by BIBA PEARCE
“No, nothing like that. He looked quite clean and well-dressed actually, apart from the hoodie. He was very tall, his legs jutted out under the table.”
“Did he seem stressed to you? Was he fidgeting, agitated?”
“No, nothing like that. In fact, just the opposite. He seemed fairly relaxed.”
He pressed her for a bit longer, but she couldn’t remember anything else. Eventually, he thanked her and let her go.
He wanted to believe this was their guy, really wanted to, but something inside him told him to proceed with caution. The last thing they needed was to go chasing after a red herring. Would the stalker — a man about to execute a carefully thought-out attack — be sitting at a coffee shop smoking a cigarette and reading the newspaper like he didn’t have a care in the world?
It didn’t seem likely. Still, they couldn’t ignore the information. The location was spot on, the archives being less than 500 metres from the retail park. He could have been waiting for her to finish work. He’d have known she came out at six, he knew her routine.
He got up and went to the CCTV suite.
“I’ve just had a call from a woman who thinks she saw the stalker at Costa Coffee in Kew Retail Park on Friday afternoon around 5 p.m. Can someone get on to them for any security cameras they’ve got in the area? The retail park must have several.”
Celeste nodded. “I’ll get right on it, sir.”
He forced a smile. The CCTV crew had been working in eight-hour shifts, around the clock, and they were bleary-eyed and pasty like they needed a good dose of sunlight. “This is good news. If he was there, we’ll get him.”
Back at his desk, he tried calling the management company again. It rang several times, and he was just about to hang up when a young woman answered the phone.
Finally. He introduced himself and told her what he was after.
She said she’d get her manager to call him back. She confirmed there were two cameras on the premises, but she didn’t know where or how to get the video feed to him. He gave her his direct line and stressed the urgency.
Ten minutes later, a Mr Patel called him back. He was very sorry, but as it’s a new block they hadn’t got around to installing the security software yet, so even though they had the cameras installed, they weren’t operational.
Rob slammed the phone down. “What bloody good is a security camera if it’s not operational?” he ranted to Mallory, who’d just walked over. He hovered by the door.
“We’ve got a possible related case.”
Rob beckoned him in. “Tell me.”
Mallory took a seat opposite him. “Two years ago, in South Yorkshire, the body of a young woman was found in the woods near Chatsworth House. The post-mortem confirmed she’d been raped and strangled.”
Rob sat up straight. “Sounds like it could be our man. Who was the investigating officer?”
“A DCI Moorcroft, South Yorkshire Police. No one was ever charged. Here’s the file.” He put a hard copy down on Rob’s desk.
“Have you spoken to him?”
“No, he’s at a symposium in Manchester this week, but he’ll be back at his desk on Friday.”
“Bugger that.” Rob was itching to do something. “We don’t have till Friday, by then the case will have been handed over to Lewisham. Manchester’s not that far away. Where’s the symposium?”
“I didn’t ask.”
“Find out.” Rob was already pulling on his jacket. “You and I are heading up there now. I’ll drive. You can fill me on in the way.”
The journey to Manchester took just under four and a half hours. It would have been less except they got caught up in some bad traffic around Birmingham. The Radisson Hotel, where the police symposium on knife crime was being held, was out by the airport, which thankfully meant they didn’t have to navigate the city centre.
They parked in the vast car park and made their way inside. The lobby was a bustling hive of uniformed policemen and plain-clothed officers. The coffee shop next door, connected to the hotel by a tall archway, was also packed. They followed signs to the conference facility on the first floor only to discover the symposium had adjourned for tea.
“Do you know where I might find DCI Moorcroft?” Rob asked a suited, middle-aged man standing in the doorway.
“He’s Sheffield police, isn’t he?” The man’s brow furrowed. “You’ll probably find him in the coffee shop downstairs. That’s where most of them have gone.”
Rob thanked him, and they went back downstairs.
“How the hell are we going to find this guy?” Mallory gazed at the sea of police officers milling around, holding takeaway cups of coffee.
“You got his mobile number?” asked Rob.
Mallory grinned and pulled out his phone. He made the call and they waited to see who’d reach for their phone. A short, stocky man with dark hair and even darker eyebrows reached into his pocket. He pulled out his phone and stared at the screen. Before he had time to answer it, Rob marched up to him. “Are you DCI Moorcroft?”
Moorcroft frowned, causing his eyebrows to meet in the middle. “What’s this about?” He had a strong Yorkshire accent and beady eyes that seemed to stare right through you.
“I’m DS Mallory, this is DI Rob Miller,” Mallory said. “I left a message on your phone earlier today. It’s in connection with the young lady you found near Chatsworth House two years ago.”
“Greta Ansley?” The words came quickly to his lips, like a memory never forgotten.
“That’s the one,” Rob said.
“Let’s talk in here.”
Moorcroft guided them into the lobby, which was less packed than the coffee shop. There were no free seats, so they stood in an alcove to the left of the entrance, out of the main thoroughfare. “What is it you want to know?”
“You didn’t charge anyone with the murder?” Rob asked.
Moorcroft sighed. “No, we looked at the boyfriend, or rather fiancé, but he had a watertight alibi for the night of the murder.”
“Fiancé? So, she was engaged when she was killed?” He did his best to keep his voice steady. That hadn’t been mentioned in the initial report.
“Yes, it was tragic. Poor guy was devastated. They were due to marry the following weekend.” He shook his head. It was clear the case had really got to Moorcroft.
“Brett Harris, wasn’t it?” said Mallory.
Rob glanced at him in surprise. His sergeant had only scanned the case files on the way there.
“Yeah, that’s it,” said Moorcroft. “And his DNA didn’t match the skin cells we found under her fingernails. It wasn’t him.”
“Were there any other persons of interest?” Rob asked. “Anybody harassing her or stalking her?”
Moorcroft looked surprised. “No, nothing like that. She was a journalist for a local rag, but she wasn’t working on anything that could have got her killed. Her work colleagues were shocked at her death, as were her friends and family. The general consensus was that she was good at her job and well-liked.”
“Did you talk to her fiancé about their plans for the wedding?”
“No, of course not. Why would we do that?”
Rob hesitated. “Because we have a young lady who was killed in a similar manner to your victim. And she was engaged.”
Moorcroft stared at him for a long moment. “What? Raped and strangled?”
Rob nodded. “We found her body on the river towpath. Exactly the same MO.”
Almost exactly the same.
“Well, I’ll be . . .” He ran a hand through his bushy hair, leaving it standing upright. Then he pursed his lips. “You know, the piece she was working on for the paper, I think it had something to do with weddings.”
“With weddings?” Rob and Mallory spoke at the same time.
“Yes, her boss mentioned it in his statement. She was doing a piece on wedding venues in the country, as I recall. It’ll be in the supporting statements.”
They hadn’t got that far. �
�Was she wearing an engagement ring?” Rob asked.
Moorcroft thought for a moment. “No, I don’t think so. If there was, it would be in the file.”
“There’s no mention of one being found on the body,” Mallory said. “And the post-mortem report didn’t mention a ring either.”
“Then no. Why? Is there something significant about the ring?”
“No, we just noticed it wasn’t mentioned,” said Rob. “Which means the killer may have kept it.” Moorcroft was smart. He didn’t miss much.
He shrugged. “I don’t recall a ring.”
A colleague walked past and called to him. “You coming, Bob? They’re starting in ten.”
He held up a hand. “Go on up, I’ll meet you there.”
“We won’t keep you long,” said Rob. “Just a couple more questions.”
Moorcroft fixed his dark gaze on him. “Shoot.”
“Could you talk us through the crime scene? I know it’s all in the report, but in your own words.”
He sighed, and his eyelids flickered. “It was terrible. The worst I’ve ever seen, and I’ve been a copper for over twenty years.”
He took a deep breath, as if that would somehow protect him from the memories. “She was found by a dog walker. When we got there, she was half-naked. It was pouring with rain and her body was soaked and so pale . . . Her hair was tangled with leaves.” He wasn’t quite able to mask a small shudder.
“Half-naked?” asked Rob.
He glanced at his feet, then up again. “Her leggings had been pulled right down to her ankles, and her blouse was ripped open. She was completely exposed.” His jaw was set in a grim line. “Poor thing was so battered and bruised, it was hard to ID her. We had to use her fingerprints.”
“You mean he beat her up?”
“Yeah. We figured it was to subdue her. She must have put up quite a fight judging by the defensive wounds on her body.”
Rob glanced at Mallory. “Was she tied up?” he asked.
Moorcroft shook his head. “No, we think he pinned her down with his body, judging by the deep bruises on her forearms and thighs.” He paused. “I don’t mind telling you, I hope I never see anything like that again. I have two daughters of my own. Sixteen and eighteen. It still gives me horrors.”
“I can imagine.” Rob nodded. At least he didn’t have that worry. “We’ll let you get back now. Thanks for your time.”
Moorcroft nodded slowly. “Let me know if you catch the bastard who did this, won’t you? We have his DNA on file, so you can match it to your suspects. It would help me sleep easier at night knowing he’s off the streets.”
“Will do.”
* * *
They walked back to the car, leaving the hubbub of the police symposium behind them. “Not quite the same MO, then,” Mallory said.
Rob shrugged. “It’s hard to say. This was two years ago, don’t forget. The stalker could still have been perfecting his MO, so to speak.”
Tony’s words echoed in his mind.
Less sophisticated offenders usually find their victims through opportunity. There’s not much in the way of planning. The crime scenes are messy, not thought-through.
“Perhaps he was just starting out when he attacked this girl,” Rob thought out loud. “His technique wasn’t as polished. He didn’t use duct tape but pinned her down with his body instead. He took the ring as a memento but didn’t think to insert it into his victim. He hadn’t got to that level yet.”
Mallory stared at him. “She could have been his first.”
“Could be,” mused Rob. “Or one of his first. What Moorcroft said about the article she was writing was interesting.”
“Wedding venues. Do you think that’s how he targeted her?”
“She didn’t report a stalker, so it might be. See if you can get a copy of that article.”
“I’ll get hold of the paper as soon as we get back,” Mallory said.
“What about the post-mortem report?” Rob asked. “Are you sure there’s no mention of a ring?”
“I’m positive.” Mallory shook his head. “I can chase up with the pathologist, if you like?”
“May as well make sure.”
Mallory nodded. “Want me to drive back?”
Rob chucked him the car keys. He wanted to use the time to read through the supporting documentation in the file and think. “Thanks.”
They got in and Mallory started the engine. Rob turned to him. “It can’t be a coincidence, the way Greta Ansley was killed. And she was engaged. We’re not grasping at straws here, are we?”
Mallory pulled out of the car park. “No, guv. Your profiler friend said the killer was likely to have moved around the country. This could be the same guy.”
Rob nodded. He hadn’t forgotten his promise to Moorcroft, either. He wouldn’t give up until this monster was behind bars.
Chapter 11
Tonight was the night.
It was dark. The moon, or what was left of it, was a silver sliver in the night sky. Tomorrow or the day after it would be a new moon, but the stalker didn’t want to wait that long. He was ready.
The familiar sense of anticipation built inside him, causing butterflies in his stomach. Tonight, Sara would pay for Bridget’s betrayal, just like Julie had, just like Greta and the others had. He would never stop making her pay.
His Bridget.
She’d been so young and innocent when he’d first met her. He still remembered her wide, toothy grin and how her eyes had lit up as she’d smiled at him across the lecture hall. He used to think there was magic in her gaze, the way it warmed him up inside. No one else had been able to warm him the way Bridget had.
He forced his attention back to Sara, jogging up the street. He watched her hair swish to and fro like a horse’s tail, her legs moving in an easy rhythm. She was coming towards him up the road, the light on her forehead not yet on. Tonight, for some reason, she wasn’t wearing her visibility jacket. He took that as a sign. The universe was telling him tonight was the night. In a few minutes, she’d run right past him and swing left into the park.
He turned his back as she passed, but he was in the shadow of an ancient oak tree, so she wouldn’t have noticed him. No one noticed him.
Except Bridget.
Once in the park, she switched on her head lamp and ran down Sawyer’s Hill towards Sheen Gate, keeping to the dirt track parallel to the road. Even though the inner park street was devoid of cars, it was filled with cyclists taking advantage of the clear roads, which made the gravel track the safer option.
Another sign.
He knew her route by heart. It would take her twenty minutes to reach Sheen Gate, after which she’d turn around and run back along the gravel path past East Sheen Common and Bishop’s Pond. It was the darkest section of her run, flanked by wooded areas and tall, bushy bracken, and the place where he would be waiting.
He strolled along the footpath as if going for an evening walk until he reached a densely wooded area, behind which was an eight-foot brick wall.
No escape.
He felt in his jacket pocket for the duct tape, the end already neatly folded back so he could rip it off at a moment’s notice. He couldn’t afford to waste time. He checked his watch. Not long now.
He stood silently behind a thick tree trunk, listening to the myriad of little insects as they scurried about searching for food. The ground was littered with acorns, which crunched when he trod on them, but he wasn’t too worried because she wore earphones. They would drown out any sound he might make.
He heard her footsteps, light and regular, approaching from along the path. He pulled up his balaclava and peered out from behind the tree, invisible in the darkness. The bright light of her headgear hovered above her like some alien contraption. Her breathing was laboured — he heard it clearly as she got closer. She liked to push herself along this bit, the final leg of her run. Five metres away . . . four . . . three . . . two.
He stepped out and with a qui
ck swipe of his arm, hit her in the neck. She went down hard, her feet sliding out underneath her. She landed on the gravel, gasping, her chest heaving from her run and from the shock of the surprise attack.
How easy was that?
He dragged her by the ponytail into the trees, not bothered by the strangled crying sound she was making. With her larynx damaged by his blow, it wasn’t loud enough for anyone to hear. Not that anyone was around.
He reached for the tape and in a practised move, whipped it several times around her wrists to prevent her from scratching him. One had to be so careful these days. He sat on top of her while she bucked and twisted beneath him. Her skin was moist with perspiration, her eyes wild with fear.
God, how he loved this part.
She opened her mouth to scream but he was ready for her. He stuck a section of tape over the hole to muffle the sound.
“Hush,” he told her in a soft voice. “It’ll all be over soon.”
* * *
It was early morning when Rob got to the crime scene. The sun was poking its head above the horizon and the sky was streaked with burnished orange. On any other day it would have been beautiful.
He knew Richmond Park from his younger days when he used to come here for picnics with his mates. They’d sit on a blanket and drink cheap wine and talk and laugh, maybe play a bit of footie. It still looked the same, although for him, everything had changed. As he gazed into the low-lying mist that hung above the bracken, yet to be burned off by the sun, he felt a sudden longing for those innocent days when the world still made sense.
“Over here, guv,” called Mallory, who looked like he hadn’t slept a wink. After they’d got back from their trip up north, they’d returned to the station where they’d been occupied following up the various lines of enquiry. Rob had called it a day around 10 p.m., conscious of Yvette waiting for him at home, but Mallory had still been there when he’d left.
He needn’t have bothered. Yvette was still giving him the silent treatment. He wasn’t sure he even knew why. So, he’d slept on the couch, and despite his mind working overtime, he’d managed to get a solid six hours. That was good going for the middle of an investigation.
