by Wonny Lea
There had been several hopeful admirers at the golf club, and she knew she had led some of them on but not the one who had phoned her yesterday. She wondered how some people got to be members – there were a number of ex-cons and undesirables mingled in with others who claimed to be pillars of the community. Probably the only thing anyone really needed to get membership was the ability to pay for the privilege.
The day was passing very slowly and there was still tomorrow to endure before she could get that round of golf over and find out exactly what was behind this sudden blast from the past. Connie felt strung up and knew what would sort her out, but with Roberto walking about upstairs she couldn’t risk it. Her hand hovered over the bottle of brandy, but she must have been more uptight than even she realised because she knocked the bottle over and it smashed against the legs of a circular marble table. She swore and bent down to pick up the broken bottle, but cut her hand on a shard of glass, and quite out of character she burst into tears.
Having heard the sound of breaking glass Roberto had come downstairs and was now cradling her in his arms.
‘Cucciola mia,’ he said tenderly. ‘What is the matter? Why are you crying over a broken bottle of cognac? It is not important, I will get you another. Please don’t cry.’
Connie felt very stupid and didn’t want Roberto to see her with a blotchy face and smudged makeup. She was having trouble holding herself together and she knew what she had to do. Gently removing herself from his arms, she made the excuse of wanting the bathroom and made her way to the one room that was her own private domain.
Within ten minutes she was back in the lounge with freshly applied makeup, feeling much in control of the situation. Only someone who knew what to look for would have picked up on her dilated pupils and slightly runny nose, but Roberto was just pleased to see her back to her normal upbeat self.
‘Sorry about that,’ she said. ‘I don’t know when I last cried, and I don’t think it had anything to do with the brandy – it was just one of those things. You can put it down to me being a silly woman,’ she laughed.
Roberto kissed her and in her state of post-cocaine euphoria she responded with an enthusiasm that took him by surprise. But he was a red-blooded Italian, and he wasn’t complaining as giggling like school children they raced up the stairs and landed in a heap on his bed.
Two hours later he confessed that he was feeling hungry, and went in search of something to satisfy his other appetite. It was usual for Connie not to want anything to eat after feeding her habit and she chose instead to take a long shower.
She believed that the past few hours had sealed her relationship with Roberto and that it would not be long before he popped the question. Even more reason for her to be worried by the possible intentions of Tuesday’s golf partner. Why had he contacted her? Why now? The biggest question of all was: what did he really want? Not to put things right between them, she was sure of that, and not just to ask her to help him ease his way back into the club either. He could do that without her. She knew for certain that there were a number of his old colleagues who were still members, and a few of them had risen to the dizzy heights of the committee.
Even after the weekend, there was still Monday to get through before her questions would be answered. Part of her wanted a return to the torrential rain of a few days ago so that the game would have to be called off but realistically she knew that it would just result in the inevitability of a reschedule. That would mean waiting even longer to find out what he really wanted.
Perhaps he thought that, having found out about her drugs problem, he could blackmail her into having a relationship with him. Perhaps he just wanted to see her humiliated as she was forced to walk around the club with everyone thinking he was her new partner on and off the course. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. Connie contemplated the most bizarre possibilities, but at no time did she consider the thought that her caller just wanted to get close enough to kill her …
She had to get out of the house. She had to find something to take her thoughts off that man and the awful places he was sending her mind. There was no better way she knew than some serious retail therapy and kissing a somewhat bemused Roberto on the top of his head she headed for Cardiff to join the throngs of other Sunday shoppers and to lose herself in the crowds.
Roberto watched her walk towards her car and settled his mind to the fact that he would never understand British women. One minute they were giving a man everything he could possibly want, and the next minute they were going shopping! He picked up the phone as he watched her drive away and then called Milan. Like all good Italian boys he would have to talk to Mama before taking the first steps towards asking Connie to be his future wife.
That marriage would not happen if the killer had anything to do with it, and unlike Connie he was far from being at a loose end. Between now and Tuesday morning he intended to start the ball rolling, so that by the end of next week all the names on his list would need referring to in the past tense.
Connie was the next on his list and with gloved hands he put a sheet of green paper into an envelope already addressed to Detective Chief Inspector Martin Phelps at his home in Llantwit Major. Written on the paper was the fourth poem, and on his table was a short length of green cord that in his mind was an essential piece of his manic, homicidal game-plan.
Normally he would have put a stamp on the envelope and then waited until the particular Friday he had scheduled before posting it. That had been the original game plan but since the last murder he knew that things had changed, and that the police would be gathering information that would soon lead them to him.
He thought back at how easy it had been to get his victims to do what he told them. Arthur Taylor hadn’t queried the man who had phoned him from the Primrose Garden Centre to tell him his wife had won a garden makeover. He had told the killer that she was always doing competitions and was quite good at them, having won two holidays, several sums of money, a mountain bike, and endless hampers and gift sets. But then the killer already knew all that.
He had told Arthur that wherever possible the makeover team liked to surprise the prizewinner by getting help from someone who knew that person well, to keep the win a secret and help with the design.
Part of the prize was to be a weekend break and the actual garden makeover would happen when the winner was away. Arthur said they would like the weekend break but as they were not currently living in their own home the makeover team would not be disturbed and could go there at any time,
Arthur was thrilled to be involved and was looking forward to seeing Carol’s face when she saw her prize-winning garden. It was good that he was getting a say in the design and he would ensure that it was as maintenance free as possible. That way when she was back at their home in Danescourt and he was no longer around, she would be able to cope with it.
The nice man from the garden centre had told him that their car park was being resurfaced and that they had an arrangement with the local hospital for customers to use their car park to avoid getting clamped on the double yellow lines that were all along the main road. What he hadn’t taken into account was the fact that Arthur was not really up to walking far and so had decided to drive nearer to the garden centre car park and take a chance on parking.
As Arthur had approached the garden centre he had been surprised to see a few cars parked in their car park and no sign of any resurfacing. He wondered if they had been forced to reschedule because of the poor weather conditions. Thinking no more about it, he made his way to the plant section which was the planned rendezvous site, expecting to claim his wife’s prize – not to lose his life …
As the killer had entered the garden centre on foot he hadn’t walked near the car park and had not seen Arthur’s car. If he had done he would have rethought his plans. If the brainless idiot had obeyed orders his car would have been amongst a load of others in the car park of Rookwood Hospital. The police wouldn’t have found it as the killer had plans for it to be co
llected later. There were still the likes of ex-car thieves whom he could make jump through hoops because he knew things about their past that they would prefer to remain buried.
He had seen the car as he had hurried away from the killing, but by then it was too late. His brain had gone quickly through the chain of events that he could see happening. It would start with the keys being found in Arthur’s pocket, the car being discovered, and then the owner being identified via the DVLA database.
There was nothing the killer didn’t know about his victims – after all, part of his game had been to study them for years. He knew the Taylors had moved house because some madman had been phoning them with threats to expose Arthur’s dodgy car dealings. That had been good fun.
He also knew that their new address was not on any official documents because he had checked it out. They didn’t want anyone to know where they now lived, but the killer had watched them move in during one of his many stakeouts.
He had enjoyed the times when, sitting in his BMW, he had watched each of his victims in turn, going about their day-to-day lives. They laughed, they shopped, they talked to neighbours, they went to the dentist, and did so many other things without once being aware of his presence.
He had sat in his car as some couple had helped Miss Rossiter move into her new house, and he had also watched the developing relationship between Martin Phelps and Shelley Edwards. He knew about Shelley’s diabetic father and the Italian houseguest at Connie Jackson’s. The antics of the staff at Watch Towers were well known to him and he had even sat at the next table to Victor Davies in his regular café. He loved the idea that he knew so much about his victims while they didn’t even give a thought to his existence.
The killer couldn’t dwell on his last murder as it represented something that was far from the perfect plan he had dreamed of. Usually, when it came to organising detail, manipulating people, and covering his tracks, he could give master classes, but this time he knew his efforts had been way off the ten out of ten he had come to expect.
All the more reason to concentrate on the rest of his plan and alongside the green envelope he placed a blue one and the remaining two colours. The blue one was the one that had always been his main focus as it represented the public humiliation and killing of DCI Phelps. He knew all about the way in which the detective worked – all about the questions he asked – all about his dogged determination to get things right. He knew because he had been caught out as a result of those things. He had lost everything because of those things.
Martin Phelps had been one big thorn in his side, but now he revelled in the thought that after failing to solve the murder of Connie Jackson, Phelps would be ridiculed, not just by the public but by the whole of the police force that had until now held him in such high esteem. How he would enjoy watching the mighty fall from grace – and die …
Chapter Fourteen
Rainbow colours
For three people Monday was three very different days. The killer was in a state of euphoric anticipation as, months ahead of the original schedule, he plotted the final details for the demise of his last four victims. He would not be caught alive, and without actually having the knife in his hand he practised the move on himself that he would execute if he had to. He anticipated giving himself the opportunity to practise for real at least four more times on others, before turning the knife on himself if he had to, so would be point-perfect by then.
The remaining four coloured envelopes were now all in a line on his kitchen table alongside the corresponding lengths of coloured cord. His eyes focused on the blue cord, and he imagined it tied around the dead wrists of DCI Phelps. The killer believed that in some way all his victims had in his lifetime tied his hands behind his back, metaphorically speaking, so in their deaths he was turning the tables.
He had used the same knife on all his victims, and it was now washed and sharpened to a razor-edge finish but not in its usual place. This time the killer had put the knife, safely within its leather sheath, not in his canvas bag but alongside the putter in his golf bag. He loosened the sheath and practised pulling the knife out quickly. He went over and over the movements he would have to make when saying ‘goodbye’ to Connie.
After much deliberation he had put aside the mistakes of the third murder, and spent the day congratulating himself on despatching three of his demons and savouring the thoughts of what he would do to the other four.
For Connie, the Monday was endless, although it should have been one of the happiest days of her life. Having yesterday received Mama’s blessing Roberto had gone out early and bought a sapphire and diamond engagement ring which, if she was ever short of cash, would keep her suppliers happy for years.
He was suggesting that they take the first available flight to Milan, as the family wanted to celebrate their engagement and plan a real Italian wedding. The ceremony she had shared with her late husband had been in Cardiff: not traditional enough for the Giordano clan, who this time wanted the wedding to take place in Italy.
There was nothing Connie would have liked better than to jet away with Roberto, but a certain round of golf was hanging over her like a black cloud. She even contemplated the idea of suggesting they go to Italy and stay there permanently, but she knew such arrangements would take time – certainly enough time for her blackmailer to spread his spiteful knowledge.
She knew that she would have to meet him as arranged, and persuaded Roberto that she needed to do a bit more shopping before their trip to Italy. They agreed a Wednesday lunchtime flight from London Heathrow. Roberto had things to attend to and spent most of Monday in the Cardiff office, giving Connie too much time to worry. She took the opportunity to get her golf clubs into the boot of her car ready for Tuesday morning. She wouldn’t tell Roberto that she was playing golf, it was not a game he had ever had any time for and he would persuade her to cancel. She would say she had yet more shopping to do – he would understand that.
For Martin the day was a very mixed bag and he found himself the centre of some unwanted attention from the press and from the hierarchy of his own organisation. True to his threat, Superintendent Bryant had taken advice regarding their altercation in the car park. Martin had been obliged to spend the best part of an hour giving his version of events to the senior personnel officer, who was looking into the possibility of a formal hearing on the grounds of misconduct.
He could hardly believe the super had been petty enough to go ahead with his threat, but Martin wasn’t unduly worried as he knew PC Lyons had overheard their exchanges and would ensure that only the truth was told. He became somewhat more worried when the personnel officer told him that they would not be involving PC Lyons as although he had been in the car park at the time he had not heard what had been said.
The situation reminded Martin of the time when he had just returned from Swansea as a newly appointed detective sergeant, and he had been told that some evidence he had regarding an officer under investigation was not needed. Perhaps PC Lyons had been told the same thing. Strangely enough, that had also been at the time of an investigation into the crimes of a serial killer. Maybe these horrendous occurrences just brought out the worst in people.
When he returned to the team Matt asked if everything was all right and Martin shrugged his shoulders. ‘I thought it would be the media that would be jumping on my case, but when the boot comes from within its harder to cope with. Still that’s not for today – I’ll explain when we haven’t got a murderer to catch. It would be helpful if we caught up on what everyone has been doing.’
‘Everyone’s been waiting for you before doing just that,’ replied Matt. ‘I’ll kick off with what we were hoping was some positive information we got from the Prof, but it’s not taken us as far as we would have hoped. He got it confirmed that Mr Taylor was being treated at Velindre Hospital and they were able to give him a change of address. It’s a fair distance away, just the other side of Chepstow, but according to the local officers, who went to check it ou
t for us, there was no one at home.
‘They spoke to one neighbour who said that Mr and Mrs Taylor were just renting the house and she didn’t know if they were coming back as she hadn’t seen their car for a while. She hadn’t got to know the couple very well but she did know that Mr Taylor had cancer and there was nothing the doctors could do for him.’
Matt continued. ‘The woman told the officer that the couple had moved there because some man in Cardiff was making their life unbearable but that it wasn’t long after their move to Chepstow before he caught up with them and they were once again getting malicious phone calls. The neighbour had asked why they didn’t notify the police and she had been surprised by Mrs Taylor’s hostile reply. Apparently she said that she had done that once before and that her husband had been attacked as a result – but the neighbour didn’t know what she meant by that.
‘Another neighbour told the officer that Mrs Taylor had mentioned a holiday home that her sister had near the coast. She wasn’t sure if Mrs Taylor had said Barry or Porthcawl or possibly Penarth, but she had said that Arthur might benefit from some sea air and this neighbour seemed to think the couple might have gone there – wherever there is!’
Helen Cook-Watts got to her feet. ‘We have been cross-referencing every name that has come up in any part of this enquiry. There are pages and pages of names that relate to the children taught by Miss Rossiter. There are the official ones we have obtained through the Education Authority records and there are the names on the work we found in her home, probably left by some of children she taught outside school hours.
‘We now believe that the children whose work was found at her home weren’t pupils at her school, as we can find no trace of most of their names on the official records. The names that did match were ones like David Jones and John Davies, but there were lots of them on all the lists. It’s possible that she was giving private lessons to some children, probably at her home, and that’s why she still had those books.