I watched her carefully, as she walked across the room. She already seemed unsteady on her feet. If she wasn’t she soon would be. I was going to make sure of that. I nipped to the bar while she was away and ordered another shot, which I swiftly poured into her glass. What a cocktail she now had.
I listened, apparently intently, to more of her silly, childish ramblings, whilst she finished her, now heavily doctored, alcopop.
Then I suggested we leave.
‘Perhaps you’d like to eat something?’ I asked. ‘I know a really good restaurant down the road.’
She giggled.
‘Whatever,’ she said.
Her eyes were becoming glazed. I had to help her to stand. I needed to get her away from this public place, before her condition became noticeable and unwanted attention was drawn to us.
I wrapped one arm around her and steered her outside. She was giggling quite uncontrollably now and when the fresh air hit her she leaned more heavily against me. I adjusted the position of my hand. I could feel the shape and warmth of a firm, young breast beneath my fingers. I had her. Surely, I had her. The question was, what to do with her?
I suppose I hadn’t really thought I would get this far. I don’t know if I had even intended to get this far. I had no idea where I was going to take her. I hadn’t made a plan. I couldn’t take her to a hotel, a kid with an older man, and certainly not in that state. Clearly, I wasn’t going to take her to my home. I had vaguely considered driving my car to our assignation, but I was afraid of CCTV. In any case, I knew I would need a drink to steady my nerves. I had never done anything like this before. Well, not quite like it.
So it was really down to a kind of beginner’s luck that I found myself in this position. I hadn’t expected the silly girl to get quite this drunk this quickly. I suppose I might have done, if I’d thought about it. After all, she wasn’t likely to be a hardened drinker at fourteen, even in this day and age and I’d been pretty liberal with those vodka shots. But I’d imagined her becoming mellow and compliant, not out of her head.
I was wearing a hoody, albeit a rather trendy one, I thought. I now pulled the hood up, and kept my head down as I helped her along the street. Actually, I had to half carry her. I knew what I ought to do next. I ought to just prop her in a doorway or something and do a runner. Anything other than that was so dangerous. But my fingers had found their way inside her flimsy little top. I began to squeeze a small hard nipple. She didn’t protest. I’m not sure if she even noticed.
That other side of me, the side I so often fail to control, began to take over.
I could feel my erection rising and the gnawing, urgent desire take a hold of me.
Her head lolled against my shoulder, her eyes were rolling, the pupils were very big, but she smiled up at me. Or at least I think it was a smile. I leant towards her and kissed her on the lips, thrusting my tongue inside her mouth.
She didn’t actually respond, but neither did she protest.
Nobody took any notice. This was Bristol’s hinterland, a part of the city where it was perfectly usual to see couples walking about, entangled with each other and often one, or both of them, unsteady on their feet. I knew there was a network of shadowy alleyways and cul-de-sacs behind the bars, pubs, restaurants, and providers of sexual titivation, which lined Old Market Street and West Street.
I led her into Stone Lane.
I’d once followed a couple up this cobbled cul-de-sac late at night and watched them have full sex against a wall. A knee trembler, I think they call it. I like to watch. I have already said how much I like to watch. That had been an older man and a girl who’d been little more than a kid, not a lot older than the way I like them. Rough around the edges, though, and probably drugged up. I thought she’d almost certainly been on the game.
They hadn’t seen me. I know how to conceal myself.
I pushed Melanie against the same wall, pulled up her skirt, tore at her knickers and her puerile, already torn tights, opened my fly, lifted her, wrapping her legs around me and prepared to enter her. I had to be quick. Unfortunately, if I am not quick I am inclined to lose the ability. I still have the inclination, but I can only maintain an erection with a woman for seconds, when it comes to actually trying to do something with it. When I am just watching my erections seem to last for ever, achingly so, because I so rarely reach a climax.
It was at that moment that she sprang to life and began to fight me off. Perhaps she wasn’t so drunk after all. Her hands and arms were flailing. She went for my head. I was afraid she might catch me with her fingernails, leaving me with scratch marks on my face or neck, which would be difficult to explain away. I reached to grab her arms. Before I could do so, she started pulling at my hair. I jerked my head away and finally managed to fasten my fingers around her wrists. I smashed her arms back against the wall above her head. She began to scream. I fastened my mouth over hers, which only partially shut her up. She began kicking out with her legs, which seemed to cause her pelvis to move around against me. I found that exciting. But I had to silence her, so I punched her in the face.
She went a bit limp again. Her arms fell to her side. I was able to release her arms then and use my hands to hold her legs around me. The fight had further aroused me. My erection had grown even harder. I tried to manoeuvre myself into her and, of course, as soon as I did so, my penis began to shrink. I had hoped that this time, with a young girl and under these circumstances, I might have been able to keep going, but no. I stepped back, disentangling myself.
Then, just as I was about to zip myself up and do a runner, she started to speak. She only seemed to be able to remain upright with the help of the wall and her voice was slurred, but she knew what she was saying all right.
‘You can’t even manage it,’ she said. ‘Are you a poof?’
Her eyes had dropped to my shrunken penis. She was mocking me. I couldn’t believe it. She was only fourteen. I remember thinking, yes, fourteen going on forty, and surely she realised the danger she was in, but she didn’t even seem to be afraid. Perhaps she was past that or just too drunk and confused to respond normally. She smiled at me, a smile as mocking as her words. She raised one hand and crooked her little finger.
Then she giggled.
It was the last straw.
I threw myself at her, wrapped my fingers around her neck and squeezed.
PART TWO
TWENTY-TWO
Vogel was at his desk continuing to puzzle over the baffling turn of events, when the results of the second DNA test on Terry Cooke dropped.
They were, as Vogel had more or less expected, totally different to the first results. The foreign DNA, extracted from the hair follicles found in Melanie Cooke’s fingernails, did not match the new sample taken from her father’s at all. It did, however, match DNA taken from the crime scene of murdered Timothy Southey in London, as the Met’s forensic people had already reported.
No further match had been found with this DNA on any national data base so far, although forensics would continue to search. Meanwhile, there was no doubt at all that somewhere, somehow, there had been a catastrophic error. Terry Cooke was almost certainly innocent and an extraordinary double murderer was still at large.
Vogel knew that the first thing he must do was to inform his superior officer. He decided he would knock on Hemming’s office door unannounced. There was no easy way of doing this. Vogel was expecting a fairly unpleasant confrontation and he was not to be disappointed.
Hemmings was not a man who often swore or raised his voice. He was a thoughtful, measured policeman. He had no time for the ranting and raving looked upon as par for the course amongst many senior officers of his generation.
On this occasion, however, Hemmings hit the roof and his language was blue.
‘For fuck’s sake, Vogel.’ He roared. ‘How could this have happened? It’s a total cock-up. This force is going to look like a bunch of incompetent idiots. I have absolutely no choice but to order the immediate rel
ease of Terry Cooke and get all charges against him dismissed. Not only that, I’m going to have to reveal to the general public that there is some kind of weird monster out there somewhere.’
‘Don’t shout at me, boss,’ remarked Vogel mildly. ‘I don’t run forensics.’
‘I’d like to fucking get hold of whoever does – or fucking pretends to,’ stormed Hemmings.
After a brief pause, he continued in a more reasonable tone of voice.
‘There can’t have been a cock-up at this end, Vogel, can there?’
‘I don’t see how, boss,’ replied the DI. ‘Terry Cooke’s DNA was taken at Patchway custody suite in the usual way. Properly packaged and dispatched, I even sent Willis along to oversee it and make sure everything went smoothly.
‘Forensics must have got Terry Cooke’s sample mixed up. I can’t think of anything other explanation. I know there is supposed to be every precaution in place and it would be highly unusual, but it wouldn’t be the first time it’s happened. They’ll deny it, of course.’
‘They can deny all they fucking like, but heads are going to roll over this, Vogel, and I sure as hell do not intend one of them to be mine.’
‘No sir,’ murmured Vogel formally. ‘Will that be all, sir?’
‘For the moment. Just sort this bloody mess out as soon as, Vogel, do you hear?’
‘Yes sir,’ said Vogel, who was already halfway out of the door.
Back in his own office, he called in Willis and Saslow to give them the bad news.
‘I can’t believe it boss,’ said Willis. ‘How could a mistake like that have happened?’
‘There’ll be an inquiry of course,’ said Vogel. ‘Meanwhile, we can only start from where we are and it pretty much means starting again, but this time with even more cards stacked against us. We’ll be liaising with the Met, but they’ve got bugger all themselves, so far.’
‘Are we going back to regarding Al the paedo as our number one suspect then, boss?’ asked Saslow.
‘He could be our only suspect, certainly our only lead, however weak,’ Vogel replied morosely.
It was nearly ten at night. The DI was exhausted and bewildered. He had little of his usual energy. He was having to push himself, but he couldn’t even face the walk and the train journey home. He asked if there was a squad car free to take him to Sea Mills, something he almost never did. Vogel didn’t think tax payers should be paying to get police officers home. Particularly not police officers who were stupid enough never to have learned to drive. He believed squad cars had rather more important purposes, but on this occasion, he gave in to his total weariness of mind and body and asked for a ride home.
His mood, driven both by his personal and professional dilemmas, was blacker than ever by the time he arrived. It felt as if his entire life was in a mess. The Melanie Cooke case was in total disarray and the revelation that he had been adopted continued to torment him. Then something else happened, the very rarity of which made it all the more horrible. He had a row with Mary. A nasty silly row, which was entirely his fault.
She began to ask about his day, ready to listen and to support him like she always did. He bit her head off.
‘Can’t you see I’ve had enough,’ he snapped. ‘I’m living and breathing this damned case and now there’s been a major cock-up, which I’m likely to get the blame for. Do you think I want to bring it back here with me?’
‘Well, you usually say how much it helps you to talk things through with me,’ Mary began reasonably.
‘Well not this time. You should be able to bloody well tell.’
‘Really?’
Mary was a good woman, totally supportive of her husband and an exceptionally reasonable and understanding wife. She was not a saint.
Vogel caught the note of icy warning in her voice, but didn’t care.
‘Yes, bloody really,’ he stormed. ‘I’m dog-tired. I just want to sleep, for a week if I could.’
‘David, stop taking this out on me, do you hear?’ Mary shouted back. ‘Now. Right now. You’re going too far.’
‘Taking what out on you, for God’s sake?’ Vogel muttered.
‘You know very well what. The Melanie Cooke case may be a nightmare, but you can always cope with your work. Always. What you can’t cope with is learning that you were adopted and that you weren’t even born a Jew. And you aren’t going to cope with it until you come to terms with it.’
‘Indeed? As easy as that, is it? And what do you suggest I do about it?’
‘I never said it was easy. What you do is your business, but sweeping the whole thing under the carpet isn’t going to work. Perhaps you should at least get in touch with your sister and your birth mother. Maybe arrange to meet them. You never know. It might help.’
‘Might it? Well, if you’re so bloody wise why don’t you bloody well do it. I’m too busy for any of this. I’m in the middle of a murder inquiry which has gone totally pear-shaped.’
‘Fine. I might just do that. If that’s what you really want, I’ll call them tomorrow!’
‘You know what Mary, I don’t care what you do about my bloody birth mother and my bloody half-sister. I’m too tired to care. I just want to go to sleep and I’m sleeping right here.’
He pointed at the sofa.
Mary said nothing more. She simply headed for their bedroom in silence.
Vogel curled up on the sofa as he had threatened, wrapping himself in his coat.
It was not the first row Mary and David Vogel had had in their marriage, but it was the first ever to end with them sleeping apart.
TWENTY-THREE
The next morning, Vogel remained more than a little preoccupied with the events of the previous evening. This was most unusual for him when he was working and on such a major case, especially one so disturbing in so many ways. He had just decided that he would call Mary and try to put things right, when his desk phone rang. His mind was still largely on Mary as he answered it.
‘Vogel,’ he said absent-mindedly.
Within seconds, his whole body language changed. He sat bolt upright in his chair, clearly listening intently.
‘My God,’ he said. ‘That’s extraordinary.’
Then he added: ‘Right. Yes. It gets curiouser and curiouser, indeed.’
He spoke for a few minutes more, before replacing the phone in its holder, then he called Willis and Saslow into his office.
‘I’ve just had a call from Bob Farley at Trinity Road,’ he began. ‘He’s now leading the team over there on the Thai girl murder case. They’ve just had the DNA results back. Another direct match. Actually two direct matches – with both the DNA taken from Tim Southey and from Melanie Cooke.’
‘Jesus,’ said Willis.
‘Are they sure they’ve got it right, boss?’ asked Saslow.
All three knew that was a rhetorical question. A mistake within forensics on the scale they had witnessed was not going to happen twice, let alone three times.
‘So, boss, we are looking for just one perpetrator for all three murders,’ said Saslow.
‘It would seem so.’
‘But they’re so different. I mean, you’d come up with a totally different profile for each, wouldn’t you?’
‘Yes.’ Vogel concurred. ‘Firstly, we have someone whose target was a gay man. But, from what we know, Tim Southey’s killer is a homosexual himself, as there was plenty of evidence of sexual activity. We don’t know for sure how Southey met him, but the lad did have gay dating apps on his phone. Secondly, we have a killer who murdered a young Thai woman. One whom he had contacted through the net, allegedly with a view to a long-term relationship. The woman apparently thought she was coming here to marry him. Meanwhile, our third killer is a paedophile weirdo, who also met his victim through an online dating site. So, besides the DNA matches, the use of dating websites is the only thing we have so far that might remotely link the three killers. If it really is one man, then that’s extraordinary. It’s quite unheard of.’
‘Presumably there are no other DNA matches on record?’ queried Saslow.
‘No,’ Vogel agreed. ‘No matches and our perpetrator clearly knows there won’t be. He has not exactly been careful about avoiding giving us samples. Although, if the paedo is the same man who’s been staking out primary schools he always kept his stolen vehicles free of prints for some reason. Habit maybe. Or just good paedophile practice.’ Vogel stretched his lips into a humourless smile.
‘He’s an arrogant bastard, all the same,’ muttered Saslow.
‘Or just confident,’ offered Willis.
‘Let’s hope to God he’s overconfident, Willis,’ responded Vogel. ‘We need him to trip himself up, because right now we are going nowhere with this investigation.’
‘That’s what usually happens in the end, isn’t it, boss?’ commented Saslow.
Vogel grunted.
‘I’m afraid there’s nothing “usual” about this case, Dawn,’ he said. ‘There’s something else that’s odd, too. The bastard’s choice of names. Trinity Road just heard from Thailand again. When Manee Jainukul’s sister was interviewed a second time, she remembered this Saul’s last name. Homer. Saul Homer. And we also have Leo Ovid. Both of possible classical derivation.’
Willis and Saslow looked blank.
‘You two need to read more. Ovid, the Roman poet? And Homer, the Greek author?’ Vogel sighed. ‘Look them up. And let’s feed all this new information into what we have compiled already.’
After a brief silence, Vogel continued. ‘Willis, get the whole team checking and double-checking everything. You can brief them. You know as much as I do. I need to think all this through.’
Willis nodded his understanding.
After the two officers had departed, Vogel tried to do what he did best: study and assimilate. But he couldn’t put his personal dilemma out of his mind; the awful and completely needless row with Mary lurked on the fringe of his thoughts, blurring his focus. He shook his head and looked at the names again: Leo. Al. Saul. Surely there had to be significance in the choice of the unlikely names of Homer and Ovid, he thought, both with that classical association? But the significance evaded him. Until things were set right with Mary, Vogel knew he wouldn’t feel right in himself.
Deadly Dance Page 20