DI Giles BoxSet

by Anna-Marie Morgan

  “Certainly.” The waitress smiled and passed it too him. He was not prepared for the headline news on the front of the Daily Mail nor for the picture shown of a bound and weeping Catherine.

  “No!”, he cried out loud as he sank bank in his seat to fully read the article. The waitress dropped her dishes.

  SHOTOVER SADIST STRIKES AGAIN

  Police are expected to issue a statement later today regarding the abduction of the latest Sadist victim, thought to be a Mrs Catherine Swann of Lansdown Cresent in Bath. A spokesperson for the police said today that they had received an email from the killer detailing the abduction along, with a photograph of the pleading victim (shown right).

  This is just the latest in a number of such abductions which have almost always resulted in the death of the victim, a notable exception being Caroline Rogers, a student who was returned to her parents alive, but who was unable to shed any light on her abductor.

  This latest abduction is believed to be the first time the Sadist has targeted a female in her own home and may signal a frightening new phase in his attacks. Police have been unable to locate the husband Mr Graham Swann but have urgently requested that he contact them as soon as possible. Mr Swann was recently questioned extensively by police during their search for the killer. It is unknown at this time whether he is involved with his wife's disappearance.

  Graham let out an agonised cry and jumped up, roughly pushing the cafe table away from him. He did not feel the boiling hot coffee as it spilled down his front. He had only one thought, and that was to get back to his home and to find out what the hell was going on.

  109

  You could have knocked the DI down with a feather. Peterson, whilst not being a pushover, was not making it too difficult.

  “And you're sure that this 'Master' is the same one Caroline Rogers described talking to on the net?”

  “Absolutely sure, sir. It would be too much of a coincidence were it not to be. Especially as all the characters she names are the characters in that chat room.” All she heard was silence. “I've been talking to him for a while now and he's swallowed my bait hook, line and sinker. Everything will be in place to pick him up. Well, that is if I can find a canary yellow dress and woollen hat.”

  “It's dangerous...”

  “I know, sir.”

  “What exactly do you need, Yvonne?”

  She punched the air silently, “I'll need to be wired. We'll need back up of at least one van of armed personnel who can be listening in to what's going on and be ready to roll when I give the signal. I know it will be an expensive operation but it’s our best chance of getting him and recovering Catherine alive.”

  “You do know I can't authorise this, it needs to go to the Chief Super.”

  “I know, sir, but you'll persuade him. Won't you?” She could almost hear his chest puff out on the other end of the telephone line.

  “You find the yellow outfit, I'll get agreement for the operation.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Oh and Yvonne...”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “No unnecessary risks.”

  “Right, sir.”

  110

  Tasha took the file from Yvonne's hands and replaced it with a mug of hot coffee. “Here, drink this. You must be really tired.”

  The DI gratefully took the mug, although her mind was clearly still following a train of thought, betrayed by the stare into middle distance.

  “Hello?” Tasha wasn't going to let it go.

  “I'm sorry, Tasha. I was miles away.” Yvonne was back in the room and now focused on the psychologist.

  As she took in the hand-ruffled chocolate hair, she began to recall the kiss and flushed. It had been a long time since she had felt that good in someone's arms and she had never dreamed that she would feel that good in another woman's arms.

  “How are your plans coming along for the big sting?” Tasha enquired, after reining in her own memories of that kiss.

  “Great so far. I just hope we can pull it off. There are so many things to remember to do and so many places it could all go wrong and send our killer to ground.” Yvonne sighed heavily.

  “How many guys are going with you?”

  “In the van? About ten. Plus there'll be some scouts around the platform. I will be watched from every angle and there's a comprehensive CCTV system which will be checked and rechecked prior to the sting. I'll have a wire tap taped to my body and pepper spray and cuffs in my jacket.”

  “I'm impressed you seem so on top of things.”

  “Well actually,” the DI pulled a self-deprecating face, “it’s been mostly out of my hands. Tech guys and metropolitan special ops are the people who've been drawing up the plans mostly. We've been liaising all day and I'm shattered.”

  “Well, while you've been planning all day, I've managed to do a little planning of my own and I can make sure we have a decent dinner tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?” The DI looked vague.

  “Err....Christmas day?” Tasha said in her 'Hello” voice.

  “Oh yes, of course. Christmas...I almost forgot.”

  111

  Graham just managed to get on the train and shut the door just as it began pulling out of the platform. When he had finished fighting to get his breath back, he leaned back against the door and let out a huge sigh of relief and checked his watch to estimate time of arrival.

  He was being watched by a small boy with a shock of red hair and more than his share of freckles. The boy was tugging at his mom's hand, trying to get her attention and frantically pointing at Graham.

  'What? What?' Graham wanted to say. What was so interesting about him that the little boy would be so intrigued. Then the boy began laughing which riled Graham even more. The boy's mum finally looked to see what her mischievous offspring was so curious about. She looked at Graham and then quickly pulled at the boys hand, disappearing into the next carriage.

  “What?” he said out loud, to no one in particular. It was then that he remembered the coffee and looked down at the very large stain on his shirt and trousers.

  “Oh, crap!” he muttered and dusted himself down with a hand in a futile attempt to get rid of some of the stain. It had long since dried.

  He drummed his fingers on the wall and kicked it with his feet, frustrated by the passengers who got on and off and slowed everything down. He had telephoned the police whilst in London and let them know that he was heading back to Bath. They had reassured him that he was not a suspect and that they were doing everything they could to recover his wife. They did, however, wish to speak with him.

  112

  Christmas morning was clear and sunny. A hard frost that night had left the air crisp and clear and the world just as white as if it had snowed all night. On the hedgerows outside, the cobwebs hung thick and proud and shook every now and then in the light breeze. His breath rose hot and misty as he gazed out from his front door.

  The world was quiet: no traffic, no pedestrians, no sirens and no yelps and screams from the direction of the local school. In fact, the eerie silence could have been taken straight from an excerpt of “The day of the Triffids”, when the protagonist has just woken up to find himself in a place where there is no other soul around. He liked it like this.

  Inside, everything was coming along nicely: the locally produced goose was cooking, the vegetables were prepared ready to go on the stove and the tree was decked with all the decorations he could find. The champagne was chilling on ice and Catherine was in the bath, one wrist handcuffed to the mixer tap. He'd left her there, telling her to clean herself thoroughly.

  Catherine had so far been relieved that he had not tried to rape her the night before. He had left her alone in that way in fact since he had kidnapped her and she was grateful. She couldn't help feeling that he was merely biding his time and that rape would surely be her fate. She took her time in the bath, putting off what she felt was inevitable. She rubbed her cut and bruised wrist which she had dam
aged in the struggle to free herself from the cuffs.

  The simple austerity of the bathroom suited him she thought. It suited what he had become and yet she knew that he had not always been like this. There had been a warm and caring version of the monster who wandered this house.

  He clearly took pride in his home and his possessions: the chromes, polished to a high finish; the artwork large and expensive; not a speck of dust that she could detect anywhere. However, the feel of the place was as cold as the man had now become. She wondered what had caused his bitterness not knowing, even now, that she might be at the root of it.

  She thought then of Graham. Oh how she missed Graham. She even missed the arguments she had had with him. She wondered how two people who loved each other so much could put such impossible distance between themselves. What was he thinking now that she had been kidnapped? What would he do if he knew who had taken her. She could picture his surprise. It would be the same surprise that she had felt.

  113

  Like a pale, china doll she sat in the dark leather armchair in front of the crackling log fire which was failing miserably to bring even the faintest colour to her faded cheeks. She hadn't taken even one sip from the glass of cream liqueur he had given to her. She just stared ahead of her, and appeared as though she had simply given up. This, however, couldn't have been further from the truth and behind that blank façade her brain desperately sought a solution to the situation she found herself in.

  She took in her surroundings, the rich purples of the deep-piled carpet, the huge canvas on the wall whose circular patterns appeared as though they also belonged on a carpet. She mused about how at odds this drawing room was compared to the clean, crisp, cream and black of the lounge-come-gadget room next door. They could have belonged to two distinctly different houses, two distinctly different owners.

  The smell of the goose cooking would ordinarily have given her a healthy appetite but not today. She felt only nausea which had begun in earnest when he had returned to the bathroom, earlier that morning, to find her sitting just as he had left her. Angrily, he had taken the soap and roughly thrust it into her hand, ordering her to use it and, when she failed to do so, he soaped his own hands and began to wash her himself.

  He was rough at first, but then began to enjoy it, and he slowed his intrusive exploration of her body and it made her wretch. She tried to take the soap from him, calling out as she did so, “Alright, alright. I'll wash myself, just give me the soap please.” The water pooled at the side of the bath where it splashed over.

  “You had your chance. You didn't do it so I'll do it for you.” He said as he continued to wash her himself.

  As she struck out at him, he caught her hand and forced her back in the bath.

  “Stop struggling or I'll drown you,” he said from between clenched teeth and beneath his fingers she watch the angry redness develop which would later become full, purple bruising. She truly believed him capable of anything and that included drowning her. That ordeal had lasted more than an hour. Now she sat in his drawing room while he attempted to play happy families and a grandfather clock chimed loudly in the background.

  It was mid day and she was wearing a dress he had forced her to wear and, if it wasn't the dress she wore at the Magdalene College ball the year Emma was murdered, then it was an exact replica.

  “Time to open your presents, Catherine.” The words were soft but the air was still thick with menace. He took a parcel from under the beautifully decked tree. The parcel was equally beautiful, wrapped in silver paper with ribbon and star bows. It had evidently taken him a very long time to wrap it.

  When she hurled his still-wrapped present against the far wall, there was a sound of smashing porcelain and another as the broken parcel hit the floor. She did not know what to expect, but certainly did not expect what followed. He roared words which were incomprehensible to her and ran to a cupboard, taking from it a cane. He came back towards her before she could leave her chair and brought it down with tremendous force down to where her neck met her shoulder.

  She screamed at the blow, thinking her collar bone would break as the pain shot down her arms. Then he began tearing at the dress to get it off her. She cried and fought back but he was ferocious and strong and her fragile frame was no match for him. As the dress ripped, and he forced it from her, she felt as though the material was cutting into her flesh.

  For a reason known only to him, he stopped short of tearing away her underwear. He dragged the sobbing woman onto all fours and brought the cane down onto her back. When she cried out again, he ordered her to be still and told her that if she moved he would kill her and she had no doubt that he meant it.

  She didn't know how long she stayed like that, minutes became hours, but she did know she ached all over. She could hear him in the kitchen. Could hear pots and pans and cupboards being opened and shut. She screamed a blood curdling scream as the hot food tumbled onto her back. He held her to prevent her moving until the searing, burning sensation became a numbing ache.

  “You are my table, whore,” he said and she felt the rubbing of a table knife as he cut food whilst it was on her back. She could not believe what he was doing.

  It had to be a nightmare and Catherine thought she must wake up soon but then she had been wishing that for what seemed like weeks now, ever since the police took Graham.

  She thought of Emma then and in a strange way, that thought gave her comfort. She had felt so much guilt about what happened to Emma partly because it happened to Emma and not to her. Why had her friend been murdered and not her? But mostly the guilt was about not looking out for her the night of the ball. It was about her having been so wrapped up in Graham that she did not notice that her best friend had disappeared. The girls had had an understanding that they looked out for one another and she had let Emma down. Perhaps this was her punishment for that.

  114

  It felt like they had been fumbling around forever. She knew everything had to be just right but her nervousness was making her more impatient than usual. The DI took a gulp of her orange juice and just tweaked the wire microphone so that it wasn't digging into her breast.

  “Is that comfortable now,” the tech asked her.

  “Yes, that's much better. Is it working okay?” She called over the radio.

  “We're hearing everything loud and clear here in the van,” an officer called back.

  “Okay, let's finish up and do the final checks.”

  New Year's Eve had finally arrived. The team had gotten together early to go through everything. They were working out of Scotland Yard today and Yvonne had had to fight her corner to be able to remain the decoy: there being several people who thought they might be better placed. Yvonne, if she was honest, did feel a little intimidated, as if she were a fish out of water with the big boys but she knew the Sadist as well as anyone and stood her ground. She feared that he would know if it was not dahlia on that platform and they would lose the whole Op and Catherine along with it.

  So there she was, on the train, five minutes from Paddington. The undercover Armed Response Vehicle was in place just off the platform. Undercover officers were milling with the shoppers and waiting passengers or else watching the flicking letters flapping out the different destinations and arrival times. Everything looked as it usually did. Everything was in place for the sting.

  She checked her look one more time. It had taken days to find an outfit in canary yellow and had taken a lot of begging and harassing of friends and markets to find just the right colours, but she believed that she had achieved it. She made an obedient slave she thought, and managed a smile.

  She carried out some last minute adjustments to her dress which was several sizes too large for her out of necessity. The wire tap had been taped firmly in place and would have stuck out like a sore thumb in her normal dress size. It felt thoroughly uncomfortable and she knew she would be left feeling sore but it was a necessary evil. She was grateful for the hat though as the temperatu
re was barely above freezing this morning and, since he hadn't specified footwear, she had gone for some calf-length leather boots so that her legs would be warm at least and the cream Mac courtesy of Oxfam, though old and thin, helped to keep out the wind.

  She imagined that every passenger in her carriage must have been able to hear her heart banging as the train began to slow for Paddington. The hand which she raised to straighten her hat shook as if it was the morning after a very heavy night on the booze. She looked around at the other faces but everyone was off in their own thoughts, and not a single gaze was upon her at that moment. People were busy packing away books and laptops and finishing conversations on mobile phones. Not one person noticed that she was on the verge of the mission from hell.

  She felt the weight of it all then. The enormity of what she had to do. The life of Catherine Swann depended on it and her own life might very well depend on it too, back up or no back up.

  She felt a familiar feeling well up and bit her lip whispering, “not now. Please not now.”

  Tasha had helped her so much where the attacks were concerned. She breathed deeply, in through her nose and out through her mouth. Long slow breaths. Long slow breaths. She dearly wished the psychologist was with her now.

  That was it, she was out on the platform and doing her best to look natural as she played the naïve young woman come to meet her Master. She checked her watch. eleven-seventeen am. She was one minute early and she knew this was right as she had synchronised her watch with the speaking clock the evening before.