Killing by Colours

by Wonny Lea

  ‘I couldn’t let them all get away with it,’ he said. ‘I am better than all of them. Everyone I worked with said I was the best – I even won awards.’

  Connie strained her ears to see if she could hear someone – anyone – she had never known the place be so deserted. Someone called Martin Phelps was getting the sharp end of the killer’s tongue and at first Connie didn’t know who he was talking about. Then she remembered seeing a Detective Chief Inspector Martin Phelps on the television saying he would find the killer and bring him to justice. Now would be a good time, DCI Phelps, she thought.

  Connie shifted her position and in doing so caused the killer to regain his focus on her. He was well pleased to witness her distress. He still had his arm around her neck and he forced her to her knees. The green cord that she had noticed earlier was wrapped around one of his fingers and he dangled it in Connie’s face.

  ‘Know the significance of this?’ he taunted. ‘This is you, reduced to a colour in a murder investigation. I was always fascinated by rainbows – always looking for my pot of gold, but like everything else in life they turned out to be just illusions of something perfect. I’ve changed their beautiful colours into pieces of death. There are plenty of people now who will never again look at a rainbow as a thing of beauty – just as the colours of killing.

  ‘She said my poems were stupid and he said I was useless and couldn’t even tie a reef knot. Let me show you how well I tie a reef knot – especially when securing the wrists of the person I intend to stab to death.’

  He pushed Connie forward and roughly pulled both her hands behind her back – and yes, he did secure her wrists with his best reef knot yet.

  No longer able to control herself, Connie screamed, but her mouth was clamped as the killer’s hand covered it and she smelled the leather of his golf gloves before passing out.

  This wasn’t part of the plan and he was not going to be robbed of the thrill of seeing her fight for oxygen as her blood supply diminished. He pulled her back to her feet and shook her as he watched her eyes partly open and then roll helplessly around her eye sockets before settling down. She didn’t want to open her eyes and she was half-hoping that she was already dead.

  ‘Look at me,’ he instructed. ‘Look at me.’

  Connie did as she was directed and stared into his eyes. If eyes are the mirror to the soul then she could only think that his soul had already been sold to the devil. She had never before seen anything that uncompromisingly advertised absolute evil. She shuddered and he laughed.

  ‘Getting the message, are we? Good. I didn’t want you to go without understanding why I have to do this. Let me tell you what will happen.’

  Connie didn’t want to know and closed her eyes again but he demanded she keep them open. ‘In my golf bag is a long sharp knife. I am going to thrust it into your pretty little belly and aim for the heart I know you haven’t got.

  ‘I will then sit with you quietly as you die of shock and internal bleeding, and this time I’ll be able to stab you in the back in the way I always intended to with the others.

  ‘They all stabbed me in the back, but for one reason or another I only managed to get at their necks – I messed that bit up but with you it will be different.’

  Connie was completely helpless and the killer seemed to be strengthening his grip around her neck, making her think he had changed his mind about the method of killing and was about to strangle her.

  He pushed her forward in the direction of his golf bag and he opened the front pocket and she saw something that glinted in the sunlight. Already tortured beyond belief she had now closed her eyes tightly and was waiting to be killed – so why was nothing happening?

  Chapter Seventeen

  John remembers

  Having given orders to everyone regarding the way in which the operation was to be handled Martin drove with Sgt Evans in one of the squad cars to the Greenway Valley Golf Club. Armed officers were on their way, but Martin had made it clear that he wanted no action without his say-so. This operation would end with the capture of the killer either dead or alive and hopefully before he had killed his latest victim – a woman whom they now knew to be Connie Jackson.

  The club told them that Connie had booked in a guest that met the description they had been given, and that the pair had teed off at 10.10. Martin asked how many other golfers were actually on the course at the moment. They said that they had been expecting a party for the 10.20 slot, but no one had turned up and they were unable to offer any rational explanation for that. The receptionist told Martin that when she had rung Mr Gerald Ashton to find out why he and his party had not turned up, he had given her some incredible story about being contacted by the club regarding the course being out of action because of an infestation of moles. She went on to say that members were always coming up with excuses not to pay the late cancellation fees but this one was the best yet. Two other pairs had signed in within the past ten minutes so they were probably no further than the second hole.

  Martin had no doubt that the Ashton group had received that phone call, but not from the club – it was the killer’s way of gaining an extra twenty minutes’ time alone with Connie Jackson. This was not his usual way of going about his business. He was not hiding his identity, and both the receptionist and the cleaner could describe him. More than that – they actually knew the man who had accompanied Connie Jackson to the first tee.

  Sgt Evans took less than twenty minutes to reach the short lane leading to the entrance of the golf course but it had given him and Martin time to discuss the killer – time to discuss someone they both knew – time to discuss ex-Detective Chief Inspector Norman Austin.

  Martin had opened the conversation. ‘I personally detested working with the man, but I valued his skills as a detective – he always seemed to be able to find clues where others had failed.’

  Sgt Evans stopped him and spoke much more sharply than usual. ‘You were young and inexperienced when you joined us from Swansea, and yes, you were already a sergeant but CID was a new area for you. From the beginning I knew you were going to be good and from the beginning Austin resented your logical questioning approach. You said he was able to find clues – well I would say he was able to plant clues. He would do anything to get results, and although I couldn’t prove it I took the risk of reporting something I thought he had done.

  ‘You’ll remember the prostitutes that were being murdered in the city centre – four in all and over a long period. The first one would have been killed about six months after you came to Cardiff and the other three during the next year. There was no real pattern, but they were all working on the streets around the Central bus station and all had their throats cut.’

  Martin nodded. It was one of the things he would never forget and even now if he thought about it he could see the pathetic bodies of those women. During the course of that investigation he had spoken to many of the city’s prostitutes, and had received a stark lesson in how not to prejudge the various groups of society. Some of those women had been amongst the most generous and caring people he had ever met.

  John Evans continued. ‘Austin was under a lot of pressure to bring in the killer and make the streets safe, and after the fourth woman was butchered he had us all running around like headless chickens.’

  ‘I remember it well, John,’ said Martin. ‘I particularly remember being very surprised when my two weeks,’ leave wasn’t cancelled.’

  John responded. ‘It wasn’t cancelled because Austin wanted you out of the way. He could manipulate the other officers in his team but you always asked the difficult questions and had to see things for yourself. I don’t think you realise, Martin, how much of a threat you were to that bastard’s empire. He had all sorts of people in his pocket. He had the makings of a really great detective but he was and obviously still is rotten to the core.’

  Martin agreed and added. ‘But he did solve that case, and the killer was convicted of the four murders – it was all don
e and dusted before I came back from leave. Vincent Bowen, who had mental health problems, was seen in the vicinity of the crime scene at the time of the third murder, and a bloodstained knife with his fingerprints on it was recovered from his room. He lived in one of those “care in the community” accommodation units.’

  ‘I’m very well aware of that,’ said John. ‘I was younger then, but I still had lots of experience as a sergeant and I was one of the officers involved with the initial search of Vincent’s room. There was no knife found.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Martin.

  ‘Exactly that – not only was there no knife but one of the other residents told me that Vincent had been with him on the night of the fourth murder. He said they had bought a couple of cans from the shop and watched telly.’

  Sergeant Evans took a deep breath. ‘When Vincent was arrested I asked where the knife had been found and was told it was hidden under the sink. I challenged that because I had looked in that area but was made to look an idiot for missing such an important piece of evidence.’ He momentarily took his eyes off the road and glanced sideways at Martin. ‘That knife was never there!’

  ‘Why didn’t you take your concerns to a higher level?’ asked Martin quietly.

  ‘Oh, I did,’ was the reply. ‘You will remember that Superintendent Bryant was appointed the very week the arrest was made, and for him it was a heaven-sent opportunity to gain himself some early positive publicity. He listened to me, but Austin persuaded him that the knife had been well hidden and that I, not being a detective, had overlooked it – but I can assure you, it was never there.’

  ‘What about Vincent’s alibi?’ asked Martin. ‘I went to the trial and I don’t remember hearing anything about someone being able to vouch for his whereabouts at the time of one of the murders.’

  Sergeant Evans replied. ‘He was considered to be an unreliable witness because he was on high doses of medication, but he was perfectly lucid when I spoke to him.’

  ‘What are you saying?’ prompted Martin. ‘Is it that Austin planted a knife stained with the victim’s blood and with Vincent Bowen’s fingerprints on it – and silenced a potential alibi? What about the SOC team, where were they?’

  John grimaced. ‘You’re getting today’s excellent team headed by Alex Griffiths confused with a very different setup back there. They were all drinking buddies – you must remember – there was a group of them including a number of CID officers. There wasn’t one of us uniformed officers that had any respect for CID at that time, and there were a few of my own colleagues who were more than a little intimidated by Austin. We lost several potentially good officers, and I remember you asking questions at the time that didn’t go down well with your boss.’

  Martin also remembered. It had not been the start to his CID career that he had envisaged, but he still couldn’t deny the investigative brain of the then-DCI Austin.

  ‘Do you know what happened to him?’ asked Sergeant Evans.

  ‘Yes,’ said Martin. ‘He went up north to establish a criminal investigation unit but he was never on my Christmas card list so I didn’t keep in touch.’

  ‘Wrong,’ replied the sergeant. ‘He was arrested for the harassment and assault of his ex-girlfriend’s husband. Apparently, when the arrest was made he went ballistic and three officers were injured. By some means or other the powers that be kept the incident out of the public eye and dealt with the whole thing via the force’s internal disciplinary processes. Anyway, his career was finished and I guess he’s now taken his revenge on Mr Taylor. The yellow poem tells that story.’

  ‘I can’t get my head around it,’ said Martin. ‘True, I hated the man as a person – his attitude towards women would not be tolerated now, and even then he was lucky to get away with it. There were times when I should have challenged the way he treated suspects, and even colleagues, but you tend to get carried along with simply getting the job done.’

  Sergeant Evans interrupted. ‘The man wasn’t stupid and he knew who was corruptible. He wouldn’t have tried to get you on side, you were far from his idea of a perfect junior. He hid most of his activities from you, and if you think back you will start to remember things that have been worrying me for years.

  ‘You asked far more questions than was good for you and from day one you were a real pain in his arse. He probably blames you for the fact that he isn’t the commissioner now. He always had someone to blame. Nothing he ever did was wrong and if anyone ever crossed him he would make their life a living hell. Talk about harbouring grudges – he positively nurtured them.’

  Martin had never heard the good-natured sergeant talk so bitterly about anyone and he thought back on what he had said. ‘Whatever the outcome of this current situation, I can assure you that I will make it my business to get the case of Vincent Bowen re-opened. If Superintendent Bryant doesn’t like it he can lump it. I hate to think that Vincent has spent years being punished for something he didn’t do.’

  ‘On the other hand, the killings did stop after his arrest so possibly they did get the right man even if the method was flawed.’ Sgt Evans pointed out.

  ‘The method wasn’t “flawed”,’ said Martin. ‘From your description of things it was in itself criminal. The other thing is that the following year several similar crimes were committed in Bristol, so perhaps the real killer crossed the Severn Bridge.’

  They were seeing a number of other police vehicles heading in the same direction as them, but as instructed all were keeping a low key – no sirens or flashing blue lights, just a general sense of urgency.

  ‘It’s no wonder we both had a feeling of knowing this killer from the outset, but of course we were looking at criminal links, not at one of our own. Although he is no longer a police officer it will be that element of his life that will interest the press.’ Martin frowned. ‘They will jump off the back of one incompetent officer, namely me, and onto the all-too-familiar issue of bad apples within the force.’

  ‘What sort of upbringing do you think he had?’ asked Sergeant Evans. ‘If he murdered his teacher and then his scoutmaster one has to assume that they did something really bad.’

  Martin replied. ‘We may never know exactly what they did, but at least as far as Mr Davies is concerned there are very powerful rumours regarding his abuse of some of the boys in his care. If Austin was abused by him then I have a certain sympathy – I think I would want to murder someone if I was put in that position.’

  ‘Yes, but wanting to murder someone and actually doing it are two different things. He could have used the legal system when he was a DCI, and knowing his methods of working I am sure he would have persuaded others to testify.’ Sgt Evans thought for a moment, then shook his head and added. ‘But that wouldn’t have suited him. If he had admitted to being abused he would have presented himself as a victim, and although it looks as if he felt that way inside it would not fit the image of a macho man that he proclaimed himself to be.’

  When they were less than five minutes away from the club Martin asked Sgt Evans how he thought Austin would react to being trapped.

  Evans responded immediately. ‘It’s something I have been thinking about while we’ve been talking, and my guess is he will not want to be caught because that will be the biggest failure of all. I think he would rather die than go to jail – we both know how he would be received there.’

  Martin nodded. ‘Do you think he would kill himself?’

  An emphatic answer came from the sergeant. ‘No. I think he may have plans to kill himself if it looks as if he’s going to be caught, but from what I know of the man I would say he wouldn’t be able to harm himself if it came to the crunch. He would probably like us to do that for him.’

  Martin voiced something he had been turning over in his mind. ‘In one of his poems he makes reference to a gun. Do you think he would use one, John?’

  ‘If he has a gun with him and he’s cornered, he will use it, and he was one of CID’s top marksmen so he will use it e
ffectively.’

  Sgt Evans turned the squad car into the car park and parked alongside three others and a number of unmarked police vehicles. Although there were now in excess of thirty officers on the scene there was an uncanny air of silence.

  Martin spoke to the head of the Armed Response Unit. He knew Keith Patterson quite well and was pleased to see him. Keith was not one of the gung-ho brigade; he was known for his calm and patient approach to hostage situations and this was how Martin wanted this one treated.

  He briefed Keith and his team. ‘Somewhere on the course, probably around the halfway mark, we have a known killer and a woman who may already have been murdered. If he has not yet killed her and the killer sees that we are on to him, he is likely to use her as a human shield to get away himself. There is one thing I must tell you, Keith, and that is that you will know the killer when you see him.’

  Keith raised an eyebrow and Martin continued. ‘He was a DCI some years ago and may well have practised his gun skills with you – it’s Norman Austin.’

  The colour drained from Keith’s cheeks and he swore under his breath before asking the obvious question. ‘Has he got a gun?’

  ‘We have no idea,’ said Martin. ‘A knife has been his weapon of choice so far, but he did threaten to use a gun on one occasion.’

  ‘If he has a gun, I don’t relish our chances – he scored better than me lots of times in practise, he’s really good. Still, there are all of us with our guns, and at least he’ll only have one. How do you want to play this?’

  ‘We know there are three more pairs of golfers on the course, and the first thing we want to do is bring them in safely, so I’ll get some officers to do that if you can ensure they are covered. The officers are being kitted out in golfing dress so they will be less conspicuous; in fact they’re just coming out now, so we can move on the first part of the plan. The first pair of golfers is likely to be some way ahead, so they should be approached by walking from the eighteenth hole backwards over the course. I don’t think they are in any danger but if things kick off I don’t want any members of the public around.’