by Sally Rigby
George came to an abrupt halt and turned to face her. ‘I don’t spend my entire life discussing ground breaking theories in order to side line anyone who doesn’t understand them.’ She shook her head.
Wow. What had got into her? She’d only been joking. Well, not joking exactly, because she did assume they all hung out together. She certainly hadn’t meant it as an insult.
She held up her hands in mock surrender. ‘Sorry. Didn’t mean to offend.’
‘It’s fine.’ George paused for a moment. ‘Has Claire given you any indication of what she has for us?’
‘Not really. You know Claire. She likes to keep everything to herself until she’s sure of the results. She doesn’t like to make rash predictions.’
‘That’s why she’s so good at her job,’ George replied.
‘True. She’s the best pathologist we have. Her evidence always stands up in court.’
‘Good to know,’ George said as she pushed open the door to the lab, and they walked in. ‘The lectures she does for me always prove very popular. Not least because of the gruesome photos she puts up on the screen. Though not all students can take it. On most occasions, one or more of them will race out of the room to throw up.’ George laughed, and Whitney joined in, amused at the thought.
‘What the fuck’s going on with you two?’ Claire stood there with her hands on her hips, staring at them through her enormous black-rimmed glasses which practically covered her entire face. Although she had on her scrubs, her vivid green and black striped trousers could still be seen.
Whitney and George exchanged a glance, both frowning.
‘What do you mean?’ Whitney asked.
‘Best buddies all of a sudden? Have I missed something? The last time you were together it was heading for pistols at dawn,’ Claire replied.
‘A slight exaggeration, Claire,’ George said. ‘Let’s just say we’ve sorted out our differences and are intent on solving the case together. Which is why we’re here.’
Whitney shot George a conspiratorial look. Maybe working together would be okay after all. ‘Agreed. What do you have for us?’
They followed Claire to the back of the lab, where Olivia Griffin’s body was laid out on a stainless-steel table. Claire put on her gloves.
‘First, I can confirm this killing is identical to that of Millie Carter. Check out the bruising on the neck.’ She pointed to the purple marks. ‘Identical sized bruises, from the pressure of the fingers. No prints unfortunately, so he must have worn gloves. Again, although there is no semen, there is evidence from bruising around the vaginal area penetration has taken place.’ She lifted up one of the victim’s hands. ‘Marks to show restraint. The difference in this case is they’re more jagged, indicating signs of a struggle.’
‘Was she drugged?’ George asked.
‘I’m getting to that,’ Claire barked in her usual no-nonsense way.
Whitney was glad it wasn’t just her who could be subjected to Claire’s sharp tongue.
‘We’ve had the toxicology report back,’ Claire continued. ‘We found both alcohol and ketamine in her blood.’
‘There wasn’t any alcohol in the first victim’s blood, was there?’ she asked.
‘No. Just the ketamine, which I suspect was mixed in with some food. Though we don’t know for certain. As it didn’t show in her last meal, I can only make an assumption it was administered in a previous one.’
‘Interesting,’ George said. ‘Was the ketamine given with the alcohol in this victim?’
‘We can’t tell. But the fact she struggled leads me to conclude she had a greater tolerance to the drug than victim one. Especially as she’d also consumed alcohol, which ought to have added to the effect.’
Her mind was racing. One reason for someone to have a tolerance for the drug was previous consumption. Did she take it before going out as an escort? Was she a regular drug user? She’d need to revisit the girls in the flat.
‘Were there any other drugs in her system?’ she asked.
‘I’d have told you if there were,’ Claire said.
‘What about her stomach contents? Her last meal. Not jelly and ice cream by any chance?’
‘I’m afraid not. The last thing she ate was pizza. A meat-lovers, judging by what was in there. She was strangled before it had time to digest. I’d say around two hours before death.’
‘The murderer fed her pizza. Interesting,’ George said. ‘Did he force feed her?’
‘I don’t believe so. There’s no trace of sauce anywhere, other than under her fingernails, which you’d expect. There was nothing up her nose, or round by her ears.’
‘So, he untied her to eat, and she willingly did so. That makes no sense,’ she said. ‘What do you think, George?’
‘They could’ve eaten first, and then he tied her up, indicating either she knew him well enough to spend the weekend with him, or he’d promised to release her if she ate with him. Probably the latter.’
‘Agreed. Anything else to tell us, Claire?’ she asked.
‘Time of death, somewhere between one and three Monday morning. Body definitely moved. No other trace evidence apart from a miniscule piece of sponge used to wash the body. The same detergent as the first victim was used. A very basic washing up liquid. The sort you can buy in every supermarket.’
‘Thanks, Claire,’ she said.
‘You’re welcome. I’ll email my report later.’ Claire turned away from them, indicating their time with her had come to an end.
When they got outside of the lab, she turned to George. ‘Fancy a drink, so we can discuss evidence?’
George looked at her watch. ‘Yes. I have time for a quick one.’
George wasn’t impressed by the pub Whitney had chosen for them. It was around the corner from the station. It was everything she hated in a pub. Huge, with lots of chrome, red plastic seating, and several TV screens strategically placed to ensure everyone had a view. It had about as much character as a dead body.
Probably not the best analogy under the circumstances.
‘What would you like to drink?’ Whitney asked as they got to one of several bars in there.
‘It’s okay, I’ll get my own.’
‘No. It’s on me. Expenses.’ Whitney waved her hand dismissively.
‘I’ll have a sparkling water, with ice and a slice of lemon, please.’ She’d get the next round.
‘Nothing stronger?’ Whitney asked. ‘I’m having a bottle of lager.’
‘I’ve got work to do when I get back.’ A tiny lie, as she’d already decided not to do anything that evening. But she still didn’t want anything to drink. She’d rather keep a clear head while discussing the case.
‘Suit yourself. There’s a free table over there.’ Whitney pointed towards the rear of the pub. ‘You grab it and I’ll order the drinks.’
She sat at the table, taking in her surroundings. Considering it was so early in the evening, it was remarkably busy. She wondered how many of them were police officers. Quite a few, if the number of people Whitney had said hello to on their way in was anything to go by.
She focused her attention on Whitney, waiting to be served. She was standing on tiptoes, leaning over the bar, waving her money. It surprised her how short Whitney was. She’d always assumed police officers had to be tall. In fact, didn’t they have a minimum height range? Or had that been stopped? She supposed it would have to be, on the grounds of equal opportunities. She doubted Whitney let being short get in the way of doing the job. She was fierce. Maybe as a result of her height.
You could have knocked her down with a feather when she’d apologised earlier. No one liked doing that, and from what little she knew of Whitney, she’d have thought it would have been especially hard for her. At least it meant George could now be a part of the case.
When Whitney reached the table, she placed George’s drink in front of her. ‘Here you are. Don’t drink it all at once. We can’t have you falling down all over the place.’
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br /> ‘Thanks.’ She took a long sip while watching Whitney knock back half the bottle.
‘That’s better,’ Whitney said, placing the bottle on the table. ‘It’s got rid of the antiseptic stench from my nostrils. The mortuary is even worse than being in a hospital.’
‘It’s worse when there’s a decomposed body. The smell is enough to make you want to throw up.’
‘I know. I actually did vomit the first time. And Claire being Claire, she omitted to tell me to put vapour rub under my nose to stop most of the putrid smell from getting through.’
‘She didn’t tell me either. It’s her little joke.’
Whitney took another swig from the bottle. ‘Yes. That seems like Claire. You’ve heard all the evidence. What are your thoughts?’
George was silent for a few moments, wanting to choose her words carefully, so she wouldn’t be accused of not speaking in everyday language.
‘Research indicates there’s a link between criminals’ actions in committing crimes and how they act in normal life. If you consider he fed both girls while they were being held captive, it could, in a perverse way, be an indicator of him being a considerate person.’
‘Or an act of control.’
‘Exactly. Which is why profiling isn’t an exact science, rather an aid to the investigation as a whole.’
‘I get that. What are your thoughts on our next steps?’
‘Now we have two victims, it’s important to look at what we know about each victim and look for similarities.’ She leaned back against the hard chair, trying to get a little more comfortable. Was she now making this too simplistic?
‘Agreed. I’ve been wondering about both bodies being left on university soil. What’s your take?’
‘There could be several reasons. Both victims were students, so the killer took them back there. Why? Is it because he’s a student? Is it because he applied to study at the uni but was turned down and is taking his revenge? Is there a sexual reason? Maybe both girls turned him down. These are all pointers for considering alongside the other evidence.’
‘Do you think the revenge scenario is likely?’
‘It’s possible, but in my opinion not likely. Controlling behaviour, like he’s exhibiting, isn’t about revenge. We also need to consider the exact location the victims were left. Beside water. The implication is water has some significance. We just don’t know what, yet.’
‘Can you guess?’
‘No. I don’t base my profiling on guess work. You might as well call in a psychic if that’s what you want.’ Her words came out harsher than she’d intended. ‘Sorry. No offence meant.’
‘None taken. What do you make of the food? Jelly and ice cream. Pizza. Children’s party food. Anything significant, do you think?’
‘Too early to say. Both foods are eaten by adults, too. I hate to say this, but we need more victims before we can assess properly the food and its relevance.’
‘Okay, let’s park that. One definite link we have is the twins’ birthday party both victims went to. The murderer could have been there, too. In the morning, I’ll go and speak to the twins. Would you like to come?’
Her heart sank. She’d been desperate to get back onto the case, and the one time when she could be extremely useful, she couldn’t make it.
‘Sorry, I can’t. I’ve got a meeting with one of my PhD students. I can’t let him down. His viva’s next week, and I’ve promised to go through it with him.’
‘Viva?’
‘He has to defend his thesis. It’s like an oral examination. Not a pleasant situation to be in.’ Her mind flashed back to her viva. It was firmly imprinted on her brain as the worst moment in her academic career.
‘No problem. I’ll take Matt and let you know the outcome.’
‘Ask them for photos. They’re bound to have taken some. Or check out their social media. And their guests’ accounts, too. We might get something there.’
‘You read my mind. We’ll make a police officer out of you yet.’ Whitney arched an eyebrow.
‘I think I’ll stick where I am for now.’ George grinned.
She picked up her drink and finished it. She didn’t mind helping, but the thought of actually being in the police. No, thank you. Although it could be worth it, just to see what her father thought of the idea. She smiled, just imaging the scene when she told him.
‘Another drink?’ Whitney asked, nodding at her empty glass.
‘No, thanks. I really need to get going.’ She picked up her coat from the back of the chair and her bag from under the table.
‘I’m going to stay for another. I’ll join the rest of the team over there.’ Whitney nodded towards the bar. ‘I’ll let you know how we get on tomorrow.’
Chapter Eighteen
Whitney rang the bell of the end of terrace house where Harriet and Henry Spencer lived. Matt was standing behind her. She’d phoned ahead and spoken to Harriet to ensure they would both be there. According to Harriet, they didn’t have a lecture. Whitney already knew from Tiffany’s timetable, a full-time course wasn’t full-time in the way she understood it. She realised they had assignments to do as well, but even so, fifteen hours a week of lectures? They’d be in for a shock when they got out into the real world.
‘Hello, are you Detective Walker?’ A tall, blonde-haired girl with large almond-shaped grey eyes, was smiling at her. ‘I’m Harriet Spencer.’
Whitney warmed to her immediately. ‘Yes. I’m DCI Walker and this is DS Price.’
‘Come in. Would you like a cup of coffee? I’ve just put the machine on.’
‘That would be lovely, thanks.’ As much caffeine as possible was Whitney’s motto, and she’d only had one cup so far today.
They followed Harriet down a narrow hall until they got to the rear of the house, where there was a kitchen with an archway into a dining room. The house was nothing like Olivia’s flat. It was clean and tidy. Clearly not all students were slobs.
Sitting at the table was a male version of Harriet. No mistaking they were brother and sister. They were stunning.
‘You must be Henry.’ She offered her hand for him to shake.
He stood up, towering over her. ‘Pleased to meet you. Harriet said you wanted to talk to us about our party. Is there a problem? It’s rather late for neighbours to be complaining, as it was over three weeks ago.’
When she’d called, she hadn’t mentioned any link to the murders, not wanting to worry them.
‘Did the neighbours complain?’ Matt asked.
Henry shook his head. ‘This is predominantly a student street. Every weekend someone holds a party. There’s an elderly couple living four doors down on the opposite side of the road, but they’re hard of hearing, and on the weekend of our party they’d gone to visit their daughter in Bournemouth for a week.’
‘How do you take your coffee?’ Harriet asked.
‘Milk with one sugar for both of us, please,’ she replied.
Harriet handed out the coffees, and they all sat around the dining table.
‘Is it just the two of you living here?’
‘No, Lydia lives with us. She’s upstairs. Would you like me to call her?’ Harriet replied.
‘Not at the moment. How do you know Lydia?’
‘We’re all in the veterinary science department. Lydia’s studying for her Masters, and we’re in our final year of vet training,’ Henry said.
‘Sounds interesting.’ She loved animals but didn’t have a pet because of the hours she worked. They’d always had dogs at home when she was growing up.
‘We enjoy it. It’s hard work, though. It’s unusual for us not to be in college studying at this time of day. If we don’t have lectures, we’re often in the library,’ Henry said.
Whitney fought the urge not to respond to the hard work comment. ‘Tell me about your party. Who was there? How long it went on for. Anything else you remember.’
‘Are you allowed to tell us why you want to know?’ Harriet asked.
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She exchanged a glance with Matt. If she did, maybe they’d try harder to help. ‘You’re aware about the two student murders recently.’
‘Yes,’ the twins replied in unison.
‘According to our investigation, both students attended your birthday party.’
Harriet’s eyes widened. ‘But we don’t know them, do we, Hal?’
‘Hal?’ Whitney asked.
‘It’s what I’ve always called him, since we were children. I didn’t even recognise their names when it was reported, did you Hal?’ Harriet said.
Henry shook his head. ‘No. That doesn’t mean they weren’t here. The house was totally packed. You know what parties are like. Someone knows someone, who knows someone. And they come along.’
Whitney took out her phone and showed the twins photos of Millie and Olivia. ‘These are the two victims. Do you recognise them?’
They both stared for a few seconds, and then looked at each other. ‘They sort of look familiar,’ Henry said. ‘But that could be because their photos have been in the media. I don’t remember them being at the party. Then again, we did have a lot to drink. And as I said, the house was full.’
‘Same for me,’ Harriet said. ‘I was drinking the punch we’d made for most of the night and had the hangover from hell the next day.’
‘Did you take any photos at your party?’ she asked.
‘Loads. I put them all up on social media,’ Harriet replied.
‘Please forward them to me.’
‘Friend me, and then you can see them all,’ Harriet replied.
‘That’s not something we’re allowed to do. It goes against protocol. Please could you email them to me.’
‘Sure. No problem,’ Harriet said.
She took a sip of her coffee. The good stuff. The twins obviously lived well.
‘If you do remember anything else, let me know. Just for our records, what were your movements between two and four in the afternoon of Sunday the third, and the early hours of the morning on Monday eighteenth?’ she asked.