“Come straight to me,” said Annie. “That’s another interview I’d like to do myself.”
JILL SUTHERLAND, part-time barmaid at The Fountain, was in the kitchen when Winsome called at her flat about a mile from the college. “I was just making a cup of tea,” Jill said. “I only got home about five minutes ago. Can I offer you some?”
“That’d be great,” said Winsome
Jill carried the pot and two cups, along with milk and sugar, on a tray, then sat cross-legged on the small sofa in front of the coffee table. Her living room was light and airy, with a distinct whiff of air freshener. Innocuous pop music played on the radio, occasionally interrupted by a cheery voice turned so low that Winsome thankfully couldn’t hear a word he said. She sat opposite Jill and took out her notebook.
Jill smiled. She was a pretty redhead with a button nose and a pale freckled complexion, wearing jeans and a black T-shirt. All in all, she had an air of innocence that Winsome thought probably belied her experience. “What can I do for you?” she asked.
“I don’t know, really,” Winsome began. “It’s about Saturday night in The Fountain. The girl who was killed, Hayley Daniels, had just been drinking there. We’re trying to gather as much information as we can.”
Jill’s expression changed. “Yes, that was terrible. The poor girl. I read about her in the paper. And to think I could have been working just around the corner. Or even walking through there myself.”
“You walk through The Maze alone?”
“Usually, if I’ve been working. It’s a shortcut. I park in the Castle car park, and it’s the fastest way. I never thought it was dangerous, really.”
“You should be more careful.”
Jill shrugged. “I never had any problems. There was never anyone else there.”
“Even so…Did you know Hayley?”
“I’d seen her around.”
“You’re a student at the college, too?”
“Yes. Forensic science.”
Winsome raised her eyebrows. “Forensic science? I didn’t even know they had a course in that.”
“It’s quite new. After two years you can get into analytical chemistry at the University of Leeds.”
“Is that where you met Hayley, at college?”
“Travel and Tourism’s just around the corner. We share a coffee shop. I’d seen her in town sometimes, too, shopping.”
“And in The Fountain?”
“Once or twice.”
“But you weren’t friends.”
“No, just acquaintances. I only knew her to say hello to.”
“You called in poorly on Saturday, is that right?”
“Yes.”
“What was wrong with you?”
“Just a cold.”
Winsome guessed by the way Jill averted her eyes and flushed as she spoke, that she wasn’t exactly telling the truth. As a further distraction, Jill chose that moment to lean forward and pour the tea. As she did so, she gave a small cough and put her hand to her mouth. “Milk and sugar?”
“Yes, please,” said Winsome. She accepted the mug and went back to her question. “All better now?”
“Yes, thanks.”
“Come on,” said Winsome. “You can be honest with me. I’ve seen The Fountain. You didn’t have a cold, did you? You just didn’t want to go to work.”
Jill’s eyes filled with tears. “I need the money,” she said. “My parents can’t afford to support me.”
“I don’t blame you for that, but there must be a better job.”
“I’m sure there is, and I’m looking. In the meantime, there’s The Fountain.”
“What’s Jamie Murdoch like to work for?”
“Jamie’s all right.”
“Has he ever bothered you?”
“He asked me out a couple of times, but I said no.” Jill wrinkled her nose. “He’s not really my type. I mean, he’s not exactly God’s gift, is he?”
Winsome smiled. “How did he react to that?”
“He was disappointed, naturally, but he didn’t push it. No, it’s not working for Jamie that’s the problem. It’s just…I can’t deal with all the drunks and the abuse. I mean, I know people aren’t really themselves when they’ve had a lot to drink, but the mood can get very uncomfortable. There’s rows and fights and all sorts, and it’s not as if Jamie is the bouncer type.”
“So what happens?”
“Oh, people usually calm down. I mean, no one ever got really hurt or anything. It’s just the language flying around, and the rudeness. Not that I’m a prude or anything. And then there’s the smoke. You wouldn’t believe how bad it gets sometimes. First thing I have to do when I get home is put all my clothes in the basket and have a long soak in the bath.”
“That should improve after the smoking ban in July,” said Winsome. “Is there anything else about working there that bothers you?”
Jill paused and bit on her lower lip. “I shouldn’t be telling tales out of school,” she said finally, “but in the summer, when me and Pauline drove across to France for a weekend, Jamie asked me to stop and fill the boot with cheap lager and cigarettes.”
“It’s not illegal,” said Winsome.
“I know, but I think selling them in the pub is. I know lots of people do it, and like I said, I’m not a Goody Two-shoes, but I didn’t want to do anything that might harm my future, especially if I’m going to be connected to law enforcement. That would be crazy.”
“Quite right,” said Winsome. Illegal booze and cigarettes was not exactly the kind of breakthrough she was looking for, but it was another snippet to add to the file. As far as telling Customs and Excise was concerned, though, a pub like The Fountain was so low down the pecking order when it came to smuggling that it would be hardly worth their while. “Jamie says he was there until half past two cleaning up after someone wrecked the toilets,” she said.
“I know. He told me. I can’t say I’m surprised.”
“Has it happened before?”
“Not that bad, but someone broke some glasses once. And they often stuff toilet paper down the bowl. That’s what I mean about working there. You dread going to work on a weekend, and the rest of the time it’s dead, except for lunch sometimes. I’m sorry I left Jamie in the lurch like that. I feel really bad now I know he was there all by himself when…you know…it happened.”
Winsome stood up. “He’ll survive. Thanks a lot, Jill, you’ve been a great help.”
“I have?”
Winsome smiled. “Like I said, every little bit helps.”
DETECTIVE SUPERINTENDENT Catherine Gervaise had called the progress review meeting in the boardroom of Western Area HQ for 5:00 P.M. that Wednesday afternoon, by which time some of the forensic reports had started trickling in. DS Stefan Nowak, the crime scene coordinator, was there as liaison with the lab, along with Dr. Elizabeth Wallace, Banks, Templeton, Wilson, Hatchley and Winsome, just back from talking to Jill Sutherland.
“Okay,” said Gervaise, when everyone had settled with coffee, pads and pens in front of them. “Let’s add up what we’ve got so far. First off, DS Nowak is here on behalf of forensic services. I know it’s probably too early yet, but do you have anything for us, Stefan?”
“Not a lot, I’m afraid, ma’am,” said Nowak. “And most of it’s negative. Technical support did manage to enhance the number plate of the car that passed by around the same time Hayley Daniels went into Taylor’s Yard, but it turns out it was just a couple on their way home from celebrating their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary at that posh restaurant down Market Street.”
“What about Hayley herself?” Gervaise asked. “Anything more on what happened there?”
“The rapist wore a condom, so we don’t—”
“Hang on a minute,” said Banks. “What about the semen on the victim’s thigh?”
“I was getting to that,” said Nowak. “All I can suggest is that he was in a hurry and it spilled out when he removed the condom, or it belongs to someone
else. We’re still waiting on DNA results.”
“There were two of them?” said Gervaise.
“Not necessarily two attackers,” said Nowak. “Someone could have had consensual sex with her, in accordance with the theory that she went into The Maze to meet someone.”
“Then someone else killed her?” said Templeton.
“Possibly.”
“She went into The Maze to relieve herself,” said Winsome. “And she wasn’t a slut.”
“I’m not suggesting that she was,” said Nowak, looking taken aback. “Just that the results are inconsistent. We know that someone had sex with Hayley using a condom because we found traces of a lubricant used on a common brand, but we also found traces of semen on her thigh and on two of the adjacent leather remnants. Those are the facts. It’s not up to me to speculate, but I’d ask why a killer clever enough to clean up the body to some extent would miss the semen, unless it happened at a different time, or perhaps was left by someone else. There was one slight inconsistency.”
“Yes?” said Gervaise.
“The seminal fluid wasn’t quite as dry as it should have been given the time of death.”
“As I’ve explained many times,” said Dr. Wallace with a definite hint of defensiveness in her tone, “time of death is always, at best, a rough estimate.”
“That’s what I thought,” said Nowak.
“What time, then?” asked Banks.
Nowak looked at Dr. Wallace before answering. “I don’t see any reason to argue with the original estimate, between midnight and two A.M.,” he said. “There could be other reasons for the inconsistency. I’ll work on it.”
“Very well,” said Gervaise.
“I noted in my postmortem that Hayley might have tried to fight off her attacker,” said Dr. Wallace. “Did you find any tissue in the samples we scraped from under her fingernails?”
“Alas, no,” said Nowak. “As you mentioned in your report, the nails were too short to actually scratch anyone. All we got were a few common cotton fibers.”
“Any luck identifying them?” Gervaise asked.
Nowak shook his head. “We’re still working with them, but they could come from any number of brands. Not only that,” Nowak went on, “but she could have picked them up at any time during the evening. Remember, she was with a large group of people, and the odds were that some or all of them touched or brushed against the others at some point.”
“Hair?” Banks asked.
“Only hers and Joseph Randall’s.”
“So our killer wore a balaclava, or he’s bald,” said Hatchley.
Nobody laughed.
“There’s evidence the killer cleaned her up,” said Dr. Wallace. “Washed her pubic area.”
“Except he missed that semen,” Banks said.
“It looks that way,” said Nowak. “Or that happened after he’d cleaned her up.”
“Possible,” Dr. Wallace agreed.
“Fingerprints?” asked Banks.
“None. Sorry.”
“I thought you lot could perform miracles these days,” said Banks, seeing everything slipping away.
Nowak looked at Dr. Wallace. “Sometimes it seems that way, but we’re only as good as the evidence we collect.”
“Any luck with the known offenders?” Gervaise asked.
“Nothing,” said Banks. “They’ve all been interviewed, and they all have alibis. We’re still working on it.”
Gervaise turned to Nowak again. “Have we missed something?”
“I don’t think so,” said Nowak. “The SOCOs went over that place as thoroughly as any scene they’ve ever handled. One other thing we found was traces of the girl’s urine on the ground outside the storage room, which is consistent with her friends’ statement that she went down Taylor’s Yard to relieve herself. We also found traces of vomit which we matched to her stomach contents, so it looks very much as if she was sick, too. The team also went through the neighboring buildings. Most of them are empty or used for storage of some kind. Nothing there.”
“So are we dealing with a particularly clever killer?” Templeton asked.
“Not necessarily,” said Nowak. “You’ve got to wonder how smart a killer is when he cleans up a body but misses a drop of semen. Maybe he’s just lucky. But let’s be honest: Anyone who sets out to commit a crime today has seen The Bill, probably Silent Witness and CSI, too. The general public knows way too much about forensics, no matter how much of it is fabricated. People know to be careful, and what to be careful about. In some cases, they even know how to go about it.”
“What I’m getting at, ma’am,” Templeton said to Gervaise, “is that we might be dealing with the first in a series. The more well prepared our killer went out, the more he cleaned up after himself, the more it suggests forward planning, surely?”
“It doesn’t mean that he had any victim in mind beyond Hayley Daniels,” argued Banks, “or that it wasn’t someone who knew her. If Stefan is right and there are two distinct people involved, perhaps her killer wasn’t her rapist. Has anyone traced Hayley’s biological mother, by the way?”
“She went off to South Africa with her boyfriend,” said Winsome. “Hasn’t been back.”
Banks turned to Templeton. “I think we all take your point, Kev,” he said. “Jim, did your search turn up any similar crimes anywhere in the country over the past eighteen months?”
“There are plenty of teenage girls gone missing,” said Hatchley, “but most of them have turned up, and the ones who haven’t didn’t disappear in circumstances like Hayley Daniels.”
“Thanks, Jim. Keep searching.” Banks turned back to Templeton. “What I’m saying, Kev, is that we’ll only know for sure we’re dealing with a serial killer if there’s a second and a third. It could have been a spontaneous crime, a rape gone wrong, not necessarily a serial killer in the making.”
“But we can at least put some men in The Maze on weekends, can’t we?”
“I’m not sure we can justify that expense, DS Templeton,” Gervaise said. “We just don’t have the manpower. We’re already over budget on the forensics.”
“It had to be a spontaneous attack to some extent,” added Winsome. “Nobody knew Hayley was going to go into The Maze until she left The Fountain with her friends at twelve-seventeen.”
“But they all knew?” Gervaise asked.
“Yes. She told them outside the pub. It’s on CCTV.”
“Who else knew?”
“Nobody, as far as we know.”
“Then it’s one of her friends,” said Gervaise. “Or the Lyndgarth yobs, the ones who gave the bartender in The Fountain such a hard time.”
“No, ma’am,” said Templeton. “I’ve just finished checking on them. Seems that after they were kicked out of the pub they nicked a car and went for a joyride. They crashed it outside York. Nothing serious, just cuts and bruises, but they were tied up at the hospital and with the York police most of the night.”
“Well that’s one we can cross off our list,” said Gervaise.
“There is one small point,” Winsome said. “Just now, when I spoke to Jill Sutherland, she told me that she often walks through The Maze when she’s been working at The Fountain. It’s a shortcut to the car park.”
“So you think the killer was waiting for Jill and got Hayley instead?” Gervaise said.
“No, not necessarily, ma’am,” Winsome answered. “Just that he might have known he had a good chance of finding a victim there if he knew about that.”
“What I was saying,” Templeton went on, “is that the killer was already waiting in there, inside The Maze. Winsome’s right. It’s the location that counts, not the specific victim. Maybe he’d been there on previous occasions, staking the place out, but nothing happened, and he was waiting. He knew it would happen sometime, that some unfortunate girl would walk in there alone—Jill Sutherland, for example—and he could strike. These people have infinite amounts of patience. This time he got lucky.”
“I understand what you’re saying,” said Banks, “but I’ve seen examples where someone has killed someone close to them and covered up the injuries in that way out of shame, or even covered the body with a jacket or a sheet. No killer except the habitual one knows what he’s going to feel like after he’s finished, and that sort of reaction, horror at the results of the crime, is common enough.”
“Well,” said Dr. Wallace, “I bow to your expert knowledge, of course, but I repeat: This could be only the beginning. There are indications the killer will strike again. And The Maze is a perfect location.”
“All right,” said Gervaise. “Point taken, DS Templeton and Dr. Wallace. But as I said before, at this stage we can hardly afford the manpower to saturate The Maze with police officers on Fridays and Saturdays. Besides,” she went on, “don’t you think that if you’re right, and this is a potential serial killer, then he’ll have the good sense to choose another location next time?”
“Not necessarily,” said Dr. Wallace. “I’m not a psychologist, but I do know something about criminal behavior, and people do become attached to certain places. The Maze is certainly big and complicated enough to be attractive to that sort of personality. He might find that it mirrors his inner state, for example, his inner turmoil. Lots of shadows and nooks and crannies to disappear into and appear from.”
Friend of the Devil Page 18