Both detectives were silent as they perused the bulletins and photographs. Next to the map of the area was a large sheet of paper with a description of the victim, the location, date and time of discovery of the body, along with the contact details of those dealing with CSI, forensic and suchlike.
Fingerprints identified the latest victim as Stewart Johnson, aged nineteen years. Local intelligence told them that he had recently been checked out after having been seen sleeping rough in the town. He’d had the wisdom to seek out warm air vents, Charley was told. ‘Apparently, he told our officers that he had only recently arrived in West Yorkshire from Birmingham,’ said the intelligence officer.
Annie took a gulp of her tea. The photographs of the close-up shot of the victim’s face made her feel slightly queasy and the lukewarm, milky drink did nothing to help. The dead man’s opaque eyes bulging from the sockets were dotted with red spots; his swollen tongue protruded between grimacing lips and bared teeth. Blood ran down his chin where he had partially bitten off his tongue when he’d been strangled and some teeth could be seen hanging loosely from his mouth.
‘So, no needle marks on the body,’ Charley pointed out, ‘and we have a negative result from swabs taken from the syringe.’
There was an excess of saliva in Annie’s mouth, and she swallowed hard several times. ‘You’d hoped for a trace of drugs in the syringe?’
‘It would’ve been nice to get another action to follow up. But it is what it is and we’ll just have to go ahead with what we have.’
Annie turned away from the photograph. ‘It just doesn’t make sense. The killer is messing with the scene again in an attempt to confuse us … he must be.’
Charley shrugged her shoulders. ‘Only time will tell. And who’s to say it’s a he?’ She looked at her young colleague’s blanched face. ‘You OK?’ she asked.
Annie nodded her head. ‘I bit my tongue when I was little, playing with my cousin on a seesaw … It wasn’t her fault, or mine … I had to have it sewn partly back on. It’s something you never forget.’
Charley grimaced just as her phone rang. ‘I bet,’ she said before taking the call.
‘Forensics have established a DNA profile from the used condom,’ she told the team at the debrief a little later. The collective faces looked hopeful. ‘However, there’s no match on the national database.’ Charley moved on quickly. ‘Anyone got an update for me on potential locations for purchasing the condom packet?’ The faces grew longer and more morose.
DC Ricky-Lee Lewis took the lead. ‘It appears the type of Durex condoms we found beneath the body are typically sold in most of the clubs, pubs, restaurants, supermarkets and chemists in this area, ma’am.’
‘OK. I guessed as much. Anything else?’
‘Marks lifted from the fifty-pound note from Kylie’s boot have been checked, but the only one identified at this time is hers, apparently,’ said Ricky-Lee.
The room was deathly quiet. Charley waited for the anticipated throwaway comment from Wilkie Connor and for a moment or two they eyeballed each other. Instead, he respectfully raised his hand. Charley encouraged him to speak with a nod of her head.
‘A local couple from the nearby Dirker estate in Marsden are putting a vast amount of information on social media. Their Facebook page is pretty much dedicated to the death of the young black male.’
‘Is the information in the public domain?’
‘As far as I know. However, what concerns me is that they have taken video footage at the scene and are insinuating it was a racist attack.’
Wilkie went on to brief the assembled teams about the couple, Grant and Tracy Shields, who lived in a two-bed council flat and were well known to the local PCSO as people who got themselves involved in anything and everything bad. Both overweight and extremely loud-mouthed, they were regularly seen hanging around town and were regulars at the betting office and on the fruit machines in the pubs. They craved attention, and appearing on the local news to make comment would be a highlight on their calendar.
‘Who’s quoting them, and putting them in front of the camera?’ queried Charley.
‘Who do you think?’ said Annie, walking over to hand Charley the newspaper she held in her hand. ‘Dan the man. You’re not going to like it,’ she said, pointing to the headline: ‘LATEST MURDER, A RACIST ATTACK?’ Police baffled after two killings in a week.
Being thanked for imparting the worst news that anyone could wish to hear always baffled Charley. But even though she knew the truth would hurt, it was important that people knew they could rely on her honesty and her dogged determination to find the person responsible.
Stewart’s parents had travelled north and liaised with the Coroner’s office before they had been introduced to the officer in charge of their son’s murder enquiry. Charley knew their lives would never be the same again when she took them to view the body and they confirmed his identification as their son.
Mrs Johnson confided in Charley about her son’s sexuality. ‘It was never a problem for me,’ she said, staring down at the handkerchief nestling in her hand which she periodically used to stem the tears that washed over her cheeks. ‘He was a sensitive child, always wanted to please. We loved him deeply.’ She clutched her husband’s hand. ‘The last time I spoke to him he told me he felt such guilt that there would be no grandchildren for me.’ Her voice wobbled. ‘He was our only child you see.’
‘He told me he was going to stay with friends in Leeds,’ said Mr Johnson. He drew in a deep breath and a sigh followed. ‘He’s never done anything that has caused me to doubt him before, so why the hell wouldn’t I believe him?’
Mrs Johnson began pounding at her thigh with a balled fist. She turned her head towards her husband and spoke through clenched teeth. ‘I knew something wasn’t right. I’d never heard him mention friends in Leeds before, had you?’ Her voice was low, her tone accusing as she stared at her husband. She turned away, looking defeated, after she was met with silence. She shrugged her shoulders at Charley. ‘Or, did he choose Leeds because he thought he could get lost in the crowd and be himself?’
‘He was nineteen years of age, Jane. We couldn’t actually lock him in his bedroom.’
Mrs Johnson shook her bowed head. ‘I know, I know. I just can’t bear to think of my son sleeping in a doorway as if he was alone in the world.’ She lifted her head. Her eyes were hooded. ‘Because he wasn’t, Inspector. He had a perfectly good home.’
Mr Johnson was growing short of patience with his wife. ‘Why do you feel the need to justify our family’s lifestyle? What I want to know is what you are doing to try and catch his murderer, Inspector?’
Charley was sympathetic, but firm. ‘First of all, it may help you to know how Stewart’s body was discovered and how he died. I will be designating an officer to you – your family liaison officer, or FLO as we call them – who’ll be your link with the investigation. However, I will personally keep you abreast of developments. One thing I want to warn you about from the outset is that you mustn’t believe everything you read in the newspapers. If you have a question, and you want an honest answer, then please either ask your FLO, or me. We will always be straight with you, even if the answer might not be the one you want to hear.’
Charley led the Johnsons out of the police station. When they’d gone, she leant against the door of the front office and looked up at the fluorescent lights. Her blurred vision made them appear brighter. Emotionally drained, she walked back to the incident room, made herself a coffee in the kitchenette and, with the local paper under her arm, carried it back to her desk. She moved the visitors’ chairs back to their rightful places and sat down in her chair. A bitter taste of anger rose in her throat, at seeing Grant and Tracy Shield on the front of the paper again, with the headline: ‘LOCAL COUPLE SAY THEIR COMMUNITY IS LIVING IN FEAR Drugs prevalent in the area. Story by Danny Ray.’
So focused was the bartender on his colleague, who was blatantly flirting with a dark-haired, handsome, sui
ted gentleman customer, that he caught his toe in the corner of the carpet as he entered the bar with a tray of clean glasses. The glasses slid in a tinkling avalanche to the floor as Charley walked in.
Despite the commotion, instinctively noting the signs saying there were security cameras in the establishment, Charley glanced around the room and found their location. She took a seat. Young Josh the barman glanced irritably over his shoulder, remarked that the newbie’s days were numbered and, with a face like thunder, he left the customer to help clean up the pile of broken glass. The suited gentleman grimaced at Charley and winked; she smiled across at him. He slid off his bar stool and walked towards her.
‘You on your own?’ he asked amiably.
Charley nodded her head.
‘I’m Edward. May I join you?’ he asked, proffering his hand.
‘And I’m the Queen of Sheba,’ Charley said, leaning forward. She took a wooden cocktail stick and stabbed an olive in the dish that resided on the bar. She offered the olive to Edward. He raised his eyebrows, a knowing smile crossing his lips.
‘So, what’s your real name?’
She stabbed another olive and, holding the fruit momentarily between her teeth, smiled, sucked the succulent dressing from its skin and turned to see Josh wiping his hands on his apron as he walked towards them. ‘I told you: the Queen of Sheba.’
Josh’s smile was forced. He asked politely if they’d like a drink.
‘Whatever the lady wants and I’ll have a Jack Daniels and Coke,’ said Edward. His mobile phone rang and he grappled in his pocket to find it. His screen flashed insistently. ‘It’s the missus.’ Hurriedly, he silenced it. ‘I’ll have to take this,’ he said, flustered. He stepped away from the bar and spoke to the caller in whispered tones. ‘I’ve just this minute got out of the meeting.’ He rolled his eyes at Charley. ‘No. I’ve got to see another client tomorrow. Don’t you listen?’ There was a pause. He turned and looked away. ‘You know I do,’ he whispered. ‘Yes, I promise. I’ll be home as soon as I can.’
Charley shook her head at Josh and stabbed another olive.
‘May I say, you’re looking very lovely tonight.’ Josh’s eyes were smiling at Charley when Edward returned to his seat. ‘Lime green suits you. It doesn’t suit everyone,’ Josh continued, pushing a slice of lime onto the rim of her glass, ‘but it suits you.’
‘How’s he making out?’ she asked, nodding her head towards the new bartender who was stacking glasses at the far side of the bar area. ‘He looks very young…’
‘Well, apparently, according to the boss, he’s a better shag than a bartender, so it looks like he’s here to stay,’ said Josh, rolling his eyes to the ceiling.
‘Josh and I were discussing the Marmite of fruit earlier,’ said Edward.
‘I loathe olives,’ Josh said. ‘In fact, I probably didn’t go within a hundred yards of an olive until I started working in bars.’
‘In my country, the olives have grown for more than nineteen thousand years,’ Edward said. ‘I was raised on them.’ He watched Charley stab another olive and grinned. ‘It appears we have things in common.’
Charley turned her head to face Edward and frowned. ‘We do?’
‘Well, we both like olives, and it looks like I’m in town for the night, so perhaps you’d like to join me for dinner?’
Charley ate a hearty, five-course dinner and helped Edward to finish the third bottle of Champagne he purchased, a Dom Pérignon 2009 vintage.
When he excused himself to go to the men’s room, Josh cleared the table. ‘Do you think he’s trying to get you drunk?’ he said to Charley with a laugh, as he collected the corks in the palm of his hand. ‘Not that I’m complaining; my pay check is going up by the minute. Brandy Alexander?’
Charley nodded her head eagerly and chuckled to herself. If only Edward had known he didn’t need to ply Charley with drink, and that her nickname ‘Champagne Charley’ had been long in the making: she’d often drunk even the most hardened of detectives under the table.
It would have seemed rude not to take up his offer to stay the night; she knew that in the morning she would be in a better frame of mind to make her decision about merging the murder enquiries … afterwards.
It was Charley’s custom to leave the hotel before breakfast was served. She was at her desk by seven a.m., her face completely devoid of last night’s make-up, her long, blonde locks tucked-up in a bun. While she waited for the login screen as her computer booted up, she sipped a cup of coffee and nibbled a slice of toast and jam – cold, just as she liked it. Winnie, with dusters, rags and polish sticking out of her apron pocket, flittered around her. ‘Why can’t you be like the other buggers and have a lie-in sometimes so I can give the place a good clean?’ she grumbled.
Ignoring Winnie, Charley grabbed another piece of toast from the plate, ripped it in half and stuffed it into her mouth. Whilst chewing, she opened the brown envelope containing the toxicology report for Stewart Johnson and feasted her eyes on the contents to the sound of the vacuum cleaner. ‘All clear,’ she read out, in a loud voice. At that very moment Ricky-Lee opened her office door wide and stood to the side to let Winnie hobble out with her trolley.
‘I imagine that will come as some relief to Mr and Mrs Johnson,’ he said.
‘He’s still dead,’ Charley replied.
‘True, but at least they now know for sure he hadn’t indulged.’
‘More to the point for the investigation, there are no traces of drugs in the syringe either.’
Ricky-Lee still wore his outdoor coat. He sat down and tucked his bag between his feet, resting his hands on his thighs. ‘‘Another deliberate taunting by the murderer, do you suspect?’
Charley felt even more determined to secure the evidence to nail the murderer. She knew they’d reached the darkest point of the investigation and it seemed a new depth to her anguish. Both murders seemed so pointless, so random, so inexplicable. ‘I’ve decided to link the enquiries,’ she announced.
‘What’s your reasoning?’
‘The cause of death … Both Kylie and Stewart were manually strangled, and in both cases I feel that the murderer is trying to mislead us at the scene.’ She leaned in towards Ricky-Lee. ‘Now, if Stewart had been sleeping on the streets, we should have sightings of him on CCTV.’
‘Which may lead us to those he had contact with,’ Ricky-Lee said thoughtfully.
‘We’ve got a DNA sample from the condom, but there’s no trace of the individual on the National database.’
‘That’s interesting; a plant by the murderer do you think?’
‘Possibly. I think we’re looking for someone with crime scene experience.’
‘Someone with a knowledge of killers and their fetishes?’
‘Exactly! I think the murderer is getting off on creating the scene at the dump site to try to confuse us.’
‘And they are able to satisfy themselves through reading about it in the media.’ He was thoughtful. ‘But we need the public’s help, and that means we have to use the media. It’s a catch twenty-two situation.’
Charley nodded. Her expression was grave. ‘It is…’
There was a quick knock at the door and Annie burst into the office. Charley sat upright in her chair, a questioning look on her face. Ricky-Lee turned to face her and see what the urgency was.
‘Did you hear the Shields on the local radio this morning?’ Annie said. Neither detective spoke as Annie continued. ‘I’ve liaised with uniform. Recent intelligence tells us that as well as previous for receiving stolen goods they are suspected of cultivating cannabis in their flat. Do you think we should give them an early morning visit?’
Charley allowed herself a little smile at the young woman’s outburst. Annie reminded Charley of her younger self in so many ways, especially with her unbounded enthusiasm.
‘I don’t think for one minute they’re involved in the murders, but they are a distraction … and we could do with them out of the way.’ Charley s
cowled. ‘Who’s working this morning?’ Charley turned to the computer screen, tapped a few keys and focused her eyes on the duties of the officers that were readily displayed. ‘Sergeant Percy Shaw is on six-two shift. Let me speak to him.’ Charley picked up her phone.
‘Leave it to me,’ he said, and Charley knew from old that she could take Percy Shaw’s words as gospel. If there was one person she wouldn’t want to cross, it was the ex-Army commander.
The officers examining the CCTV footage focused on a piece they’d found showing Stewart Johnson sitting on a bench in the town centre. He got up and wandered around, but didn’t go far as, within a few seconds, he was back sitting on the same bench. The clarity of the footage was good enough to pick out the bow front of the solicitors’ offices, the brown bark of the chestnut tree and the sign for the old timber yard, but not the faces of the two individuals who stopped for a moment to speak to him, appearing to hand him something before walking away. The clock showed the time as being twenty-four hours prior to his body being found.
On receiving this news, Charley was hopeful it could be a major step forward – could it be the killers, she wondered, or were they just Good Samaritans? – until she saw for herself the quality of the footage. ‘What can be done to enhance it?’
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