by Nigel Cooper
‘That’s right, detective,’ said Stanton, his lifeless eyes looking right into Ruddock’s.
Ruddock looked up at the digital camcorder mounted on the wall, the red lights still blinking away. Ruddock was happy, knowing that this confession was going without any complications; this was going to be a done deal, Stanton was going away, for life.
‘Continue, you said you’d planned to kidnap the Kramer twins for quite some time?’ said Walcott.
‘No, detective, that’s not what I said. I said I had “something” planned for quite some time, a child, children, whatever. The Kramer twins weren’t exactly planned, they were just convenient. It was easy, actually, in the grand scheme of things.’
‘How do you mean?’ said Walcott.
‘I’m parched, is there any chance I could get a cup of tea?’ said Stanton.
‘Mr Stanton, we’ve only ju—’
‘Father, please, call me Father.’
‘Father Stanton, we’ve only just started the interview, you ca—’
‘Do you know what the last thought was that crossed my mind the second before I killed the second one?’ Walcott and Ruddock didn’t say anything; they just stared at Stanton and waited for him to speak. ‘No … sorry, it’s gone,’ he said, patting his forehead with the palm of his hand and waving it away, mocking the two detectives. ‘This happens all the time when I’m dehydrated you know, my memory comes and goes and I just can’t think straight,’ he said, a wry smile. Even though his voice was calm and collected, his smile was sinister and his eyes lacked life and emotion. Even though the psychiatric doctor had declared Stanton stable enough – mentally – to be interviewed, the more the interview proceeded the eerier it became, which was exaggerated even more by the cramped environment. Something wasn’t right with this guy, there were definitely wires crossed upstairs. The lights were on, but Derek Stanton most certainly wasn’t home, or perhaps he was, perhaps he was lurking in the darkest corners of his own seriously deranged mind. Even the psychiatrist couldn’t help but wonder if he’d been ‘played’ by Stanton, he really was that difficult to get a handle on. His etiquette, his diction, the way he spoke and held himself, the psychiatrist couldn’t be sure if it was Stanton, a façade, or what. On the face of it, Stanton appeared to be perfectly normal, but there was definitely a vibe that the psychiatrist couldn’t put his finger on, but the doctor was convinced that Stanton was on the psychopathic spectrum, or a variation of it. He’d informed Walcott and Ruddock of his findings and even though he’d declared Stanton fit for the interview, he’d warned Walcott and Ruddock that he might be a tricky customer to work with.
DC Walcott decided to break the interview while somebody got the son of a bitch a cup of tea. ‘Interview terminated at 6:16 p.m.’
* * *
St Catherine & St Benedict church on Histon Road had been secured and cordoned off with the usual yellow police CRIME SCENE – DO NOT ENTER tape. It was 11:30 a.m. when Stanton had walked into Parkside nick and an hour and a half after that he, escorted by Ruddock and Walcott, had arrived at the crypt beneath the church and by 1:30 p.m. the Senior Investigating Officer, DCI Neil Bailey, a deputy SIO, a CSI manager and two Scene Of Crime Officers had arrived at the scene, along with three of four uniformed officers, one of whom stood at the main gate to prevent anybody entering while another stood guarding the only door into the church itself. And more would be arriving soon – lots more. This was a double child murder so no expense was going to be spared here – ‘everybody’ was going to be arriving at the scene.
In the crypt a lone white paper suit clad SOCO carefully panned his digital camcorder around the scene, recording everything meticulously while everybody else waited outside in the old stone narrow corridor. Then he started to slowly move through the scene. The fold-out LCD screen on the digital Sony camcorder showed a scene that resembled something out of a gruesome independent low-budget slasher movie as the SOCO recorded wide-shots, medium-shots and close-ups: the carved up bloody and partially mutilated little bodies were white as porcelain, so pale they were practically overexposing with zebra-stripes on the camcorder’s foldout LCD screen. The Scene Of Crime Officer manually lowered the exposure level slightly to compensate for the close-up shots of the Kramer twins bodies, then continued recording the horror. Blood, blood and more blood, there must have been five litres of the stuff on the bed, soaked into the seat and dripping down the legs of one of the chairs, all up the wall and all over the floor, all pooled and congealed. There can’t have been much, if any, blood left in the bodies, what kind of sick evil monster could do something like this, and over such a long period of time?
The SOCO continued to move around the scene, concentrating on the composition of each recorded frame on the foldout LCD screen. The pale body tied face down on the bed – who’d later be identified as Jamie Kramer – was stripped naked with various cuts, slashes, bruises and other horrific injuries – including broken and twisted limbs – all over his body. His wrists and ankles had been tied to the four corners of the bed with lengths of what looked like washing line rope, pulled tight in such a way that his legs were pulled wide apart, the anal trauma was obvious, brutally so, even on the camcorders little LCD screen it was plain to see. The experienced SOCO had seen some horrible and nasty stuff in his time, but nothing like this, not even close.
He slowly panned the camcorder to the left to record his twin brother, Edward, who was literally nailed to the stone wall via large iron spikes that had been driven through his wrists and ankles. Like his brother, his legs were splayed open, congealed blood soaked his inner thighs, down his legs and had pooled and congealed on the stone floor beneath his dangling pale feet. His bare back had slashes and hundreds of whip marks (probably a result of the cat ‘o nine tails that sat on the trestle table), some of the scars were old and healed over time, while others were more recent.
Once the video recording was done a second SOCO entered the dungeon of horrors to take stills photographs, documenting absolutely everything, his flash randomly illuminating the bloody scene as he clicked and moved, clicked and moved.
‘Sir, the pathologists have arrived,’ said a detective constable appearing by the crypt door in the narrow corridor.
‘Perfect timing,’ said DCI Bailey. ‘How much longer?’ he shouted to the photographer.
‘I’m almost done here,’ came his reply.
Two forensics pathologists (one for each body) and a biologist came down the stairs and along the corridor to the crypt. Both the forensics pathologists were Home Office accredited with additional forensic training and further knowledge on bodily marks and injuries and the like.
‘Dr Williams,’ said Bailey, recognising the lady pathologist, even though she wore a white paper SOC suite, hood up, and a white surgical facemask.
‘Detective,’ she replied, ‘Are they ready for us?’ she said.
Bailey turned to ask the SOC photographer if he was done, but before he could, the SOCO appeared at the door, said, ‘Ok, I’m done.’
Dr Leona Williams and her two colleagues entered the crime scene and got to work. The two pathologists, a body each, set about taking various samples and swabs – some intimate – and trace evidence as they partly processed the bodies in situ. Working with the biologist, the two pathologists continued their work for a good few hours while the CSI manager and his team of SOCOs continued to gather up, bag and tag, all the evidence.
The basement crypt was a hive of activity with numerous people all dressed in white paper SOC suits, blue overshoes, face masks and latex gloves, all working away like busy, and very organised, bees, each knowing their job as they gathered up and bagged and tagged evidence, of which there was a lot: various instruments of torture, a digital camcorder and about a year’s supply of SD cards – full. This was going to take some time.
It was just after midnight when the two bodies were finally removed from the scene and, via police escort, driven by the undertaker in a private ambulance with blacked-out
windows to St Thomas’s Hospital in London. Typically, murder victims from the Cambridgeshire area would be taken to the forensics mortuary at Peterborough City Hospital, but the Kramer twins were only five years old and any child subject to a violent death required a paediatric pathologist to be present during the PM, and they were generally situated at Guys and St Thomas’s. As it had gone midnight by the time the forensics pathologists left the crime scene the post mortems were scheduled a little later than usual – so they could get at least some sleep – for 8:30 a.m. that morning.
Chapter 13
Father Derek Stanton sat – wearing the light grey suit that his solicitor had brought in for him – on the thin blue rubber mattress in his cell, waiting to be taken to his debut court appearance.
The previous morning Superintendent Simon Lynch had authorised a custody extension for an additional 12 hours as Stanton’s initial 24-hour custody period was about to expire and although, on the face of it, there appeared to be more than enough evidence to hold him, the forensics, DNA, trace evidence, samples, swabs, and the like, would all take a little longer to come back from the lab and it would certainly take a whole lot longer for somebody to go through the countless hours of sick home video recordings that Stanton had filmed to SD cards during the twins horrific 12-month ordeal. Besides, the interview with Stanton was taking time and the detectives needed to continue questioning him the next morning. While DC Ruddock and Walcott spent that morning interviewing Stanton further, his two little victims were being sliced open yet again and undergoing even more invasive procedures, only this time post-mortem, on two mortuary slabs at St Thomas’s hospital by two Home Office forensics pathologists and a paediatric pathologist, who now had all the particulars of the boys’ numerous injuries.
Stanton looked up as he heard his cell door unlock.
‘Ok, time to go,’ said the detention officer. Stanton got to his feet without saying a word. He was escorted, in handcuffs, out to the secure police van where he, along with two other prisoners, made the short journey across town to the magistrate’s court on St Andrew’s Street. The police van pulled up around the back of the court and the three prisoners were taken down to the courts holding cells.
Eventually, Stanton was led, in handcuffs, up to the courtroom where he was instructed to stand in the dock. As Stanton was a ‘high risk’ case, a Perspex screen had been put in place and two Serco security men employed by the court sat directly behind him while the magistrates and court clerk spoke.
‘Could you please state your full name for the court,’ said the magistrate sat in the centre.
‘Father Derek Stanton,’ he said.
The magistrate looked to the court clerk for a summary of the case.
‘Father Derek Stanton is here on the charge of kidnapping and double murder,’ said the court clerk. All three magistrates looked across at Stanton, who remained blank and unreadable. There was no emotion on his face and not a hint of remorse when the words ‘double murder’ were spoken.
Then it was the prosecutor’s turn. ‘Father Derek Stanton is here for the kidnapping and murders of the five-year old Kramer twins, Edward and Jamie. The twins were abducted from Priory Park in St Neots, Cambridgeshire a year ago on Saturday 4th April 2015. During the past twelve months Father Stanton had kept the boys locked in a basement crypt beneath St Catherine & St Benedict church on Histon Road in Cambridge, the church where Father Stanton ministers. Two days ago on the Monday 4th April, Father Stanton walked into Parkside police station in Cambridge, covered in blood, and admitted to murdering the twins less than an hour earlier. The police have recovered two bodies from the crypt who have since been identified as Edward and Jamie Kramer. The police also recovered numerous tools and weapons of torture as well as a video camcorder complete with recordings.’
‘Recordings?’ said the magistrate.
‘Apparently, Father Stanton recorded the abuse and torture he subjected the twins to during the 12-months they were locked in the crypt,’ said the prosecutor. ‘The police also have an abundance of forensic evidence linking Father Stanton to the murders. I’d recommend that Father Stanton be remanded in custody until a crown court hearing date can be set.’
‘I agree,’ said the magistrate, turning to Stanton. ‘Father Stanton, these are serious crimes and they must be dealt with by the crown court so you’ll be held in custody, without bail, until the crown court hearing.’
Stanton’s defence solicitor didn’t even bother objecting or demanding bail, something told him it would be futile. Stanton had killed two young boys and was a serious risk to the public, at least the younger members of it. The whole court procedure was wrapped up within five minutes and Stanton was led back down to the court cells, where he’d be transferred to the remand wing of Peterborough prison.
The following day Stanton was transported from Peterborough prison to Cambridge crown court on East Road. Unlike the magistrate’s court, this time Stanton appeared in the large intimidating courtroom in front of a judge, the judge who would eventually be hearing the case. As with the magistrates the day before, a court clerk explained to the judge why Stanton was there and briefly outlined the charges against him. The prosecution then outlined the charges in more detail along with the evidence and then they discussed a plea and case management hearing, which would be a couple of months away to allow time for both the prosecution and defence to put all their legal stuff together.
After Stanton pleaded ‘not guilty’ – on the advice of his solicitor – a trial date was provisionally set and Stanton was transferred back to the remand wing at Peterborough prison.
* * *
3 months later
The two police Family Liaison Officers, DC Aria Dubois and DC Monica Dobson, had kept Helen and John Kramer up to speed every step of the way regarding Stanton’s upcoming trial and although DC Dubois had advised Helen not to attend the trial as there was no need for her to be there – the Kramers had given their statements to the police already – Helen had insisted. DC Dubois had met the Kramers at the court to offer moral support.
‘Hello,’ said DC Dubois, inside the crown court foyer.
‘Hello,’ said Helen and John.
‘Ok, let me explain what’s going happen,’ said Dubois. ‘First the legal discussion points will be heard. Both the prosecution and the defence will go through these points with the judge – the jury won’t be present at this stage. Then once the legal points have been discussed, the jury will come in and the trial will begin. At that point I’ll go with you to the public gallery and stay with you for support and if you have any questions or concerns during the proceedings I’ll be right by your side.’
‘Thank you,’ said John.
‘Is there anywhere I can get a cup of coffee,’ said Helen.
‘Of course, follow me.’
‘I’m just going to use the toilet, I’ll meet you back here?’ said John.
‘Ok,’ said Helen, following DC Dubois.
‘This is a general room, kind of a staff room, that court staff use, but they have a pretty decent coffee machine in here. I’m sure nobody will object to you grabbing a coffee,’ said Dubois, leading Helen along the corridor. Just as they approached the door, DC Dubois’s mobile rang. She took it out and looked at the screen. ‘Excuse me, I’ve got to take this, you go ahead,’ she said, taking the call and walking back along the corridor. Helen went into the room and noticed the coffee machine over in the far corner. There were three tables with metal chairs around them and several comfy chairs dotted around the room. A lady and a man sat at one table over to the right, going through some paperwork, talking quietly. Closer to the coffee machine over to the left a man sat at another table, viewing something on his laptop. Helen – dressed smartly, not unlike a solicitor herself – strolled across the room, nobody paid her much attention. She took one of the paper cups and put it in place and pressed the cappuccino button. While she waited, she heard her mobile ring; she reached into her handbag and took it out, onl
y to see a black screen. She realised that it wasn’t her phone at all, just somebody else with the same ringtone. The man sat with the laptop at the table nearby removed his in-ear headphones and picked his mobile up to answer it.
‘Hello … just a minute, I’ll come out and find you,’ he said. He stood up and left the room.
The final spluttering frothy noises coming from the machine told Helen that her cappuccino was ready. She removed it, popped on a plastic lid and turned to leave the room. She’d only managed four steps before she stopped in her tracks as she glanced in the direction of the man’s lone laptop on the table. She tilted her head slightly to the side and tried to focus on the image on the screen. She glanced across the room at the man and woman at the far table, but they hadn’t noticed her, they were too engrossed in their paperwork and discussion. Helen stepped over to the table and looked at the screen, and then it dawned on her what the image was – her two boys, Jamie and Edward. One was tied face down on a metal bed while the other was tied to a chair next to it, both stripped of their clothes. A grown naked man wearing a leather mask stood at the foot of the bed with one foot up on it, the other on the floor – paused in freeze-frame. Helen put her hand to her mouth, tears started to run down her face at the shock/horror of the image. Then she looked at the bottom of the screen and saw some playback controls and realised that this was not a stills photograph, it was in fact a video clip. She sat down and traced her finger over the trackpad until the mouse curser was over the ‘play’ button, then she pressed it and the still image came to life. The grown man continued to climb up onto the bed until he was straddled over the top of the boy. Helen could see the boy, Jamie, struggling, but his resistance was futile against his restraints. Tears continued to stream down Helen’s face, she could hardly breathe; just a few muted guttural noises came from within. Then she noticed the in-ear headphones lying on the table, they were plugged into the laptop. She grabbed them and plugged them into her ears and almost instantly wished she hadn’t as she heard Jamie and Edward screaming and crying as Father Stanton forced himself into the screaming boy. Helen couldn’t move, her eyes were locked to the brutal scene, while the screams and cries were sent via the headphones directly into her ears. She started to go into shock; tears fell onto the laptop keys. Her emotional response to the video was so strong she started to physically choke.