‘Oh shit.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Ok, not your fault, but I had hoped well, back to the drawing board.’
‘There is one other thing, it’s a long shot though.’
‘I’ll take a long shot if it means getting a conviction.’
‘When the skeleton was pulled out of the quarry, it was still wrapped up tight, there were no breaks of abrasions in the plastic.’
‘Are you asking me?’ said Erika.
‘I’m telling you. We’ve got pretty much everything inside, I hope that was there when she was dumped in the quarry. There is silt and soil, I want to send these samples to a colleague of mine in Aberdeen, a Forensic Geologist.’
‘So we can find evidence if Jessica was kept somewhere else, or buried somewhere else.’
‘Yes. It’s a long shot, and this might just prove the theory that she was moved from one location. Finding that location means we have to find the soil from that location and match it. So it could take time.’
‘Okay, thank you. Keep me posted,’ said Erika. ‘And get some sleep!’
Erika came off the phone and pulled up the file on the old quarry. She saw it had been a clay quarry. She went to Wikipedia and looked up the type of clay taken from the quarry and found a short paragraph,
* * *
The London Clay is a stiff bluish clay, which becomes brown when weathered. The clay is still used commercially for making bricks, tiles, and coarse pottery. It is infertile for gardens and crops.
* * *
She carried on the search and found that Kent is made up of a mix of chalk, sandstone, and clay.
‘Yes, Kent is a huge county,’ came a voice behind her making her jump. Erika looked round and saw DI Crawford stood behind her, peering at her computer screen. ‘Sorry,’ he added.
‘Don’t creep up on people like that,’ snapped Erika.
‘I thought we knew what the quarry had been used for?’
‘We do.’ She went on to explain what Isaac had suggested, searching if there were different types of soil found with Jessica Collins. He perched on the corner of her desk, and nodded along as she spoke,
‘There’s so much landscape to compare it to,’ he said. ‘With the soil found in near the Thames Estuary, the chalk composites towards Dover… did you know that the Kent coast, the Strait of Dover is only 21 miles from Europe?’
‘Yes, I just read that on the screen,’ snapped Erika.
‘Hang on,’ he said standing up. ‘What you said earlier, about the clay being used commercially for making bricks and tiles. Do you think that could be a link, with Martin Collins? He’s a builder.’
Erika stared at him for a moment,
‘How is that a link?’
‘He could have known about it from a local builder…’
Erika found his nodding face irritating. She didn’t know if he was being genuine or showing off,
‘Crawford, the quarry stopped being used for clay before the First World War. Martin Collins and the family didn’t move here until the mid 1980s. And it’s a bloody common, the quarry was a local landmark.’
‘Oh,’ said Crawford blushing. A few officers came through to the incident room, followed by Moss and Peterson. Erika suddenly felt all her anger and frustration bubbling up inside her, and Crawford was the perfect outlet,
‘This is a complicated enough investigation without you pulling stupid theories out of your arse. It doesn’t make you look clever, and it pisses me off. Now unless you’ve got anything of actual value to say, bugger off…’
The other officers were now creeping over to their desks and taking off their coats. DI Crawford was now bright red, and his eyes were filling up.
‘And I have no time on my team for crying,’ she said. ‘What can you tell me about the septic tank at the cottage?’
‘Um, I’m still waiting to hear,’ muttered Crawford trying to keep hold of himself.
‘Well, stop fucking about, stop trying to be clever, and chase it. Do the job!’ she shouted. More officers were now arriving and there was an uncomfortable silence as they took off their coats and turned on their computers. ‘Does anyone else have any useless theories about who killed Jessica Collins?’ she added to the room. Everyone was quiet. ‘Good. Now, I’ve just heard back that the tooth we found in the cellar at hayes quarry doesn’t belong to Jessica.’
There was a groan from several of the officers.
‘Yes, my feeling exactly. So we need to re-double our efforts. Maybe some of you can help Crawford here.’
She went into her office and slammed the glass door, hating the fact that her team could still see her. She spent the next couple of hours on her computer, raking through the case files.
There was a knock at her door and Moss stood outside. She was waving a small white tissue.
‘I come in peace,’ she said.
‘Come inside, close the door,’ said Erika. ‘What is it?’
‘The Specialist Casework Investigation Team have managed to track down the camcorder tapes and photos taken by Trevor Marksman,’ said Moss. ‘John Mc Gorry is trying to track down something we can play them on.’
37
It was raining hard, and DI Crawford was out the back of Bromley Station sheltering under a small Perspex awning over the rubbish bins. The rain clattered down hard on the plastic above, as he told Amanda Baker how Erika had called him out in front of the whole incident room.
‘She’s a bitch, she just saw me as someone to pick on,’ Crawford was saying, his voice reaching a whiny higher octave.
‘I thought you liked bitches,’ said Amanda Baker dryly on the other end of the phone.
‘Don’t make fun of me. You know I’m this close to walking off this case…’
‘But you won’t because you’re there for me, aren’t you? And there’s a reason you are.’
Crawford pulled a face and stuck up his middle finger to the phone handset, ‘Yes, of course.’
‘So tell, me, what’s happening?’
‘Video evidence arrived this morning, but it was on those old small camcorder tapes.’
‘What video evidence?’ she asked impatiently.
‘Stuff that they seized from Trevor Marksman, years ago.’
‘I seized it from Marksman. What are they doing with it?’
‘They’ve got one of those VHS adaptors, thanks to me that is, and they’re watching them at the same time as playing them through a digital converter for uploading to HOLMES…’
‘Why aren’t you there watching them?’
I’m sick of all these bloody women bossing me around he thought. The wind changed direction and began to pelt rain vertically under the plastic dome above. ‘I wasn’t asked.’ He had to move further under it, against the stinking row of blue bins. He went on to tell her that analysis had been ordered on the soil samples found with Jessica.
‘I want to see those videos. You let me know as soon as they’re uploaded,’ said Amanda. ‘There’s something I remember from those videos… I’m not quite sure but it’s a gut feeling, just out of my grasp,’ she said. ‘Now go back inside, and don’t rouse suspicion.’
She hung up.
‘I bet you’ve got something in your grasp right now. Your third glass of wine,’ he said petulantly.
* * *
Seven miles away, in a house on the outskirts of South London, Gerry sat in a small flat overlooking a set of train tracks. The curtains were drawn against the wind and the rain outside.
A laptop was open on a desk, and he had listened to the conversation between Amanda Baker and DI Crawford. He played back a snippet of the conversation, and Amanda’s gravelly voice echoed around the small room,
‘There’s something I remember from those videos… I’m not quite sure but it’s a gut feeling, just out of my grasp.’
He picked up a phone which had just one number programmed into its memory and dialled. A voice answered.
‘She’s getting close. Do you want me to
take it to the next level?’ asked Gerry
‘No. Keep listening,’ came the voice. ‘If we move on this, we have to be sure.’
38
Erika and John were crammed into one of the small viewing suites in Bromley Station. They discovered that Trevor Marksman, in the interests of being frugal, had filmed had used 120 minute Hi8 camcorder tapes using Long Play mode, which meant that each tape ran for 4 hours.
‘And now, tape two,’ said John switching them over in the machine. Erika sat up and stretched out her arms.
‘Did he ever think he was going to watch that back?’
‘What are you talking about Boss? Four hours of windy walks in grey empty parks, traffic on the ring road, and a badly filmed and lit firework display from his bedroom window, this is box office gold,’ replied John. He wore latex gloves as he pulled the first little Hi8 tape from its case and reached for the next.
‘What’s he written there?’ asked Erika. John held up the case.
‘GARY B’DAY PARTY, April 1990.’ He said before slipped it out of the case. He held the small black cassette up to the light. ‘The tapes are in good nick.’
‘They’ve been kept in climate controlled storage.’
He dropped it into the VHS adaptor and slid it into the machine. Then, checking the feed was being uploaded to the laptop, he pressed play.
The small screen in front of them on the desk burst to life with static, and then at the top of the screen appeared the interior of a television lounge in the halfway house. It was in black and white, shook a little and then became coloured. Twenty men of different ages, most dressed scruffily, stood around on the polished wood floor. Several couches and sofas were dotted about, old and ripped, and a small TV was bolted high up on the wall. A large picture window looked out onto a grey sky and a patch of grass. For a few moments the light outside whited out the camera. They heard some voices, and then the camera turned to a mirror. Staring back was the reflection of Trevor Marskman, holding the videocamera before he was hideously scarred.
‘Here we are on the 2nd April for Gary Lundy’s twenty-fourth birthday!’ he said to his reflection. The camera whipped round to show a thin man sat in a fraying sofa. He had elongated features, and his hair was greasy and parted flat to the left. His nose was huge and he had one of his fingers buried in his left nostril up to the knuckle.
‘What are you doing?’ asked Trevor’s voice from behind the camera.
‘Looking for something decent to eat,’ replied Gary pulling his finger out of his nose. ‘Now fuck off,’ he snarled.
The image span away as the camera moved across the room, past a sad and creepy group of men hovering around a saggy buffet table covered in plastic bowls of crisps, and a small round iced cake studded with smarties. One short round little man wore a party hat, the elastic dug into his three chins and his long grey hair flowed from underneath.
‘Jesus, all these bloody nonces were living just up the road from the Collins’s,’ said John as they watched.
Back on screen the fat little man in the party hat was looking into the lens,
‘Can I have a go?’ he asked, reaching up, smiling, showing he had only two teeth.
‘No…’ said Trevor, his hand appearing in shot and tartly slapping the fat man’s hand as it grabbed for the camcorder.
‘Go, on I’ve never seen one before…’
‘Get you fucking hands off!’ whined Trevor. His hand swooped round and clouted the small man hard around the head. He went down on the floor, the elastic snapping on his party hat. He got up and charged at the camera. There was a jerky tussle and then the image went black.
‘Bloody hell, we’re going to have to watch the whole party aren’t we?’ said John. Erika nodded grimly. The screen then burst back to life, the party again, but a little later on. Music was playing and some of the men were dancing awkwardly. The camera swung back over to Gary, still sat in the corner picking his nose. He pulled out his finger and put it in his mouth.
‘That’s disgusting,’ said John turning away from the screen and making a face.
‘It’s alright, he’s gone,’ said Erika.
The camera swung round to show the small fat man, wearing a new party hat, and sat in a corner by an old upright piano. He was stuffing his face from a plate piled high with food, another plate waiting on the lid of the piano beside him.
‘What’s up with him?’ asked a voice out of shot.
‘He’s being a dick, wanted to use my camera,’ said Trevor’s voice as he cruelly zoomed in close on the fat man’s feasting little mouth. ‘He’s got two fucking thumbs. I don’t let anyone touch this camera,’ The image blurred in and out as he stuffed a fork full of quiche in his mouth, crumbs catching in his beard. ‘Fat fuck,’ said Trevor.
There was a high pitched girlish laugh and the camera panned round to a close up of tall bald red-faced man with crooked rabbit teeth.
‘You’ll let me have a go, won’t you?’ he asked.
‘NO!’
There seemed to be another tussle and the image flicked forward to later in the afternoon. It was now growing dark in the television room, and the only light in the room was the candles on the cake, which was being carried across the room by a tall man. Trevor followed behind him as they took the cake to Gary, who was still sitting in the armchair.
‘Go on, give it a blow!’ cried a voice. Gary protested and them blew out the candles. ‘What did you wish for?’ shouted another voice.
‘To fucking die,’ said Gary sitting back and folding his arms. The man holding the cake turned to the camera for a moment, and then walked out of shot.
‘Shit!’ said Erika, ‘hang on, run it back.’
‘I can’t, I’m doing the digital transfer,’ said John. Trevor followed behind the man, over to the long table.
‘I know that man,’ said Erika. ‘He was at Trevor Marksman’s the other day. Pause it, now!’
* * *
Erika dashed out of the viewing suite and up the stairs to the incident room. Peterson was just coming off the phone when she grabbed him and told him to come downstairs. When they got back to the viewing suite. He watched with them. On the screen, Trevor now focused on Joel who was talking to the camera, joking as if this party was a red carpet event.
‘That’s him isn’t it? Joel. He’s got hair in the video, but he’s got the South African accent,’ said Erika.
‘He’s got the same strange milky blue eyes,’ added Peterson. ‘Yep, and that scar, running down from his temple to behind his ear.’
‘He said his name was Joel, but didn’t give a surname. I want a list of everyone who was in that half way house during 1990,’ said Erika.
They looked back at the screen where one of the other men in the halfway house had taken the camera, and Trevor and Joel were dancing together, as music boomed from a crackling sound system.
39
Erika and John watched two more of the video tapes in the afternoon, they were shorter, recorded using standard play. They consisted of several spring days spent in the park local to Avondale Road. Trevor Marksman filmed lots of local children, often encouraging the parents to smile and wave at the camera as they pushed their children on the swings, and caught them at the bottom of slides.
Jessica Collins made her first appearance in one of the videos in a clip which was dated 11.06.1990, playing at the park on a see-saw with another dark haired girl. They laughed and bounced up and down, and in the background a younger version of both Marianne and Laura sat on a bench in the shade of a large oak tree. Laura was smoking, and barely listening as Marianne leaned in to talk to her.
The camera watched Jessica play for several minutes, zooming in from the other side of the park. Erika was struck how beautiful and carefree she was, dancing with her friend, swinging from the climbing frame… Erika’s feelings turned to revulsion when she realised that she was watching all of this through Trevor Marksman’s eyes.
For several minutes the image had remained s
till and silent, just the gentle sounds of birds singing and children playing. Then there was a curse as the low battery sign began to flash in the corner of the screen. The image wobbled, and retreated from the park, still watching the girls on the climbing frame. The camera then reached a small gate at the edge of the park, and just before the battery died, and the picture went black, there was a brief flash of a familiar face as a hand took the camera.
‘Hang on, who was that?’ asked Erika as they both stared at the blank screen.
‘That was the end of the tape,’ said John.
‘The camera turned round, just as the tape ended… Can we run it back?’
John took out the tape, and pulled the laptop towards him on the desk. They now had a digital recording. He found the last few minutes of the tape and ran it forward. It took a few attempts, as the face was only on screen for a fraction of a second, but when they had the image it was undoubtedly Trevor Marksman.
They stared at it for a few moments.
‘This means that Trevor wasn’t filming the girls all the time. In the previous investigation it was taken as read that he was doing all the filming,’ said Erika.
‘And he flipped out at that party that he wouldn’t let anyone use the camera,’ said John. He played it back again,
‘Listen, can you hear? A voice says, “there you go”. It’s sounds South African.’
There was a knock at the door and Peterson returned,
‘Boss. I’ve found Joel Michaels. He changed his name in 1995, his birth name is Peter Michaels. He’s fifty-three years old. He was in the halfway house after his release from prison. He served six years from February 1984 until his release in March 1990, for the imprisonment and rape of a nine year old boy.’
Dark Water: A gripping serial killer thriller Page 16
