SLAUGHTER OF INNOCENTS

by M. G. Cole

  She partially pulled away the sheet to reveal the woman lying face down, her head angled to one side so they could see her face. Her hands were splayed out either side of her head. Her mouth and nose were submerged in two inches of puddle water, which was clouded with blood.

  Garrick knelt to get a better look at her. She wore a thick coat, and a grubby yellow jumper just underneath. Everything was shabby. Her nails were long and dirty. Black hair tumbled beyond her shoulders and spilled into the puddle, half concealing features that hinted at Middle Eastern origin.

  “SOCO find any ID?”

  “CSI found nothing.” Was there a hint of correction in her tone? Or was Garrick imagining it? The term Scene of the Crime Officers was the one he had used all his career, now the younger generation, perhaps obsessed by glamorous American television, were trying to inject their own vocabulary onto things. He wouldn’t be surprised if he started finding reports from young officers marked with LOLs, OMGs, and the occasionally smiley face, on witness statements.

  You’re beginning to sound ancient, he warned himself.

  “From her clothes and appearance, my guess would be Turkish perhaps? She hasn’t looked after herself. Her nails had dirty embedded in them and the palms look rough.”

  “An immigrant maybe?” Garrick saw a twitch of disapproval on Okon’s face and dreaded that he would have to pick his words with more care. He didn’t have the time or patience for that.

  “Not necessarily an illegal immigrant.”

  “That’s not what I was implying,” Garrick said, even though that was precisely what he meant. “Cause of death?”

  “Not sure. From the looks of it, she was still alive when her assailant did this to her.”

  Okon pulled back the rest of the sheet. The woman’s coat had been sliced open with razor sharp cuts to three sides, before being parted to expose her back. Her jumper and an underlying black t-shirt had been cut with one stroke down the back, and those garments had been peeled way too, revealing her naked back.

  The skin had been removed.

  Muscle and dried gelatinous globs of yellowish fat were framed by the edges of skin that remained, following the contours of her body. It looked like some sick Damien Hirst sculpture.

  Dropping the corner of the sheet, DS Okon covered her mouth and gagged. Garrick was at least impressed that she held her ground. He moved for a closer look at the cut.

  “It looks smooth. No hack marks that I can see. Like a hunter skinning his catch.”

  “Why would anybody do this?”

  Garrick motioned that she should replace the sheet and stood up. He looked around the carpark.

  “That’s the question. Some illegal immigrants come over with tattoos,” he tapped his own forearm, “with bank codes for laundered money, that sort of thing. But I doubt anybody would tattoo it on their back.”

  He stepped away, slowly walking around the recycling bank.

  “The killer didn’t go to any lengths to hide the body.”

  Okon followed him, lining herself up to see his point of view. The victim’s upper torso was clearly visible from almost anywhere in the carpark.

  “He didn’t care if she was found or not.”

  “Or he wanted her to be found.”

  The superstore’s car park was secluded enough from the rest of the retail park. He could just see a McDonald’s with a queue of traffic in the drive-through lane. A large dirty white American style motorhome was parked on the road and behind it, a pet shop delivery van. As he watched, a couple of local reporters climbed from their cars, protecting their SLRs from the rain as they approached the police line. Even on the busiest of nights, Garrick doubted anybody at the restaurant would have seen anything down here. “Check Maccies for any surveillance cameras.”

  “I already have. They have one in the car park and the others around the drive-through, and two inside. We’re getting their recordings.”

  “And the shop–”

  “Closes at ten. The body was found by a member of staff gathering trollies at ten past seven this morning.”

  Garrick glanced at his watch, a nice black diver’s watch from Guess, with a red inner ring. He’d bought it in duty free one holiday a decade ago and loved it ever since. It was twenty-past ten already.

  “How long have you been here?”

  “About an hour, sir. I’ve already interviewed him, but if you want to ask him anything…”

  Garrick gave her a bemused smile. “I’m sure there is nothing more I can add to your thorough coverage.”

  Okon straightened with a sense of pride. Garrick had intended to be sarcastic, but it had come out as a genuine compliment. In fact, he was feeling a little redundant. His previous DS had been good, always following correct procedure, but he hadn’t actually employed any initiative and done anything without being told. Well, at least Okon hadn’t yet gathered any general statements.

  She pulled out her notepad, a sensible black leather one filled with perfectly legible writing, not the scrawl he associated with most coppers, which was one step away from a doctor’s handwriting.

  “I took some general statements from the McDonald’s manager and a couple of staff. They often have many foreigners pass through on the way to Dover or waiting for the Channel Tunnel, but they admit some look a little rougher and hungrier.”

  Garrick silently prompted her to explain.

  “Possible illegal immigrants.”

  “Fancy that,” Garrick added sarcastically. Since Brexit, illegal immigration continued pretty much as before. So much for safeguarding the borders. The poor deluded sods convinced that the UK was some bright centre point of ideal life. He looked up at the sky as fat raindrops struck his eye, forcing him to squint. What he wouldn’t give to be lying on the beach in Spain, complaining about how hot it was.

  “Although the Londel manager,” she indicated to the superstore, “said they seldom came this far down the park.”

  “Hard to microwave a ready meal when you’re sleeping rough.”

  Garrick watched a line of SOCOs, in their damp white coveralls, slowly march across the car park looking for any evidence. There were many black tyre marks across the asphalt, each one was being photographed. Londel must get thousands of people through the door each day, so it was improbable anything would stand out. It would add a mountain of useless data to the case file, but it was all necessary. Just in case.

  Just in case. That had become his career mantra. He turned away from the shop and looked beyond the recycling bank at the tall trees lining the perimeter of the retail park.

  “How do you think she got her?” he asked thoughtfully.

  Okon folded her pad shut and put it back in the inside pocket of her jacket.

  “Hard to say at this point, sir. She’s too far from the shops, so maybe she was killed elsewhere and dumped here.”

  “Mmm…” Garrick walked back to the body, circling once more around it until he stood at the edge of the grass verge next to the trees. Through them, he could see a housing estate. About sixty yards away was a paved walkway that residents used to access the shops.

  “Those recycling containers, that one there is for old clothes.”

  “Yes. So?”

  “From the way she is dressed, she could well be homeless. What if she came here for fresh clothing?”

  “So she was a victim of circumstance. The killer acted on impulse.”

  “It’s a line to consider.”

  He finished his tea in one long gulp and motioned to throw it in a nearby bin, but stopped himself. This was a crime scene. The bins would all be emptied and examined back in a lab. Instead, he scrunched the cup up and put it in his coat pocket. He took out his mobile phone and had problems unlocking it as rain splattered the screen. Okon came to his rescue with the umbrella.

  While he wasn’t completely au fait with technology, the tech boom in the nineties had bypassed him completely, he felt pretty adept at using his phone at least. Accessing Google maps, he z
oomed out of their position. The retail park was surrounded by busy A-roads, with the M20 to the north. A quarter mile northwest was the Eurotunnel terminal. “This is a risky place for a murder,” he said.

  “Sorry?”

  “Even with the shop closed, there are only a few entry points to the park.” He moved around the map to show her. “I count four roads entering, possibly five, but still not many. That restricts vehicle access. Housing estates on three sides,” he indicated to the map’s east, south and west. “And a motorway here.” He saw that Okon wasn’t quite following. In his mind’s eye, Garrick was seeing the scope of the investigating already widening to engulf all the resources he had at his disposal. “We will need to go door-to-door. Ask if anybody had seen anything suspicious. Try to gather footage on home security cameras. Any businesses with cameras at the entrance points to the park itself.”

  He slowly turned, trying to imagine the buildings and roads hidden from view around him.

  “The injury to the body must have been pre-planned. It’s far too time-consuming to be a spur-of-the-moment decision. Taking a trophy like that is predetermined behaviour.”

  “Why would the killer want the body to be found?”

  Garrick took his time to answer. “Perhaps taking the skin was a message. One the killer wanted broadcast as soon as possible.” His gaze moved back to the journalists who were aiming their telephoto lenses in his direction.

  “A message to whom?”

  4

  For the rest of the day, David Garrick battled the overwhelming feeling of redundancy. DS Chibarameze Okon had deployed ruthless efficiency in putting the team into action. She and Garrick had stayed until the body had been taken away for post-mortem analysis, then they returned to his beige Land Rover Discovery, and, after the engine turned over on the second attempt, they were finally on their way back to the incident room.

  Okon wasted no time in setting up the various work files on HOLMES and organizing the investigation. Conversely, Garrick wasted twenty minutes as Harry helped him battle IT so that he could get logged onto the system. For some reason, Garrick’s absence had reset all his passwords. It was past lunchtime, but as he wasn’t feeling hungry. Skipping lunch, he sat reading about the last case he had fleetingly been a part of with his old DS, Wilson. He had paid no attention to Wilson’s updates while he was on leave, but the recent victim’s unkempt nails rang a distant bell.

  Opening the case files, he was greeted with photographs of the corpse. A pretty young woman with subtle Mediterranean features and curly black hair. Despite their best efforts, they had never identified her, and suspected that she was of Kurdish origin. All signs pointed to her being an illegal immigrant as no centres or friends had reported her missing. She had been stabbed in the stomach and died over a forty-minute period.

  Garrick read on with growing concern. While she was alive, her attacker had torn open the front of her clothes and carefully skinned her stomach from below the breasts to the top of her pubic area. The cut was not as clean or smooth as today’s victim. Several hesitation marks indicated she had struggled and received a violent punch across the face to subdue her. There were no signs of sexual abuse.

  Today’s case was a carbon copy. Worse, since the details had never been made public, they were looking at a serial killer. He couldn’t rule out that the skinning was a message. They were both young women - possibly illegal immigrants. If it wasn’t a message, then they were dealing with a trophy hunter. Somebody who was collecting skins for some sick reason.

  DS Wilson had found evidence of footprints in the area, but the body had been found on the much-trod Pilgrim’s Trail to Canterbury, it was impossible to tell if any of them were relevant. As far as could be ascertained, the girl had walked to her death on a possibly pre-planned rendezvous with her murderer.

  Garrick sat back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. He should call Wilson and touch base with him. Try to see if there were any details that might trigger other connections. He scrolled through his phone, noticing several emails from HeartFelt, a dating website his sister had signed him up to. He’d been on one date, but nothing had come of it. But now somebody had tapped his profile, a hint that she was interested. God knows he could do with some friendly company, but there was a sense of fear that his creaking social skills would let him down.

  He had an email from John Howard, a bookseller with a quaint store in the village of Wye. He had known John since he had moved to Kent. A good decade older, he had always proved to be an intellectual sounding board for past cases, and the only confidant Garrick had. John’s shop, The Pilgrim’s Tale, was a welcome haven in the picturesque village of Wye. Garrick tried to shun the bigger stores and online retailers, and favoured the smaller independents. In John’s case, he specialised in second-hand books and made all his profit via his online store. The email was to say that he’d finally tracked down a book on fossil restoration that Garrick had been after for some time.

  He finally found the last email he’d had from Wilson on January second. His finger hovered over the reply button, he couldn’t bring himself to press it. The next email underneath was from his therapist, confirming their appointment for tomorrow. He’d forgotten about that, even though they had both agreed that a session after his first day back at the job would be beneficial. Seeing the reminder made him depressed. How does one go about telling your therapist that she makes you feel depressed?

  He searched the Internet for the address of Napier Barracks, part of an ex-Army base now used to house illegal immigrants. It was only two miles from where today’s body had been found. He made a call to Guiding Hands, a church run charity set up to offer assist those who made it across. He and arranged to the organiser who had excellent links with Napier. Double checking he had pictures of both victims on his phone, he sought out DS Okon and informed her about his discovery.

  “Serial Killer?” Okon said in surprise as Garrick ground the Land Rover’s gears to find third.

  He caught her reaction. “There’s nothing wrong with my driving. The gearbox on this thing needs an overhaul.”

  Okon flicked the sun visor in front of her. It swayed with the motion of the car and refused to stay in place. Then it fell from its small metal arm and landed in her lap.

  “Your whole car needs an overhaul, sir.”

  “I happen to love this car.” Okon tactfully remained silent. “What do you drive?”

  “A Nissan Leaf,” she said proudly.

  “One of those electric toys?” He laughed. “They might be fine in the city, but this is the Garden of England.” He gestured to the bleak motorway in front of them. The traffic had been forced into two narrow lanes and reduced to 50 mph, just to keep extra lanes free for the inevitable build-up of lorries when too many tried to make it across the Channel. Every day they were hampered by paperwork, rule changes, bad weather, strikes and just about anything else the Continent could throw at them. It also throttled local traffic, making it harder to travel anywhere in the county. “There are lots of country lanes and very few charging stations out here.”

  Okon pouted. “I have never had a problem. So, a serial killer?”

  There was a trace of excitement in her voice, one that Garrick was quick to temper.

  “I know how that sounds. Career pay dirt if we crack it, but don’t get too excited. We don’t know that for sure. It could be two different people. Hell, it could be a coincidence. And two killings, technically, don’t make a serial killer.”

  He glanced at his DS and saw the words hadn’t dampened her enthusiasm. He signed and shook his head to downplay the idea, even though inside, he felt the same spark of intrigue. He had never been part of such a case.

  “The priority at this moment is to make sure the press doesn’t get wind. Shout ‘serial killer’ at them and your tossing petrol onto a fire, while dancing naked in front of it.”

  Okon frowned. “I do not get your analogy.”

  “It’ll burn your balls off.”

&
nbsp; They met Trisha Warren on the corner of North Road and Cromwell Park Place, just opposite the base. She had been surprised when Garrick had turned in and beeped the horn of his aging Land Rover.

  Trisha hurried to the window and spoke with a West Country accent. “Sorry we couldn’t meet closer, but there’s all double-yellows around the base.” She nodded towards her little Red Mini parked outside a house. A a silver crucifix bobbed around her neck. “That’s as close as I could get. They only ever let me inside on official business, and that takes ages to sort out. I sometimes think they don’t like the idea of immigrants having rights.”

  She climbed in the rear seat and introduced herself to Okon.

  “I started the Guiding Hands charity for the church over a year ago now. It’s been quite a success. We put them in touch with legal aid, help with asylum claims, and try to arrange work placements for those who need it. It’s not just immigrants, of course. Anybody who needs help is welcome.”

  Okon nodded approvingly. Using his phone, Garrick showed her pictures of both murdered girls.

  “Do you recognize either woman?”

  Trisha looked long, then passed back the phone. “We get so many through, it’s hard to remember.” She passed the phone back. “We had a detective asking last year.”

  “That would be DS Wilson.”

  “He turned up nothing. He came down here too. The ones housed in Napier Barracks are the lucky ones, despite what you might think. At least they have somewhere warm and dry to sleep.”

  They drove around the corner and, after some badge waving and confirmation that Garrick had called earlier, they were allowed onto the base. Garrick parked the car and stepped out with a little trepidation. He had expected to face something resembling a prison block, with scowling, unfriendly faces. Instead, Trisha leapt from the car and greeted the site’s general manager with a broad smile and a giggly, “how are the kids!”

  After a brief introduction, the manager, a Mr Daniels, had assured them they could wander around and talk to whoever they liked. The single story brick barracks ran in neat rows, like something out of an old war movie. Indeed, the site had been in constant use since 1794, and had seen the United Kingdom through every war since.