Killing by Colours

by Wonny Lea

  ‘So are you expecting the next murder to be on Saturday the first of October?’

  For a moment the room fell silent as everyone, including Martin, wondered about the basis of the question.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m not sure I understand where you are coming from, would you like to explain?’

  Enjoying the spotlight she answered. ‘Both murders were on a Saturday morning, the first on the third and the next on the seventeenth of September. So it stands to reason that the next will be on the first of October, making them all two weeks apart.’

  Martin was horrified by the speed at which the majority of the members of the media jumped on to this suggestion, although there were others who like him where shaking their heads in disbelief.

  ‘I think you are entering into the realms of probability forecasting, but in order for that to make any sense we would need more than two dates. At this moment in time the dates of the two murders give us no scientific equation for identifying the next date. It could well be that our killer intends to kill on the third and the seventeenth of each month or even on the first two Saturdays in September each year. If there is going to be a regular pattern then we need at least three dates for any form of probabilistic forecast.

  ‘So, to answer your question more directly, I am not anticipating a third murder on October the first, although there is equally no scientific reason for me to rule it out.’

  No longer wanting to be in the spotlight, the journalist glared at Martin and wished she had never asked the question.

  ‘What about the issue that the killer knows you personally?’ asked someone in the middle of the room.

  Martin responded. ‘I am mentioned in both the poems, but I have no idea in what capacity I have met the killer, if at all, and that may only become clear when we find out who he is.’

  Martin could now see that the voice from the middle of the room belonged to Mike Hiscock, a journalist from one of the smaller local papers.

  Mike lifted his head above the crowd and continued. ‘Those of us who are local know that over the years you have put away a large number of lowlifes – do you think this killer is one of them and that you will be one of his targets?’

  Martin managed a strained smile that got nowhere near his eyes. ‘Yes, of course, I have considered that possibility, but it’s not one I want to dwell on.’

  The press conference so far had gone much better than Martin had anticipated, but it was starting to degenerate, and ad hoc questions were being drowned by people voicing their own suggestions as the possible answers. Criticism about lack of progress and general and personal blame was being thrown in the direction of the three officers sitting at the front. The superintendent was getting noticeably fidgety and Martin looked at his watch before calling time on the proceedings.

  ‘We’ve been here for the best part of an hour, and I know most of you will want to follow the events set to start at 10 a.m. so shall we call it a day?’

  It was a rhetorical question and inside a minute the three men made their way from the front of the room and were walking back up the stairs in the direction of Martin’s office.

  Superintendent Bryant was the first to speak. ‘I thought we handled that very well and we managed to hide what is after all a distinct lack of progress. I’ve got a superintendents’ meeting at the Dyfed Powys HQ at twelve so I’ll be off. Keep me informed.’

  Instead of reprimanding his sergeant for disrespect, Martin chose to ignore the face Matt pulled as Bryant walked away.

  Moreover he wholeheartedly agreed with Matt’s next words. ‘“We handled that very well” – what’s with that “we”! It was you who turned what could have been a very messy session into what I would mark as being a victory for our team. His input was pathetic, but he did give me a laugh at one point when I thought he had turned to hero-worshipping you. You had the journalists in the palm of your hand, and I think the super was there too.’

  Martin laughed as he remembered that moment. ‘Well, the whole thing was much better than I had anticipated, but now I need some food. I thought we were going to be torn apart and I had no appetite for breakfast, but now I’m starving.’

  Matt never needed any encouragement when food was mentioned, but he looked at his watch anxiously. ‘It’s ten minutes to ten, but Helen’s covering the re-enactments so we don’t need to be there. What I’m more concerned about is there’s usually nothing left in the dining room by now, so you may have to work your magic on Iris.’

  They hurried towards the staff cafe where Iris was supervising the clearing away of the breakfast items and preparing for the lunchtime menu. She was one of the most enthusiastic supervisors that Martin had ever met, and she treated all the CID staff and uniformed officers as if they were part of her own family. She did have her favourites, though, and everyone knew that Martin was one of them. She also had an invisible antennae and always seemed to know if they had been to a murder scene, or to a nasty PM or a difficult press conference.

  She greeted the officers. ‘I bet you’re glad to see the back of that lot with their cameras and questions – made you hungry, have they?’

  ‘Too true,’ answered Martin ‘but it looks as if we are a bit late for breakfast.’

  ‘What about a few rashers of bacon with some scrambled egg and toast?’ she asked.

  Martin gave her the thumbs up and found a seat while Matt went in search of the coffee.

  His heart gave a jump as he looked around the room to where three tables had been pushed together and spotted Shelley sitting at the central one surrounded by fourteen men and four women. He remembered that she was leading an intensive course for workplace health and safety officers, and the people surrounding Shelley would be the designated officers for their police stations in various parts of Wales.

  They looked as if they were having a good time and Martin compared the atmosphere of her group to the bored expressions he remembered from when he had attended health and safety courses. She had told him that there were to be major changes in some of the legislation from next year, and he knew that she was working hard to ensure she would make her revised course entertaining. Only Shelley could make health and safety law exciting, he thought, as feeling inexplicably proud he turned away from the group and focused his attention on the coffee Matt had chosen, and then on the feast that Iris brought to the table.

  Even then his thoughts returned to Shelley and their last weekend at the cottage that had cruelly ended with the receipt of the orange envelope and the subsequent discovery of the second body. This weekend Shelley had to be with her diabetic father but tonight they had both been invited to dinner with Alex and Charlie and he knew that would be the tonic he needed.

  The late breakfast with the help of occasional cups of coffee sustained him throughout the day and just after five o’clock he remembered his morning thought of inviting the team for a drink. Most people were pleased to be asked but declined the offer in favour of getting home at a reasonable hour but Matt was happy to accept along with Helen, Sergeant Evans, and five other officers.

  It was a quarter to six by the time they had all walked the short distance to one of the bars in Mermaid Quay and were looking out across a stretch of grey murky water.

  ‘What a difference a week makes,’ said PC Davies as he pointed towards the outside seating area. ‘This time last week I was here with my partner and we were sitting on those seats in baking hot sunshine and now look at it.’

  Sgt Evans was downing his first pint in the happy knowledge that his daughter had agreed to pick him up at seven o’clock. A similarly blessed Matt had already swallowed his first pint and was looking for a refill. ‘Sarah has my car, so I qualify for an automatic lift home tonight – it doesn’t happen very often so I’m making the most of it.’

  Martin was a bit peeved to be the only one not indulging in the Friday night alcoholic escape but he would make up for it later. He had to drive to the cottage after this session, so couldn’t risk a drink
, but Shelley had agreed to pick him up and take him to their evening with Charlie and Alex. She was taking her father out tomorrow morning and didn’t mind not drinking. Everyone’s attention was suddenly caught by the images on the large television screen as the news programme Wales Tonight broadcast images of the re-enactment of the Red Dragon Centre murder followed by the one at the Tremorfa Industrial Estate.

  The actor they had chosen certainly fitted the bill, and it was almost as if the producers had seen the actual murder tapes – with two exceptions. This pretend murder didn’t demonstrate the level of force that had been used by the real criminal, and he didn’t walk in quite the same marching fashion, but overall it was a good effort.

  The times of the murders were emphasised, and the public asked to consider whether they were anywhere near the scenes of the crimes at these times. It seemed as if the presenter was finishing the appeal when she issued dedicated phone numbers to be used by anyone who could give any information. She appeared to have been prompted as she added. ‘The killer has been buying lengths of coloured cord, certainly red and orange. He has also purchased coloured paper and matching envelopes, again of red and orange. If you know anyone who may have been doing this it is worth notifying the police using that some number.’

  Sgt Evans let out an almighty groan and it was one in which his colleagues joined him.

  ‘That will do it,’ he said. ‘We will now have every person who does any form of art or crafts hauled into the police station for questioning. Whose bright idea was it to stick that at the end of the appeal? Even without that the phones will be red-hot with the usual cranks wanting their five minutes of fame, but with that addition they’ll be ringing nonstop.’

  The group was only too pleased when without warning the television channel was changed, and Sky Sports advertised a rugby league match between Huddersfield and Leeds due to kick off at 8 p.m.

  PC Davies expressed an interest. ‘The Giants and the Rhinos, that should be a good game. My other half is from Huddersfield and we went to the Galpharm Stadium last time we were there.’

  The conversation turned from work to discussing the relative merits of rugby union and rugby league, and when he was happy that the group had left the week behind and were happily plunging in to the weekend Martin took his leave.

  Chapter Ten

  Mellow yellow

  ‘What’s it to be?’ asked Charlie. ‘Beer, wine, or some of the really hard stuff.’

  Martin grinned. ‘After a few weeks from hell I could easily finish off Alex’s birthday present, but bringing it and drinking it doesn’t seem quite right and anyway I’m really thirsty, so make mine a beer please.’

  Alex had unwrapped the bottle of Jack Daniels that Shelley had handed over to him with a kiss and he was laughing at the rather rude verse on the card they had bought for his birthday.

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with my libido, thank you very much,’ he told his guests. ‘So the aging man on the front of this card with a bottle of Viagra pills isn’t even a pale reflection of me – and what’s more I can prove it.’

  As if on cue Charlie came from the kitchen and manoeuvred her wheelchair so that she could hand around some special nibbles.

  ‘Do you remember when Iris did those theme days in the staff café?’ she asked. ‘The first one was with Welsh cuisine and she had some Peri Las cheese.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Shelley. ‘You raved on about it.’

  ‘Well, this is it, and that there is the walnut bread we always have with it – what do you think?’

  Charlie watched as Shelley ripped off a chunk of the walnut bread and spread it with the soft, creamy blue cheese.

  ‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘It really is delicious, here, try some, Martin.’

  Taking a large bite, Martin nodded his approval and told Charlie. ‘You have great taste in food, and I know from past experience that your cooking is fantastic. I don’t know how Alex manages to stay in shape. If I lived here I would be putting on the pounds at the rate of knots.’

  Martin wished he had not used the word ‘knots’, even if it did refer to a different type, and he quickly pushed thoughts of coloured rope to the back of his mind.

  ‘Talking about piling in the pounds’’ said Alex, ‘let me introduce you to someone who will soon have a legitimate reason to do so.’ He knelt down beside Charlie and took her hand. ‘However, sometime around the 6th April 2011 she will return to her current stunning shape and we will have either a baby daughter or son.’

  Alex grinned from ear to ear and Martin suddenly realised that the head of SOC had been giving him hints for a couple of weeks but the penny hadn’t dropped – not surprising really given what had been happening.

  There were hugs all around and Charlie shed a few tears. ‘Don’t mind me,’ she explained. ‘I’ve never done crying in my life, but at the moment just anything sends me into floods of tears. It’s got to be a hormonal thing but it’s stupid – so irrational!’

  Shelley hugged her friend and asked how she was feeling. ‘Well, as I just mentioned, I seem to have no control over my emotions, and even the waterworks come on for soppy television ads – and the other thing is an overwhelming feeling of tiredness. Not all the time, but if I just sit back in my chair and close my eyes you can guarantee that I’ll be asleep within a matter of minutes.

  ‘Yesterday, I closed my eyes in the post office and the man next to me in the queue had to wake me up for my turn at the counter. I was so embarrassed. I knew about morning sickness but I’ve had none. Maybe everyone feels shattered in the first trimester of pregnancy but it’s easier for me to drop off when I’m shopping because I just have to lean back in the wheelchair and I’m off with the fairies.’

  Shelley laughed at the thought of the other shoppers seeing Charlie asleep and knew there would be a mixed reaction. In her experience some people still found it difficult to cope with anyone in a wheelchair, and the ‘does he take sugar?’ mentality still existed – and to a larger extent than most people imagine.

  Charlie had an amazing sense of humour and had told Shelley countless stories of how she’d turned the tables on people who treated her as if she was invisible, thick, deaf, dumb, or someone with two heads. She stayed constantly cheerful and was so full of life even though it had dealt her a cruel blow – she would make a wonderful mum.

  ‘Need any help in the kitchen?’ Shelley asked.

  ‘All sorted,’ was the reply. ‘I’ve kept it simple in case I nodded off when I should have been pan-watching. Alex, everything is ready and it’ll be much quicker if you carry things through to the dining room.’

  Charlie’s idea of keeping things simple was to serve chicken breasts stuffed with mozzarella cheese and wrapped in Parma ham. She had cooked them slowly in a homemade tomato, olive oil, and basil sauce, and as they were served the cheese oozed from the chicken. In the centre of the table on a very large platter was an array of roast vegetables. According to Charlie she had just roughly cut peppers, courgettes, aubergines, red onions, chestnut mushrooms, and baby new potatoes, liberally sprinkled them with olive oil, seasoned them, added a few herbs and popped them in the oven. They looked stunning and everyone tucked in as the four friends looked forward to a few hours when the conversation would embrace music, sport, current affairs even touching on politics and anything but murder. Normally Charlie would have opened a couple of bottles of wine for her and Shelley to share, but she wasn’t going to jeopardise her baby’s health and so the women shared a six pack of non-alcoholic ginger beer, it being something that Charlie had fancied at the deli. By the end of the evening it was difficult to know which group had been drinking the alcohol. All four of them were in the sort of high spirits that come not from drinking, but from the perfect enjoyment of an evening spent with good friends.

  Charlie had managed to keep awake and, as always, was the life and soul of the party, but Alex suddenly noticed that his wife looked tired – and when he realised that it was past midnight he sugge
sted it was time for bed. The evening had flown by and, with promises of a repeat performance for Charlie’s birthday in November, they said their goodbyes.

  As Shelley drove towards the coast she glanced at Martin who seemed to have caught Charlie’s ‘falling asleep in an instant’ bug, although his exhaustion had more to do with Alex needing help to get to the bottom of the Jack Daniels. He was pretty drunk and would probably remember nothing of his journey home or being stripped off and put to bed by his girlfriend – and the latter he would regret.

  He also would never know that Shelley had not left him immediately but had waited until 2 a.m. just to ensure he was safe and unlikely to vomit. He realised she had considered the possibility because there was a large plastic bowl by his bedside when he woke up just after seven, and a note alongside it that read:

  Sleep well my love. I wish I could stay but my dad will need me later and I suspect you will be nursing an almighty big hangover. Take some paracetamol and drink plenty of water! I love you.

  After reading the note he pulled the covers back over his head. The last thing he could remember was toasting the good news of the baby with Alex for the nth time. No wonder he felt like the proverbial and wondered if he shut his eyes tightly he could get back to sleeping it off.

  It was not to be, because as his brain got in to even the lowest of gears, the world of work and murder and clues and press conferences crowded in – and this morning they were making even less sense than they had done yesterday.

  Shelley’s advice was taken, and after a couple of painkillers and three pints of water he started to feel marginally less fuzzy. His mouth was so dry, his skin felt tight, and he ached in the way one does at the start of a bout of flu. To think that there are some people who punish themselves like this every weekend with their episodes of binge drinking, Martin thought. He vowed ‘never again’, but like the regular revellers, he didn’t mean it.

  He cleaned his teeth for the second time and then with superhuman effort he took a hot and then frigid shower. It was worth it, as his headache had all but disappeared, and he transferred his attention to some fresh coffee and even managed a piece of toast. It had been a good evening and it had been just what he needed to give him some breathing space and if being hung-over was the price to pay it was worth it.