DI Giles BoxSet

by Anna-Marie Morgan

  “What d’you mean?”

  “Well, Peterson took you off the case and put Mike in charge. If we don’t get results and quick the press’ll murder us. Correction, the press’ll murder him. Changing the lead investigator in the middle of a murder inquiry smacks of a balls-up.”

  “It’s only a temporary change. I’m only on a fortnight’s leave for heaven’s sake!” Yvonne was not happy with how permanent this takeover was beginning to sound.

  Brian did not respond.

  “Brian?”

  “Uh-huh?”

  “Do you know something I don’t?”

  “Like what?”

  “You’ve gone awfully quiet..”

  “Well rumour has it that Mike’s been drawing up plans for the next month.” Brian sighed, as though he did not want to be the messenger.

  “Oh, has he…?”

  “He might just be organising stuff ready for your return,” he added quickly.

  “Hmm.” Yvonne was not so sure.

  “Oh by the way, we’re pretty sure we know the identity of the girl that the killer’s holding.”

  “That’s fantastic. Who is she? When did you find out?” Yvonne's voice was shaking now.

  “Her name is Caroline Rogers and she’s a law student. Got the news yesterday.”

  “How did you find out?”

  “We got a call from her parents, checked out the circumstances of the disappearance, same story. She took two weeks holiday from College and said she was going to stay with an old school friend in Ealing. We checked out the school friend and she knew nothing about Caroline coming to stay and in fact hadn’t seen her for two years.”

  “Any chance she may have been going to Ealing to meet someone else?”

  “Metropolitan uniform have been taking pictures of Caroline around Ealing since yesterday afternoon to see if anyone has seen her. So far no luck. No one’s seen her.”

  “What about London cabbies? Anybody ask them?”

  “Yep, pictures have been sent to all London cab firms. Nothing so far.”

  “Where’s she from?”

  “Surrey. She’s at UCL, studying Law.”

  “Are you going to check out her college room and her parent’s home?”

  “Mike’s organising that as we speak.”

  “Is he…”

  Brian coughed and it sounded like embarrassment.

  “Brian?”

  “Yes, guv?”

  “Keep me posted.”

  “Right, guv.”

  “Daily.”

  “Right, you are.”

  “You’d better.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Brian chuckled and so did the DI, as she clicked the phone shut and went through to the kitchen to make herself a strong filter coffee before going through to the dining room. Spread out, all across the dining table were copies of the forensic photographs and printouts of the Master’s internet conversations. She tapped her index finger on the glass of the table. What would his next move be?

  Caroline awoke from another fitful sleep and slaked her thirst from the two-litre bottle of spring water which he had left her. She had long finished the saucepan of boiled potatoes and cabbage, which he had also left her.

  Lack of food, for what must have been at least two days, had created the gnawing pain in her belly which made her long for his swift return with the food she craved. At the same time the thought of his return made her feel like vomiting back the water. She couldn’t cry anymore. It was days since she had last cried.

  Strangest of all was the feeling of self-loathing which was tearing her mind to pieces. How clear it all seemed after the fact. Of course she should never have agreed to meet a stranger off the internet. She was far too bright for that. She was reminded then of the old adage, ‘if something sounds too good to be true it probably is,’ and regretted her dogged independence and wilfulness.

  It would soon be Christmas. She imagined the tree with its baubles, tinsel and chocolates. The unopened presents which would wait under it for whenever – if ever – she returned home again. She thought of her mother then and was certain that if she never returned home the little surprises destined for her would forever remain unopened just as they had been left; her room untouched. Her clothes, her posters, her books and letters all left forever as they were.

  Still, she waited in the black hole of the darkness which was her prison. At times, it felt as though she were above herself, floating light-headedly somewhere about ceiling level and looking down upon her own wanton wretchedness. Beneath her was an up draught like that created when the land is warmed by the sun. She could feel the sun on her back and warmth of the spiralling air. She loved that – the floating feeling. It came regularly but when it disappeared again the pain from her wounds was that much sharper.

  90

  He stood in the back, right-hand corner of the square facing Bath Abbey. Every now and then he caught a glimpse of the impressive front façade, with its face-worn statues of bishops and monarchs past. These glimpses only lasted as long as the gaps between the throngs of shoppers. Intruders. Irritating barriers between himself and his quarry. The Roman baths and pump rooms stood to his right and across the square to his left were coffee shops and a long-haired traveller on a unicycle juggling fire sticks. His eyes wandered back to her.

  She had donned dark glasses as the harsh winter light hurt her eyes. He watched as she stood very still, head tilted to one side her shoulders hunched, listening to the strains of the lone flautist. Her grey-blonde hair, tied back in a simple but elegant pony-tail, seemed as though it was set alight in the fire of the winter sun but although she was listening, her thousand yard stare looked through and far beyond the musician. The hollowed cheeks and deepened lines bore testament to the traumatic events of the past few weeks.

  He felt a pang that felt almost like regret. To want to hurt someone so much as to completely destroy them and yet not want to hurt them at all but to love them; protect them; keep the monsters away. Keep himself away. He hated her with love.

  91

  Yvonne threw down her copy of The Times. The headlines screamed the accusations she knew must be on everybody’s lips.

  Sadist investigator incompetent: lead detective told to take a break.

  It hurt. It hurt a very great deal and yet there was a part of her that thought it was no more than she deserved.

  Spread across the table in notes, drawings, photographs and scraps of chatroom conversation were the nuts and bolts and screws of this case. A meccano set without the instruction leaflet. A disparate pile of bits which held the answer to this whole mess and still she could not fit them together. Somewhere in this soup the killer lurked and he had all the control. Somehow they had to prise that control from his grip.

  92

  Grab your coat!”

  “Grab my coat? Why?”

  “The Chief wants you back in here, pronto.”

  “I don’t understand…,” Yvonne stared hard at the phone. “Have you been running?”

  Brian took a deep breath, blowing it out before continuing, “Sorry. I’ll start again. The Chief has asked for us all –you included - to be in the incident room in thirty minutes sharp.”

  “But I’m on leave…”

  “Correction, You were on leave.”

  “Brian what’s going on?”

  “They’ve found more remains. Could be a dozen or more bodies. Forensics are flat out.”

  “Bodies? Where?”

  “Some field out near Stokenchurch. They’re calling it the Slaughter Field.”

  “The press have got hold of this already?”

  “They’re crawling all round the area and they’re camped outside our bloody station.”

  “Wait a minute, the bodies, are they fresh?”

  “No, old. Some of the remains may have been there 10 to twenty years!”

  “How were they found?”

  “We got an email telling us they were buried there.”

  “Fro
m the killer?”

  “Yes, so he said. Didn’t take it seriously at first. Then he started naming them.”

  “All missing girls?”

  “All of them.”

  “How many did you say?”

  “Ten, at least…”

  “Oh God, I’ll be right there.”

  93

  Things were going from bad to worse: at first, the field was hard frozen after a severe frost. This had made it an arduous task for the excavation team and slowed the whole process to a frustrating pace for the waiting detectives. Now the rain had come and the whole field was fast becoming a quagmire.

  Already, six complete skeletons had been found and bones from at least four others. The body bags were lined up at the edge of the field, their charcoal black a symbol of the general mood. Yvonne had never seen so many SOCO and forensic personnel in one place. Even so, the only chattering came from the birds which descended on the holes newly vacated by the bodies.

  Yvonne watched the steam from her own breath and the overwhelming feeling of watching eyes was with her again. She turned in circles to search the trees and hedges with her own anxious eyes. She saw more police and press men plus the odd spectator or two but these were being kept well back, beyond the police cordon. Was the sadist among them? Yvonne found Jo zipping up another bag.

  “This one looks intact.” She grimaced.

  “Have you found any with bones missing?”

  Jo’s knees clicked loudly as she rose, pushing back the hair from her face with mud-covered gloves, something she had done several times judging by the smears on both cheeks. She had the appearance of a creature fresh from the swamp but seemed neither to notice nor to mind, so engrossed was she in the vital work she was carrying out.

  “Of the ones I’ve looked at, no I don’t think so. Won’t know for absolute sure until we examine them all properly back at the lab. There’s a good deal of cleaning up of the remains to do first. Did you want to speak to the Professor?”

  “Yes, actually. Is he around?”

  “Over there…” Jo peeled off a glove and pointed to the far corner of the field, where the Professor was bent over another find.

  Yvonne made her way through the forensic and anthropological obstacle course.

  “Professor?”

  “Inspector…this one is number eleven.”

  Yvonne felt the biting cold of the wind for the first time. “Jo seems to think most of these bodies are intact. No bits missing.”

  “Seems that way. Were you expecting missing parts?”

  “I just thought…after Emma…”

  “Ah yes, the baby. There doesn’t seem to be a pattern of trophy taking.”

  The freshly exposed skull seemed to mock her, the eerie grin of the teeth unnerving her; giving her the feeling of fingers creeping up her back. Yvonne turned her head away and it was then that she saw Tasha approaching around the edge of the field. It was a relief to see the psychologist and Yvonne was immediately aware that she felt warm at the sight of her. She expressed that warmth in her smile as Tasha drew level. Tasha returned the compliment, “Well, we no longer need to wonder whether our perpetrator spent any time in prison…”

  “No,” Yvonne concurred, “He never did stop killing did he. So many women. So many girls. But why change his signature with the most recent killings?”

  “He hasn’t changed his signature as such, just his MO. The signature is what he does to get off with these women: the rituals which give him emotional fulfilment. They haven’t changed but in leaving the bodies exposed, he’s significantly changed his MO. In my opinion there must have been some sort of large, possibly life-altering event, that has made him want to project his crimes for the world to witness. Something has made his mission more urgent.”

  “What sort of life-changing event might that be?”

  “Not sure, but could be something like the death of a loved one, the impending death of his target or…”

  “Or?”

  “Or he may have been diagnosed with a terminal illness himself.”

  “Oh my god… in which case he would hardly care in the long term if he were exposed as the killer.”

  “Exactly!”

  “We can talk to doctors but it’s going to be a bugger getting through patient confidentiality unless we have a very solid suspect. They’re not going to hand over patient records willy nilly.”

  Tasha was thinking hard and Yvonne watched, studying her face. “You have long eyelashes…”

  Tasha looked up in surprise.

  “Sorry, I don’t mean to be rude. It just slipped out. But you do.”

  “Well, thank you. I think.”

  “I’d better be heading back. Peterson and I dare say Mathews will be pacing and gnashing their teeth waiting for me to let them know what’s going on.” Yvonne tried in vain to brush the mud specks from her skirt. “I’ll see you back at the station”.

  “Well there isn’t really anything for me to do here so I’ll come with you.”

  Yvonne shrugged, “Fine.”

  94

  Row upon row of pathetic remains lay on trolleys in the morgue.

  The images burned themselves into Yvonne’s mind. She found herself musing over the fact that even in death, even when reduced to mere skeletons, she could still see the differences in the shapes of the skulls; the lengths of the thigh bones; the size of the hands…and the feet.

  They were all still individuals: as different on the inside has they had been on the outside before this…before death. But that’s where the differences ended now. There would be no difference in the pitch, timbre or melody of the voice. No differences in their laughter or the way they tossed their heads. No differences in the way they walked down the street or danced to their favourite tune. No difference in the way they screamed at the hands of their murderer.

  “More than half of them were strangled.” Henderson handed her copies of his notes.

  “And the others?”

  “Body seven’s head had been taped up. There was a drinking straw present that would almost certainly have been inserted into one nostril. She probably died from suffocation most likely brought on by panic.”

  “Oh no…” the image was not one that Yvonne relished.

  “What about the rest?”

  “Unclear. No evidence of strangulation. Body ten has clear cuts on her ribs suggesting she was stabbed several times. Body nine may have choked on her own blood and teeth.”

  “On her own blood and teeth?”

  “Just a guess, but,” Henderson took Yvonne to the relevant trolley, ”she was hit so hard, most of the teeth in the front of her mouth were knocked out and her jaw cracked. It’s an educated guess that she was probably left in that state. If she was tied up and unable to help herself, and particularly if she was on her back, she could have died very quickly. Possibly she vomited and choked on that.”

  “Oh no…” Yvonne said again.

  “Our anthropology friends will be here soon. They may be able to add something. But what I’ve found so far is all in there anyway.” Henderson nodded towards the notes in her hand.

  “Thanks, David.” Yvonne’s head was full of the images of the girls’ last moments and she knew she’d be seeing those images for some time to come – awake or asleep.

  95

  On her way back, she saw Mike’s hulking frame as he approached hesitantly along the corridor to meet her. It was as though he wanted to say something but was struggling to find the words. He couldn't meet her eyes.

  “It’s Okay, Mike. I know it wasn’t your fault.” Yvonne did her best to reassure him.

  “It’s good to have you back at the helm, ma’am.” His voice and smile signified his intense relief that there would be no bitterness.

  The DI understood how he must have been torn, but it was relief, tinged with a little disappointment that she read now in the deep lines on his forehead. They had been colleagues and friends for a long time. They understood each other. The
y would never be best buddies but they had a deep and enduring admiration and respect for one another. They also had the sense to realise when Peterson was playing politics.

  “Mike, I want you to talk to the farmer. Find out what he knows. Take Debs and go round the neighbours. Someone must have seen something. Who knows, we could get a description of a vehicle. That would be something at least.”

  “No worries Ma’am. We’ll get right on it. Oh and…thanks for being so understanding.” Mike's step was more fluid as he walked away.

  Yvonne pushed open the door to what would have been her cramped office, except that it wasn’t cramped now. There was no-one sitting at the tiny desk in the corner.

  The swivel chair with the wonky wheel had been neatly pushed underneath. Everything was tidy: the little pile of books, the note paper, pen and ruler. Yvonne recalled how put out she had been, the first day, when she had found an intruder busy settling into her office. Now it didn’t seem right that the corner was empty, the psychologist having taken special leave in order to attend an international profiling conference in Paris.

  If Yvonne closed her eyes she could picture Tasha sat there working, the sunlight from the window bouncing off the gel in the spiky, chocolate hair. Picture the way, every once in a while, she sat back and flexed her tired shoulders. Then she asked herself why. Why did she feel the urge to see the doctor? She had to admit to enjoying Tasha’s company more and more. She was secretly flattered by the attention the psychologist had been paying her but the tingling feeling it created was perhaps less welcome because it signalled a change in their relationship, albeit one of which Tasha was completely unaware.

  Yvonne was straight. She was sure of that and yet the acute jab she had felt at seeing the empty desk was the same as the one which had taken her by surprise that morning as she breakfasted alone. This left her feeling uncertain about her feelings. She had been on her own since David and, in recent years, was not used to the emotions of attachment. In fact she had gone out of her way to avoid them: purposely spending her leisure time alone.