Killing by Colours

by Wonny Lea

  ‘Come on, Martin, wake up. It’s the second time your mobile has gone off. It was only at the end of the first call that I managed to gain consciousness but then the second one came almost immediately. I’ve answered it and Matt’s on the line.’

  Lifting his head from the pillow Martin took the phone.

  ‘I won’t beat about the bush,’ said Matt. ‘We’ve had a call from the Royal Mail and they have intercepted a green envelope addressed to you as the DCI, and intended to reach the cottage tomorrow morning.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  The green light

  Martin had gone from the deepest of sleeps to being completely wide awake within nanoseconds, and even as he dressed he was recollecting the team’s discussions of yesterday regarding possible locations for the next murder. If the killer had gone down his usual route of giving clues in verse they would hopefully be able to eliminate some of the suggestions and concentrate on the most likely places for the next planned murder. The killer wouldn’t know that they had received his letter hours before he had anticipated. It was the best advantage they had achieved so far.

  It was only 3.25 a.m., and the roads were quiet as he headed away from the coast, cutting ten minutes off the journey time to Goleudy despite dropping Shelley off en route. Helen Cook-Watts’ car was already in the car park, but there was no sign yet of Matt, who had opted to personally pick up the letter from the sorting office.

  Martin greeted Helen, who knew that something had been discovered but not what it was. ‘It looks as if your rainbow theory is holding up,’ he told her. ‘The brilliant staff at the Royal Mail sorting office have discovered a letter addressed to me, and it’s in a green envelope. So while we’re waiting for Matt, let’s have a look at some of the locations we considered yesterday that relate to the colour green. Let’s get a supply of coffee sorted, because I suspect this is going to be a prolonged session.’

  It was not that long since Helen had been a uniformed officer, and she knew all about working in Goleudy by night. Within a couple of minutes she had rustled up a kettle and some mugs, together with the ingredients for making some good strong coffee. Martin voiced his appreciation and had just taken the first mouthful when Matt joined them.

  ‘Thought I could smell the coffee,’ he said, handing the green envelope to Martin. ‘I haven’t opened it, but it looks exactly the same as the previous ones, and it’s green, as Helen so cleverly anticipated.’

  ‘So we can forget about the other colours we worked on yesterday – unless the evil bastard adds this murder to his tally and we have to move on to them.’

  ‘That won’t be on the cards,’ said Martin. ‘If we let him get away with this homicide it won’t be “us” moving on.’

  Matt raised an eyebrow and Martin continued. ‘There are already issues between Superintendent Bryant and myself, and he will undoubtedly be getting flak from the top brass over the adverse publicity I’m attracting. Unless we can bring the killer in before his next murder I suspect we will all be replaced and a new team brought in.’

  As he spoke, Martin remembered the photograph that had been taken in the car park last evening and shuddered at the thought of the kiss being published with a suitably vindictive caption. He would speak to the PR people as soon as they got in to see if, for Shelley’s sake, he could prevent it being printed.

  Martin checked the outside of the envelope. It was the same typeface, with a single stamp torn off a sheet. No doubt about the source, and the green sheet of paper inside was exactly what they had anticipated. Martin read out the poem.

  That last one was a bloody mess

  but still the job was done.

  This time I’ll use a different stroke

  and get a hole in one.

  The Greens are peaceful usually

  but will not be today.

  For somewhere on her final round

  I’m going to make her pay.

  No woman makes a fool of me

  her story then to tell.

  I’ll show you how I deal with those

  who make my life a hell.

  You’re just too honest Martin Phelps

  to look the other way.

  Without your questions I would be

  a different man today.

  ‘He is talking about a golf course as the location for his next planned murder,’ said Helen. ‘We got that right, and so we can forget about the Cathedral Green, the two pubs, and the Green Devil Tattoo shop.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Matt. ‘But unfortunately, with it being a golf club, the location is still wide open. How can we possibly narrow it down so that we target the one the killer plans to use?’

  Helen came up with a suggestion. ‘None of us are golfers, but when I went scrounging around for the coffee things I was helped out by PC Davies. He’s a semi-pro, whatever that is, and he is a walking encyclopaedia when it comes to the rules of the game. Do you want me to give him a shout?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ replied Martin.

  As Helen went in search of PC Davies, Matt drew Martin’s attention to some additional work that had been done on the possibility of a green link to the actual club name. ‘You remember my initial trawl came up with no results, but a closer look gave us four possibilities.’

  ‘There’s Greenmeadow somewhere in Cwmbran, and Greenway Valley near St Nicholas. Both these clubs actually have “green” in their name, and then we have two more tenuous links. The Llantrisant and Pontyclun club is in Talbot Green, and finally there’s Bryn Meadows the other side of Caerphilly. Most people think of meadows as green areas, but I think that link is weak at best.’

  Martin nodded, asking, ‘What have we found out about the two main contenders?’

  ‘Well, we know where they are, and I’ve visited their websites, but when we were looking at them last evening it was without the urgency of this latest poem.

  ‘Some of the clubs have early bird tee off times, but even if they start at 7 a.m. there won’t be anyone around for at least the next three hours. In any case, the killer talks about a round of golf today, so he’s not going to be there until they open either.’

  Helen returned with PC Brian Davies, who had been only too pleased to hand over his phone-manning duties and do something a bit more interesting.

  ‘I understand you’re a bit of a golfing aficionado,’ said Martin. ‘As none of the rest of us can identify our irons from our woods we could do with your help.’

  PC Davies grinned. ‘Aficionado is not one of the words my wife uses, but if I can help I’ll be happy to do so. What do you want to know?’

  Martin thought for a moment and then posed his first question prefaced by an explanation. ‘We think that this serial killer, the one the press keep calling the ‘Bard’, may be planning his next murder today, for one of the local golf courses. Would he have to be a member in order to book a game?’

  PC Davies responded, shocked. ‘Oh my good God, I’ve got a round booked myself this afternoon! Do you know what club? Sorry … to answer your question, no, he wouldn’t have to be a member. Even in the clubs where it is strictly “members only”, there’s the facility for paid-up members to invite a visitor to play with them. Different clubs have different rules but that’s fairly general.

  ‘Do you know who he’s playing with? If he isn’t a member then his partner would have to be. There are clubs that are open to non-members, but they tend to be used by less experienced players. Is he experienced? What’s his handicap?’

  PC Davies was asking as many questions as he was answering, but his knowledgeable questions were making his CID colleagues think outside the box.

  ‘We know nothing about him as a golfer,’ said Matt. ‘Our only image of him is as a killer.’ He pointed out the image that was being used for identification purposes and PC Davies laughed.

  ‘Well, he wouldn’t be seen on any self-respecting golf course looking like that. Golfers do sometimes wear peaked hats, but that’s very definitely a baseball cap, and would be f
rowned upon – as would his trainers. Another thing he would have to leave behind would be that canvas bag. Most clubs treasure their greens and do not appreciate people dumping any sort of random baggage around the place. Everything a golfer needs will have a place within the specifically designed golf bag. Dress and equipment codes are strictly enforced on the better golf courses.’

  Martin remembered the Saturday of the first murder, when Superintendent Bryant had pitched up at the office in full golfing regalia, and could appreciate what PC Davies was saying.

  ‘How would we find out who’s arranged to play in any one of the clubs today?’ Martin asked.

  ‘Well, if you had the name of the killer or the person he plans to partner, you could simply ring around all the clubs and persuade them to tell you. If they were told it was part of a murder investigation I doubt there would be a problem.

  ‘However if you just ask the clubs to give you a list of everyone who has a tee-off time booked today, I doubt they would be happy to oblige. Members don’t always want other members and outside parties to know who they play golf with – it’s not always played just for the sake of the game. There’s a lot of business planned during a round of golf, and not all of it above board.’

  ‘It’s the lists we would need,’ interrupted Matt. ‘To compare them with a few other lists and hopefully come up with at least one common name.

  ‘It will be a massive exercise anyway. We don’t really know which golf course is in the killer’s mind. We have two that we think might be possibilities but we can’t take the chance of ruling out all the others. It could even be somewhere out of the area but the balance of probabilities is with it being around Cardiff.’

  Martin changed tack and asked about timing. ‘I guess there will be the possibility that other golfers will be in front and behind our killer. How does that work? How would it be possible for him to commit murder on the golf course without being seen?’

  ‘Again, there are local variations,’ said PC Davies, ‘but in general we are allowed five minutes per person. So if a couple tee off at ten o’clock, it will be ten past ten before the next party follows. If there were four people in the next group they would be given a twenty-minute gap, and so half past before anyone followed them. That normally works but if a group is slow it can hold things up. Conversely, if golfers are cracking on they can get ahead and will have to wait for those in front.’

  ‘OK,’ said Martin. ‘But what I’m really asking is, how much time would the killer have to stab his victim before being in the sights of the people coming behind?’

  ‘Well, he couldn’t really rely on any time at all, because he could never be sure that the following golfers weren’t playing quickly – but maybe five minutes.’ PC Davies looked at his watch and said there were things he should be doing before finishing his shift at 6 a.m.

  Martin mentioned that five minutes was more than enough time for the killer to complete his handiwork and then thanked the constable for his input.

  As PC Davies made his way toward the door he noticed the names of the two clubs that were the front runners. ‘Now there you have two very different clubs,’ he said. ‘I have played in both, and was actually a member of the Greenway Valley club for about a year. The Greenmeadow is a smashing club that adheres to the spirit of golfing regulations but isn’t bound up by them. Greenway Valley is a very different proposition, and in my view it’s not for the serious golfer, more for the person who likes to be able to tell others that they play golf.

  He winked. ‘A lot of the great and the good are members there, including some of the top brass from within our own organisation.’

  With that comment he walked off and left Martin using a few expletives that he would not normally have used in front of Helen. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘It would be just my luck to have this next murder on the superintendent’s favourite golf course. Is it the one he uses?’

  Matt and Helen shook their heads and confessed to not having a clue about the super and his little white balls.

  ‘What do we do next?’ asked Helen. ‘It’s still too early to be ringing around golf clubs, all calls would probably just go through to answerphones.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Martin. ‘We need a strategy, so let’s look at the list of all the clubs and find out their opening hours. Thank God the internet is a 24-hour system. We need an army of people to man the phones, and as each of them opens we need to get the names on their lists. I won’t have any nonsense about members’ rights to confidentiality – this is a murder enquiry and I will have anyone who doesn’t cooperate arrested for obstruction.’

  Extra pairs of hands and additional telephone lines were soon sorted and Incident Room One began to resemble a telephone exchange. As dawn broke, the numbers of all the golf clubs within a twenty-mile radius were being dialled and redialled way ahead of the clubs’ advertised opening times. There was always a chance that one of the cleaners would answer the phone and be able to get a message to someone who could help. Gradually snippets of information were received and names provided for the all-important comparison.

  Matt headed up that part of the operation, using the IT programme that Charlie had set up. The names of the boys that had been taught by the ‘dragon’ Miss Rossiter were on the system. There was the capability of cross-referencing them with the boys that had been scouts during Mr Davies’ period as the perverted scoutmaster, and with owners of the relevant model of BMW. There was the list Martin had provided at an earlier point of the investigation, which included anyone he could think of who could know both his rank and his home address. There could be names missing off any of the lists, and so even the names that appeared just twice were shortlisted.

  What was missing, and would have been a great help, was the list of people known to Mr Taylor, and more particularly the name of the person Mrs Taylor had dumped in favour of her husband. That line of enquiry had so far drawn a complete blank, and it looked as if Mrs Taylor had disappeared off the face of the earth.

  It crossed Martin’s mind that she too had been killed and the body not yet found, but that simply didn’t fit into the profile of the killer. It just wasn’t his style to commit a crime and not brag about it.

  No one knew how much time they had, but the sense of urgency was overwhelming. A few more lists dribbled through, and then just after 8 a.m. there was a flurry of activity as seven of the golf clubs responded in a group and hopes of a result were raised. But nothing matched and it was beginning to look as if all the golfers out this morning were women.

  The clubs had been told that if one of their members was taking out a guest but there was no known name then that would need to be checked out by the police. They were given a description of the man the police were looking for. Over and over again the officers making and receiving calls were reminding club staff that on no account were they to confront any of the golfers. If they had doubts about anyone they were given a dedicated number to ring.

  That number had already been called twice by 8.30, but the concerns of two clubs had been unfounded.

  Martin was aware that they were putting a great number of people through a lot of anxiety, and that it wouldn’t be long before someone told the media what was going on.

  How much time did they have? Was the killer already on one of the fairways? Had the fourth victim already been stabbed? By 9.30 Martin himself was in a state of high anxiety, and realised that this was partly due to the thought of not being able to prevent this murder and also due to high levels of caffeine and lack of food. As if by magic the door opened and a stainless steel trolley was pushed to the centre of the room. Iris guided the trolley with its offering of tea, orange juice, toast, preserves, croissants, cheese, and hard-boiled eggs.

  She saw Martin’s bemused look. ‘It was Sgt Evans’ idea,’ she said. ‘He suggested that as everyone up here was unlikely to have time to get to the canteen then maybe the service should come up here. It’s paid for through the slush fund so I suggest you all help yourselv
es.’

  Iris wasn’t sure if her actions would be deemed inappropriate, as she was in effect interrupting what even she could see was an intense operation. She needn’t have worried, as her food was met by a spontaneous round of applause and eager hands were soon helping themselves to the offerings.

  Martin thanked her and she made a quick exit, almost bumping into Sgt Evans as she left. Evans helped himself to a slice of toast and then took a small plate of food over to Martin.

  ‘Here,’ he said. ‘Take this. Everyone in Goleudy knows the pressure you and your team are working under, but you’ll be good for nothing if you don’t eat. My brain only works if it gets regular fuel from my stomach.’

  Martin took the food and in spite of himself enjoyed two large pieces of toast and some slices of cheese. He looked at the experienced sergeant and thought how much every organisation needed an Iris and a Sgt Evans. They were as vital to the smooth running of the service as the officers, the SOC people, the professors of pathology, and much more than the top brass.

  Sgt Evans had already heard about the fourth poem and knew about the direction the colour green was taking Martin’s team, but he was now reading all four verses for the first time. Although other readers had made a chilling mental note of the final verse, they had set it aside in favour of working on possible clues from the first three.

  The final verse was the focus of Sgt Evans’ attention and he read it over and over.

  ‘You’re just too honest, Martin Phelps,/ to look the other way./ Without your questions I would be/ a different man today.’

  Evans was back with the feeling he had known since the first time he had seen the CCTV from the Red Dragon Centre and Martin noticed the intense look of concentration on the sergeant’s face.

  ‘It’s got to be someone you’ve put away. Someone whose little empire you have tumbled. Or someone who’s fallen foul of your determination to tell the truth and to shame the devil. The trouble is that over the years there have been so many people who tick those boxes. I instinctively want to go back a few years. I don’t think this is someone that your current team will have had any dealings with – I think it will be one of your early collars. Possibly going back to the time when you cracked some spectacularly high-profile cases as a young detective sergeant – what do you think?’