DI Giles BoxSet

by Anna-Marie Morgan

  The second ‘Crimewatch’ featuring the Shotover Sadist had been aired five days earlier and all they had to show for it was a list of missing girls from all over the country. The disappearances of most of them were almost certainly nothing to do with their case at all.

  The possible murder suspects they received turned out to be weirdo’s with alibis; washing line prowlers and a man in filthy trousers held up with string who confessed to murdering all of the girls and being born in March, seventeen hundred and four.

  Two hands lightly gripped her shoulders. She hadn’t thought anyone else was still around. Tasha grabbed the chair next to her and sat on its side-saddle.

  “Want to talk about it?”, she asked with a wry smile.

  “Where did you spring from?”

  “Came in to check on something.” Tasha rubbed her cheek and turned her face away briefly, knowing this wasn’t strictly true. She had come back because the house had felt empty and she knew she would find the Inspector here. She had wanted to see her.

  “It’s just disappointing that we didn’t get more from the reconstructions.” Yvonne sighed.

  “I know. I’m surprised we didn’t get more too, especially as we included the food fetish. That really ought to have brought something out of the woodwork. Would you like another coffee?”

  Yvonne looked down at her mug, still two-thirds full; the contents beginning to separate and nodded. “He’s winning isn’t he? He’s laughing at us and there’s nothing we can do.”

  “Don’t get all despondent on me. How can he win when you’re on his case? I heard you got permission for the exhumation. Well done,” Tasha congratulated, as she pressed for hot water on the coffee machine. “When’s it going to happen?”

  Yvonne’s face relaxed a little. “Starting next week, I hope, providing the forensics team have everything ready.”

  “I've booked a table for us at Brown's for Dinner.” Tasha's tone left no room for refusal.

  Yvonne suddenly realised she was ravenous. She grinned, as she allowed the psychologist to steer her from her desk and down the corridor.

  Browns was a busy restaurant, located on St Giles, a street famous because it housed the Oxford Carnival. As they entered through the trendy glass front, the petite and distracted waitress popped a pencil above one ear. Placing a dog-eared pad in her breast pocket, she pointed them over to the bar. “I’ll let you know when a table’s free,” she said, clanking the till shut with an elbow.

  The open plan room invoked the Mediterranean, with rich smells of garlic and herbs and like some old fifties movie, a loose-tied piano player began fingering his last tune as Yvonne gratefully sipped her first mouthful of a dry but fruity Californian Chardonnay.

  The soft, refreshing airflow created by elegant overhead fans and the green, shiny opulence of the many indoor plants complimented the ambience to create an almost perfect atmosphere after a long day.

  “You’re less tense now,” Tasha observed, sipping her Budweiser.

  “I am?” Yvonne’s gaze was distant.

  “Hello. Earth calling Yvonne.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry Tasha. What were you saying?”

  Tasha laughed. “I wasn’t saying anything sensible, because I knew you weren’t listening.”

  “Okay, I’m sorry. I’m listening now.”

  “I haven’t got anything to say now.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you’re expecting me to say something and I’m on the spot.”

  “Well, tell me about yourself. You’re always listening to me, but you don’t give much away.”

  “There’s nothing to give away I’m afraid. My life’s very dull.” Tasha shrugged, embarrassed at suddenly being the centre of Yvonne’s attention.

  “I’m sure that’s not true. Is there a man? A potential Mr. Phillips?”

  “Err,no.” Tasha cast her eyes down and Yvonne’s curiosity was definitely peeked.

  “There is a man isn’t there…?”

  “No. There’s no man. If you must know there was a…”

  “Your table’s ready now if you’d like to follow me.” The petite waitress was back, beckoning them deeper into the room. Yvonne was sure she had glimpsed relief on Tasha’s face.

  As the waitress took their orders, Yvonne watched the psychologist closely.

  “What made you choose criminal psychology as a career?”

  “You know, even I don’t know the answer to that question. I knew I always wanted to be a psychologist. I love people watching. But criminal? I must be mad.” Tasha took a long swig of her lager.“When I was studying for my PhD, I had to read prison letters written by some of the most warped killers this country has ever seen. I interviewed them in prison and I would come away wondering who was more crazy - them or me, for wanting to understand what makes them tick.”

  “I’m not sure I would have had the stomach for it.”

  “Some of them almost managed to get inside my head. It was a constant battle to stay one step ahead and get information I needed from them and not them from me.”

  Yvonne watched with fascination at the animated way Tasha related her experiences. At last she felt she was getting to see the real person and not the clinical analyst.

  “I guess the studying kept you far too busy to have relationships.” Yvonne sipped her wine, kicked her shoes off under the table and stretched her toes in her stockings.

  “You’re not going to give up are you?” Tasha sighed in mock exasperation. “I think I should just leave you guessing”

  “Were you hurt?” Yvonne asked, her eyes narrow and concerned.

  Tasha ran her hand slowly up and down her glass and stared at the tiny bubbles making their winding way up through the yellow liquid.

  “I’m sorry, Tasha. I shouldn’t have pried. Forgive me.”

  “It’s alright, Yvonne. It was just a little complicated, that’s all.”

  “Perhaps you should talk about it. Even psychologists must need psychologising from time to time.”

  “I think you mean psychoanalysing.” Tasha giggled.

  “That, as well.”

  “Okay. Do you really want to know, Yvonne?”

  “If you want to tell me.”

  “That potential Mr Phillips…”

  “Yes?”

  “Was a potential Mrs Phillips. It was a woman.”

  Yvonne took a large mouthful of her wine and gulped it down, still staring at Tasha.

  “You’re surprised.”

  “Yes. I mean no. I mean…I…I guess I didn’t expect that.”

  “Does it affect the way you see me?” Tasha asked.

  “Not at all. No. Honest.”

  “I’m glad.” Tasha smiled warmly and with relief.

  Yvonne put her shoes back on under the table.

  65

  The DI was sat at her desk the next morning holding her head and pouring re-hydrate powder into a glass, a half-eaten banana left on her paperwork.

  “Ma’am.” Brian’s eyes were shining. “I think you need to take this call. Line one.”

  Yvonne took a small bite of the banana and picked up the receiver. “Yvonne Giles, hello?”

  “Hello. My name is Eileen Williams. I have some information. I need to talk to you about the Shotover Sadist. Can we meet?”

  The banana was tossed in the bin. “Where are you? Can you come to Oxford Police station?”

  “No. Not really. I live in London and I’d rather meet somewhere neutral, away from the press.”

  “What’s the information you have? Do you know who he is?” Yvonne couldn't quite believe what she was hearing.

  “Yes and no. I may be in contact with him.”

  “Are you in any danger?”

  “No. At least, I don’t think so. Look, my daughter lives in Oxford so I could meet you somewhere on the way, when I visit her.”

  Yvonne, aware of how nervous the caller seemed, did her best to sound reassuring. “I could meet you at your daughter's if you like
, Eileen.”

  “I'll meet you at Gloucester Green at two.” Eileen's reply seemed a little hurried. “It's by the bus station.”

  “I know, Mrs Williams. Thank you. I’ll see…” The line went dead.

  66

  Even when the sun was out it was only just warm enough to sit outside. The DI was seated on dirty-white plastic chairs, in the red-brick square of Gloucester Green, outside of the Bus Station Café. The pigeons had given up on obtaining food from her and had wandered off to pester someone else.

  The wind was steadily chilling its way through her body, as she watched the taxi’s coming and going. She thought about going into the cafe. The problem was she had no idea how Eileen would be travelling to Oxford, or what she looked like, so she did not know in which direction to watch for her.

  She smiled expectantly at every woman who approached within twenty yards and would then flush embarrassingly every time they walked pointedly away from her, as though she had a contagious disease.

  It was twenty-past-two when an out-of-breath woman, in a grey mac and head scarf, came scurrying into the square from the direction of George Street - looking around as though she were being followed.

  “Please god not another fruitcake,” Yvonne whispered through clenched teeth, as she stood to wave. This had to be Eileen Williams.

  The lady looked relieved and waved back, altering her direction to scurry directly to Yvonne’s table.

  “Mrs Williams?”

  “That’s right. I’m glad I found you and I’m really sorry for keeping you waiting like this, it’s just that I had to wait for a bus from the park and ride and I…”

  Yvonne held a hand up. “It’s alright. I appreciate you travelling here to talk to me. Would you like to go inside?”

  Eileen nodded and followed the DI into the café, into the smell of coffee and fresh sandwiches.

  Yvonne ordered two Lattés and took them to the window where Eileen was perched on a stool.

  “Okay, Mrs Williams. You said you had some information for me.”

  Eileen took off the scarf and smoothed her greying, sandy hair. A woman in her fifties, she appeared tired and fraught - deep furrows etched across her forehead. “I have. At least I hope I have.”

  Yvonne was doing her best to be patient. “Go on…”

  “I don’t really know where to begin. And when I have begun, I’ll wish I hadn’t begun and I’m worried about what you’ll think of me.”

  “What I’ll think of you?”

  “It’s all just meant to be fantasy you see. Nothing else. Just fantasy.”

  “Mrs Williams, I’m sorry, but you’re not making much sense. Can we start at the beginning?”

  Eileen put her lips to her latté and winced at the heat of it. “I use the internet. I use it a lot. It’s changed my life really. I was so lonely you see after my husband died.”

  “I’m sorry…”

  “He died of cancer, two years ago. I’m not one for going out really. For a while, after his death, I stopped going out altogether. I was almost agoraphobic.”

  Yvonne wondered where this was leading. “You mentioned the internet…”

  “Yes, the net really helped me. I made friends and could chat about anything really. Opened me up, it did.”

  “How does the Shotover Sadist fit into this, Mrs Williams?”

  “Ah well, Inspector. What if he's using the net to find his victims?”

  “You mean to tell me you drove all the way here, just to suggest to me that he might be using the net?” Yvonne sighed in exasperation, wondering if she had a sign on her head reading gullible.

  “No, wait. I didn’t come here just to make a suggestion.”

  The worried look on Eileen’s face made Yvonne immediately contrite. “I’m sorry, please carry on.”

  “I host a chat room on the net called ‘Citadels of Fire’. My chat name is Lady Firebird.”

  “Is there someone visiting the site with the name Shotover Sadist?”

  “No,but there is someone called Master SlaveStalker.”

  “Master SlaveStalker?” Yvonne’s look was one of bemusement.

  “It’s a BDSM site.”

  “Bondage, Domination and Submission?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you suspect him of being our killer?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Why?”

  “The site is a fantasy home where we act out rituals and ‘scenes’, some of it based on books.”

  Yvonne sat up sharply. Mrs Williams had her complete attention.

  “Books? Books about what?”

  “Fictional stories, based on a different world, where everyone is either a Master, Mistress or Slave. The slaves serve the Masters and Mistresses - take care of their every need.”

  “For real?”

  “Well no, usually just in fantasy. We write the actions as if we were doing everything for real. Slaves carry out ‘serves’, they describe what they are doing as they serve food and drink and do other things.”

  “Other things?”

  Mrs Williams blushed and she leaned over to whisper to the detective. “Sexual things, kissing, fondling and the like.”

  “What makes you suspicious of Master SlaveStalker?”

  “I saw ‘Crimewatch’ and they said that the Shotover Sadist carries out rituals involving food.”

  “What do the ‘serves’ involve?”

  “There are many different serves, but some of them involve the Masters eating their food from the slave’s body.”

  The DI was totally engrossed now.

  Eileen Williams continued. “Several girls who used to be regulars at my site have disappeared. I tried emailing them and the emails have been returned to me, saying the accounts are no longer open.”

  “Maybe they closed them.”

  “Maybe, but if the mail accounts are not used for a few weeks then they are closed automatically, by the mail provider.”

  “And you're worried that is what might have happened in this case?”

  “Yes and those girls were chased online by Master SlaveStalker. He used to chat to them and then he would start whispering them. One of the girls confided in me that he wanted her to meet him. He had sworn her to secrecy but she was really nervous and came to me for advice.”

  “What was her name?”

  “I wish I knew. I only knew her as Butterfly.”

  “Butterfly. Nice name. What did you advise her?”

  “I advised her that, if she really wanted to meet him, then she should make sure that it was in a very public place.”

  “Why did she come to you for advice?”

  “I was helping to train her and others in online etiquette.”

  “Etiquette?”

  “There are strict rules for BDSM chat in our chatroom, ways in which you have to behave with the Masters and Mistresses. The slaves must always be deferent.”

  “Tell me something Eileen.”

  “Yes?”

  “Are the slaves encouraged to speak about themselves in the third person?”

  “Yes.”

  Yvonne began to shake with excitement. “Eileen, I’m going to need to take down your contact details. We will need your help.”

  67

  The endless black, terrifying night was silent save for the sound of her own breathing inside the claustrophobic box. She was hot and she was cold. The heat of the box pushed her endurance to the limit as she felt the wet, clinging weight of her hair plastered to her face and neck. The back of her head ached where it rested on the hard wood. Every now and then she shifted position but this merely moved the ache to a different part of her head. Her lower back was covered in sweat, but the sweat was cold and it made her shiver in the blackness.

  She could feel grit beneath her shoulders, which dug into her skin like bee stings making their insidious way towards the bloodstream. Her ankles were chained to the table, preventing her from avoiding the spikes which pushed into her thighs. At first, these had
felt like fires in the backs of her legs, but now she hardly noticed them.

  It was hours since he had visited her, trailing his knife along her breasts and sides, cutting the upper layers of her skin, which was pale gooseflesh in the lamplight. The wounds stung as the salty perspiration penetrated them and she felt branded. He might as well have carved his name in her.

  She wondered, in the blackness, if she could ever look the same as she had before his torture of her and chided herself for being vain at a time like this.

  She held her breath as the footsteps grew closer. He was coming back. Her fear caused her to hyperventilate. She couldn’t get enough air and was almost relieved when he unlocked the head box.

  The light appeared to be coming from a single source and it hurt. She closed her eyes as he began releasing her from the chains. She tried to speak but the back of her throat was dry and cracked. Little more than a croak escaped her lips. He had brought water and an apple. Grabbing the hair at the back of her head, he snapped it back, pouring water into her mouth as it opened by reflex. She spluttered and gasped and felt more water spill down her than she was able to drink. She gripped the apple between painful fingers and began to eat. He walked away from her then and she thought that he must be about to leave.

  The first crack of the whip took the apple clean out of her hands. She gasped with shock and disappointment. She had not realised she was so hungry. The second crack sent shockwaves through her shoulder blades, the pain creating a knot so tight in her stomach, she thought she would throw up. She heard him laugh and tried again to speak. She wanted to tell him how sick she thought he was, but only a whimper escaped. He ran back and grabbed a handful of hair, spinning her round, to bend her hard over the rough wooden table. When he entered her, she cried out and pleaded with him to let her go. Her answer was the screech as the table jerked on the floor.

  There was frantic activity back at the incident room. Yvonne had requested an urgent meeting and everyone had dropped what they were doing to answer the call. Two guys from IT were also present, at Yvonne’s behest.