“Terrible death, terrible!” someone murmured.
“Considering that the cross, the same as the ones we have, was found with her it’s another murder, surely?” Stuart Park was swift to ask.
Cyril continued. “The girl was found in a shallow grave in a foetal position. The cross was placed within the compost stack just above her, attached to which was the usual bag of scarlet, dyed hair. According to Forensics it contained two DNA samples, one was that of the dead girl but the other has yet to be traced. The cross was marked with a number 7.”
Officers sifted through their files for the relevant photographs.
“Why, who and when, Stuart? It seems to me that the substance that killed her, according to the report, was amyl nitrate. She was huffing. From the post mortem results, it’s clear she’s been an abuser for some time but on this occasion the particular inhalant was either modified or stronger than the norm. Whether she was forced to inhale it we don’t know. It’s the why. Why has someone linked this body with Tracy Phillips's card?”
“Sir!” An officer near the back interrupted.
Cyril pointed.
“Reading through this case it doesn’t really make any sense. We’ve discovered crosses, human hair that’s been tracked to different individuals, most of whom are missing. There’s only one we know who isn’t and that’s Kumar’s wife. We now have three bodies. My question is why? Why this charade? Nobody’s gaining anything. This girl died about the same time as the vicar, that’s if my maths is correct, give or take a day.”
“Firstly, serial killers don’t work to any forms of logic…” Cyril tried to recall the officer’s name.
“Mason, sir. Callum Mason.”
“Yes, sorry, Callum. In my opinion this isn’t about revenge, it’s not some wanton act, it’s about correction. Correcting their weakness, putting them out of their misery. It’s stated that Gideon went to that churchyard, to the pyramid grave, not to hear God speak but to receive correction. Now whether that was to receive personal correction or orders from a voice in his head to do some correcting… we don’t know, but what I do know is that it’s now our job to stop this foolishness as quickly as possible. And yes, both died about the same time.”
Cyril knew what the officer was thinking and quickly came back. “Are you thinking one might have been involved in the other’s death?”
Callum nodded. “I hadn’t ruled it out.”
“We’ll have to keep an open mind on that.”
Owen took over the briefing. “Consider the date of death shown on the card found in the bin and the two murders. You’ve noted that Pathology has serious doubts about their initial interpretation of the evidence to suggest that Fella committed suicide, that Tracy Phillips’s life may well be in danger. Our job is to find her before that date.”
A number of hands sprang up and Cyril paused, pointing to one officer.
“How do we know it’s not a hoax, someone messing about? If you think of all the resources channelled into an investigation like this, it leaves us exposed elsewhere, sir.”
Cyril looked at Owen and then back at the officer. “I’m very much aware of the cost implication, Harris, and to answer your question, we don’t, but what we do know is that we have three bodies connected in some way to that graveyard. Those are clearly not coincidences, they are facts. We started with two people missing: Gideon Fletcher and Tracy Phillips. We now have three dead and a third connection to the missing woman, the first connection being the hair DNA, the second the discovery of the newspaper and the note, and now we have this, the card. What we can speculate is that all of this appears to be down to one man, Gideon Fletcher. Owen?”
“We’ve brought in John Barlow, the gravedigger, for questioning and we’re researching his background. He informed us that he originally found the flowers and the card not on a grave but in the church porch. We have four CCTV images and a dash cam video that is on file and you should all have seen this. They are poor quality and the tech people are still trying to enhance them, but this is reality, if you like, and we can’t perform the miracles that you see on the television dramas!”
There was a slight chuckle.
“Now, if you look at the images of the card found you can see the dates and the handwritten note. Significantly, everything else in this case, other than the note found within the newspaper handed in by the public, has some biblical reference. This note didn’t but it contained the words, ‘When shadows fall and death hides you from the world, you will walk in sunshine’.”
Smirthwaite commented. “She’s not going to die if you read that. When we think she’s dead, on that date, she’ll be in sunshine. The Costa del Sol, no doubt!”
His flippant attempt at a joke fell flat. Cyril made a note to have a word with him after the briefing; he was an experienced copper and he expected a more professional approach.
It was Shakti’s turn to get involved. “Interestingly, from the twentieth of May to the third of June is exactly thirteen days! Coincidence?”
Cyril looked up when he heard the word and a slight flutter hit his stomach.
She continued. “We have two references to shadows now, too.” She fumbled through her paperwork. “Here it is. Remember the note we received wrapped in the newspaper? It stated: ‘she just stopped walking these streets, a shadow of her former self’. And then here we have, ‘when shadows fall’… Is there a connection?”
Cyril noted her comments. “Thanks. Could there be a chance that our Gideon could be Tracy Phillips?”
He watched as a number of heads turned and a degree of chatter broke out. He let it continue for five minutes until they had all discussed Cyril’s idea. “After all, they’ve been the two missing people from the outset and they’re still missing. The floor is open for your thoughts.”
“Could she, Angie, be the person in the back of Kumar’s car, our very own Rahab?” Stuart Park chipped in. “Or could Angie Rhodes have been in the car and this is her reward for knowing too much? You did say that there was a chance she was a prostitute.”
April raised her hand just to show she wanted to speak.
“April?” Cyril’s voice quietened the room.
She stood up and went to a blank whiteboard. “This has been on my mind for a while after speaking with Reverend Fella, but your words earlier about Gideon hearing voices makes it even more relevant, I think.” She sounded nervous and looked to Owen for an encouraging nod. “I’ve had a note attached to my computer to research something that we all studied when training, some of us anyway, but for me it obviously went in one ear and out of the other and so I had to look it up.”
This self-deprecation helped others feel a little more comfortable. She wrote SOCIALISED AND INTEGRATED PSYCHOPATH.
“When I first heard about Gideon Fletcher this came into my head. I had an inkling of an idea about these evil characters but I couldn’t remember the small print. The more I read, the more I realised we were looking for a chameleon, someone who blends perfectly into his or her surroundings. I read that one per cent of the population fits the profile of a psychopath but we are looking for a much rarer beast. This individual is truly evil and manipulative.”
She looked around the room and realised that the title had suddenly produced light bulb moments in a number of her colleagues. “They’re dangerous primarily because they’re hidden. People don’t expect friends, lovers, people in authority to do them harm or to be so evil. They’re skilled at managing what people think about them. They’re very intelligent, form relationships, trusting relationships, easily and from there, their reign of abuse begins. Interestingly, sir...” She looked at Cyril. “in the list I read it suggested that dominance over individuals can lead to sexual and physical abuse, emotional and mental abuse and theft. It's my opinion that we are looking for a chameleon, a manipulator and tormentor. From what I know about Gideon, he was far from that in either of his guises. He's an utter thug and criminal, someone who stood out from the crowd. However, there’s
something there and I’d welcome your thoughts.”
It was Mada who quickly responded. “Sorry, but no, April. Gideon isn't a chameleon. The chameleon analogy is misleading. Remember the famous saying, if you want to hide something, you hide it right under their noses. Gideon could have believed that. People trusted him, saw him regularly, and he was always the same, particularly in his later guise when he was recognised by his clothing and his familiar wave.
“When I was a kid at school a teacher told a story of a sheep thief who was caught. In those days they branded him on the forehead with the letters ST. He was ridiculed and no one trusted him and so he went away and was determined to change his ways. Years went by and all he did was good deeds and although he wasn’t fully accepted because of the letters branded on his face, over time, people did begin to trust him. It was one child who asked what the letters S and T stood for. The adults were themselves unsure and thought for a while. One suddenly said, 'This man is always so kind that they must stand for saint.'“ There was silence. “People accepted the changed Gideon, his past was soon forgotten, but as April says, the voices he heard were still there just routing him along a more sinister path.”
“Good point, Mada,” Cyril said but then noticed a slight flush to April’s cheeks. “Vital information, April. Notes, everyone, and read up. Okay I now want to go off on a relevant tangent. You should’ve all read that the call to Mrs Fleet on the day Ian Fella went missing was made from his own mobile. The phone records have not thrown up anything of interest or untoward other than that fact and there’s no way we’ll know who made the call. Forensics has gone over it, but again, nothing unusual.
“Shakti. I want you to come with me to interview Mrs Rhodes. Owen and April... Barlow. He can have legal representation later. Caution him but he’s not under arrest. You know the drill.”
Graham Baker had not been particularly engrossed in his book. The sun warmed him and although he had only been there for thirty minutes, he felt a little sleepy. The early mornings were clearly catching up with him.
The figure looked down from the road. Even though there was a garden between them, Graham’s sideways, slumping body could clearly be seen. Graham felt the seat flex as someone sat next to him and he opened his eyes. He turned to see who it was. A smile crossed his face and then a frown.
“Sam? I thought…”
“The delivery girl. She’s gone. No more early mornings, Graham. No more collections. If I ever need you again, I'll call.”
“What about my packets? You can’t just stop.”
“I can and I will. Goodbye, Graham.”
Cyril quickly allocated tasks to the team and emphasised the need to get their findings uploaded as soon as possible. It would be a small discovery that would make all the difference, he emphasised.
“I’ll be ten minutes, Shakti.”
Everyone started to disperse. He turned to Mada. “How’s Mrs Kumar?”
“Surprisingly good. She’s managed to get rid of the family members that had encamped with her and life seems to be back to normal. We’ve not found any evidence to implicate his professional business colleagues with any impropriety. How far back his inappropriate behaviour goes is anyone’s guess. We’ve shown his image to known prostitutes but without anyone giving a positive ID. The Coroner won't be releasing the body as yet and Mrs Kumar is acceptant of that. I’ll keep a watching brief over the poor woman.” Mada smiled.
Cyril placed his hand on her arm. “Thanks. Good point regarding the chameleon.”
29
Mrs Rhodes’ flat was, at first glance, just as Cyril had expected. It was situated on the ground floor and at the rear, the north-facing side of a rather poorly maintained Victorian, stone-built semi. In its day it would have been a majestic building with a coach house to the rear and relatively large gardens. Considering the general state of disrepair to the structure, the garden contradicted the overall appearance as it was extremely well kept.
“Someone takes care of that area better than the house.” He pointed to the garden.
A rusting, metal fire escape, a later addition, which seemed to criss-cross the gable end, did not enhance the overall aesthetics of the architecture. It quickly became obvious that the house was made up of three floors of apartments. Cyril looked at the splash of daubed paint. The runs from each letter flowed down the wall in varying lengths and thicknesses. It clearly stated that Flats 1A, 2A, 3A were situated in the direction of the arrow pointing to the back of the property. Cyril made his way under the fire escape and into the rear yard. He found the door to the flats. Rubbish overflowed from one of the refuse bins that lined a far wall. Again they were marked with the same pink paint. If he had a pound for every time his feet stuck to carpets, he would be a wealthy man. The prospect of entering Rhodes’ flat did not fill him with enthusiasm.
“If the property ever needed an enema I think we found the place they’d administer it,” he mumbled to himself as he contemplated what was to come.
John Barlow sat in Interview Room Four alone apart from the table and three chairs. A camera gave Owen and April a clear view. These preliminary moments when suspects sat alone with their thoughts, and on occasion their guilt, were invaluable and helped convey what might never be seen or heard in the interview situation.
He sat twiddling his thumbs, the only evident sign of nervous discomfort exhibited, whilst he stared at the wall. He yawned and then checked his watch before picking up the polystyrene cup from the table. He looked in but it was as he thought, empty. He had drained it ten minutes previously. The time seemed to drag. They had left the door open to give the impression that he was there to help even though Owen had cautioned him. There was also the reassurance that it was procedure and nothing to be concerned about; he was free to walk out at any time. He checked his watch again and stood.
“He doesn’t look too concerned. He’s getting bored. We’ll take him in another brew. Come on.”
The light within the room dimmed as Owen and April came through the door and it brought a smile, more out of relief.
“Beginning to think you’d forgotten I was here. Just about to come and look for you.”
“Brought you another brew, Mr Barlow. One sugar and not a lot of milk the officer told me. Sorry to keep you. If it’s not one thing it’s another.”
Owen put the drinks on the table and removed the file that had been tucked under his arm.
“Thanks for coming in, your co-operation’s greatly appreciated.” He allowed time for Barlow to settle again before starting his questioning. “Tell us a little about your past. What we want to do today is clear you from our enquiries and then you can get back to Clipton.”
“How far back do you want me to go?”
“A brief history and then we’ll ask if we need more clarification on certain points.” He tapped the file with his index finger, smiled and sipped some tea. “I have to say that this is being recorded, again it’s procedure that ensures your rights.”
“Don’t I need a lawyer or something?”
“If you wish but as I explained you’re free to go whenever you choose. You’ve not been arrested; you’re here offering honest help in the ongoing enquiries. After all, when was the last time you had a death at your place of work?”
“Afghanistan. I saw a number of deaths, not to mention those maimed. To answer your question… Lost count of the deaths at the last place of work and in my present employment, at least fifteen.” He paused and counted on his hands as he thought of the names. “Yes, I’ve buried fifteen.”
Owen realised he had asked the wrong question and could have kicked himself.
“Look, Sergeant, let’s get this over with.”
John Barlow went through his life methodically; most of it matched what they had on file. The troubles he had experienced after leaving the forces could be attributed to his inability to settle. He described his frontline experiences and a passion for alcohol and women.
“It was Ian who handed me
the lifeline. I drifted into a hostel in Ripon, of all places. I was once in barracks near the city and I had happy memories of the place, what with the Hornblower and the traditions. I thought that returning to a place that had only happy memories for me might help get my life back on an even keel. I was desperate to regain some sort of stability. I went along to a help group run by the church and it was there that I met Ian. He wasn’t running it, but when I talked through my history, and my time in the army, it must have struck a nerve. Afterwards he came over and asked about my military life. He was a Marine, I believe. It was then that he offered me the post on a month’s trial. What I liked was that he didn’t ask for any assurances, he trusted me. If he’d said you have to do this and that I’d have told him to fuck off…” April turned and looked at him and then at Owen. “…Excuse me, sorry! That was about two years ago. I owe him a lot.”
Cyril pressed the bell labelled Flat 1A and waited. He caught a glimpse of the net curtain moving in the downstairs window; it lodged, leaving a narrow gap. Theresa Rhodes came to the door. She was more attractive than he had envisaged. The photograph they had on file must have been taken on a bad day! He was expecting an overweight female still in pyjamas looking rather the worse for wear and still holding a can.
“Mrs Rhodes?”
She smiled. “Police? I’ve been expecting a visit.”
“I’m DCI Bennett and this is DC Misra. May we come in?”
For the second time in a few minutes, Cyril was amazed. He had really expected to walk into a tip; empty bottles, left over takeaway packages, a room in total disarray, but he stood in a lounge area that was immaculate. It was clear that the furnishings were probably donated but they were ordered and clean.
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