. Come up for auction regularly. Not silly money either. Did you know he was from Halifax?”

  Julie got the message. “Can’t see you as a pin collector, Cyril, but then who knows what you keep concealed in your secret places?” She winked back.

  Cyril chuckled. “Just trying to impress a beautiful lady.” He turned to leave.

  “Job done then. Call me!” She saw him nod as he raised his hand.

  ***

  After studying the photographs taken at the crime scene, Owen read through the notes on his laptop.

  Valerie Atkins, 28.

  Freelance Broadcast Journalist. Leeds Trinity University, degree in journalism, Post degree attachment to Sky (Five months) and BBC (Two months) before working freelance. Success with her first documentary, ‘Blame Makes the Claim.’

  Partner, John Cooper, primary school teacher, lived together for two years (On and off). Address…

  As he read on Owen twisted and gnawed at the heavily-chewed pencil that protruded from his lips and pondered the meaning of "on and off’”. Somehow he knew that his interpretation was definitely rude and way off target! He still chuckled to himself like a mischievous schoolboy before making a note to question the nature of their relationship when they interviewed Cooper. He continued to study the notes, jotting down relevant addresses and dates.

  Cyril quietly moved to stand behind him and glanced down at the notes. “Take Liz…”

  Owen dropped the pencil as Cyril spoke. “Jesus Christ, Sir! You’re like bloody smoke, made me jump!” Owen stuttered, startled that Cyril had positioned himself so closely without his knowledge.

  “Vapour, Owen, simply vapour, definitely not smoke.” He inhaled his e-cigarette. "Take Liz and interview Valerie Atkins’s parents. A Community Support Officer has been there and reports that they’re holding up quite well. Usual stuff; get them to show you her room. If the relationship with Copper is as has been reported, let’s say a little capricious, she’ll still have a bed there. Jumpy today Owen or is it guilt?”

  “What about John Cooper, shouldn’t we be…”

  Cyril raised a finger. “It’s in hand.” He smiled and moved away followed by a thin cloud of minty vapour. “Still thinking of the lady in white?”

  Owen laughed. “Very good, Sir,” as he heard Cyril whistle the tune to Lady in Red. He reached for the phone. “I see what you did there, Sir, funny.”

  “Liz? Get your coat, I’ll brief you on the way.”

  Liz Graydon had been transferred from Leeds as a promoted Detective Sergeant just over eighteen months ago. Although seemingly inept initially, her determined professional attitude, her toughness mixed with a generous helping of sensitivity, made her adapt quickly within the team. She had a soft spot for Owen. Even though she was a year or two his junior, she would often mother him, straighten his tie, adjust his collar or be a receptive pair of ears. Cyril would often smile on seeing them together, Liz’s wisp-like frame contrasting with the height and bulk of Owen but he had immediately seen their potential; they were now a strong pairing.

  ***

  Mrs Atkins was younger than Owen had imagined. She was petite, blonde with startling blue eyes. The only tell tale signs that she had suffered tragedy were the deepening dark rings that shadowed her lower eyelids.

  “Mrs Atkins?”

  She smiled.

  “DS Owen and this is DS Graydon. May we have a word? Is your husband in?”

  She glanced at the proffered warrant card and opened the door fully before turning and walking into the first room on the left of the hall. Liz followed first and offered her condolences. There was a candle lit in a small tea-light holder next to a photograph of Valerie, reflecting the solemnity.

  Liz returned her gaze to Valerie’s mother. “When was the last time you saw your daughter?” Liz’s voice was direct but sensitive.

  “I think it was Friday, yes Friday last week. She popped in to tell us that a television company had accepted an important project she’d been working on. She was a bundle of happiness and nerves. I can’t remember the last time she was so bubbly. She couldn’t rest. I opened some wine and we had a small celebration. If only it had been Champagne!”

  She seemed to drift off back to the moment, reliving the security of that last happy meeting. Owen looked at Liz and she raised a hand from her knee as if to signal that he should just give her a little time.

  “Sorry, just got carried away… who was it that said memories are cushions for later life?” A small smile contradicted the tear that ran down her cheek. “I’ll be able to sit comfortably won’t I, I’ve so many.”

  “What project was that?” Owen asked as he glanced at the number of framed photographs that stood on the side table. He recognised those of Valerie behind the candle.

  “Project?”

  “The television company.”

  “Sorry, yes, forgive me. She never said. Never talked about work other than if she’d been accepted or rejected, Sergeant. She would keep her work to herself. I can say there were far more rejections though. It was so sad. Our daught
er was very focussed, even when she was a little girl. She’d spend hours in her room reading or with her homework. She was diligent. We’ve been lucky really…” She paused and collected herself. More tears began to run down her cheeks. “Sorry, for a moment the reality of the situation had escaped me. Why would someone want to harm our Valerie, she was so innocent!”

  Owen noted her words. ‘… for a moment the reality of the situation had escaped me.’ It sounded so strange, as if rehearsed.

  “Is your husband at home? Maybe we could speak with him.”

  “No, he’s shopping. Life goes on as they say and we have to eat although to be honest I have little appetite for food or for life at the moment. It will pass, when though, I’m not too sure as yet, but it must. We did overcome evil in the past when tragedy struck and we shall again. We have a strong faith.”

  “What about her siblings?”

  “James and Jennifer, I think you know Jennifer died in a road accident when she was seven, drunk driver they told us, never caught. James teaches in Wigan, a primary school in a place called Hindley Green. We’ve never been. Never invited. But it sounds lovely. That’s how Valerie met John, he and James were colleagues when they first started teaching. James moved to Wigan for promotion two years ago. Rarely see him, even considering the consequences. He’s phoned, of course, to ask when the funeral is but that’s all. Ever since the death of his younger sister his personality changed. He seemed to erect an emotional force field around himself. He’s cold, a bit like his dad.”

  Liz quickly glanced at Owen. “May we see Valerie’s room?”

  Mrs Atkins dabbed her eyes with the small handkerchief before tucking it up the sleeve of her sweater. “I’ll put the kettle on whilst you do whatever police people do. Milk and sugar?”

  “In tea? One, milk and two sugars, one just milk. Thanks.”

  The bedroom was small, tidy and definitely feminine. Both slipped on gloves. Owen picked up the only framed photograph in the room and he assumed it to be Valerie’s dead sister, Jennifer. Liz went through the wardrobe and then the drawers. There was a selection of clothing for most occasions.