by Liz Mistry
‘I agree. However, if we go with Miranda opening the door to him and allowing him access, we may need to think of what sort of ruse he used to get in – police officer, gas or electricity board official? Did she know her killer? That’s the obvious one. Check if any other people in the area had any visits from someone claiming to be from any utilities provider or if they noticed any wandering around the vicinity. Unlikely, but worth a shot anyway.’
Alice added that to the growing list of actions on the board.
‘Well, the bite mark from the biscuit, could be a clear identifier, if we get that circulated to dentists and it might yield some DNA, if we’re lucky.’
A small humming sound came from the professor and everyone turned to look at him. Nodding, like a sage imparting knowledge to his students, Carlton smiled. ‘By all means do that. However, I suspect that the bite is from the victim. I suspect that our killer forced her to take a bite from the biscuit for some reason known only to himself. By all initial observations, he’s been forensically savvy, so it seems unlikely to me that he would make such a basic error. It might save time to ask her dentist first.’ Carlton shrugged. ‘Again, I may be wrong.’
‘Good shout.’ Gus was pleased that Carlton had picked up on that. He would have gone down the official channels of trying to match the bite to the database, but this might save them wasted time and resources. Carlton’s intuitive knack was second to none and was one of the reasons his contributions were so constructive. ‘Compo get on that. If it was the victim who bit into the biscuit, it will save time looking for someone else.’
‘Plus.’ Carlton was speaking almost to himself. His mind clearly working overtime as he narrowed his eyes, lost in his own thoughts. ‘It gives a bit of insight into the killer.’
‘Precisely.’ Gus waited for Carlton to expand, but when he didn’t, Gus looked round. ‘What else?’
‘Previous similar cases – not just locally but nationwide.’ This was from Taffy.
Compo spoke up. ‘I’m running that through HOLMES and a couple of my own programmes. I’ll let you know when anything comes up from that.’
‘Thanks, Comps. If you don’t hit it for all parameters…’
Compo grinned. ‘Yep, I know boss, take the parameters away one by one till we discover something or eliminate all similar cases.’
‘Other things I want researching are the following – where the killer bought those candles. I want to know the supplier, the local places that sold them and branch out from around Bradford to further out. Also check online suppliers and we’re looking for bulk buys of say six or more candles.’
Compo gasped. ‘You think he’s going to kill at least six women, boss?’
‘At this stage we have no idea, but we have to start somewhere.’
Carlton started humming and Gus recognised it as a slightly mangled version of the nursery rhyme that had been placed under Miranda Brookes’ feet. Unsure whether Carlton was just doing it absentmindedly or if there was a point to it, Gus quirked an eyebrow in the psychologist’s direction.
‘Oh, sorry Gus. Just a thought – do we know how many verses there are to that rhyme?’
Gus looked blank, but Compo burst into activity, fingers speeding over his keyboard ‘Here we are – five verses and two extra lines at the end.’
Gus clicked. Carlton was suggesting that perhaps their killer was going to select a victim for each verse of the nursery rhyme. ‘We need to find the significance of that rhyme. Has our killer selected it for personal reasons or because of some underlying meaning attached to the rhyme?’
Alice added that to her list, while Compo offered to do that research. Head to one side, Compo swung his seat away from his desk. ‘You know, there are specialists who claim that artwork is almost as personally identifiable to a specific artist as a fingerprint. It might be worthwhile getting someone in to see if they can match the sketches to a specific artist – or a particular style of art.’
While Gus hated bringing in ‘experts’ because they tended to wax lyrical around their subject, sharing their extensive knowledge rather than just cutting to the chase with a pertinent report, he resigned himself to agreeing. Maybe he’d be able to fob the art geek off with the psychologist geek which would save him time, and more importantly, his sanity.
‘Get on to that, Comps.’ He paused. ‘I want the winch/pulley system thing he used to pull the body into place researched – where is it from, who supplies it, who the hell has bought it recently – and—’
‘If there are any bulk buys of it…’ finished Compo, his eyes wide.
‘Yep, that’s right. Also,’ continued Gus. ‘The sketch paper and the nursery rhyme paper – we need to know where they’re from, how widely distributed they are – narrow it down as tight as you can. It might be these details that will convict our killer once we catch him.’
‘Compo, don’t just check HOLMES for similar crimes, go into newspaper archives – nationally. I want to get ahead of this before—’
‘He strikes again.’ Carlton’s tone held no doubt and for a moment the room fell silent, digesting the import of their early investigations to prevent any more victims.
Leaning on the edge of his desk, Gus turned to Alice. ‘Will you get a team onto that asap?’
Gus’s team were thorough, and he could rely on them. For now, they all had their tasks to do, but he wanted to utter a few words of caution before the briefing ended. ‘Right. Although my first instincts are that we have a serial killer on our hands – or possibly someone trying to muddy the waters for us. I don’t want that getting out of this room. If … and I repeat … if this is the work of a serial killer, then we’re keeping schtum about it. No one – no uniforms or anyone gets to come in the incident room. Instructions will be filtered through to them as and when we need them to action something. We’re playing this tight to our chest.’ He looked at Nancy. ‘Do you agree?’
‘Totally. This needs to be kept contained for now. I’ll make a statement to the press, but will omit any references to our inner thoughts, or indeed the professor’s involvement.’
Chapter 9
Bradford
Dr Fergus McGuire was glad of the face mask that covered his beard. He was even happier to don the goggles that he normally complained about because they left a red mark round his eyes and gave him a headache. Not today, though. Today, those goggles would serve to hide the worry that he’d seen reflected on his face earlier as he scrubbed his hands in front of the mirror in the mortuary scrub room. Today, there would be no quips, no laughter, no humorous asides. His heart was too heavy for that. He had a lot to digest, and he was glad that Angus wouldn’t be present for this post-mortem. His son was too finely attuned to his parents’ moods, and he’d already been concerned by his dad’s reaction at the crime scene. No, Fergus needed to talk to Corrine before either of them spoke to their son and that was a conversation he wasn’t looking forward to. Corrine would be devastated; she’d blame herself and that was the last thing Fergus wanted. Besides which, neither of them knew how Angus would respond to the news, but the option of delaying their revelation was now well and truly out of their hands.
As he waited for the morgue assistant to prepare Miranda Brookes for her post-mortem, Fergus raised a hand to Taffy, who was eagerly watching from the newly installed viewing suite. Even the lad’s bright smile couldn’t bring a returning one to Fergus’s lips, but thankfully, he’d already pulled his mask over his nose. Although he could do without Taffy’s finger constantly on the intercom, allowing him to question every move the pathologist made, Fergus preferred that to having to deal with his own son right now. Truth was, he wanted to get this post-mortem over and done with so he could go home and talk to his wife. He really needed to talk to his wife … but first, it was time to get the show on the road.
With his usual care, Fergus made a detailed external examination of Miranda Brooke’s body. The very slight swell of her stomach, the only external clue to her early pregnancy,
made him pause. Exhaling, McGuire shook his head. Tragic! No matter how often he came across this sort of thing, he always took a moment to consider the impact of the death on the living. This poor woman had every expectation of bringing her child into the world and now she and her husband had been robbed of that in the cruellest of ways.
Moving on, he examined her neck where the rope had been removed by the CSIs for forensic investigation. At the crime scene he’d noted that it appeared to be a bog-standard rope, no doubt, found in many DIY shops across the country. He paused, frowning. His initial examination of Miranda Brooke’s body had been cursory and awkward. Hanging from the pulley system in the minute landing at the top of the stairs, had meant space was limited. As expected, he’d observed the signs of lividity forming in her lower extremities, which indicated that although she’d been hanging there for some time, it hadn’t been long enough for complete lividity to occur.
What puzzled him was that now he could see her neck much more clearly, the markings around it made no sense. While the rope had broken through the skin and petechia were present around her eyes, he now noticed the presence of manual strangulation around the front of her neck. Bruising from fingers was clear, and although there were cuts and abrasions where the rope had tightened around her neck, there appeared to be no bruising caused by the rope itself and this put an entirely new perspective on things. He suspected that Miranda Brookes had been manually strangled prior to being hung from the banister and that in itself added to the clenching certainty that squeezed Fergus McGuire’s heart that there was more to this than met the eye. Much more – and the thought of what it might mean terrified him.
The most notable evidence was that the rope knot, which was placed in an anterior position at the back of the neck, had left a slight indentation in the skin which again corroborated Fergus’s theory that Miranda had been dead before she was hanged. This was further confirmed by the broken hyoid bone, which was much more likely to be the result of manual strangulation rather than hanging. Angus would be very interested in that fact, he was sure. From the positioning of the prints around the neck, Dr McGuire determined that Miranda had been strangled from the front, with the killer’s thumbs resulting in bruising to the front of her neck. Although he doubted they’d discover any fingerprints – this killer was too smart for a silly mistake like that – Dr McGuire, nevertheless, instructed the necessary tests be made.
Speaking into his recorder, his voice wobbled a little. ‘Evidence of manual strangulation prior to hanging confirmed by bruising and fingerprint marks around the neck under the rope markings. The absence of bruising indicates that cause of death is manual strangulation.’ Sweat beaded across Fergus’s brow and he paused to mop it away, before continuing. ‘Although the marks of the fingers are obvious, it’s clear the strangler wore gloves, because under microscopic inspection, the prints are smooth. The span of the hands measure at ten inches and there are no irregularities in the span. I suspect either a male hand or a large female one. My assistant has taken stomach contents and blood to test and we await the results for a more comprehensive tox analysis, but…’
Fergus moved to the woman’s hands and examined her fingernails. ‘Initial examination of the woman’s hands and arms indicates no defensive wounds.’ He paused again, pulling his microscope closer and magnifying a small pinprick mark on the victim’s right arm. ‘A needle mark on her upper right arm indicates that the victim was perhaps subdued by injection. Again, the tox results will reveal more.’
The low buzz of the intercom connecting warned Fergus that Taffy was about to begin his incessant interrogation. But today was not the day for that. Fergus had no energy for it, so stemming his guilt, Fergus raised his eyes and stared right at Taffy. ‘Not today, laddie, eh? I’ve got a lot on and believe me, all your questions will be answered in my report, but you’ll get that report much more quickly if you just wheesht and let me get on wi’ ma job.’
The hurt look in Taffy’s eyes made Fergus feel like a complete bastard. The lad looked as if he’d swiped his sweeties from him. Toughening up, the pathologist hardened his heart and continued the post-mortem, all the time aware of the constant cloud of hurt emanating from the observation area.
Thrusting his guilt aside, he moved on to examining the internal organs, with his assistant moving around the room taking photos and marking findings down on the chart as they worked. Reaching the womb which contained a heartbreakingly small foetus, McGuire paused, sniffing back a tear before removing the foetus from the womb. This poor little thing hadn’t had a chance – not a damn chance after its mummy was murdered. What a waste – a damn waste. Who knew what this child would have grown up to be – how much joy would he have brought to the world, to his family and friends? Fergus took a moment to utter a silent prayer and then reverently placed the small body in a tray, to examine later.
Two hours later, exhausted and drained, Fergus turned to the small foetus and, sad though it was to complete a post-mortem on a foetus, Dr McGuire treated it with as much respect as he’d treated the mother.
‘Male foetus, approximately 16 weeks of development. Normal development … most likely died from suffocation due to mother’s death. Tox screen and DNA for paternity checking sent off.’
Nodding at his assistant, Dr McGuire left the post-mortem room, pulling off his coverings as he left, a ball of anger making him want to smash his hand into a wall – perhaps he and Angus were more alike than most people thought, for more than once Angus had done just that when things got too much for him.
Chapter 10
Bradford
Miranda Brookes’ husband, Ricky, had come in to be questioned. His alibi was sound, so at least Gus knew they could focus on finding other suspects. It was rare for a spouse to have such a concrete alibi, but his driving activity was registered by Morrisons supermarket, the company he delivered for and he’d been delivering to a Morrisons in Stoke-on-Trent at 8 a.m. At a stretch, the husband could have arranged for someone else to off his wife, but the elaborate crime scene made Gus doubt that. He and Alice joined Ricky Brookes in one of the more welcoming interview rooms – the ones for grieving relatives and kids. It was decked out with a sofa and a couple of comfy chairs with a coffee table separating the arrangement.
When they entered Brookes was pacing up and down the room and one look at the man’s tear-stained face and pallor told Gus that it was unlikely that this man was anything other than a grieving husband whose life had just been blown apart. He glanced at Alice for confirmation of his assessment and she gave a slight nod in response to his unspoken question.
Stepping closer, in line with Covid restrictions, Gus indicated that Mr Brookes should sit down opposite. Both Gus and Alice had donned masks for the interview and sanitised their hands on their entry to the room. Brookes had hurriedly pulled his own mask up and over his nose, but not quickly enough to hide his trembling lips and tear-stained face.
‘I’m so sorry for your loss, Mr Brookes.’ Gus’s tone was soft, reassuring, and confident. He’d conducted so many interviews with grieving relatives over the years that he was well aware that giving in to his own fury or sadness would make things worse for the family member. By maintaining a professional kindness, the relatives somehow or other, usually managed to get through the interview, if not quite in one piece, at least with as little anguish as humanly possible.
Sitting on the sofa with Alice, Gus hated the necessity of social distancing in a circumstance like this. Brookes sat down opposite, his leg pinging up and down as if of its own volition. It was clear that his grief made him unable to remain still.
‘Who did this? Who could do this to my wife? Miranda was … we were having a baby. We were having a…’ Ricky didn’t finish his sentence. Instead he glared at Gus. ‘You have to find them. Whoever did this. You have to find them.’
Gus nodded. ‘I know this is difficult for you, Mr Brookes, but I need to ask you some questions. Believe me, they are relevant to our ongoing investigati
on and they’re really necessary. We also need to record this interview for our records if that’s OK, OK?’ Gus hoped his eyes conveyed the concern and sincerity he felt. Normally a small smile, or a slight pressing of his lips together did the job, but right then he had to rely on his eyes. God how he hated this pandemic.
After Brookes consented, Alice switched on the recorder and Gus continued the interview…
****
An hour later, suffering the effects of prolonged mask usage, Gus stormed back into the incident room, pulled his mask down to hang around his neck and looked at Carlton who had watched the interview with Miranda Brookes’ husband. ‘Well?’
Carlton, not usually one to be concise, surprised Gus. ‘Not a chance in hell that he did this. He’s not our man. I’d wager a doughnut on this … a Krispy Kreme one.’
Gus rolled his eyes, understanding the not-so-subtle hint that they were out of doughnuts and picked up his phone asking the duty officer to organise Sebastian Carlton’s sugar fix. It was easier than arguing with the man – besides, he did offer his services for free.
Throughout the rest of the afternoon, results from forensics and the interviews from the door-to-door enquiries filtered through. It was nearly five o’clock and Gus was getting frustrated at the lack of leads coming from the door-to-doors. Although he’d hoped for a different outcome, Gus wasn’t surprised to learn that the lavender candles were a popular brand, with thousands sold every day. It would be a thankless task, dredging through all the outlets that sold them, but it needed doing. Gus pitied the poor soul who was tasked by Alice to do this. Again as expected, the paper containing the nursery rhyme was bog-standard A4 office paper, which Gus decided not to follow up on, reckoning it would be a waste of resources that could be better used elsewhere. When they finally caught this sicko, they’d be able to spend time then with a narrower search parameter, matching the printer ink to an accessible printer carrying the same paper – but that was a job for later.