Killing by Colours

by Wonny Lea

  David replied and was obviously annoyed. ‘I would say they got it more than right. They knew a lot more than we have officially told them.’

  ‘Such as?’ questioned Martin.

  ‘Well, the news crime reporter said that there had been a fatal stabbing at the Red Dragon Centre at sometime between nine and nine thirty that morning. He said the victim was a retired schoolteacher and that she had been stabbed twice, with one stab wound to her heart.’

  Martin wished he had been surprised but he knew that the press were fed information from within the police force, and one of these days he was going to find out the source of the leaks.

  David continued. ‘The reporter went on to say the police are looking for a tall man who may have been known to the victim. They then identified her as Miss Rossiter and showed some pictures of the school where she taught until she retired in 2002; apparently she stayed on a few years after the usual retirement age. It’s a primary school in Newport, and they had managed to get hold of the headmaster who told the interviewer that Miss Rossiter had been well respected as a teacher who was able to keep order and get good results from her pupils.’

  ‘There were also interviews with some of the people visiting the Red Dragon Centre, including one with a woman who hugged two of her children and proclaimed that no one was safe anymore and that in this crime-infested city we all need protection just to go the cinema. Both the children were screaming but it looked as if it was the mother who had scared the living daylights out of them. Where do the press get these people? It’s always the extremists and never anyone who gives a rational view of what’s happened.’

  Before Martin could reply DC Cook-Watts walked in and she was holding a copy of the Wales on Sunday tabloid newspaper. ‘It’s all over the front page,’ she began. ‘They’ve managed to get hold of photographs of Miss Rossiter with children from her school, some going back to the 1970s. There’s a picture of her car in the car park, obviously after the killing because Alex, in his crime scene clothes, is standing alongside it and you can actually see the victim’s head on the steering wheel. The headline is “KILLER STABS AT THE HEART OF OUR COMMUNITY”. How corny is that?’

  Martin took the newspaper from Helen as she continued. ‘The paper is full of every sort of serious crime that has been committed in Cardiff over the past twenty years and I guess if I was just an ordinary member of the public reading this I would be wondering if I was safe in my bed at night. A bit of a balance on the clear-up rates and the reasons for crimes would be helpful. Every one of the murders mentioned was committed by someone the victims knew, not by random killers stalking the Welsh Valleys.’

  Martin had always tried to keep the press on side, and had to admit that there had been times when the media had been instrumental in getting important messages into the public domain. If only they would temper some of the emotive language that they used, but then their business was to sell newspapers and there was a part of the public psyche that loved to be scared and that had to be pandered to – in their best interests, of course.

  There was a photograph of Danny Lloyd and his family holding purple helium balloons and looking forlornly at their late neighbour’s house. The storyline here told how the eight-year-old boy next door had waited in vain for Miss Rossiter to come to his birthday party. She had, through the process of poetic licence, suddenly become his best friend and his mentor, so creating another human interest angle to the story.

  Martin handed the newspaper to DS Cotter and then suggested that the three of them have a quick brainstorming session, and for the next hour or so that was exactly what they did. Anything and everything that was mentioned was written down by Martin, and after the first half an hour one of the smaller whiteboards was turned black with scribbles, not just of the known facts but with even the most fanciful of possible motives for the crime.

  ‘I need a comfort break,’ said Martin. ‘Just continue to rack your brains and feel free to squeeze any additional points on the board, if you can find a space.’

  Martin left DS Cotter and DC Cook-Watts to continue their deliberations, and as soon as the DCI was out of ear shot David Cotter spoke. ‘I hope you know how bloody lucky you are to be working with Martin Phelps,’ he said. ‘I can’t tell you what a difference it is to be investigating a crime alongside someone who knows what he is doing.’

  Helen nodded. She had enjoyed the last thirty minutes or so and was learning that it was not just OK, but was actually essential, to just say anything that popped into her head. The crowded whiteboard was a mass of random data and she was looking forward to seeing how it could be translated into manageable chunks of information.

  ‘I don’t mean to knock DI Hall,’ continued David. ‘He’s a decent bloke but he’s one of those people who was promoted too early and out of his comfort zone. As a result he’s been far too many years at DI grade watching men like DCI Phelps catch up and overtake his ranking. In an ideal world I think he would like to go back to being a DS, and he would be very good in that role, he can do the nitty-gritty stuff but not the blue-sky thinking.’

  ‘Well, Matt will be back tomorrow,’ responded Helen. ‘So make the most of today and, who knows, we may even crack the case before you leave us.’

  David laughed. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said turning back to the board. ‘Although this stuff is going to give us some direction there is nothing to actually give us positive clues regarding the identity of the killer.’

  ‘Not positive clues,’ affirmed Martin, who had returned with three cups of coffee. ‘Not at this stage, but we can start to build a profile of the man with what we know.

  ‘We have actually seen him so let’s start with that. Before he stoops to lean into the victim’s car he is seen walking towards it with his back to the security camera and I would say he is a few inches shorter than I am and considerably more than a few pounds heavier.’ They watched that part of the tape again and all agreed on a height of approximately five feet ten inches, and a weight of around fifteen stone.

  ‘Anything else about the man?’ asked Martin.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Helen. ‘He doesn’t really walk. It’s more like a sort of march. Possibly like someone who has been used to wearing a uniform.’

  The two men nodded and David commented. ‘Possibly army, or any one of the forces if it comes to that – even the police force.’

  Martin nodded. ‘I don’t get the impression of a young man, although I am struggling to bring any rationale to that thought. Helen is right, he does sort of march but it’s also as if all his movements are measured and deliberate and that’s the case throughout the period when we see him walking to the car, actually committing the murder, and then walking away. At every stage I get the feeling that this is a man who is at least middle-aged and used to being in control.’

  Martin finished his coffee and turned to DS Cotter. ‘Helen and I will pay a visit to the Red Dragon Centre now, and while we’re there I would like you to go through that drawer full of papers you brought back from the victim’s house. I had a quick look yesterday and although there were a few recent official letters, things like electricity bills and bank statements, the majority of the papers are reports and exercise books which belonged to Miss Rossiter’s teaching days.’

  David nodded and asked, ‘Am I looking for anything in particular?’

  ‘No,’ replied Martin. ‘It would be too much to hope that she had kept a list of all her ex-pupils with whom she had disciplinary issues. At best you may just pick up a few clues regarding the character of our victim that may help us build up a picture of her. That will then enable us to consider the sort of person who may have had a reason to hate her to the point of murder. It’s all a bit speculative at this stage but quite often the picking through of the minutiae is what brings results.’

  Martin reached for his jacket and minutes later he and Helen had reached the Red Dragon Centre and Martin was attempting to park. They had been met by a security officer some way back from
the usual barrier entrance and he was directing all the vehicles away from car park.

  ‘There are no more spaces,’ he explained as Martin approached. ‘I’m trying to prevent a queue at the barrier because we’ll be keeping them closed until things calm down a bit.’

  Seconds after Martin had shown his warrant card the barrier was lifted and they were not only through but en route to a space that had been reserved since Helen’s call to the centre earlier. When Martin’s Alfa Romeo had driven through the raised barrier it had attracted blasts from the horns of some of the cars that had been refused entrance and a few shouts of abuse aimed at the security guard. Suggestions of bribery and corruption were amongst the ones being voiced.

  ‘I’m glad I thought about ringing ahead to tell them we were coming,’ said Helen. ‘I would have given them your car registration number but I’m so used to travelling in marked police cars I assumed they would see us a mile off.’

  Martin smiled but then his smile disappeared as even before they were out of the car he spotted a few familiar faces approaching. The two men and a young woman, who could have been mistaken for a schoolgirl, had obviously been waiting for their arrival.

  ‘Told you this space had been reserved for the CID lot, didn’t I?’ The girl tossed her beetroot coloured hair and looked triumphantly at her fellow reporters. ‘Was it worth the wait or what?’

  ‘Depends on what he can or will tell us,’ answered the taller of her two companions. ‘First off, I wasn’t expecting the CID presence to be Detective Chief Inspector Martin Phelps, and he won’t tell us as much as DI Hall would have done.’

  Thinking that a bit of light banter would ease their way in, the young woman smiled broadly and aimed her first remark at Helen. ‘So it’s Detective Constable Cook-Watts now is it? – what’s that, promotion or just a means of getting out of those shapeless uniforms?’

  Helen did not justify the remarks with any sort of response and continued walking alongside Martin in the direction of the security office. The woman’s tall colleague addressed Martin. ‘I was expecting to see DI Hall,’ he said. ‘He was the one here yesterday and you lot don’t usually change riders once the race has started. Someone up there must think this case warrants the top team – and talking about the top team where is your usual sidekick, DS Pryor? ‘

  It was now Martin’s turn to ignore the statements and the question from the press but inwardly he was getting really annoyed with this trio. The young woman who had commented on Helen’s appearance looked as if she had been dragged through a hedge backwards and what business was it of theirs who was conducting the investigation? However he knew that unless he set the record straight they would concoct their own version of events and so he spoke calmly, but with a definite note of sarcasm.

  ‘Good morning, your powers of observation do you credit, I am not DI Hall and DC Cook-Watts is not DS Pryor. The reason you have the pleasure of meeting us this morning has nothing to do with some covert master-plan but is simply a matter of us all achieving some sort of work/life balance.’

  Martin’s sarcastic comments were wasted on the threesome and the third member of the group made his opening gambit. ‘We’re getting a lot of information from the public and our sources about this murder but precious little from the police. Rumour has it that the killer is known to you personally, DCI Phelps – is that true? Is it a fact that prior to the murder he wrote to you telling you exactly what he was going to do?’

  With some effort Martin kept his composure. ‘I can assure you that if the killer was known to me he would be under lock and key by now, but he is not. Obviously some of the facts surrounding the murder will not be made public until we know whether or not they are significant. We will be speaking officially to the press later today and appealing to the public for help. There were lots of people around yesterday and there is a chance that someone will have seen something that was not picked up by the CCTV cameras.’

  ‘Oh,’ responded the third reporter. ‘Do you mean the tapes that actually show the woman being murdered? Even as we speak our legal teams are looking at the pros and cons of publishing some stills from those tapes. The public will be amazed that the police are unable to capture a killer when they actually have a pictorial view of the whole event.’

  Inwardly Martin was shocked. How had they managed to get hold of photographs from the CCTV tapes that he believed had only been handled by the police since their removal from the machine? He would do all he could to prevent those pictures being published and the tragic circumstances of someone’s murder being turned into a grisly front-page exposé. What about the victim’s human rights, didn’t they continue posthumously – and what about the effect such publicity would have on the killer? Martin was getting the feeling that the man they were looking for would be elated if his actions were given such a high profile.

  The reporters continued to ask random questions but Martin now blanked them completely and a few minutes later was in the security office talking to the officer who had been on duty the previous morning.

  It was only ten minutes after that when Martin restarted his engine and he and Helen made their way back to Goleudy. ‘That was not a lot of help,’ he admitted. ‘It confirmed what we already know but I was hoping that the security officer would remember something more about the man who reported the crime to him. What he does remember certainly fits the details of the killer, in that he was wearing a black baseball cap, but he appears to have been faceless.

  ‘The officer says, quite rightly, that his first priority was to see if the woman was all right and it didn’t strike him as odd until later that he had been given an exact location for her car. Most members of the public have difficulty remembering where they leave their own car but this man gave the bay number and the location within the bay.’

  Helen looked thoughtful. ‘So you think it was the murderer, who had the nerve not to leave the scene of the crime straight away, but to calmly walk up to the security officer and in essence tell him what he had done? It’s almost as if he is boasting, isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s exactly like boasting,’ replied Martin. ‘It’s a part of the sick game this monster is playing with us all.’

  Martin recalled how for the next couple of weeks the usual investigations following a serious crime had been completed. Public appeals had been launched but had only resulted in countless interviews with people who had been at the Red Dragon Centre and seen nothing, or from cranks who had witnessed the whole thing in spite of being miles away at the time.

  The car had been meticulously examined by Alex and his team, but no evidence of the killer found, and the knife used for the stabbing had not been recovered either.

  DS Pryor had returned to work on the Monday following the crime and Martin had welcomed him back, hoping that a fresh mind would see something he was missing. Martin had managed to keep the actual images of the murder off the front pages, but as time was passing and there was no sign of the case being solved the press was getting restless. Headlines suggesting that the police knew more than they were telling the public were making the top brass angry and Martin was feeling more under pressure than on any other case he had headed.

  The past two weeks had certainly been a nightmare and as he sat at his kitchen table, having left Shelley upstairs, Martin stared at the mail he had been dreading receiving. It certainly looked as if the killer either had or was about to strike again and Martin picked up the orange envelope and opened it carefully.

  As soon as he saw the layout of the poem his heart sank and by the time he got to the final verse his heart had reached his boots.

  What was the killer doing? If the last verse was correct, the letter was not intended to give prior warning – just to taunt about a crime that had already been committed. If that turned out to be the case, all Martin could hope for was that this time the man would make some mistakes.

  What was it all about?

  His next action was a call to Matt. ‘See you in thirty minutes,
’ said Martin. ‘I’ve had another set of verses but it looks as if, like before, the killer will have already struck before we reach the victim.’

  Chapter Five

  Blood orange

  ‘What is this colour business all about?’ Matt questioned aloud as he watched Martin clean the scribbles of a previous brainstorming session from the whiteboard adjacent to the one on which the first poem was written. He continued to watch as his boss wrote out the second set of verses in full and then stood to one side so that the three people in the room could read them. DC Cook-Watts chose to read the lines out loud.

  It’s orange now, a juicy one

  but liquid at the core.

  It felt delicious when my knife

  went in from skin to gore.

  He sought me out, he really did

  for ridicule and scorn.

  My rubbish knots caused me to wish

  that I had not been born.

  One dragon down and now one perv

  and so I can move on.

  Quite soon I’ll send the other five

  to Hell where they belong.

  You missed the last one, Martin Phelps,

  as everyone has heard.

  Miss this one too you will as it

  already has occurred.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ she concluded. ‘I think this one is even more sinister than the last one, but there are a lot of similarities, don’t you think?’

  ‘The similarity I’m most concerned about,’ voiced Martin ‘is the fact that in both poems the killer is telling us about a crime he has already committed by the time I’ve read them, and we know that in the case of Miss Rossiter she was stabbed at virtually the same moment I opened the red envelope. I believe we can assume the same thing has happened here. I don’t think for one moment I was sent this second poem so that I would have a chance to stop a murder. Most likely someone has already been killed and we can either use the clues in this poem to find out who and where or wait for a murder to be reported.’