by Wonny Lea
Martin was quick to reassure him that the killer had planned the murder and was out to kill someone specific, not just anyone at random. He explained that the CID believed the murder to be linked to the one two weeks ago at the Red Dragon Centre.
‘I read about that,’ said Mr Lewis. ‘Some balls that killer must have, to stab someone in broad daylight and with so many people around. Seriously, you think I gave that animal a lift in my van?’
Martin told him that it was highly probable and emphasised why it was so important that Mr Lewis think of anything that could help with the killer’s identification.
Emma, the girl working with Mr Lewis, praised his efforts so far and updated Martin on their progress.
‘At first, Mr Lewis told us that he could remember nothing other than that the man was quite tall and well built, but he has surprised himself with the number of other details we now have to offer.’
Martin was shown a computer-generated image of a man with an estimated height of five feet eleven inches. From the recollections of Mr Lewis the weight had been fixed at fifteen and a half stone, and the image was ‘dressed’ in black jeans and a high-necked navy sweater. Although Martin said nothing he knew how closely this image resembled the one they had from the Red Dragon tapes.
Emma explained that she had been unable to put in some features, such as the nose and eyes, because in spite of many attempts there was nothing that Mr Lewis could remember.
‘This is probably because the man wore a baseball hat and it came down well over his eyes,’ she told Martin. As you can see, Mr Lewis has suggested that it had a larger-than-normal rounded peak, and he is fairly certain it was black.’
‘It was,’ confirmed Mr Lewis ‘and I’m certain about his sports bag being navy blue. What I’m not certain about is what we have done with the shape of the face and the mouth. It’s more of a gut feeling I have about the man been square-jawed with thin lips, and I would hate to mislead, but I do know he barely opened his mouth when he spoke.’
Martin reassured Mr Lewis that he was not misleading anyone and asked about the killer’s voice.
‘As I told the lady detective earlier, the thing I most remember about his voice is its authoritative tone. Normally if someone asked me to go out of my way to drop them off, I would suggest a point on my route and that would be that. This guy told me exactly where he wanted to be dropped and that’s where I dropped him off – I’m still scratching my head over that!’
‘Did he shout?’ asked Martin. ‘Did you feel as if you were being threatened?’
‘No, not threatened exactly, and as I said he barely opened his mouth when he spoke, but it was if he was used to being obeyed and for some reason I didn’t argue with him. All he said was, ‘Drop me off at unit 17, will you, mate,’ but it wasn’t so much a request as a demand.’
Emma commented on the killer’s accent. ‘We’ve run a number of voice tapes using the actual words that he used and I am in no doubt that this man has a definite Cardiff accent – Mr Lewis recognised it when, using our equipment, the general Welsh element was lowered and the Cardiff accent was increased.
‘When we’ve finished I will be able to give you the image we’ve come up with and a tape of what we believe the killer sounds like normally. It’s possible, of course, that he tried to disguise his voice, but we find that certain elements, such as a fundamental local accent, are difficult to hide.’
After thanking Emma and Mr Lewis, Martin headed for his car, and twenty-five minutes later he was approaching his cottage. It wasn’t dark but the daylight was fading and Martin could see some candles flickering in his lounge. He shook off the feeling of violation that the letters had brought to his home. Shelley was waiting for him and with maximum resolve he put the two murders behind him until tomorrow.
Chapter Nine
Sights on Phelps?
It was Friday September 23rd, and getting towards the end of a month of warm sunshine, when the weather suddenly changed and autumn arrived almost instantly. The rain and high winds had invaded in the early hours of the morning, and by the time most people were awake the gutters were full of leaves.
Martin walked down the path of his cottage and didn’t get straight into his car. He allowed the wind that was coming in off the sea to blow his short dark brown hair in every direction. The rain felt good on his face and he wished that the elements could wash away the last few weeks of his professional life.
It was almost three weeks since the murder at the Red Dragon Centre of retired schoolmistress Mary Rossiter, and almost a week since Victor Davies, an ex-scoutmaster, had been stabbed in a similar fashion on the premises of a company that produced orange juice. The colours red and orange were part of the key to solving the murders, as were the links between the victims and their murderer and these clues had been exhibited in the poems sent by the killer to Martin.
Martin needed a clear head and all his wits about him this morning, as a major press conference and public appeal was being staged and it was not something he was looking forward to. Contrary to his normal experience, the last week had seen the press turn on him personally and he had been slated for the lack of progress.
It was not through lack of trying, as Martin and his team had explored every aspect of the victims’ lives and had cross-referenced names of people they may have mutually known. They were working from the basis that the killer had a personal grudge with each of his victims, and the horrifying thing was that they had every reason to believe that he had five more victims lined up. This possibility had been deliberately kept from the public for fear of widespread panic.
In spite of every attempt to keep certain aspects of the murders out of the public domain, the press had some knowledge of the poems and now labelled the killer as ‘The Bard’. Martin was certain that this would be pleasing the man and he was also certain that a major part of the satisfaction this butcher was getting related to the fact that he was in the public spotlight.
Well, there would be plenty of publicity today, and Martin’s boss Superintendent Bryant had expressed an interest in attending the press conference, much to Martin’s dismay. He was one of the people giving Martin a hard time, and he constantly told Martin that DCI Austin would, one way or another, have had things sewn up by now. It was the ‘one way or another’ element that Martin would have worried about if Austin was still around. He knew that his ex-boss may well have stitched up a suspect rather than solving the case legitimately.
Martin suddenly realised that the rain was becoming more of a downpour and he jumped into his car and headed for Goleudy. He knew that the whole team were dispirited with the lack of any solid evidence, and he made up his mind to raise their spirits. Today would soon be over, one way or another, and perhaps if he offered to get the first round in at one of the local pubs after work they would all be inclined to join him.
It was barely eight o’clock when he arrived at his office, but looking out through the window he could see armies of the press congregated in the street outside. The press conference was set for eight thirty and there was also to be re-enactments of the two murders in an attempt to jog memories. Martin knew that this would bring in hundreds and possibly thousands of phone calls, with the likelihood that none of them would be any use, but just occasionally something was of help and so the process was considered necessary. He would have liked to be able to say that his officers were too busy to get involved with this exercise but in truth they were all at a virtual standstill.
Matt had obviously seen him come in and after knocking the door with his foot he walked in with two cups of coffee.
He put the coffee on the desk and joined Martin at the window. ‘I see you’ve spotted the wolves circling. I made the mistake of coming through the front entrance about ten minutes ago and I was almost mobbed.’
‘Why did you come in that way?’ asked Martin.
‘Sarah dropped me off. Three of my nieces have got an inset day so there’s no school for them and their parents couldn’t get time
off work. Sarah has a couple of days off and has agreed to take them to Folly Farm, but it’s a bit of a squeeze in her car so I’ve lent her mine.’ Matt always spoke fondly of his nieces but Martin noticed something special in his tone as he spoke of Sarah.
‘Getting serious, is it?’ he teased.
‘We’re taking it slowly, but not such a slow start as you and Shelley had – from what I remember, that was very much at snail’s pace.’
Martin laughed as he recalled the truth in what Matt had said, and he wished they could spend their morning talking about the two women who had recently transformed both their lives – instead they were having to face a baying media.
No knock this time but the door opened and Superintendent Bryant, buttons shining brilliantly, came into the office. ‘I wouldn’t have thought you would have time for personal chit-chat,’ he accused. ‘Where is DC Cook-Watts, I presume she is attending the press conference?’
‘Good morning, sir,’ said Martin gritting his teeth. ‘It was not my intention to involve DC Cook-Watts as I thought you, me, and DS Pryor would be enough.’
‘We probably will be more than enough, but you need to start thinking more politically, and the involvement of a woman is what the public are coming to expect. I’m always questioned about the predominately IC1 make-up of the police force – as if I alone am responsible – and I have recently been challenged about the scarcity of women at senior levels, too.’ Martin cringed as he thought of Helen’s reaction to being included in something just to tick a box.
The superintendent continued. ‘It’s time we were downstairs. I’ll sit in the middle, make the necessary formal introductions, and provide the background, then you can give an update and field any questions.’ He marched off and Martin picked up some papers from his desk and followed behind with Matt in tow.
Martin had attended lots of press conferences in the large purpose-designed room on the ground floor, but he had never before walked into this level of sound. The room was crammed, with every chair taken and the sides and the central aisle packed with photographers and people holding various pieces of electronic equipment. Everyone was hopelessly attempting to make themselves heard, and it took Matt several loud taps on his microphone before the volume of heated noise diminished and a relative calm ensued.
The three men had seated themselves at the front of the room in the preordained order and as Matt gave one particularly loud rap on the mic the superintendent rose to his feet and the audience fell quiet.
He began speaking in his practised public voice that sounded false and patronising, and Martin inwardly cringed. ‘Good morning, ladies and gentlemen, we are most grateful that you are able to take time from your busy schedules to be with us this morning.’
If the super was angling for mutual respect he was instantly disappointed.
‘We wouldn’t have missed it for the world,’ shouted one woman and her comment was followed by others that soon made it clear that the press were there more on a mission to hang Martin out to dry than help solve two murders.
The mood was indeed hostile, and Matt banged on the microphone again. He also shouted for quiet – and when Matt shouted he could be heard above anything.
‘We will get nowhere if every one of our sentences is followed by this sort of juvenile barracking – so make up your minds, either curb it now, or we knock this session on the head before it’s even started.’
The majority of the reporters wanted the full story and the opportunity to ask questions, so quiet and order followed Matt’s outburst. Instead of getting straight down to business the superintendent persevered with the speech he had planned and formally introduced himself, Martin, and Matt.
‘We know who you all are – we want to know what you are doing.’ The same woman as before interrupted, but this time she was silenced by her associates, although Martin sensed that the majority felt the same way she did and wanted answers, not the pompous utterances of a senior officer.
The plan had been for Superintendent Bryant to give the background to the two murders and for Martin to continue, but the two interruptions and the obviously hostile atmosphere caused the super to bottle out and he immediately handed the session over to Martin.
No one listening would have guessed that Martin had been placed on the back foot. He got to his feet and speaking with clarity and authority, and without mincing his words, he described the two murders. He gave details of both the victims and their possible connections with the killer. It had been decided before the conference not to withhold many details and to let the press have almost everything that the CID had. The rationale for that decision was based on the fact that the press was already getting some inside help on a number of aspects, but in the absence of a complete picture they were filling in the gaps themselves.
The strategy was working and it was becoming apparent that the audience had never anticipated this level of disclosure, nor such an honest appraisal of the progress to date.
After describing the murders in detail, Martin went on to confirm that the CID had received poems with clues about the murders, but that they had not been received in time to prevent them happening. He also ratified that, as had been printed in the newspapers, he was mentioned in each of the poems. What he did not tell the press was that the poems had been sent to his home address. This piece of information appeared not to have reached them and it was the one thing he wanted to keep out of their hands.
The room was now really quiet as Martin went on to describe the way in which colours were being used by the killer. He even told them that each of the victims had been discovered with their hands tied behind their backs, with the appropriate colour cord and each with a perfectly executed reef knot.
He had now been speaking for more than twenty minutes and was suddenly amused by the look of naked admiration he was getting from Superintendent Bryant. He had to restrain himself from laughing, especially as he saw that Matt had picked up on the situation.
Martin was pleased with his own performance but was not complacent because he knew this was the only part of the press conference he could control – the questions and answers session would be a different ball game.
He concluded by reminding everyone of the re-enactments that were scheduled for 10 a.m. and then sat down.
As anticipated, the room erupted and questions were fired from every direction, but Martin said nothing and it soon became obvious that none of the questions would be answered unless the audience got themselves into some sort of order.
The woman who had previously interrupted was about to shout out a question, but she was silenced by Laura Cummings, one of the local television crime reporters. Martin remembered Ms Cummings as someone who only attended the high-profile conferences and who was usually extremely well briefed.
She was, as always, immaculately dressed and looked even better in the flesh than she did in front of the television cameras. She flashed Martin a disarming smile as she spoke. ‘Nice one, DCI Phelps, that took us all a bit by surprise – but what a pity you didn’t feel able to share this information at an earlier point in the investigation. So why now?’
Martin got back onto his feet. ‘You have enough experience to know that one of the biggest issues when we release murder details early on is the well-known phenomenon of copycat killings – it’s always something we have to consider very carefully. The exercise we’ve got planned for later will give the public much more information than we usually release, and there may be someone out there sufficiently deranged to want to copy it, but we now consider that to be a calculated risk. As I have shared with you, we are unfortunately light on hard evidence – so any help will be greatly appreciated.’
Although everyone was desperate to ask their own questions, Ms Cummings didn’t allow anyone else to get a word in. She asked Martin to tell her more about the poems. ‘Why don’t you release the poems in full?’ she suggested. ‘Or are there still things you are keeping from us – like the possibility the killer is tell
ing you he has more victims in his sights!’
Martin swallowed hard. He didn’t want the public being told that someone who had already killed two seemingly upright members of the community had five more victims already identified. He gave the stock answer. ‘It’s not a question of keeping things from you, but more a matter of not causing unnecessary public concern.’
Before Martin could complete the rest of his explanation, the determined female reporter shot down Ms Cummings and managed to get in her third interruption.
‘Who are you to say what unnecessary public concern is? If you know the killer intends to stab to death even more victims then you should tell us. You have no right to withhold such information. Who do you think you are?’
With considerable effort Martin managed to keep his cool and after tapping the microphone a couple of times he answered her questions.
‘I know exactly who I am and I have sufficient experience to be able to judge what information to release in the best interest of the public. If you had listened to what I had said earlier you would realise that both victims were known to the killer and that he is not going around randomly stabbing people.’
Another journalist joined in. ‘But you do have reason to believe that there will be other victims, don’t you?’
Martin knew better than to simply lie and he told the audience that if he had anything to do with it there would be no more killings.
‘Not doing a very good job so far, are you?’ This time a question came from the back of the room and from someone Martin had never seen before – probably a reporter from one of the nationals.
Martin responded calmly. ‘I can assure you that the team here at Goleudy are working around the clock in an effort to bring the killer to justice, so please don’t judge us until the job is done.’
It was always the case that in a press conference everyone in the audience had their own agenda and barely listened to the questions posed by others. As if to prove that fact a woman standing in the aisle draped with cables asked a seemingly random question.