DI Giles BoxSet

by Anna-Marie Morgan

  With the victim’s identity no longer in any doubt, her team could begin investigating Kelly’s last movements.

  Mr and Mrs James had given their daughter a lift to the station that morning, where she had caught the eight-fifteen am to Paddington. Had the killer picked her up en route? Was she killed in London and transported to Oxford in a vehicle? Had she met up with a friend, and had things gone horribly wrong? These were questions which Yvonne fired at her team as her superiors pressed for a quick arrest. Media pressure was mounting and Chief Inspector Jack Peterson wanted the newspapers off his back.

  “We need answers and fast,” he snapped, as he paced up and down the well-worn, sick-coloured carpet of his office = his shiny head bent forward. “The newspapers are all over us and the public are worried that the killer could strike again. How soon can you have the file ready for me to look at?”

  “I’ve almost finished collating everything we have so far, sir. It’ll be on your desk tomorrow. I hope.” Yvonne felt stifled and angry that her investigation could be influenced by the media. “I don’t want to give fast or glib answers before we know the whole truth, sir. We’ve already had ghoulish visitors crawling all over Shotover looking for juicy details.”

  “I appreciate that, Yvonne, but do have something for me by tomorrow. We pride ourselves on reducing the fear of crime in Thames Valley, but between this and the spate of street robberies in Headington, I’d say that fear was rising through the roof.”

  “It’ll be on your desk first thing, sir.” She forced a smile and, with impressive patience, managed to close the door quietly behind her.

  12

  Kelly’s flat in Victoria Road, Headingley, Leeds was neat and well ordered. Her tasteful modern décor and carefully chosen objet d’art made Yvonne’s eclectic home seem cluttered. This was the sort of place that Yvonne regularly dreamed of having but was too sentimental to achieve.

  The bookshelves contained a variety of subjects, particularly those to do with art and history. The bottom shelf stored photograph albums. There were pictures of Kelly as a small child at the beach with her parents, giddily carrying a bucket and spade in one hand and a melting ice cream in the other. Yet others showed her smiling with friends on skiing trips in the Alps, or at the feet of colourful temples in Bangkok. The happy times of an adventurous young woman.

  There was something almost sacrosanct about the belongings of the deceased. As though to touch them was intruding in some way, even though the owner would never use them again.

  A small fold-up hair brush and mirror, left where it had last been placed, contained copious strands of Kelly’s hair.

  An old, one-eyed teddy looked forlornly at the make-up which was spread in front of it, on the dresser.

  Yvonne lifted the teddy and smiled, her eyes watery. The ears needed stitching and the fur was worn in patches.

  “Found anything?” Brian’s voice came from somewhere to her left.

  “Not yet, Brian. What about you?”

  Brian sighed. “Nothing, but we’ve taken a file containing receipts. Kelly’s parents said she kept a diary.” Brian scratched his head. “We've found old diaries but nothing current. It just ain't here.”

  “Probably means that she took her diary with her. Bag up the notepads, including the one next to the telephone, for the lab. Might be imprints from notes she made.”

  “Will do.” Brian nodded and left the room.

  The following day, Yvonne waited awkwardly outside the front door of Kelly’s parents' home. She'd been there twenty minutes before she was finally taken into a tiny sitting room, made dark by closed curtains.

  The claustrophobic atmosphere was intense, as Sandra sat in a leather armchair wringing her handkerchief in tiny hands, eyes swollen from crying. Both she and her husband were badly in need of sleep but seemed oblivious. In one corner of the room stood an old Grandfather clock, whose tick-tock penetrated the grief-thickened air like a whip.

  “What kind of girl was Kelly?” Yvonne asked in a voice soft with empathy.

  Sandra stared ahead, as though seeing her daughter in the doorway. “She was a happy girl. Never any trouble. Always helped people in need. She never forgot birthdays or anniversaries. She worked hard and saved her money.”

  “What was her job Mrs. James?”

  “She worked for Barclays Bank, in Leeds. A personal finance advisor. She loved working there.”

  Yvonne wrote all of this into her notebook.

  “Did she have a boyfriend?”

  Sandra nodded “She split up with him six months ago. “

  “Can you tell me about him?”

  “His name is Kevin Brown. He lives here in Otley, above the Post Office.”

  “Was the break-up amicable?”

  “As far as we know. Kelly never really said. She just stopped talking about him. Nobody approved of her seeing him. Lots of people in the Village thought that she could do better for herself but she didn’t see it that way. We didn’t bring her up to look down on people.”

  “Did she have many friends?”

  “Lots of people she knew. She was very out-going. Liked company. I don’t think there was anyone really close to her, though.”

  “She was too trusting if you ask me.” Philip had broken his silence, his face bitter. Yvonne now turned her attention to him, running a hand through her ruffled hair.

  “Did Kelly ever mention to you a friend living in or around London? Or perhaps someone moving there?”

  “No, never. That’s why we were so surprised when she said that she was going there for a holiday. She just didn’t think it was necessary to tell us. I wish I had stopped her from going.” Philip leaned forward, his head in his hands.

  “How could someone do this to her?” Sandra asked, hugging herself and rocking to and fro.

  “I don’t know.” Yvonne gently shook her head. “I promise you that I will do everything in my power to find out.”

  13

  The late morning sky bulged with black cumulonimbus. Yvonne could feel the electricity in the hot, heavy air as her temples throbbed. She wiped her brow with the back of her hand and pulled her mac more closely around her for protection.

  In front of her lay another young woman. Mutilated and left to rot, just as the first had been. Her hand gripped her stomach as she barely held onto its contents.

  The victim had been found by students on a flat piece of land at Horsepath Common. No attempt had been made to hide the body.

  “Where’s the bloody tarpaulin?” David Henderson gesticulated angrily at the SOCO officers, terrified the rain would wash away valuable evidence.

  Yvonne stared at the motionless remains. It was clear the victim had endured torture, just like Kelly James. The body left in a similar pose. The naked arms were disfigured with rope burns and cuts. Her eyes were red and puffed. She had obviously been crying at the time o her death.

  “Shit.” Yvonne’s expression was determined as she looked up at Henderson. “That bastard is going to pay!”

  The storm burst with sky-splitting lightning, followed by a deafening roar directly overhead. Large, thunderous raindrops kicked up the dirt, rapidly turning it to mud. Thankfully, the tarpaulin was now over the body.

  Brian wheezed like an asthmatic as he ran up to the DI.

  “Ben Lloyd from the Oxford Times rang your office wanting to ask you some questions about the murder enquiry,” he managed as he regained his breath. “I told him that you were busy right now and would talk to him later.”

  Yvonne sighed. “Thanks, Brian. Thank God he hasn’t got my mobile number. He’ll have a field day. The second body in two weeks found in virtually the same place.”

  Brian scanned the trees. “We’ve got uniform on their way to help SOCO. There’s quite a lot of ground to cover. Do you think he’s local? Do you think London is a red herring?”

  “Like he meets he them in London, and then drives them down here?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Could b
e.” Yvonne pursed her lips. “But what if he kills them there, then drives them down here to dump them to keep us off his tail. That is, assuming that the same killer committed both murders, and we don’t know that for sure. But if it is the same killer, why did he leave them here, Brian? Why Shotover?”

  14

  It was exactly three weeks after the first grim discovery and now another body. There was a subdued silence as one-by-one the team filed into the incident room. On the board were photographs of both victims, and the information they had regarding the disappearance of Kelly James - which, so far, did not amount to much.

  “Right,” Yvonne began as she tapped a pen against the palm of her hand. “What have we got?”

  “Right now? Almost nothin'.” Mike gazed down at his shoes, lines furrowing his brow.

  “Mmm. The killer, or killers, left few clues,” Yvonne concurred. “But we do know that the second victim was physically similar to the first. Early twenties, five-foot-three and slim with long dark hair.

  In an hour from now, Brian and I will join David Henderson for the PM. The injuries on both girls are similar, even though the actual cause of death may have been different. SOCO are analysing the rope used to bind Kelly James. Maybe there will be something individual about the fibres.

  If one person killed both girls, then why is Shotover significant? I want you to visit the farmhouse up there, talk to the groundsmen and the Council – anyone who knows who regularly goes up there and why.” Yvonne pointed at the board. “If this is the same killer, what made him choose these particular girls? Do they look like someone from his past? Maybe a sister, lover or wife.”

  “Or his particular ideal.” Brian offered.

  “Yes, maybe.” Yvonne tapped her pen on the photograph of the second victim. “What we have to do now is identify this girl and find out where she disappeared from. Mike, any luck with cross-checking the MisPer list?”

  “No, ma’am. There were a couple of possibles, but one was a blonde and the other was too tall.” Mike shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

  “Okay.” Yvonne wasn’t surprised when nearly three thousand people went missing every year in Britain and they were lucky if more than two thousand turned up again. “Well, let’s get the press involved. Judging by the first victim, we may have to go national. I'll talk to the Oxford Times, after the post-mortem.”

  As they walked into the brilliantly lit post-mortem theatre at four that afternoon, the green-gowned David Henderson nodded a cursory hello as he continued the gruesome task of examining and documenting the injuries of the second victim. With surgical gowns over their own clothing, Yvonne and Brian approached the table.

  “What have we got? Yvonne asked the tired-looking pathologist.

  "Hello Inspector. The fatal injury was a massive blow to the head." Henderson pointed to the bloody mess through the clotted hair. "It was dealt by a blunt instrument, possibly a heavy iron bar. When we arrived at the scene the body was still warm, but rigour had set in. This would put her as having died about three to eight hours before we arrived. However, in her state of physical exhaustion, rigour may have set in early which means that she could have been dead for less than three hours." Henderson stopped speaking in order to concentrate on measuring one of the wounds.

  "You say lack of food." Yvonne tucked a stray lock of hair behind one ear. "Was the murderer starving her as part of the torture?"

  "Well, judging by the fact that her stomach was completely empty, I would say that she probably hadn't eaten for at least twenty-four hours. This could have been deliberate deprivation on the part of the murderer, but it is also possible that she refused to eat as some sort of protest. There is evidence of her having soiled herself, maybe as a result of extreme duress, and a cursory attempt having been made to clean her up. As evidenced by the smearing around her groin area and upper thighs."

  Yvonne grimaced. "Can you tell us more about the torture? Exactly how similar is this killing to the murder of Kelly James?”

  "As with Kelly, there are numerous knife cuts, some of which had begun to heal. Also rope burns on the wrists and ankles. However, there are differences. We found a small piece of black gaffer tape in this victim's hair, further traces of which we found around the mouth. There is tearing to her right and left trapezius muscles, suggesting that she'd been hung by the arms for some time - possibly with weights of some sort tied to her ankles. Oh. and we found traces of semen on the head wound, suggesting he masturbated over her after she was dead."

  "Bastard." Brian could barely spit the word through his tightly clenched teeth.

  "I’ve sent samples of the semen for DNA analysis." Henderson took off his gloves. "It's mixed with the victim's blood, but they should be able to separate the profiles by subtraction.”

  Yvonne nodded,.

  Leaving the mortuary, they were pelted by the heavy rain which had been hammering down from the turbulent sky all afternoon.

  "Fancy a curry later?" Brian tossed it nonchalantly over his shoulder but couldn’t resist turning to look for an answer, when it didn’t come immediately. Yvonne was busy wrestling with her stubborn umbrella. "Sounds good to me," she answered, distractedly. She was having another maddeningly vague recollection of the cold case. “In the meantime, there’s a mountain of paperwork to do and witness statements to file. Oh, and see if any of the others want to come.”

  Brian felt somewhat disappointed.

  15

  Ben Lloyd, the crime reporter for The Oxford Times, was a young man in his early twenties with an engaging smile and an inquisitive demeanour. Although not overtly ambitious, Yvonne sensed he was headed for greater things.

  “Inspector, what do you think are the motives behind these attacks?” Ben leaned towards her, waiting expectantly.

  “We’re not sure yet. There is a sexual element to them certainly. Both women were either raped or had intercourse with the offender, or offenders, and semen was present on the second victim. However, I do not believe sex to be the only motive in these cases.”

  “What else might the motive be?” Ben was intrigued.

  “Power, domination definitely. Off the record, a part of me wonders if it might be revenge.”

  “Revenge? On the victims?”

  “Perhaps not the victims but on what they represent. Anyway, I think it best if we stick to the facts, for now. The rest is just conjecture. As it stands at the moment, w haven't confirmed that it was the same killer who committed both murders.”

  “Right, so there may be a copycat killer?”

  “We're keeping an open mind but I think the similarity of the MO is too great for it to be purely coincidence. For now, it’s important to know if anyone has been acting suspiciously, especially in the early hours of the morning - maybe moving heavy bundles into a vehicle. They may have had blood on their clothing. We want to know if anyone has washed clothing which was blood spattered: someone’s wife, girlfriend or mother perhaps.”

  “What is your experience with serial murder cases?”

  “I’ve worked murder cases before, but not serial murders. However, my experience with serial rape cases will stand me in good stead, I’m sure.”

  “The public are worried by this killer. Why do you think fear has spread so quickly?”

  “The first victim was from Yorkshire and she was found in Oxford. We've clearly got a killer who travels and there has only been three weeks between these murders. Every woman in the country wonders if she may be next.”

  “But there are precautions you can take.”

  “Yes there are, and I would suggest that young women do not walk around alone late at night, or in secluded areas, but then I advocate that policy whether or not a killer is on the loose.”

  Ben snapped his notebook shut. “Thank you detective.” He smiled and thought of his fiancé. “Off the record, how quickly do you think you'll catch the killer?”

  The DI thought for a second. “Everyone makes mistakes, Ben. This killer may have already mad
e the mistake which gets him caught.”

  As she watched him walk away, she whispered, “God, I hope so.”

  16

  Graham Swann was pleased with himself, as he closed the door of his Lansdown antiques shop behind the latest satisfied customer. He had just sold a fine example of an early Victorian, rosewood Davenport with birds eye maple interior, Circa 1845, to a gentleman visitor from New York. Bath, with its beautiful Georgian architecture, in the famous Oolyte stone, had virtual all-year-round tourism and was very popular with Americans.

  The phone rang just as he was finishing for the day and about to lock up. It was Catherine, who'd left twenty minutes earlier to prepare their evening meal.

  “Are you alright, love?” Graham sensed that his wife was puzzled about something.

  “Graham, there’s another package.”

  “What sort of package, Cath?”

  “A package without a note. It's addressed to me.”

  “Hang on, love,” Graham said softly. “I’ll be right there.

  17

  When Graham entered their home, he found his wife holding a 22-carat, gold chain with a small Celtic cross. She appeared confused.

  “Look, love, I wouldn’t worry about it. It’s probably a mistake.”

  “I’m not worried." Cath put the necklace back in the box. “Not really.”

  “Everything’s alright then.” Graham smiled, but he didn’t feel like smiling.

  18

  Yvonne readied herself for the meal with her team. Tired, but determined not to let the them down, she checked her look in the mirror and said goodbye to Tabitha, before catching the 7A bus.

  Nine pm, and the murder team were stood outside of Chutney's Indian restaurant on New Inn Hall Street. Brian sensed that everyone else was keen to talk about the case. 'Bang goes my idea of light relief' he thought miserably, the disappointment at not being alone with Yvonne more than a little responsible for his despondency.