by Linda Mather
All of them had known of Floss, otherwise known as Fiona Stafford, they had come across her at some time in their police career.
A gabby brawd, Stephen had thought, but didn’t deserve to die.
On arriving they had walked into a bloody scene that was just being cleared by forensics, there was furniture toppled over and smashed ornaments scattered over the floor.
Some of the forensic team were measuring the blood splatter on the wall and furniture, while others were laying down plastic sheeting to preserve any evidence, and Owen the pathologist was examining the body.
Stephen was stood watching this drama play out before his eyes when Owen opened the girls hand and took out a familiar card. He laid it flat on his gloved hand and at the same time as Stephen he had read the message:
Stephen, gives every bird a worm, but he does not throw it into the nest
“What the hell….” Stephen said as Owen met his eyes.
“I think someone’s trying to tell you something mate” Owen said
Stephen’s heart was pounding, this was getting personal now, and what the fuck was going on they’d just locked the killer up for Christ’s sake.
“Is this the same killer, do you think? He asked Owen.
“Looks like it might be Stephen, I need to get her to the lab, but as a preliminary guess I would say that this wound didn’t kill her………. this did” and he pointed to a blood drenched pillow lying next to the sofa, that Stephen hadn’t noticed.
“And I’d also go as far as to say she has been dead for at least two days, so it could be your Friday night killer” he added.
Stephen had left the scene then, his blood running cold. He had to speak with his boss tell him before someone else did. He found Derek and John and told them to get one of the uniforms to bring them back to the station once they’d finished up here and headed for his car.
‘Stephen gives every bird a worm, but he does not throw it into the nest.’
He’d heard that quote before, but couldn’t remember where and when and he was sure it didn’t say Stephen but couldn’t remember who.
What did that mean he thought?
‘I help people but don’t do it for them’ – who have I helped?
His mind was racing as he pulled into the station car park and his heart pulsing when he saw that the place was swarming with press. This time there were three times as many as the last time and TV cameras too.
He pushed his way through ignoring the barrage of questions and made his way up to Michael’s office.
His boss was pacing the floor on the phone raising his voice in temper as he gestured Stephen to sit down.
Michael ended his call and said “I’ve heard Stephen, how the fuck did this happen?”
Stephen couldn’t answer just raised his hands in despair. They had messed up, he knew that and there was no point trying to argue or justify his actions. He had made the decision to charge Ivan Springer, so he needed to take full responsibility.
“Well it needs to be sorted Stephen, that was Ivan Stringers lawyer on the phone, he wants him released, and not only that he wants your arse put on a barbeque griddle!” he shouted.
“I’ll sort it” Stephen answered politely.
“Good” Michael said voice mellowing now “and when you have done that you need to give those animals out there something to get them off our back. You need to do a press release!”
“Yes sir” Stephen replied and walked out of his office knowing that there was nothing more to be said.
**********
Stephen was sat at his desk preparing a press release, it was six o’clock and he’d promised to meet with them at six thirty. He’d wanted to get all the details off his team first, find out exactly what had happened.
His team had been thorough; as soon as they had heard about the murder they had got themselves down to the scene and followed John’s instructions.
No-one had put him in charge, this was just how John was, if Stephen wasn’t around he had always took the lead and no one ever had argued over that with him. No-one had minded.
They had, had a brief meeting at five fifteen and were all back out on the streets again, interviewing potential witnesses, finding out all they could no matter how small. The overtime bill was going to be huge this month Stephen had thought.
Everyone had been subdued at the meeting. Stephen didn’t know if this was because they had most likely locked up the wrong man, or they had read the latest calling card and were angry. This was personal now and was aimed at their boss, they didn’t like that, didn’t like it when it involved one of their own.
With the exception of Paul that is, he was energised, almost gloating, his head held high like a peacock pruning his feathers.
Stephen had ignored this; he couldn’t be bothered with arrogant cops, he couldn’t be bothered with anyone come to think of it that stealthily boasted ‘I told you so,’ he didn’t have to say the word’s, Stephen knew what he was thinking, and quite frankly at this moment in time couldn’t give a shit.
Floss had been to Jason’s, Paul had reported back that he had been sent there by John on a hunch to go through the CCTV images of Friday night. She was on CCTV getting down and personal with some bloke and had to be kicked out as it was almost being considered as obscene.
She’d then got in a taxi with this same man whose blurred photograph was now being passed around and investigated to see if they could find out who he was.
Derek and John had taken a statement from Leroy, who had gone to the house sometime around mid-day. He hadn’t got an answer and was about to leave when he tried the back door. It was open so he wandered in. He was evasive about why he had went round, but all in the room had agreed that he was, in all probability, on the scrounge for drugs.
He’d found the body, said he hadn’t touched anything only the phone when he’d called the fuzz, as he kindly referred to them as.
Vera had knocked on neighbours doors and yet again no-one had heard anything except her immediate neighbour who had said that she had been woken up by what she thought was a thud around two thirty but hadn’t took any notice and had gone back to sleep.
The taxi driver had been tracked down and he could not recall a description of either of them just said that he was ‘glad to drop them off as they were about having it off in the back of his cab’.
They had all brainstormed ideas, and the one difference in this case was that Floss had been hit over the head with a blunt instrument; they were unsure what this was and were hoping that forensics would be able to put some light on this. The place was in such a mess it was hard to tell.
They all concluded that Floss must have put up a fight, and anyone that had known her would know that she would.
No-one could make neither head nor tail of the calling card, but Vera had volunteered to do some research and see if that would enlighten them.
Now it was time to face the press.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Stephen stepped out into the cold evening breeze and faced the press all clamouring forward for information like vultures scavenging for bread.
“Is it the same killer, is it a serial killer” someone shouted.
“Does that mean you have locked the wrong man up?” said another
“Is Ivan Springer innocent?”
“What do the police have to say about their mistake?”
“Are our women safe on the streets?”
“How close are you to catching him?”
And so, on and so on.
Stephen had waited until they had all stopped. He was not going to be answering their questions individually. He had a ready prepared speech and that was all that they were getting. He held up his hand and commanded silence, and as Stephen always did, he got it.
“Today, we have been investigating a third murder in this city. All three were single women in their thirties, and all were killed in a similar way.
There is a pattern forming and we do believe th
at this is the work of one man
On Thursday 3 April we arrested and charged a man for the murder of Jane Smith and Lizzie Benton, we are now having an internal investigation to assess whether we did in fact arrest the wrong man for these crimes. If this is the case, this man will be released from Winson Green prison over the next couple of days. However we will still be expecting him to help with our enquiries.
The police are doing all we can to solve these serious and unprovoked attacks. We have several leads to follow up and we are working around the clock and will do so until this crime is solved and the perpetrator is caught.
In the meantime we advise that all women are careful, that they walk home in pairs, that they are vigilant and wary of strangers.
We would like to request that anyone that knows anything that may help the police with their enquiries, that they contact us immediately on 0800 990099, no matter how small and any call will be treated sensitively and confidentially.
You have my personal assurance that this man will be caught!
Thank you”
Stephen turned back into the police station ignoring the stream of questions that followed him.
**********
They were all sat in the meeting room waiting for Stephen to appear. It was Thursday 24 April and they’d all been working full out to try and catch this killer.
Stephen had called this meeting to look at what they had got, discuss the recently received pathology report and to plan their next move.
Stephen did not have to command silence when he walked into the room this time. They were already silent, they were tired from days of adrenalin boosted work, frustrated from the dead ends they repeatedly kept coming to, and quickly losing their motivation.
Stephen could feel this, he’d been sensing it for the last two days, and had tried his hardest to keep the momentum going, keep their morale that was slowly dropping down high.
It was getting exceedingly harder and harder as the hours passed.
“Right guys” he announced “let’s look at what we have got and lets join forces and work out a plan on how to catch this bastard.”
“But before we start, I would like to take this opportunity to thank you all for your hard work it has not gone unnoticed by me or the powers to be upstairs, and what I can tell you is that when it’s all over and we have this moron safely locked away, there’s a big fat gypsy party for you all with free drinks all night and I’ve had that from the money man himself.”
The whole team cheered, morale rising, Stephen knew this would work, that’s why he had gone to the trouble of getting it authorised with Michael, a team with a low morale decreased their chances of finding this, now what they all believed, serial killer.
“Firstly” Stephen said as soon as they had all quietened down.
“Fiona Stafford was suffocated with her own pillow as were the others; however it looks like she put up a fight first. There were traces of skin in her finger nails, which were not her own. Therefore our perpetrator may have scratches on him.
The cells have been sent off for DNA and…..”
Before he could finish everyone had groaned, he knew the problem, they were thwarted by the time that this usually took.
“and” Stephen added “the database staff have acted with urgency on this one and have scoured their data base, but they do not have a match”
Another groan.
“The positive of that is that when we get him, there will be no mistakes this time we will have his DNA” he paused.
“The pathologist believes that she was struck over the head with a hammer, we are in the middle of trying to get some clarity on if this was her own hammer, borrowed or if maybe the killer brought it with him.
Owen believes that Fiona had intercourse the night of the attack, there were slight bruises inside the vagina, however this could have been down to rough sex rather than a rape, as there was no other bruising on the body to indicate that she was pinned down, however this does not rule out rape.” He heard himself saying for the second time this month.
“No semen this time.” Again he paused.
“The toxicology report states that she had cocaine, crack and rohypnol in her system
There was no forced entry again as you know, and a calling card was left” he glanced uncomfortably at Paul as he said this. “We all know what the calling card said and I can still not decipher its meaning. Over to you” he said, handing the floor to his team.
Both Vera and Paul went to speak at the same time. Vera hung back and let Paul go first.
“The reason she was able to fight back sir, maybe because she had a high tolerance for roofies, erm rohypnol sir”
“Why would that be Paul?” Stephen asked.
“People that take crack sir often need to take something to bring them down; the most common drugs that they use are roofies which is the street name for rohypnol, heroin, and diazepam or in some cases cannabis. If Floss had been taking roofies regularly for this purpose, then her tolerance would be stronger than say a non drug user”
“Thanks Paul” Stephen said, never able to understand why drug users used drugs to lift themselves up, then drugs to bring them back down, what was the point in that he thought.
“You may have hit the nail on the head, the perpetrator may not have known that, now Vera what have you got”
“The quote sir, it should read God”
“God?” Stephen asked.
“Yes sir, ‘God gives every bird a worm, but he does not throw it into the nest’ I found it on the internet”
Everyone sniggered.
“So what’s he suggesting” Stephen said absentmindedly losing his cool in front of the team “that I’m God!” he asked.
No-one answered. No one dare.
Paul would have liked to but thought better of it.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
How come you are reading this?
Don’t you have other things to do, place’s to be, duties to carry out and problems to solve?
Isn’t every moment spoken for twice over?
No, you just want to invade my personal world again don’t you, judge me, and grow to hate me.
Let me tell you something; you do that to avoid, to avoid looking at your own world and its miseries. While you are looking at me and judging me and despising me you don’t have to look at yourself do you?
Well if you really want to know, I don’t feel so good today, things went drastically wrong,
I don’t know why it didn’t work, the drug that is, maybe because she was overweight, perhaps I should have put more in.
I will have to put more in, in future. I can’t risk that happening again, I might have been hurt.
I’m depressed now, don’t worry about me though as I have my souvenirs, I have the lipstick stains that I can smell and taste.
I hate violence and I had to use violence I had no choice, she fought me like an alley cat, scratched my face, there was a hammer laying on the table so I had to hit her with it.
This is not my style but I had no choice, I hope you can see that.
I hope you don’t see me as a monster.
I am not a monster; I just had to protect myself and my identity to enable me to continue my work.
You can see that can’t you?
I have victim empathy, I never hurt them, I have only ever suffocated my victims with a pillow.
I learned this method by chance when I was nine years old.
I wanted a pet, but my mother hated animals, she just liked treating people like animals, well me in particular.
One day when she was out I heard a sort of crying at the back door, I wasn’t sure what it was but it sounded like something in distress.
I wasn’t supposed to open the door to anyone but this day I did.
I found on the doorstep a little kitten, black and white it was. I loved it the minute I saw it and brought it in and gave it some milk.
I wanted to keep it, but she would never let me,
would probably hurt it in some way if she saw it.
I worked out a way that I could keep it without her knowing. I would keep it in my bedroom; she would never know because she never went in there.
So I did. I even named it, mittens, after its black paws.
I had something of my own, something to love and something that would help me through my miserable days.
I would sneak food up to it every day, and lay newspaper down so that it could do its business and sneak it out to the bin whenever she went out.
My life felt better then, I so loved that kitten.
Mittens had been living in my room for about three weeks when I think I must have given it something that upset its stomach, because one particular night she began crying. I tried everything to console it, but it would not stop crying.
If my mother found it we were both for the chop, so I took it into my arms and took it to bed with me. It still continued to cry.
I put the pillow over its face and after a while it stopped.
I miss mittens with all my heart.
I despised her more after this.
The abuse continued for all of my life, and the sexual abuse was periodic but got more frequent when she didn’t have a man to satisfy her.
I began to despise my penis more too, now that she was using it.
I left home just after my sixteenth birthday,
I had made that decision at a very young age. I didn’t know where I would go or what I would do, but anything would be better than staying with her.
By this time she had almost stopped going out, she went out to collect her benefits and alcohol and a meagre amount of food once a week and that was it.
She would then sit in the chair all day, she never washed, never changed her clothes and never did anything but watch television and drink.
I was doing everything for her. I had become her slave.
She was a full blown alcoholic by this time, her first drink in the morning would be Gin and she would drink through the day rather than eat.