by Lisa Cutts
‘Ultraviolet photographs of Amanda Bell and Jason Holland’s bite marks indicate that they would appear to have been made by the same person. Your next question is probably what about the third victim, Daphne Headingly? It is unofficially confirmed by the CSI from examining the body in situ: we have a serial killer.’
Chapter 21
‘I don’t have to tell you that this enquiry is massive,’ said Nottingham. ‘Most of you will probably never work on anything like it again in your careers. You’re here for the long haul; no one’s leaving this operation without speaking to me. It’ll be long hours, rest days worked through. We are splitting this into three investigations, one for each of our victims, but the overall name will be Operation Guard and you will talk to each other, attend all briefings unless you have a very good excuse, and report back anything of interest immediately.
‘Let’s start again with Amanda Bell.’ Nottingham took his jacket off and hung it on the back of his chair. ‘She’d been missing for a few days and her body had been open to the elements for some time. This significantly reduces the possibility of obtaining forensic evidence from her clothing. There are no signs of sexual assault. Who was looking into her last movements?’
‘That was me, sir.’ Everyone in the room shifted slightly to hear the detective who had just spoken up. He looked young: if he worked on a supermarket till and I was buying wine, I would have avoided his queue in case he needed adult supervision to serve me.
‘Go on, Danny. What have you got?’ said Nottingham.
‘I looked at her bank details and found that she paid £1,600 in cash into her account in the town, in the morning. This was last Monday, four days before her body was found. We have the CCTV from the bank, as yet unviewed; a statement from the cashier who served her and remembered her; CCTV of her leaving the nearby car park in her Fiesta; and then nothing at all once she leaves town. The straightforward route for her to take doesn’t go past any cameras. There is a speed camera but it wasn’t working. Then there’s nothing at all. No one saw her, spoke to her, she didn’t telephone anyone, and her Fiesta was still on the driveway after she was identified as our first victim. The only thing outstanding is the result of the investigation into what was on her computer.’
Danny squirmed a bit in his seat and his face reddened slightly. He gave a small laugh, clutched his notes and said, ‘She had a website and, er, operated under the name “Crystal”. It’s a bit sordid.’ A few people tittered and Eric Nottingham raised an eyebrow. ‘There’s some stuff involving inserting stinging nettles and Deep Heat.’ This was met with further mirth. ‘Her price was £500 per go.’
A female Welsh voice announced, ‘Got a bloody garden full of nettles, I have. What with the pension going to pot, might come in handy, mind.’
‘Thank you, everyone,’ cut in the DCI, before the sidetracking got out of hand. He summarised, ‘Four days are unaccounted for; however, the post mortem showed that she was already dead when her body was dumped and it had been in situ for around three days. She may have been alive somewhere for a day with the murderer or, at that time, safe in her own home. We need to account for that time. It’s crucial.’ He glanced around the room, allowing it to sink in. Following a brief pause, he continued, ‘And where did that £1,600 come from? Prostitution is the likely source, but paying it into her account? Find out if this was regular.’ He aimed this last remark at Kim Cotton, who made a note of it.
‘Anything else, Danny?’ he asked.
‘Yes, boss, one other major thing.’
All eyes turned again to the now glowing Danny.
‘The search of her house found a receipt for currency exchange. She only had around a hundred quid in cash at home, but she had exchanged €2,000 into £1,718 sterling two days before she paid the money in to her own account. There’s a good chance that that was the the money she paid in. I’ve looked into the bureau de change she used, in the travel agents, but their CCTV wasn’t recording that day. Turned out that the robbery squad was there downloading footage from an armed robbery and so it wasn’t working. Got the town centre CCTV, though. I printed off this still. It shows her with an unidentified white male going towards the travel agents.’
Chapter 22
It had been a really long day and I was tired. Looking forward to a glass of wine, a bath and a ready meal accompanied by a token bag of prewashed salad, I swung my carrier bag of food as I walked up the pathway leading to my front door, the movement setting off my security light.
I’d felt happier at the end of the last briefing. Something had been kept back, but for very good reason. Bag in one hand and keys in my other hand, I unlocked the door and gave it a push. That day’s post seemed to be wedged behind it. Great, I thought – a hefty pile of bills. Another shove seemed to do the trick and the door inched open enough for me to get through the gap. I leaned across to put the light on and glanced down at the heap of mail on the floor.
I scooped up the seven or so items and headed towards the wine rack with them. Coat, bag and shoes deposited where they landed, I opened a bottle of Chilean Merlot. I didn’t choose it for any reason other than that it was at the top of the rack and it saved me from stretching any further. I turned the oven on and leafed through the correspondence in my hands. Apart from the usual daily junk and bills, my attention focused on an A4 padded envelope. Sipping my wine, I ripped the end open and shook the contents on to the table. Photographs fell on to the table top. Each of them contained an image of me.
I froze.
I resisted the urge to touch any of them. The first one I saw was of me aged seventeen, dressed as a housekeeper in my school production of Oliver. I had kept a souvenir programme somewhere upstairs. The next was of me walking from my car to one of our regular haunts to meet Laura for a drink two weeks ago. I knew it was two weeks because the coat I was wearing in the photograph was my new winter one that I’d only bought the day before. That, and also the date had been written in black ink on the bottom left-hand corner. These snaps of me seemed to show totally random moments of my life, and someone had gone to the trouble of taking them, collecting them and posting them to me. My mind ran through a mental address book of friends, enemies, past boyfriends. No break-up had been that messy, I was sure. I simply hadn’t known anyone other than family for long enough, and it wasn’t something that anyone in my life would do. Who would have had done something like this, and why would they have done it to me?
It had been a very long time since I had felt out of control and I didn’t like the feeling the photographs gave me. I refused to give in to fright, but this felt like a warning, and to ignore it would be very unwise.
There was only one thing for it: I decided to go and get advice from an untried source.
I turned off the oven, and put the pictures and the envelope into a carrier bag ready to go back outside to my car. I hesitated for only a second at the front door with one hand on the latch, then wrenched the handle and stepped outside. I glanced up and down the road looking for movement, unfamiliar shapes or anyone hanging around. Closing the door behind me without a break in the surveillance of my street, I made my way to my car, ensuring the back seat was as empty as I’d left it minutes ago.
I would usually run straight to Stan with any serious problem. His advice had never once failed me and I had relied on him increasingly over the years. Right now, though, I wasn’t going to worry him when he was going through so much. However calmly he’d acted in the past whenever I shared a problem with him, I knew that any torment I had felt had played on Stan’s mind.
Beckensale always stayed late in the office. If she was due to finish at 5pm, she’d hang around for at least an hour. If her finish time was later into the evening, it was not unusual to see her at her desk until the early hours. She never talked about her personal life except to say that she didn’t mix work with pleasure. Every Christmas she came along to the office meal, washed her food down with lemonade and left straight after the speeches. One miserable woman. One trustworthy
woman. She didn’t socialise, mix or gossip. I’d never known her to slack off, get anything wrong or go out of her way to bring about someone’s demise. She was my best hope.
As I let myself into the back yard of the police station, I held the carrier bag and its contents at my side. Whether or not I had correctly judged Sandra Beckensale was about to become clear. There was a risk that something like this could get me kicked off Operation Guard, the most exciting investigation I was ever likely to work on, but I didn’t have a choice. I wouldn’t raise the question of whether my role was compromised, and would have to hope she wouldn’t either. That was my plan. It was poor.
I picked up two pairs of white plastic gloves from the store and climbed the two flights of dimly lit stairs to her office. A light was coming through the window. Pausing to catch my breath, I listened in case anyone else was working late. Not too unlikely in a twenty-four-hour police station. It was, however, that time of night when few CID officers were still working and the patrol officers were either in custody or out at calls. The building was quiet.
Sandra Beckensale looked up as I walked past the window towards her door. I knocked. It seemed the right thing to do even though she was looking straight at me. Her deadpan expression did not alter. She raised one hand to gesture to me to come in.
‘Sorry to bother you, Sandra,’ I said. The use of her first name probably alerted her to something out of the ordinary. That and my appearance late at night. I sat down, clutching my carrier bag. Realising what I was doing, I placed it on the desk. We both looked at it and then at one another.
‘Got a problem and I could really do with your advice,’ I said. A nod was my reply. She wasn’t going to make this easy, but at least she’d not said anything negative either.
‘When I got home today from work, these were waiting for me.’ I tipped the contents of the bag out and tossed her a pair of gloves. We sat for a couple of minutes going through the photographs, holding them by their edges with our gloved hands. From time to time she glanced up at me. I couldn’t read her expression.
At last she said, ‘Any idea who could have sent them or why?’
I shook my head. I’d have liked to say her features softened, but there was no alteration in her expression before she continued, ‘I’m going to log this, send them for fingerprints and get some enquiries under way to find out where and when they were posted.’
All of this I’d expected – you weren’t a police officer for very long at all before you knew this stuff – but just having someone listen to me, take me seriously and help me, meant a lot. The relief was enormous.
She picked up the phone. ‘I’m calling the DI – I want him to be aware of this – then I want you to go and get some sleep. You look like shit.’
I stood up to go.
‘Why don’t you stay at Laura’s tonight?’ she suggested. ‘She’s just about done here.’ I hadn’t realised that Laura was still on duty. Or that Beckensale actually cared.
Staying at Laura’s would have meant telling her about the photos. It wasn’t that I was embarrassed, though I did have a shocking Eighties perm in one or two of them; I just didn’t want to involve her and put her at risk. As yet, I had no clue as to who could have done this or what motive they might have had. Who had a stalker for decades without knowing about them? I’d considered it being an elaborate prank by one of my friends, but the content of the photos was so diverse, and covered such a long period of time, that it was impossible for it to have been the responsibility of any one person I knew. My mum had burnt most of the family photographs years ago and had only kept a couple of me and my sister as kids. Even my own still intact collection did not cover the timescale. No one had immediately sprung to mind, from among past demons or new potential ones.
So I went home after seeing Sandra, locked the door, checked every window and cupboard, looked under beds, even took a torch up into the loft in case someone was waiting for me to turn out the light and go to sleep. I’d rather meet whoever it was head-on, I decided, than be woken at two in the morning with a hand over my mouth and a knife at my throat. I took one of my own kitchen knives with me on my check of the house. I wasn’t a total moron.
Satisfied I was alone, I reunited myself with my Merlot. I took the glass and knife up to the bath with me. Granted, it was difficult to wash my hair with one hand holding an eight-inch steak knife underwater against my leg, but I wasn’t taking any chances.
An uneventful bath and three units of alcohol later, I tried to get to sleep, but my mind was racing. Three murders in such a short time and so far they had nothing obvious linking them, except the killer. And now this.
Chapter 23
24th September
The next morning’s briefing began with the usual banter, last-minute phone calls and general chatter of a room of very busy, focused investigators. The temperature was cooler so the room was a bit more pleasant than before. The DCI called everyone to order and an immediate hush fell.
‘OK, morning, everyone. It’s official today. We need this in the news for witnesses to come forward so we’re launching a media appeal in relation to the murders of Amanda Bell, Jason Holland and Daphne Headingly. All three were stabbed a number of times, possibly with the same weapon. The knife that was recovered from Savage’s van yesterday has been examined by the pathologist. He’s not ruling it out as the weapon used on the first two victims. It’s been sent off to the lab for prints and DNA.
‘The cuts have been made with a straight-edged blade. Measurements of the width of the cuts are two centimetres, or three-quarters of an inch for those of you still old enough to use imperial. The deepest cuts are thirteen centimetres or five inches, indicating where the knife was plunged in up to its hilt. Some of the slashes and insertions have been made with the offender behind the victim; we’re assuming this is where the offender was when he or she bit their shoulder. The odontologist will confirm this.’
This was clearly a man under pressure. He spoke firmly and calmly, but looked even worse than I did. I didn’t know who was breathing down his neck but the deep lines across his forehead, bags under his bloodshot eyes and tie already loosened at 8am gave the impression of a worn-out man. The suit, shirt and hair were still immaculate, though – and there was not even a hint of stubble on his face. It wasn’t a problem to appear on national television and look as if you were working all the hours possible, but the public expected a certain standard of its officers, even when looking for a serial killer.
‘First off, the suspects so far,’ continued Nottingham, surveying the room. ‘Suspect One, David Connor. He’s been dealt with for football-related GBH, charged and remanded. Difficult for him to have murdered Daphne Headingly when he was at Her Majesty’s pleasure. Suspect Two, Gary Savage. He was being interviewed by two of our detectives at the time of Daphne Headingly’s murder. Never known such good alibis.’ He had the air of a very displeased DCI. ‘All the same, Savage can’t explain why he had a bloodstained knife in the back of his van, nor why his DNA was on a dead body. Savage is to remain on bail for the moment. Anyone got any good news for me?’
This was met with silence, so the briefing continued. By the time details of all three victims and any other information had been shared with all those working on the force’s biggest priority, three and a half hours had gone by. We had stopped twice for breaks, which had led to stampeding to the kitchen and toilet and missed calls being frantically returned. My head was full of facts and my notebook needed replacing.
The vital information had been pinned up on boards around the room, and at the end of the meeting I stopped to look at the photographs of Daphne Headingly more closely. My mind fought down the recent memory of my own life in pictures delivered by my postman. As I was making the effort to concentrate on Daphne’s problems, much more pressing than my own, Wingsy came up beside me.
‘Why would someone do that to an old lady?’ he said.
‘Dunno, mate, but there must be a reason. There’s alway
s a reason, even if it’s ’cos the bloke is an utter nutcase.’
‘What makes you think it’s a bloke?’ he said. ‘You heard what the boss said about keeping an open mind. May even be more than one of them.’
‘I have my doubts about that,’ I replied. ‘If there’s more than one, that means they’re keeping each other’s secrets. You know what people are like. It’s difficult enough to trust anyone with harmless gossip, let alone a secret like this.’
‘Nina, I think you’re being naïve. Think about paedophile rings kidnapping and raping kids. Always more than one of them, by definition.’
Wanting to steer the conversation in another direction, I said, ‘Let’s go and find a couple of computers in the Incident Room so we can go through our work for the next few days.’
Wingsy and I had some information about Daphne, our latest victim, as some of her family had been found and spoken to, but it only scratched the surface. Each person’s life was made up of so many factors: family; financial; educational; social. Each of those was a minefield in its own right and each of them was important, but, with no obvious suspect, one part of Daphne’s life must hold the key to why she was murdered.
We found two adjacent terminals. Wingsy was checking his email while I waded through the paperwork, one hand gripping a Yorkie bar. I stopped mid-bite as he sat up in his chair and said, ‘Fuck me,’ a little too loud. A few people nearby tittered, while a couple tutted at his language. ‘Look at this. Got some financial checks back and Daphne had £750,000 paid into her account two months ago. They’ve done some digging and she won it on the lottery. Lucky cow – or not so lucky, since she’s dead.’
At that moment, Catherine Thomas came up and caught our attention. Well, Wingsy’s more than mine. I thought about kicking him under the desk to stop his tongue from hitting the ‘enter’ key on his keyboard. ‘Alright, you two?’ she asked. She had a deep, husky voice which didn’t quite go with her petite build. ‘We haven’t met properly so I’ve come to introduce myself. I didn’t want to just hand you the work and send you off. Bloody hell, is that a Yorkie bar? Supposed to be on a diet but I could wrestle that right out of your hand. I’m Catherine, and I know that you’ve been here a while but come and let me know if you have any problems.’