The Murder Mile
Lesley McEvoy
Contents
1. 3 August
2. 3 August
3. 3 August
4. 3 August
5. 3 August
6. 3 August
7. 3 August
8. 3 August
9. 3 August
10. 3 August
11. 3 August
12. 3 August
13. 4 August
14. 4 August
15. 4 August
16. 4 August
17. 4 August
18. 5 August
19. 5 August
20. 6 August
21. 7 August
22. 7 August
23. 7 August
24. 7 August
25. 7 August
26. 7 August
27. 7 August
28. 8 August
29. 21 August
30. 21 August
31. 25 August
32. 28 August
33. 30 August
34. 31 August
35. 6 September
36. 7 September
37. 8 September
38. 9 September
39. 9 September
40. 26 September
41. 26 September
42. 26 September
43. 28 September
44. 28 September
45. 28 September
46. 29 September
47. 29 September
48. 30 September
49. 1 October
50. 8 October
51. 9 October
52. 23 October
53. 1 November
54. 8 November
55. 8 November
56. 8 November
57. 9 November
58. 14 November
59. 14 November
Acknowledgments
Copyright © 2019 Lesley McEvoy
The right of Lesley McEvoy to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
First published in 2019 by Bloodhound Books
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
www.bloodhoundbooks.com
For my father who always told me I could achieve anything I set my mind to in life.
And for my boys, Adam & Kyle.
3 August
I sat up suddenly, not knowing what had woken me. I squinted at the red glow of the digital clock – 6.32am. I tried to slow my breathing, and then jumped when the telephone rang again.
‘Hello?’
‘Jo, it’s me.’ Callum’s soft Scottish tones pushed through the fog of half-sleep. ‘Sorry to call so early.’ He paused, not sounding the least bit sorry. I could feel what was coming, even before he said it. ‘We’ve found another body.’
I felt my stomach churn at what that meant. The fallout from a brutal death. Something all too familiar to everyone involved in the events of recent weeks.
I swung my feet onto the floor and rubbed my eyes into focus. ‘Same killer?’
I heard him sigh and could imagine how he looked. Tired and weary after weeks of long days and even longer nights trying to track down the man the press had dubbed the ‘Towpath Killer’.
‘I’m not sure. That’s why I want you to come and take a look. Do you mind?’
A million reasons why I did mind raced through my head, but I was trying not to sound unhelpful.
‘What about Taylor-Caine? She’s not exactly going to be pleased to have me trampling all over the case, is she?’
He let out a deep breath. ‘Just as well it’s not her decision then, isn’t it? This is my investigation and I want you involved.’ I could imagine him running his fingers through his silver hair – a habit he had when he was losing his patience. ‘I don’t give a rat’s arse what Taylor-Caine thinks. I’ve got bigger things to worry about than office politics.’
I knew he was referring to Chief Superintendent Mike Hoyle. Lizzie Taylor-Caine had been his appointment as the resident criminal profiler of West Yorkshire Police’s intelligence unit. He wouldn’t hear any criticism of her. Whether to justify the role, or for other reasons that were muttered about in the police canteen, I was never quite sure. What I did know was that my involvement would seriously piss him off.
I stared out at the grey light above the trees in the far distance. The miserable weather seemed to reflect the way my day was already shaping up.
‘Okay. Is this official?’
His hesitation spoke volumes. ‘Err, no. A favour to me.’
‘So office politics are a consideration then?’
‘Oh for God’s sake, Jo. Will you come out or not?’
I took a deep breath. ‘Yes, I’ll come. I can be at the station in half an hour.’
‘No. Not the station. I need you to come to the scene. I want you to see her in situ.’
My stomach dropped. I’d worked from crime scene photographs on the Linda Baker case, and they had been bad enough.
‘I don’t know, Cal. It’s a long time since I’ve been to a fresh crime scene.’
‘You’ll be fine.’ He sounded certain. ‘But I need you to see it before the place turns into a circus. That’s why I called as soon as I knew what we were dealing with. It’s in Shipley. Do you know the canal?’
‘Yes.’ I still wasn’t sure I wanted to do this.
‘Behind the petrol station where the canal goes under the bridge. Get that far and you’ll see the activity. I’ll meet you there.’
Another canal site. Another muddy towpath and another mutilated young girl.
3 August
Shipley
As I neared the canal, blue flashing lights announced the activity that surrounded an unexpected death.
Callum was leaning against the bonnet of a patrol car, the collar of his waterproof jacket turned up against the drizzling rain, his long legs stretched out in front of him as if he had all the time in the world. But his relaxed posture betrayed what I knew he was feeling. His expression and the tense line of his jaw spoke volumes – this was one event he really didn’t need right now.
The officers guarding the outer cordon handed us our paper ‘scene suits’, gloves, masks and overshoes before signing us in to the scene log and escorting us through the inner cordon to the sad, little white tent on the canal towpath.
We stood together, looking down at the semi-naked body of the girl at our feet.
The Home Office pathologist straightened up from examining the body while Callum made the introductions.
‘Doctor Tom Llewellyn, this is Jo McCready, the forensic profiler. She’s agreed to take a look.’
The doctor smiled. ‘Didn’t think DCIs got out of bed this early. Not tempted to just send your DS out in the rain, Callum?’
‘Not for this one, Tom.’ He glanced down at the body. ‘What can you tell us?’
The pathologist slipped his glasses into his case, turning to the business at hand. ‘I think she’s been dead for a few hours, but you know I won’t be drawn on time of death, especially at an outdoor scene. Difficult to be accurate until we get her to the mortuary. But I can tell you she wasn’t killed here. This is probably just the deposition site. She’s been bound, hand and foot, with what looks to be electrical cord. Again, I can get more information on those after a proper examination.’ He fished his car keys from h
is pocket. ‘Take your pick of potentially fatal wounds. Probably the stab wound to the chest or the throat. We’ll know for sure after the post-mortem.’
Callum nodded slowly. ‘Okay. Thanks, doctor.’
We watched as the older man left, walking carefully over the stepping plates put down to preserve potential evidence. I wasn’t in a hurry to turn round and face the object of our discussion. I waited, watching the exit to the tent, listening to the sounds of activity from the forensic team outside and waiting for Callum to say something. When he didn’t, I slowly turned around to find him watching me in that way he had. The way that made me feel there were only the two of us in a crowded place.
Was it really only eighteen months since I had been called in to advise on our first case together? I felt as though we’d known each other forever.
I pushed the images of last Christmas away. A bad decision on my part that had complicated everything. It was difficult enough being in such close proximity to Callum without remembering the warm feel of the chest underneath that shirt.
‘Meant to say – thanks for coming, Jo. Really appreciate it.’
I took the time to consider him. He was being polite. He didn’t know how to behave around me, no more than I did with him right now.
I could tell that he wanted to get on, but he was obviously trying to take things slowly for my benefit.
‘Where do you want to start?’ he asked.
I looked down at the body. I guessed the girl was in her late teens, with long brown hair. She was slim, and for some reason, I decided she had been pretty. Though, it was difficult to know that now. I forced myself to look at the bloody mass where her face should have been. Her features were all but gone, mutilated in a frenzied attack. What was left was swollen and discoloured. In the muggy August weather, the flies were already starting to gather. It wasn’t a pretty sight.
Her white blouse had been ripped open down the front, exposing her breasts. Her lower half was completely naked except for white ankle socks with frilly edges. Her shoes were missing. Her arms were pinned behind her back with, as Doctor Llewellyn had said, what looked like electrical flex. Her ankles were crossed and tied the same way. I crouched down and looked up at Callum.
‘Can I touch her?’
He nodded. ‘Now SOCO have finished, she’ll be touched by dozens of hands between here and the morgue.’
I gently took the edge of her blouse between finger and thumb and drew it away from the body. He squatted down beside me.
I pointed with a rubber-clad index finger. ‘Can you see her bra?’
The remains of a white Wonderbra could be seen where the straps went across her shoulders. It was trapped beneath the body. ‘And here.’ I pointed. ‘These light cuts – scratches almost. I think that’s where he cut her bra away. But her hands were already tied, so he couldn’t remove it completely.’
‘And he couldn’t untie her to remove it because she was still alive when he cut it away?’
‘Possibly.’ I nodded, beginning to construct things in my mind. Trying to see what the killer had seen. To think the way he did. ‘That, and the fact that the cuts bled means they may have been inflicted before or just after death, but the post-mortem will tell you that.’
The body was on the path, curled into a foetal position with her back towards the water. There were brambles at the edge of the path.
I pointed to them. “Do they come away from the wall if you lift them?”
Sweeping his arm under the brambles, he pushed them away. I squatted down and peered underneath. There was at least three feet of space from the edge of the path to the retaining wall of the canal bank.
In my mind, I constructed the events that had brought this young girl here. I tried to picture the scene in the dark. As it had been when the killer had been standing where we stood.
I straightened up. ‘I need to go outside.’
His face was suddenly concerned. ‘You okay? You’re not going to throw up or anything?’
I shook my head, still trying to piece things together. ‘I need to see the scene from outside. Get the bigger picture.’
Callum led the way into the fresh air, which was a blessed relief after the claustrophobic confines of a hot plastic tent that smelled of death.
I climbed the grassy bank and looked down on the path and its pitiful white cover. It ran alongside the canal which, a few hundred yards to the left, went beneath a metal footbridge and wound its way along the outskirts of the town. At night, a haven for drug addicts and prostitutes; by day, the province of anglers and dog walkers. To the right on the opposite side of the canal was the petrol station on the main road. The killer could have come by car or along the towpath.
I could sense Callum beside me. He wasn’t renowned for his patience, so I felt compelled to say something just to fill the silence for him. ‘Do we know who she is?’
He shook his head. ‘Not yet. Doesn’t look like a prostitute, though it’s difficult to tell these days. She was found about three hours before I called you.’
‘Who found her?’
‘A guy walking his dog. He checks out. Walks along here most mornings before his early shift at the bakery.’ He frowned as his mood darkened. ‘No doubt Taylor-Caine will have this one down as a robbery with extras.’
I walked along the grassy bank, stopping at the metal footbridge as I considered the textbook analysis their resident profiler was fond of making. I turned to face him. ‘I don’t suppose the remaining clothes have been found?’
He shook his head, nodding towards the canal bank where police divers were just setting out their gear. ‘They’ll have a quick shufti, but I’ll bet my pension they don’t find anything in there. Especially if Llewellyn’s right and she was killed somewhere else and this is a deposition site.’
‘She was.’
‘You sound sure.’
I nodded, breathing in the warm air, trying to get the smell of the tent out of my nose. ‘The canal side is a mud bath.’ I stared at the path, constructing the night as the killer would have seen it. ‘Imagine it’s pitch black, just some lights from the petrol station. Not enough to really see by and you’re carrying the dead weight of your victim. It was hammering down last night. I know because it kept me awake.’
‘Should’ve called me.’ He was grinning that wonderful, lopsided grin of his. I pretended not to have heard.
‘You’d soon discover it’s too slippery to scramble down the track from the road, especially carrying your victim, so you’d have to get down here a different way.’
‘From the bridge maybe?’
I nodded, still staring down at the sad little tent. ‘Perhaps.’
I could sense his frustration. I wanted to offer him something more positive, but I wasn’t about to speculate just to make him feel better. ‘Look at it this way,’ I offered. ‘If we are dealing with the same killer, Taylor-Caine’s theory for Linda Baker falls apart. She can’t assume it’s a hate murder against a girlfriend or lover. That doesn’t hang together when you start to get multiples.’
‘True,’ he said, straightening his shoulders and looking back down the path to where the body was being moved on a stretcher up to the coroner’s ambulance. ‘But are we dealing with the same killer?’ He turned to me. ‘What do you think, Jo?’
‘Have you got Linda Baker’s photos?’
‘They’re in my car.’
I knew they would be. In the four weeks since Linda’s body had been found on a towpath on the outskirts of Fordley, he had carried the crime scene photos everywhere.
He’d picked Linda’s case up because he just happened to be the on-call senior investigating officer the weekend the call had come in – it should never have been his case. But now the Towpath Killer was almost becoming an obsession with him.
He put a large hand on my shoulder to move me aside as a police photographer loaded down with equipment pushed past us on the narrow track.
His eyes were concerned as he looked at me.
‘Are you all right?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said honestly, as I looked down to the small tent.
He took my briefcase from me. ‘I’ll carry that. Watch your step.’
I felt his warm hand disconcertingly in the small of my back, as he half guided, half pushed me up the slippery banking.
‘So what was so interesting about the bushes back there?’ he asked.
‘Nothing, except that the killer could have hidden the body under them if he’d wanted to. She’s only small. He could have rolled her against the wall without much effort. It would at least have partially concealed the body.’
I felt Callum shrug. ‘Perhaps he was disturbed, or didn’t have time.’
‘Or perhaps he didn’t care.’
As we neared my car, there was a frenzy of activity. A reporter was jabbing a microphone into the face of the man striding purposefully towards us. I heard Callum groan as we both recognised Chief Superintendent Hoyle.
A former officer in the military police, he still had an unmistakeable bearing, not just in the ramrod straightness of his back, but also in attitude. To me, he always looked like he had a nasty smell permanently under his nose.
‘Sir, you know Doctor McCready?’ It seemed to be Callum’s day for making introductions.
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