Killing by Colours

by Wonny Lea

  He appeared to take the glove off his right hand and put it in his bag before carefully removing the keys from the ignition and closing the door by pushing it with the toe of his trainers. The killer did not rush and when he moved away from the car he exercised the same care and there was not a moment, throughout the whole episode, when anything other than his back was facing the camera.

  He gave the impression of having all the time in the world as, still with his head kept down, he mingled with men, women, and children enjoying their Saturday morning freedom from work and school. No one gave him a second look and he did nothing to attract their attention. If they had only known!

  As the murderer disappeared from view the time showed 09:22:16 and so from arriving to exiting it had taken him just over three minutes to commit an act of unspeakable horror.

  Instead of the usual buzz that tended to follow a CCTV presentation there was an uncanny silence and Martin could tell that there was no one who had not been affected by what they had seen. He allowed everyone a few minutes reflection before suggesting a five-minute break and maybe a coffee before they went into analysing the detail of the CCTV footage.

  Helen spoke to Martin. ‘Hell, that’s one cool character. At any point someone could have noticed what he was doing and did you see that even when he was standing outside but with his body inside the car there were people walking past. We are all so busy with our own lives, aren’t we? Still, to be fair to those people you are hardly likely to think, when you’re parking your car, that someone in the next parking space is being murdered.’

  ‘I’m going to take up your suggestion of a coffee, do you want one?’

  Martin replied that he would love a coffee and Helen left him to update his whiteboard with a few facts and figures, such as the exact time the murder was committed. He couldn’t remember another occasion when he or any of his colleagues had been able to do that and for a moment his mind went back to something DCI Austin had once said. He had told Martin that an officer could only be certain of the exact time of a murder if he had been the one committing the act. Martin had worked with DCI Austin when he first joined CID, and although he had applauded the detective brain of his senior officer Martin had intensely disliked the man – and some of his methods of obtaining evidence had been, to put it mildly, unethical.

  Anyway, the DCI had been wrong about only knowing the time of death if you committed the murder, because in this current case they had positive evidence regarding the time and the exact method used by the killer.

  The room started to fill up again and a couple of minutes later Martin re-started the briefing session by drawing everyone’s attention to the poem he had written out earlier. ‘We’ve jumped about during this session,’ he explained. ‘Now I want to take you back to first thing this morning when I received a red envelope through the post and written inside, on an A4 sheet of red paper, was this poem.’

  All eyes were on the whiteboard and Martin explained that when he had first read it he thought it could be some sort of sick hoax. ‘The envelope was sent to my home but was addressed to Detective Chief Inspector Martin Phelps, and that in itself is very odd,’ he continued. ‘I try, like most of you, to keep home and work at arm’s length from each other and I will be working with my CID colleagues to get a comprehensive list of anyone who knows me well enough to have my full name and rank as well as my home address.

  ‘Anyway, aside from that I couldn’t make any sense of the poem and I called a few people who were not able to help. It was DI Hall who remembered the poem on his way back from the crime scene and called me to ask if I thought there was a connection.

  ‘Since then we have come to know a number of things about the victim and I am now going to go through these verses line by line and tell you what I think are the linking factors and please let me know if any others spring to your minds.

  ‘I believe that the first verse simply refers to the fact that the writer intends to commit a murder and that he knows exactly who he is going to kill and why. It appears to be someone who has not treated him well, perhaps even bullied him and he is making it known that by the time I read his words the deed will be done. Does anyone have anything to add to that?’

  DS Cotter initially shook his head but then added, ‘I agree with that and would just like to add that we were never intended to prevent this killing; it’s more like he is teasing us and he obviously thinks he’s very clever.’

  Martin nodded and as no one else wanted to contribute to the discussion he continued. ‘The second verse confirms the bullying and seems to me to specifically relate to a schoolteacher/pupil relationship. Where else would you get one person forcing another to “play games”? I certainly remember a few of the kids in my school year saying they hated one of our teachers who made them play rugby. Anyone got any other ideas?’

  PC Davies made a suggestion that people in the army were sometimes pushed into games. ‘But then I realised that the victim was a teacher, so your suggestion is probably right. The only other games that seem to get people in trouble are boardroom games and perhaps sexual games. Neither would seem likely when you consider our victim, but you did ask for ideas.’

  ‘Yes I did, and thank you for that,’ replied Martin. ‘It’s all too easy to get tunnel vision when you think you have hit on the right interpretation, so thanks for reminding us that we need to consider all possibilities.

  ‘Let’s take a look at the third verse, and here I can shed a bit of light. When I went to the victim’s house with DC Cook-Watts we were told by her neighbour that she was a retired teacher, and although he was only repeating pub gossip he seemed to think she had the reputation of being a hard taskmaster – “a bit of a dragon” was coincidentally his exact phrase.

  ‘Given all of this I have reached the conclusion that at some time the killer was one of Miss Rossiter’s pupils, and that as far as he was concerned she bullied him and so now he has turned the tables and has killed her.’

  ‘A bit extreme, sir,’ suggested Helen.

  ‘If we were dealing with a normal person then I would agree. It is said that under the right circumstances we could all resort to killing someone, but it would usually be to save our own life or the lives of people we love. Extreme anger or jealousy, as in your crime of passion, can cause someone to commit murder, and then of course we have our psychopaths and paid assassins.

  ‘I’m not an expert profiler, but of the scenarios that I have just mentioned the one that seems to fit the killer in this case is the one that labels him as a psychopath. I know that there are hundreds, possibly thousands, of definitions of a psychopath and if we were to consider just a dozen so-called psychopaths we would probably get a dozen different disorders.

  ‘All we can be sure of at this stage is that this was no random killing, no crime of passion, and that the murderer was not acting in self-defence. We saw the act for ourselves – actually saw him commit the crime – and I believe he knew that we would and that is part of the game he is playing with us. The poem sent to my home with all the clues that fit the murder was written before it happened. The car was parked where the CCTV camera had a clear view of the actual killing. These things were carefully planned by one sick bastard, and if the term “psychopath” is not the recognised medical term for him it will do for me.’

  There was general consensus and some nodded their heads in agreement while others shook their heads, unable to believe that someone had not just killed this woman, but had orchestrated the murder so that it would be witnessed by the very officers investigating the crime.

  ‘Look at the last verse of the poem,’ Martin added. ‘It is clearly aimed directly at me and it seems likely that I will know this killer. Please God don’t let him be on the list of people I consider to be friends or colleagues. During my time in the force I have been instrumental in bringing countless villains to justice, and like most of you here I have been warned by some that they will get back at me in some way.

  ‘It’s likel
y to be one of those but as yet no one comes to mind and I am really struggling to formulate any connection between me, the killer, and the murdered woman.

  ‘It looks as if we have tons of evidence, not the least of which is an actual recording of the killing and we know a bit about the victim, but what do we actually know about the killer?’ Martin asked. ‘We will look at this CCTV footage over and over – it is bound to tell us something. We need to have his image enhanced – anything that will give us a clue to his identity.’

  ‘There are things I would really like to know, such as, why the elaborate set up? Why the colours and the poems, and is this a one-off murder or are there more people he wants to get even with?’

  Chapter Four

  He boasts

  By the time Martin had sorted a few loose ends it was approaching seven o’clock and as he left the city and took a familiar route towards the coast there were already signs of the daylight fading. The journey always comforted him and he looked forward to closing his cottage door and leaving the cares of the world behind him.

  That was how he had always thought of his life in the small seaside resort of Llantwit Major, at least until today. Now he felt that his home and his private life had been violated by that vile letter. He knew he had to reverse that feeling and instead of walking up his path when he had parked the car, he turned around and walked back towards the village – but then changed his mind and headed for the beach.

  He walked quickly, as if trying to throw off the shackles of the day and made a conscious effort to think about his surroundings rather than the case and he silently thanked his Aunt Pat for giving him the skills to do this. He had been just a young boy when his parents had died and initially he had been resentful about having to live with his maiden aunt. Although she had never married, his aunt had not lacked company. She was great to be with, being both amusing and interesting, and most of Martin’s friends thought he was very lucky not to have to live with boring old parents.

  Her job as a costume standby had given her many opportunities to mix with the great and the good of the entertainment world and she had encouraged Martin to go along to film shoots and other projects during his school holidays. She had constantly told him to open his eyes and really notice things instead of just seeing them and he had lost count of the number of times he had been given cause to thank her for just that one thing – although there were countless others.

  The evening was still, and as he reached the rocky beach he saw a few groups of surfers making their way across the pebbles and heading for the small café. Maybe they were hoping for larger waves later. Aunt Pat had known all about the history of Llantwit Major, where she had lived for most of her life, and had shared her love of the area with Martin. So he knew that the pebble beach and the old, crumbling cliffs formed part of the fourteen miles of Glamorgan Heritage Coast stretching from just beyond Southerndown in the west to Gileston in the east and he had walked it many times.

  He and Shelley had talked about doing the walk, but so far talking about it was as far as it had got, as they were at the stage of their relationship when any time they had together excluded the rest of the world. Martin smiled as he thought of her and felt certain that they would always be together, and so would have plenty of future opportunities for walking when their physical love was a bit more controllable.

  He looked out to sea and over the Bristol Channel towards Somerset, and although it was now getting darker the coastline was still visible. Maybe that was the reason he had been drawn here this evening because it was in the village of Milverton in the Taunton Deane area of Somerset that Shelley was staying this weekend.

  She had taken her father to visit his sister and Martin remembered her saying that they would all be enjoying a pint or two at The Globe, the pub that had been her father’s local when he had lived there.

  The idea of a pint made Martin turn back towards the town and head for the Old Swan Inn. Although he sat on his own drinking his two pints of beer he did not feel alone, and had recaptured the feeling that living in this village had always given him. The killer had not won on that count and Martin would do everything in his power to ensure that he would not get away with the murder of Miss Mary Rossiter either.

  He made his way back to the cottage past some of the oldest buildings in the town that dated back to the Normans. The people of Llantwit Major, and he included himself as one of them, were fortunate to live in a place where others had worked and played for over three thousand years. Bronze Age and Iron Age had left evidence of their life there, as had the Romans. The history mingled well with the more modern aspects of the town and overall it gave him a really good feeling.

  When he returned home he telephoned Shelley, and she confirmed that at the time he was looking out towards Somerset she was indeed having a pint with her father and his friend Stan. ‘Didn’t you see me waving,’ she teased. ‘I was the one wearing a skirt!’

  She had gone on to say that she had heard about the murder in Cardiff as it had been mentioned on the BBC news. ‘It’s lucky you aren’t on call this weekend.’

  Martin said nothing and changed the subject. He would of course tell Shelley how he had become involved, but it was not the subject for a telephone conversation and if she thought there was a personal element to the case it would give her cause to worry. After he had told her how much he loved and missed her Martin ended the call and had a quick shower before crashing out. Getting to sleep before 10 p.m. was really unusual for Martin and he paid the price for his early night by finding himself awake before 5 a.m. He had slept solidly for seven hours and that for Martin was something of a miracle.

  It was Sunday morning and immediately his eyes opened his brain visualised the calculated killing of Miss Mary Rossiter. Nothing unusual about that but what was unusual was the fact that he had slept so well. Usually during the first night following the start of a murder investigation his mind went racing around in ever-decreasing circles. If a bracing walk down to the beach and a couple of pints had prevented that, then it was a recipe he would use from now on.

  Thinking back, Martin remembered how on that Sunday morning he had not rushed to work but because he had woken so early he had got there ahead of the rest of the team and was already watching the CCTV recording, for the third time, when DS Cotter arrived. He froze the image at the point where the killer had committed the murder and was taking off the glove from his right hand.

  ‘Why did he do that?’ questioned David Cotter. ‘He was in danger of leaving prints as soon as that glove was off.’

  ‘I’ve been asking myself the same question,’ replied Martin. ‘The only thing I can think of is that he used his right hand for the stabbing and the glove would surely have been blood-stained. He took the keys from the ignition carefully, we can see because he has turned his body slightly to do that. There is no sign that he wants to get away quickly. All his movements are measured. He is either a seasoned killer or this particular murder had been acted out in his mind so many times before that he is crime-perfect.

  ‘I am inclined to go for the latter,’ Martin continued. ‘It’s obvious from the way the victim started to open the car door as the man approached that she’d been waiting for him, and couldn’t possibly have suspected that she was in any sort of danger.’

  For a while both men said nothing, and then Martin restarted the tapes and they watched as the killer disappeared from the bottom right-hand corner of the screen.

  ‘Do we pick him up on any of the tapes from other CCTV cameras?’ asked Martin.

  ‘No, sir, and we have now looked at the footage from five cameras covering the period between 9 a.m. and an hour after the murder. Some of the cameras are static and others pan over two or three parking bays, but we have not picked our man up on any of them.’

  ‘Well he can’t have disappeared into thin air,’ said Martin. ‘We know that at some point he left the victim’s car keys on the bonnet of that red Mondeo.’

  ‘We can see
on one of the tapes that the keys are on the bonnet, and that is the camera that would have shown them being placed there. Unfortunately the camera was not on that particular car at the time, and we have an earlier shot when there are no keys and a later shot when there are keys – but nothing between, if you see what I mean.’ DS Cotter shook his head. ‘This man is either a lucky son of a bitch or he knows enough about surveillance to be able to second-guess the cameras – you and I could do it, sir, especially if we had taken time to check them out in advance.’

  Martin agreed and not for the first time the thought that the killer could be someone he knew through work crossed his mind. Both police officers and villains would know a thing or two about security cameras, but he didn’t even want to think that one of the former could be responsible for this.

  ‘I take it no knife has been found?’ he questioned.

  ‘No, the whole area has been searched and absolutely nothing found,’ replied DS Cotter. ‘Given the cool of the killer I don’t think we expected him to just dump it. How do you want to play things, guv?’

  Martin replied. ‘You were at the Red Dragon Centre yesterday but I haven’t been there in connection with this case so I will take DC Cook-Watts with me to look around and hopefully interview some of the security staff.’

  ‘One of them was interviewed on the news last night,’ said Cotter. ‘It wasn’t the one I spoke to when I was there, so perhaps they do twelve-hour shifts and the man who actually called in the crime will be there again this morning. DC Cook-Watts is here, I saw her talking to one of the constables who has been involved with the weapon search.’

  ‘I deliberately avoided watching the news,’ Martin said. ‘Did they get it right?’