DI Giles BoxSet

by Anna-Marie Morgan

  As spicy aromas flirted with their nostrils, Yvonne and her team were shown to their table in a quiet corner at the back.

  After ordering a bottle-or-two of house red, and while they waited for their starters of bhajis and sheek kebabs to arrive, Yvonne got things started.

  “What's with the strange rituals? Is he performing them before or after death?” Brian took a deep breath. “Unless the victims were compliant, it's hard to see how a glass of wine could be balanced on their back. But then why would a bright young woman like Kelly submit to such weird behaviour?”

  “What's the reason behind the rituals? Why use the body of his victim as a plate? Is the point of it to completely degrade them?” Yvonne took a sip of water.

  “Some people get their kicks that way.” Debs looked pensive. “Surely we can't rule out their being happy for him to dominate them, initially.”

  Yvonne nodded. “Absolutely. Which means they may have been looking for him every bit as much as he was looking for them and that certainly complicates things.”

  Mike leaned forward. “We’ve checked with Kelly's known friends and associates. All of them say they know nothin' about where she might have been stayin'. They didn’t even know she had friends livin' in London.”

  “And we’ve checked her credit cards for bookings of hotel rooms or B & B’s and found nothing. It's like she got onto the train and just disappeared.” Deborah sighed.

  “How far have we got with finding the other passengers on the train?” Yvonne sipped slowly from her glass.

  Deborah leaned to one side as the first of the starters began to appear over her shoulder. “We’ve traced about half of them so far through the news appeals. One or two of them have said that they were in the same carriage but none of them spoke to her. Kenneth Andrews, a baggage handler at Paddington, vaguely remembers a lady looking like the victim, sitting in the waiting room. If it was Kelly, she was wearing sun glasses and the witness is only sixty percent sure that it was her.”

  Yvonne nodded “But if he's correct then we know that she wasn't abducted from the train.”

  “This is so good.” Mike was tucking into his sheek kebab as though he hadn’t eaten for twenty-four hours.

  “What about her personal effects. Did we get anything from those?” Yvonne asked, as she received her kachori.

  “Only that she was meticulous in keeping her household accounts,” Brian volunteered. “We talked to her colleagues at the bank. They hadn't noticed anything different about her in the days before she disappeared."

  "She booked her holiday at fairly short notice, but that was the only thing she did that was even remotely unusual.” Deborah poked gingerly at her bhajis.

  "So, she may have been pressured. Although, somehow I don't think what we know fits with that, because she appeared happy when she left. The news appeals went out today for the identity of the second victim. Hopefully we'll know who she was very soon.”

  “What about Kelly’s killer?” Deborah asked dipping some poppadom into the mint yoghurt and passing chutney to Mike. “He must've kept her somewhere. His house maybe?”

  “Or a lock-up.” Brian finished his lager, and looked for the waiter. “What about the weird way that he ate his food off her?"

  "Yes." Yvonne frowned, "What was his motive?"

  "Ego trip?" Deborah had known a few guys with ego problems.

  The DI was staring somewhere beyond the table. “The rituals need investigation. They could be the key. He's got the ideas from somewhere.”

  19

  Tabitha mewed impatiently, as Yvonne arrived home at eleven-thirty that evening and stumbled over the door step.

  “Oops.” She giggled and hiccuped at the bemused cat, throwing off her coat and switching the lights on. She wandered through to her kitchen, which she'd updated the year before. She'd fallen in love with a large Victorian-style range in deep viridian. Tabitha waggled across the Provençal tiling to rub Yvonne's ankle - purring excitedly, as the DI tugged on the ring pull on the cat-food tin.

  “There you go.” Yvonne placed the cat’s dish on the floor and passed through to the lounge.

  When she woke with a start several hours later, she found herself still in the armchair, with the beginnings of a wild hangover. The SOCO photographs had long since fallen to the floor.

  20

  Sarah Collins was out shopping with her friend Michelle Davies, along Brighton’s famous ‘Lanes’. They had taken the afternoon off from their employment at a large Hotel on the sea front. Sarah was the Assistant Manageress and Michelle the receptionist.

  The colourful 'Lanes', with their cosmopolitan mixture of jewellers, new age shops and cafes, were busy and filled with wonderful aromas as the girls wandered along them. They mostly window-shopped, buying only the odd pack of incense sticks and stopping to try various silky fabrics against themselves.

  Sarah sensed that her friend was particularly excited today, as she purchased a richly patterned silk scarf in exotic reds and gold.

  "So are you going to tell me where you're going?" Sarah asked.

  "Not sure yet." Michelle was distracted. “Oh wow. Look at that!”

  Sarah shot a look in the direction her friend was pointing “At what?”

  “That bracelet. It’s beautiful, just perfect for…” Michelle stopped mid-sentence, averting her eyes from Sarah's penetrative gaze.

  “There you go again,” Sarah said impatiently. “Perfect for what?”

  “Oh, dancing, you know…”

  “What, like clubbing?”

  “Yeah, that sort of thing.” Michelle was giving nothing away. “Come on, let’s go get a coffee.”

  “Okay." Sarah could barely contain her growing curiosity but she wasn’t feeling as energetic as her friend. For now, for the chance of a sit down with added caffeine, she'd allow Michelle her little secret. Just for now.

  The coffee bars teemed with shoppers and tourists but they managed to find a free table and, after moving leftover mugs to one side, Sarah sat down while Michelle ordered a latté and cappuccino.

  On Michelle's return, Sarah commenced interrogation phase two.

  “The Caribbean?”

  “No.”

  "Europe?"

  "Cold."

  "Timbuck-bloody-too?"

  Michelle laughed loudly. "I'm not sure I'm going anywhere, yet."

  Sarah sighed exaggeratedly and flicked her eyes skywards “Okay then, if you did go…where would it be?”

  Michelle’s eyes shone again as she became wistful. “I can’t tell you yet, Sarah. But I will soon, I promise.”

  The hang-dog eyes accompanying the words had the desired effect and Sarah felt guilty. She decided to let her friend be enigmatic for the time being, if that was what she wanted.

  21

  Thursday morning, and Brian was busy filing witness statements when a call came through from a distraught mother in a tiny village in Herefordshire.

  “Brian Leach, CID.”

  “Hello. My name is Patricia Wilson. I think my daughter Hannah might be dead." The woman choked.

  Brian swallowed hard. “What makes you think that your daughter is dead, Mrs. Wilson?”

  “I saw it on the news. The artist's impression. I haven’t heard from her for ten days. I’ve tried calling her. Oh my God. Please help me.”

  “Alright, Mrs. Wilson. I'm afraid we'll need a formal identification. Do you have someone who is looking after you?”

  “Yes, my husband. He’s on his way home right now. I called him at work.”

  “Are you both able to come to Oxford?”

  “Yes, we have a car.”

  Mrs. Wilson sobbed. In the background, Brian heard Mr. Wilson returning home. Taking the phone from his wife, he began calmly making arrangements for viewing his daughter's body. They made the appointment for that afternoon.

  22

  He touched his lips with the napkin and sat back fully satisfied in his chair. The pheasant had been particularly good, but he
was still hungry - hungry for another girl. He stood up from the table, neatly pushing the chair underneath before carefully placing the dishes into the dishwasher. Stretching, catlike, he wandered through to the lounge to pull back the large rug and expose the entrance to his torture chamber.

  The sight of his latest home-made contraption sparked electric anticipation which started his body quivering. He ran his hand along the wooden table, with leather straps to restrain his slave. It was purpose built, with a hinged box at one end to immerse the victim in darkness - muffling her screams.

  They came to him of their own free will. So eager to please. He laughed and it shook his frame like a mini quake. He enjoyed watching the disbelief on their faces when they realised that someone so loving in the virtual world, could become so cruel in the real one. As a teenager, he had seen the same look on the face of the family cat as he held it high off the ground, squeezing its throat until it was dead. Then, he had come away scratched, but triumphant. A smile twisted his face but his eyes were cold. The pussies he tortured these days did not have the chance to scratch back.

  He palmed a heavy, nine-tailed flail, lashing it several times down hard on the table. The noise it created reverberated round the room, resonating with the heavy metal chains on the walls. His fists clenched and the white knuckles threatened to pierce the taut, tanned skin. He was the master.

  Leaving the chamber, he purposefully climbed the steps up and strode to the hallway, grabbing his coat. The internet cafe would still be open. The juices were flowing, his heart-rate quickened and his hand trembled in his pockets as he left the house.

  23

  Caroline Rogers, a first year art student at University College London was using chat in a free period.

  Master SlaveStalker: Hi Celine…Serve Me some Wine.

  Celine: Yes Master, this one will.

  Master SlaveStalker: Thank you little one.

  Celine: The light from the flickering candles highlights the slave’s muscular belly as she moves, swaying her rear to invite the Master’s attention. In the kitchen she looks for the finest goblet in which to serve the Master’s wine.

  Master SlaveStalker: I watch the slave, enjoying her body as she carries out the task which I have set…

  Celine: She finds one made of the purest gold, etched with the stories of ages. She runs the rim down her belly and discovers that it has no flaws with which to cut the Master’s mouth. It is a fine vessel and suitable for the Master.

  Master SlaveStalker: I lick my lips in anticipation…

  Celine: This one pours the wine into the goblet, eyes dancing as she watches the bubbles gurgle within it. With dainty tread she slips back to the hall where the Master awaits.

  Master SlaveStalker: I have a collar in my bag. I wonder if I should collar such a beautiful and obedient slave?

  Celine: This one thanks The Master as she kneels at his feet and presses the goblet first to her belly, then her lips and then bows her head waiting for Masters approval. Shall this one taste your wine Master?

  Master SlaveStalker: Come forward and let me stroke your hair.

  Celine: Moves forward so that my flowing hair can be stroked by the strong, handsome Master.

  Caroline had been having these conversations for weeks. The guilty pleasure filled the blank periods in her college timetable. She hadn't taken it seriously at first but he was definitely growing on her. She was having fun, little knowing that one hundred miles away, the Wilsons were having their worst fears confirmed. Hannah was dead and members of the investigation team were already heading to the Herefordshire town of Pembridge, to gather what evidence they could and to seize the girl’s diaries, notebooks and folders.

  Hannah's home was simple and unfussy. Yvonne was building a picture of a shy, conscientious girl, who worked for a small Estate Agents. The last time her work colleagues saw her, she was happy and leaving for her first holiday in two years. It didn’t make sense to them that her body lay chilled in a hospital morgue.

  The DI was sick at the horrible familiarity of the circumstances surrounding Hannah's last two weeks. Two women had arranged to take holidays just prior to their deaths and yet they came from completely different areas of the country. Yvonne was determined to find the link.

  24

  Come in.” Superintendent Jack Peterson opened the file, as he shouted towards the closed door. The night before, Yvonne had given him the case summaries and she now studied his face with trepidation on entering his office. The Superintendent continued to study the file.

  “Sit down.” He said without looking up.

  Yvonne perched on the edge of the office chair, smoothing her skirt, staring at the front of his precisely ordered desk. Peterson cleared his throat. “I've been looking through the notes.” He snapped the file shut, finally giving her his attention.

  “Yes, sir. I know we don’t have a great deal to go on right now but…”

  “Damn right we don’t. In fact, we don’t have a great deal to show for the last month, do we?”

  “I wouldn’t say that, sir. My officers have been working very hard, long hours. We are still checking friends and boyfriends of the murdered girls - looking for common denominators.”

  “And if you don’t find any?” Peterson rose from his chair and walked to the window, his back to Yvonne, his broad shoulders halving the amount of light coming into the room.

  “We're covering all the angles and the public appeals are sure to help. Our problem is that the girls are from completely different regions of the country and they chose to go off without letting anybody know exactly where they were going."

  “I’ve called in a criminal psychologist.” Peterson swung round, his hand raised to silence her, his expression smug. “Her name is Dr. Natasha Phillips and she has an excellent track record.”

  “I see.” Yvonne looked at her Chief through narrowed eyes, suspicious of his motives and even more suspicious of criminal psychologists.

  Peterson hadn’t finished. “Dr. Phillips has ten years valuable experience working with the Metropolitan and City of London police forces. I shall be expecting you to liaise regularly with her and to narrow your investigation down according to her profile of the killer.” He wanted a reaction. Yvonne stayed silent.

  “I hope I'll have your full co-operation on this, Yvonne. You're a good investigator but this is an unusual case.”

  “Yes, sir.” Yvonne stopped just short of sounding sarcastic. “I'll try to co-operate fully with the psychologist.”

  She thought better of telling him about a friend of hers, in a neighbouring force, led up a completely blind alley by a psychologist on a high-profile serial rape case. There were good psychologists and bad psychologists. Yvonne sincerely hoped, for everyone’s sake, that Natasha Phillips was among the former.

  25

  Michelle Davis sang softly to herself as she packed a rather large suitcase.

  “Take the shackles off my feet so I can dance. I just wanna praise you. I just wanna praise you.”

  In went two, elegant dresses and some risqué underwear, which she was busily folding with mixed emotions. The master excited her in ways she had never experienced. He made her ex-boyfriend seem tame. Dull. She had been one amongst many girls who vied for his attention. Trained by a mistress on the internet, she believed that, “to attract the best master you have to be the best slave”. The master was the best. He had chosen her. Her family and friends would never understand if she told them, nor would they approve of her desire to be dominated. In a strange way it was both erotic and reassuring for someone else to take control of her actions. It was a bit of fun though. Only fun. Anyway, she'd trained in judo, as a youngster and could handle herself in most situations, couldn't she? She'd been talking to The master for months and he had a heart of gold. She nodded emphatically to herself at this thought.

  Switching on her PC, she waited in the chatroom. It was busy that Saturday afternoon. Slaves carried out imaginary ‘serves’ for the masters and
mistresses, describing actions with words as they scrubbed floors, fetched exotic drinks and served up food.

  Michelle was thrilled to find the master in the room and even more thrilled that he wanted to speak to her straight away.

  26

  Master SlaveStalker: hello little one is it alright if I whisper to you?

  butterfly: yes it is Master 

  Master SlaveStalker: good . are you able to come down this week as planned?

  butterfly: yes Master  almost everything is ready

  Master SlaveStalker: are you nervous little one?

  butterfly: A little Master

  Master SlaveStalker: that will make it more fun don’t you think?

  butterfly: yes....it will.

  Master SlaveStalker: good. Remember, no-one must know of our plans. They would not understand.

  butterfly: this one knows that Master and will hold her tongue

  Master SlaveStalker: good girl.

  27

  The student struggled with her bike as she chained it to the iron railings of University Parks. She was in her own world, wiggling every now and then to the sounds from her iPod. Yvonne watched in amusement as she waited for David. She smiled lavishly when she saw him.

  He was flustered and all apologies for being late but Yvonne took his hand and squeezed it, in silent understanding. He placed an arm round her shoulders and they walked in mutual, contented quiet towards the tiny lake where they were to eat lunch.