by Ted Tayler
“We’ve read the murder file and the autopsy reports, Stuart and sent the whole and partial fingerprints for further analysis. We’re checking whether there’s a match somewhere around the UK that indicates her killer has struck again in the past decade. There are questions I have that need you to relive those first moments in the massage parlour. I make no apologies. Her killer is still at large. I intend to keep the success rate for this team at the level we have achieved to date. The devil is always in the detail. Leave nothing out. Most of all, try to tell us what you felt as much as what you observed.”
Stuart Fitzwalter sat back in his chair and relaxed for the first time since he arrived.
“I was at home; it was a quiet Sunday evening watching TV with my wife. She tutted when the phone rang. It was Gablecross. Hickerton and his team had responded to a 999 call from a distressed woman at the parlour in Broadgreen who reported a murder. They asked me to attend. I drove there, pulling up outside at ten minutes past ten. A uniformed officer checked my credentials before notifying Hickerton by radio that I had arrived. As soon as I climbed the stairs, I could smell death. There were forensic people in Reception and the other rooms. DS Latimer passed me in a rush without a word. He looked as white as a sheet. He made it outside before being sick. At least, there was no evidence in the stairwell when I left. I steeled myself for what lay ahead.”
“Were there any signs of a struggle other than that which you saw in the room?” asked Gus.
“None, the attack was confined to the room where I found DI Hickerton and a forensic officer. I’m not sure of the correct terminology, but the treatment table was on its side. It was narrower than I imagined. A wall mirror had cracks in it and shards of glass littered the wooden shelf beneath. Towels and various plastic bottles got swept from the table where they were stored and scattered over the carpet. There was blood everywhere. The victim was face down. She was fully clothed. Blouse. Short skirt. Stockings and suspenders. If you’ve got the murder file, you know there were eleven stab wounds. The wounds varied in depth. The killer lashed out time after time at her back as she tried to get away.”
“You found no wounds or abrasions on any other part of her body?”
“None, if she turned to face her attacker, they did not attempt to strike at her face, arms or torso. Not with their fists nor the knife. I couldn’t determine the order in which the blows occurred. The killer launched their surprise attack from behind and Laura sustained eleven wounds in quick succession.”
“What did that suggest to you?”
“She knew her attacker.”
“Why, because she felt safe enough to walk into the room first? How many visits have you made to massage parlours?”
“None,” said Stuart Fitzwalter. “But I would have thought the owners would train staff to lead customers to the room, go inside first and invite them to walk through to the shower area. It gives them control of the centre of the room. They can observe the client’s actions and prepare for what comes next without exposing themselves to danger. If a customer tried it on, they could summon assistance from Reception or the other rooms.”
“Laura couldn’t do that, though, could she? She was alone that night.”
“All the more reason to be careful, surely, if it was a stranger. No, I believe she knew her killer.”
“Hickerton says the attack was passionate and personal. How do you react to that statement?”
Stuart Fitzwalter considered this for a while.
“Impassioned, as in filled with emotion, yes, I can go along with that. Which emotion was the attacker experiencing, though? Was it anger, fear, disgust, love or hate? That I can’t tell you. If you could determine that, then you narrow your search for the killer. You asked me to tell you what I felt as well as what I saw. It was the ferocity of the attack that left the deepest impression. I wondered what this attractive young woman had done to deserve such treatment. That stayed with me for many weeks. It pained me that Hickerton and his team never turned up a suspect. I needed to see what type of person could inflict such terror on another human being. Death from stabbing is rarely instantaneous. Laura Mallinder knew she was going to die as soon as she received the first blow.”
“Is there any way of telling how much time elapsed between the first and last blows?”
“Come now, Mr Freeman. I used the word ‘second’ for a good reason. The window of opportunity for the murderer was small. It wasn’t a scene played out over an hour, or even thirty minutes. No, I consider the gap between the first and last stab wound to be between forty and sixty seconds. In cases of violent death, we focus on whether an injury occurred while the individual was alive or during the agonal or post-mortem period. We need to determine how long the victim survived after the wound got inflicted. A series of vital reactions, such as haemorrhaging and inflammation, are considered to get convincing proof of ante-mortem injury. The vitality of the wound relates to whether the victim was alive at the time of the trauma and how long before death, someone inflicted that trauma. Somewhere in my report, you will find that I believed the final three blows were delivered post-mortem.”
“Fair enough, Stuart,” said Gus, “we can agree the attack was frenzied. The killer didn’t stop striking at Laura despite the fact she was no longer breathing. Did you come to any firm conclusions as to the weapon used?”
“The blade was five to six inches in length, and one-and-a-quarter inches at its widest point.”
“Any suggestions who might have easy access to a knife of that nature?”
“I think we both know the answer to that one. Knives are far too accessible, whether designed for a specific profession, a trade, the military, or a more sinister application. There was nothing about the wounds that pointed to a knife custom-built for a particular function. It was most likely a kitchen knife. The blade width may have been slightly lower than I expected, but…”
“You’re saying it could have been an old knife, with a blade that had been sharpened over the years, reducing its original profile?”
“Without seeing the murder weapon, I couldn’t confirm that, but it’s a possibility.”
“Who identified the body?”
“Laura’s two brothers. Their names escape me now.”
“The father didn’t attend?”
“No, but it isn’t necessary for a parent to attend. We dissuade family members from viewing the body when the injuries are severe. If the body were that of a soldier blown to pieces by an IED or a victim of a blazing inferno, it wouldn’t be possible. In Laura’s case, we didn’t have those problems. Her face was completely untouched.”
“The sons never explained why their father didn’t come with them?”
“I never asked, I’m afraid.”
“How did they react to seeing their sister’s body?”
“Much as you would expect. The brothers were nervous before entering the room. Neither man cried as I recall. The elder son was the only one to speak.”
“What did he say, exactly?”
“Yes, that’s our Laura. He added nothing further.”
“I’m sure you observed their body language, Stuart. It becomes second nature. We both wish it weren’t so. but in a long career, we endure this scenario on many occasions.”
“I suppose I did. I didn’t make a note of it at the time, which suggests nothing unusual occurred. Going over it again with you today hasn’t triggered a forgotten impression. Both men were grieving the death of their loved one as one would expect. I certainly didn’t wonder whether one of them was the killer.”
“As far as Theo Hickerton was concerned, their alibis were watertight. They were never in the frame for her murder. I wanted to double-check with you. In case you caught an odd vibe from someone coming face-to-face with their victim and seeing the full import of their actions.”
“I got nothing of that nature from either man, Freeman, I’m sorry.”
“Is it possible to commit a frenzied attack but not remember it?”
“Dissociative amnesia, you mean? I heard you were old-school, a detective who was dogged rather than one who indulged in psychogenic arguments. Although dissociative amnesia in defendants is relevant to both competency to stand trial and criminal responsibility in principle, courts remain sceptical of such claims in practice. Forensic psychiatrists often get asked to provide expert testimony regarding amnesia in defendants. Diagnosis presents a challenge as claims of amnesia may stem from several sources. I wouldn’t presume to tell you how to do your job, Mr Freeman, but I would exhaust every other possibility before pursuing that one. Dissociative state, or fugue state, as it used to get called, is extremely rare. It’s frequently temporary, and memory of the event returns intact in time. If your killer wiped the horror of what they did from their mind immediately after the event, it’s more likely than not they will have relived since it in glorious technicolour. I suggest you watch and wait while following your other leads.”
Gus didn’t think there was anything useful Stuart Fitzwalter could add to what they had learned this morning. It was as they had suspected. Laura’s case was cold for an excellent reason. Every angle they had tried so far had produced the same negative result.
“Many thanks for dropping in to see us, Stuart,” he said, shaking the Police Surgeon by the hand, “you’ve been most helpful.”
Stuart Fitzwalter was surprised at that response.
“I didn’t think I’d offered any significant help,” he said.
“It never hurts to have people on your list of possible suspects ridiculed by an expert. If we can look past the sons for our killer, we’ve crossed two names from our list. Every little helps. One final question before you leave. Would you think a woman capable of the murder, given the savagery of the attack?”
“I couldn’t discount it,” replied Fitzwalter, “the blade was thin and sharp. A strong and determined female could be responsible. If it were a colleague who rang the bell after the final customer, then that would explain Laura’s willingness to open the door.”
“If indeed it was locked,” mused Gus.
“We may never know the answer to that,” replied Fitzwalter.
With that, he left the CRT office.
“Impressions?” asked Gus as the lift descended to the ground floor.
“He’s increased our number of potential suspects,” said Neil.
“If he believes a common kitchen knife made the wounds,” said Alex, “the killer could be male or female, young or old. The only positive thing I got from that was that the killer was someone known to Laura Mallinder.”
“That’s a positive enough starting point, surely?” asked Lydia. “We need to determine how many of the people Laura knew were in Swindon that evening? The number can’t be that high.”
“Anything else?” asked Gus.
His three team members were silent. Had Gus noticed something they had missed?
“Roll on tomorrow morning when we visit Maggie Monk,” said Gus, “we can add names to that list of yours, Lydia. I also want to confirm the description of the feel of the murder scene provided by Stuart Fitzwalter.”
“What’s next, guv?” asked Neil.
“Lunch. We may not receive an invitation to the wake for Frank North. Bert Penman was vague about much getting organised. Let’s update our computer files with our report on this morning’s meeting. Remember what I told the Police Surgeon. Feelings and facts in equal measure. The answer will be in these interviews somewhere.”
Alex and Lydia travelled together to the West Wiltshire Crematorium. Neil and Gus took their cars, Alex and Lydia would return to the Old Police station car park after the funeral service before driving to their respective homes.
Neil and Gus had elected to be available for a trip into Urchfont if Irene North asked them to attend the wake in the Lamb. Gus suggested to Neil that he could park outside the bungalow, and they walked to the pub. Neil told him he wouldn’t be drinking. Melody was adamant that Neil was on the wagon until after the baby was born.
The long, sweeping approach to the crematorium was visible from the main road. When Gus arrived at ten minutes to two o’clock, the hearse was waiting in a slip road to the left of the building. A succession of vehicles queued to exit the car park as they arrived. The number of occupied spaces was dwindling. Whoever they’d just cremated had a big family and lots of friends or acquaintances.
“We didn’t struggle to find a place to park,” said Neil, as they waited for Alex and Lydia to reach them, “that’s a bonus. I came here last year for a young mother who died of breast cancer. There were cars parked on the grass under the trees from here to the entrance. I guess that when they built this place they thought the main service would always be in a church or chapel and only close family would come here for the final reckoning. These days the vast majority come straight here and get it done in whatever way seems appropriate.”
“Tess and I were never religious, Neil. She wanted a basic humanist service. No frills.”
“Sorry, guv, I forgot. I didn’t mean to suggest one method was superior to another. I’d draw the line at having ‘Bob the Builder’ belting out if I was in the building trade and had laid my last brick. But some of those hymns were too morbid for my taste. I can’t hear ‘Abide With Me’ without thinking of the FA Cup Final.”
“I reckon Irene North will be more of a traditionalist, Neil.”
“Come on, Alex, I thought you practised with those crutches over the weekend?” said Neil.
Lydia and Alex had parked closer to the exit. The uneven grass and gravel surfaces had slowed the motorcycle pursuit rider’s progress.
“I did, but even though I’ve done months of physio, my stamina isn’t at the level it was before the accident. Lydia suggested I take the opportunity to walk the furthest distances possible.”
“Well, you’ll both benefit from that, I suppose,” said Neil, with a grin.
Gus’s face wore a puzzled look.
The hearse had moved silently to come to a halt in front of the entrance door. Irene North appeared from inside the building.
“She must have arrived with family members and waited in that anteroom on the right-hand side,” said Neil, “there’s not many with her, are there?”
Gus noted the time. Two o’clock. Vera must have got delayed, or something came up at HQ.
The coffin was removed from the back of the hearse and rested on the bier. Irene and a few elderly relatives followed the coffin as it wheeled up the central aisle. As the small congregation filed in behind them, the bearers lifted Frank North onto the raised platform that stood between the blue velvet curtains.
A mournful dirge filled the room via the PA system. Gus could hear movement behind them as people took their seats on the right-hand side. Irene North and her family barely filled the front pew to his left.
“What do they call that thing?” asked Neil.
“What, where Frank’s casket is resting? Not a clue,” said Gus.
“A catafalque,” Lydia whispered.
“Blimey,” said Neil, “one new fact every day my old teacher used to say…”
“Was the high road to success,” said Gus, “yes, Neil, we remember.”
Everyone who was attending the funeral of Frank North was in the building. The doors closed. The mournful dirge faded.
Gus picked up the leaflet containing the Order of Service.
He’d been wrong. Irene North wasn’t the traditionalist he had imagined.
CHAPTER 6
Elvis Presley was in the building and ‘Hound Dog’ opened the show.
The Order of Service followed a more normal pattern after Elvis left.
Gus thought whoever was in charge of the PA system had turned the volume up a notch. The joint was rocking.
He risked a look behind him. Vera Jennings and Suzie Ferris smiled in his direction as they took their seats. They did make it. Good. The rest of the pew filled with police officers in uniform. Geoff Mercer had rallied the t
roops and come up trumps.
On the other side, he spotted Bert Penman, his walking stick hanging on the end of the pew. Gus didn’t recognise many of the villagers Bert had with him. The woman who came in from next door to sit with Irene to share a bottle of sherry after he’d notified her of Frank’s death was there. Gus didn’t look any further; he didn’t want to draw attention to himself, any more than he already had.
The celebrant wound up the introduction with a short prayer and then introduced the first of two hymns. A proper hymn thought Gus. I remember singing this at school.
‘Oh God, our help in ages past, our shelter from the storm,’
There weren’t many singers in the congregation, but the female with the dog collar knew the words by heart and fair belted it out. It was stirring stuff. Gus tried to remember the name of the TV show. The Vicar of somewhere. Not the actress herself, but her body double. If that wasn’t sacrilegious.
Gus watched as a young girl, no older than twelve, walked to the pulpit to read a poem. The youngster was unaccustomed to public speaking, and Gus only caught the last verse when the PA system operator risked feedback by increasing the volume once more.
“A golden heart stopped beating, hard-working hands at rest. God broke our hearts to prove to us; he only takes the best.”
Ah, the innocence of youth. Time for another prayer, then the young, rotund celebrant delivered the sermon. She also told them about Frank’s early life and his happy marriage. Neil wiped a tear from his eye as the inevitable ‘Abide With Me’ ended the audience participation part of the service. A final round of prayers and the commendation followed, and Frank’s casket disappeared behind the blue velvet curtains.
Buddy Holly soon reminded everyone what a ‘Brown-Eyed Handsome Man’ Frank North had been in his youth. There was a hum of conversation as Irene North walked to the exit door to thank the woman for a lovely service. Irene’s relatives ushered her outside into the cold, partly cloudy afternoon. The light breeze wouldn’t trouble her, despite the thin black cardigan she wore over a maroon blouse. Irene’s black trousers flapped at her ankles. Perhaps flares were coming back; Gus didn’t know.
