A Little Death

by A. J. Cross

  Her eyes were on the road ahead, brows drawn together. He didn’t want her unconscious. He wanted her under his control but fully alert and aware. Why? Why the insistence on her looking at his face? Controlled. Orchestrated. He wanted Amy complicit. Engaged. For what?

  The last of Hanson’s student group brought his presentation to a close, shuffled his notes and sat down amid a smattering of applause, some good-natured comments and ruffling of his spiky hair.

  Hanson looked along the semicircle. ‘Well done, all of you. Good work on case linkage. Remember that as an investigative tool, linkage requires that offending behaviour between cases demonstrates evidence of consistency.’

  Hanson knew by heart the words Michael Myers claimed he heard in the field where Elizabeth Williams was concealed. Now they had the words said to a live victim, Amy Bennett. It wasn’t much but together they suggested a very distinctive way of thinking and speaking. They had linkage.

  She looked at the keen faces of her students. ‘What’s the link all investigators hope to find between cases?’

  ‘DNA every time,’ responded one.

  ‘Does the presence of DNA inevitably lead to arrest?’

  ‘No,’ said another. ‘The DNA has to be on the system already.’

  ‘And if it isn’t?’

  An earnest-looking student spoke. ‘If you have nothing which points to the offender, you might DNA test specific populations in an area, say males between certain age limits, but it’s expensive and there’s no guarantee of a result. A guilty person could move away, avoid being tested, which means more money and delay in tracing them.’

  Hanson gave her a nod. ‘Well put. Physical markers left by offenders don’t always provide a solution. If we have a fingerprint with no match on file then we have nothing until a strong suspect is identified or an arrest is made. The same applies to other trace evidence, which is why we need psychological tools such as offence linkage. They help narrow the field of search.’

  She paused. ‘As criminologists should we feel discouraged as we search for offenders who’ve left nothing to immediately identify them?’

  It was a question she’d posed to them several times in the early weeks of the academic year when they’d arrived here to start their degrees, expectations honed by smooth-running television crime, anticipating instant Holmes-like solutions. They knew the words of the response she had provided for them during those early weeks. She saw several grins as they recited it.

  ‘No, just get used to it!’

  ‘Too right.’ She said.

  With the students gone, Hanson was fully occupied by UCU’s two cases. Corrigan had checked Elizabeth Williams’s background information and run similar checks on Amy Bennett. The result had shown zero links between the young women as individuals and zero connection between either of the women and a known, violent offender. Hanson was back to the only link they had: the words spoken by the person preparing Elizabeth Williams’ grave, according to Myers, and those spoken to Amy Bennett when she was in fear for her life. How long would it be before they could speak to her?

  She read through all of the words supplied by Myers, knowing that any defence barrister would make short work of him as an unreliable witness, but it was still there: that uncanny consistency in what he’d said he heard and the words Amy Bennett had recalled mere hours ago. It couldn’t be coincidence. There was too much similarity. It was compelling.

  Hanson felt her frustration climb. She wanted to analyse all of those words now, but there was no point. She needed to wait until Amy Bennett was well enough to talk. She was a live witness and she might remember more. If that happened Hanson would talk to Myers again and see if he could do the same. In which case she would need to obtain whatever else he might know without provoking the exaggeration or misrepresentation caused by his low self-esteem and anxiety. On the plus side his naivety made his exaggerations relatively easy to discount but they were a distraction when she needed him focused. She frowned. There was no saying when Amy Bennett might be sufficiently recovered. A sudden, sickening thought occurred. Surely she would recover? And the baby?

  She raked her fingers through her hair then rubbed her hands over her face. Maybe she’d call in to see the forensics team later? She decided against it. There was no point. Tyre print search and evaluation took time. It might point to a particular type of vehicle such as the Jeep which Amy Bennett had suggested or the powerful vehicle Myers had described, but until they had a suspect it was of little value.

  Optimism reasserted itself. No matter. They had two cases separated by a year involving similar words and similar vehicles. She pushed files into her briefcase. She’d work at home for the rest of the day and later she’d give more thought to the attack on Amy. But first, she’d call in at headquarters to check on any progress.

  Hanson stopped when she caught sight of her two UCU colleagues inside the informal interview room just off reception at headquarters. They were facing a young woman who was looking at them with an anxious facial expression. Corrigan saw Hanson and beckoned. She opened the door and walked inside.

  ‘This is our colleague, Dr Hanson,’ said Watts to the young woman. He turned to Hanson with a meaningful look. ‘This is Chloe Jacobs. She’s come here voluntarily to give us some information.’ He turned back to her. ‘Miss Jacobs, would you tell Dr Hanson what you’ve just told us?’ Jacobs gazed at Hanson as she took a seat.

  Hanson gave Jacobs an encouraging look as she quickly evaluated her appearance. Early to mid-twenties. Athletic looking.

  ‘OK. I finished my sports degree at the sports college a couple of years ago. Somebody who was there at the same time messaged me on Facebook about the police investigation into Elizabeth Williams. I didn’t know Elizabeth although I remember her. Anyway, the message I got was that the police working on the investigation had found out something about one of the lecturers.’ Watts’ lips compressed as Jacobs continued. ‘She didn’t give me a name but she said he was coming on to Elizabeth.’ She stopped, looked at Corrigan.

  ‘That’s pretty much where we’re at,’ he said to Hanson.

  Jacobs gave each of them an anxious look. ‘I don’t want to cause trouble for anybody.’

  ‘We understand that, Miss Jacobs,’ said Watts. ‘How about you tell us what you know?’

  She still looked strained. ‘During my third year at the college one of my tutors there who was always very friendly, a bit of a laugh actually, well, the first thing I noticed was that he changed my tutorial day. He asked me if I minded. I said no.’

  Hanson broke the short silence. ‘What change did he request?’

  ‘From Friday morning to late Friday afternoon.’

  ‘What time on the Friday afternoon?’

  ‘Six o’clock.’

  Jacobs caught the brief glance which passed between Hanson and her colleagues.

  ‘It didn’t bother me. If I was going out it was never before about nine so …’ She shrugged. They waited.

  ‘Anyway, this one Friday I had a tutorial with him and everything was OK. I was getting my books and stuff together and … he asked me out.’

  ‘What exactly did he say?’ asked Hanson.

  ‘He said, “How about we grab a coffee sometime? How about later?”’ Jacobs shook her head. ‘He was going on about some out-of-the-way restaurant he knew. I was embarrassed. He wasn’t one of the young lecturers. He was in his thirties at least.’ She looked across at Watts and Corrigan and bit her lip.

  ‘And he was married. I didn’t know what to say so I ignored it. Pretended I hadn’t heard. He asked me again. I said no. I picked up my stuff and went to the door. He followed me.’

  ‘Did he make any direct contact with you?’

  Jacobs frowned. ‘No, not really.’ Her hand went to her shirt and she pointed to the gold heart-shaped locket suspended by a fine chain at her neck. ‘I always wear this. My mum and dad bought it for me when I passed my A levels.’ She looked down at it.

  ‘It’s a
bit old fashioned but I like it.’ She looked up. ‘He stood really close to me at the door and said how lovely it looked around my neck.’

  Jacobs’ eyes went from Watts and Corrigan to Hanson. ‘Have I said something?’

  ‘Did he make any physical contact with you?’ pressed Hanson.

  ‘No. If he had, I would have reported him. What I just told you is all that happened. Just words.’

  ‘Did he do anything at all to stop you leaving?’

  ‘No. He stood back and I opened the door. I think he said something like, “Take care. See you, next tutorial.”’

  ‘We need his name,’ said Watts.

  Hanson saw a brief struggle play itself out across Jacobs’ face.

  ‘Dr Vickers.’

  Inside UCU Watts was looking out of the window, his back to them.

  ‘He’s a sex pest. He likes them young.’

  Hanson rhythmically tapped the table with her pen, Maisie inside her head. She straightened. ‘You’re getting him in?’ She already knew the answer.

  ‘Count on it.’

  Corrigan slow-walked his way to the window, his gaze on the floor, arms folded high at his chest. ‘We need to keep it low-key. There’s nothing to link him directly to the Williams murder or to Amy Bennett.’

  Watts frowned. ‘I agree. He’s a quiet operator, a cautious type who tests out situations before he acts. I want to know everything about him, including his shoe size and what he was driving last year.’

  Hanson walked to the board and summoned up the photographs of Elizabeth Williams and a fairly recent one of Amy Bennett her family had just released to them. She studied each of them: Elizabeth was tall and slender, dark-haired. Amy’s hair was also dark. The photograph suggested she was of average height and build. She recalled Chloe Jacobs: fair-haired, shapely without being plump. Around five foot five.

  She turned from the board. ‘So far there’s no clear indication that this offender has a type.’ She knew her next words would be a red rag to Watts but they needed to be said. ‘I agree Vickers needs interviewing again, but I agree with Corrigan. It has to be low key.’ She looked up. Watts’ facial expression was what she’d anticipated.

  ‘You’re always going on about “inappropriate behaviour”, male to female. That’s what we’ve got here with Vickers.’

  ‘Yes and he needs to be talked to. What I’m also saying is that we can do without getting tunnel vision in this investigation – or at all.’

  ‘After thirty-plus years policing, which started when you were still in your pram, I’m telling you that I’ve learned to keep a wide view, all right?’

  She nodded. ‘If you say so.’

  He looked at his watch. ‘I’ll ring him at the college first thing and tell him we need his assistance. That should get him in here. Academics like that kind of approach.’

  ‘You don’t say.’ She went across the room and sat down at a spare desktop PC and jiggled the mouse to wake up the screen. Corrigan was on his feet, car keys in hand, his eyes on her.

  ‘Busy?’

  She started typing into the Google toolbar. ‘I need a tree surgeon. There’s a branch that keeps tapping against the house and waking me.’ She looked up. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘To see Amy Bennett at the hospital,’ said Corrigan.

  She looked at Watts and back. ‘How is she? What about the baby?’

  ‘Both are OK as far as we know,’ said Corrigan. ‘Her medics say she’s insisting on talking to us. On balance they’ve decided to allow it. The facial compositor guy from upstairs is coming as well.’

  Hanson stood, reaching for her bag. ‘I want to hear whatever Amy Bennett can tell us about her attacker.’

  ‘Bear Vickers in mind when she does!’ Was Watts’ parting shot.

  Hanson opted for the rear seat of Corrigan’s Volvo. She gazed out of the window at the rushing scenery on this side of the dual carriageway. ‘Venus and Mars’ definitely applied to her and Watts.

  She tuned into the conversation between Corrigan and the technician. They were talking about the EFIT-V technology the technician had brought along in the black case she’d seen him stow in the boot of the car.

  ‘What your witness gets is groups of computer-generated faces. All she has to do is look at them and select one from each group on the basis of the image of the face she’s got inside her head. The software gradually draws together the key characteristics of that stored face to produce the final product. It’s a purposely slow process. There’s a good chance we’ll get a likeness without putting too much stress on her.’

  Corrigan glanced in his rear-view mirror, changed lanes. ‘Hope so. She’s been through a lot. She’s still going through it.’

  The technician nodded. ‘So I heard.’

  ‘You’re saying the process could take a while?’ said Corrigan. ‘Any idea as to how long?’

  He shrugged. ‘Let’s see how it goes.’

  One of Amy Bennett’s doctors came to talk to them, addressing his comments to Corrigan as the police officer.

  ‘My clinical opinion is that she’s not up to this but she’s adamant she wants to talk to you so we’ve decided on balance that it’s best she does. She’s still very fragile. I’m assuming I don’t need to tell you how to proceed with her in light of that?’

  ‘No. We’ll take it as it comes. There’ll be no pressure.’ Corrigan turned to Hanson. ‘This is Dr Hanson. She’s a forensic psychologist. She has expertise and a lot of experience in talking to traumatised witnesses.’ He gestured towards the technician holding the black case. ‘This is Ricky Ahmed who’ll assist Miss Bennett to construct the face-fit.’

  Corrigan waited as the doctor acknowledged each of them. ‘Amy Bennett is your patient. Do you have any advice, any preference as to how we approach her?’

  The doctor nodded. ‘Yes. I suggest Dr Hanson goes in first to prepare the ground and the technician last.’

  ‘We’ll do that, sir.’

  Amy Bennett was watchful as Hanson came inside the room. Hanson thought how small she looked, propped up in the large bed, her arm still connected to the drip delivering its slow, steady infusion into her arm. She looked drained of life. Hanson’s attention moved to the Perspex cot nearby. It was empty. Amy gave a weak smile, her voice soft.

  ‘They’re giving Pickle some tests. That’s what we called him while he was a bump.’ She paused and Hanson saw the rapid rise and fall of her chest. ‘Are you with the police?’

  Hanson took a chair to the bedside. ‘Yes. My name’s Kate and I’m a psychologist. I’m not expecting you to talk to me right now. It might help if you stay as quiet as you can. We’ve agreed with your doctor to take this slowly. Lieutenant Joe Corrigan is waiting outside. He’s a police officer, one of my colleagues investigating what happened to you. He has some questions for you. Ricky Ahmed is also here. He’s a facial construction technician and he’s going to help you create a likeness of the man.’ She left it there.

  Faint colour appeared on Amy’s face. ‘I want to talk. I have to tell you all about him. Show you what he looks like.’

  Hanson nodded. ‘That’s good, Amy, but if you get tired and need a break, that’s also fine. We don’t even have to finish today. We can come back if you need us to.’

  Amy’s eyes were on Hanson’s face. ‘When can we start?’

  Touching the woman’s cool arm, Hanson stood. ‘In a couple of minutes.’

  ‘How’s it looking?’ asked Corrigan as Hanson emerged from the room.

  ‘She’s very keen but I’m not sure how aware she is that it could be difficult. We need to take our lead from her.’

  They followed Hanson into the room and she hung back with Ricky as Corrigan introduced himself, thinking that his deep, soothing voice was ideal for reassuring anyone who was anxious or fearful. The technician gave Amy a brief nod and went and sat unobtrusively in a corner, taking the laptop from its case and powering it up.

  Hanson watched Corrigan place his hand on the
chair near to Amy. ‘Is it OK if I sit here to ask you some questions or would you prefer me to be over there?’ Hanson caught Amy’s ‘nice man’ glance at her.

  ‘Here’s fine.’

  ‘OK, Amy. We’ll take this at your pace. Are you ready?’

  She nodded, her eyes wide.

  ‘You arrived at the garden centre. Tell us about that.’ Hanson saw her hesitate.

  ‘… OK. I thought it was deserted when I pulled in but suddenly, he was just there.’ She stopped, her brows coming together.

  ‘No. That’s not right. I didn’t see him straight away. I saw a vehicle, a Jeep, I think parked some distance away to one side. Almost within the trees. I think it was his but I’m not sure.’

  ‘A Jeep,’ repeated Corrigan.

  ‘That’s what I thought it was.’ Her hand went to her forehead. ‘It was big, square-looking. I don’t remember the colour but it had those rails on either side of its roof so you can tie things to them. I described it to Eddie my boyfriend. He said it sounded more like a Shogun.’ She bit her lip. ‘I don’t know much about cars.’

  ‘That’s OK, Amy. Tell us why you decided to stop there.’

  ‘My car started playing up so I had to get off the road.’

  Quick colour coming onto her face, she glanced at Hanson. ‘I needed a restroom really badly. That’s one of the things about being pregnant. I’d been to that garden centre before and I knew there was one there.’

  ‘Where were you when the car trouble started?’

  ‘Halfway along the Kidderminster Road … No, wait. I’ve just remembered. It actually started in the car park at the fair.’

  ‘What happened?’

  Amy’s face was intent. ‘I was leaving. I started the car and then the engine kept fading and dying.’ She pressed her lips together.

  Corrigan gave a brief nod. ‘What happened next?’

  ‘I was desperate to get home. Somebody asked if I needed help but I pushed on the accelerator and suddenly it was OK.’