by A. J. Cross
‘Have seats,’ said Brophy, sending a quizzical look in Judd’s direction.
‘PC Judd should be part of our discussion, sir, seeing as she’s part of the investigation.’
Judd straightened, chin up, making herself as tall as possible. The chief gave him a direct look. ‘Dr Chong has an ID for the skull found yesterday. You’re confident in your view that there’s a link between it and the Roberts homicide?’
‘Yes. I don’t go for two killers choosing more or less the same dump site.’
‘Any thoughts on how you’ll proceed? With the personnel you’ve already got, of course.’
‘As far as any media address is concerned, the focus of this investigation is the Roberts homicide. All we’ve got on Barlow is ID. We don’t know where she was killed or the location of her other remains, so it stays under wraps for now.’
‘Got any investigative theories regarding the two?’
Watts kept a grip on his irritation. ‘I’m going with both cases being likely sexual homicides. We’ll check out both women’s lives, see if we can establish any kind of link between them. In the absence of an established link, I’m anticipating an investigation of both as random homicide by stranger.’ Watts decided to give Brophy what else he knew. ‘There’s a service road off the motorway, leading to a works compound. It’s hardly any distance from Blackfoot Trail.’ He felt Judd’s eyes on him. ‘It’s an angle we’ll be following up. The killer could be local, but given the scene’s proximity to the M42 there’s a possibility he travelled to it by motorway, accessed it via that service road, left his vehicle at the compound there, continued on foot, killed Roberts and left by the same route. The same could equally apply to the Barlow skull.’
Brophy frowned at him. ‘At this time of the year it’s light from around five o’clock. If you’re right, he’s no cautious killer.’
Watts nodded. ‘I’m hoping the media appeal will identify potential witnesses at Blackfoot Trail on the morning Roberts was killed and I’ll be checking everybody who works at that compound. I want motorway CCTV footage for the early hours prior to the Roberts killing. It might be an idea to raise it with the motorway surveillance unit as soon as possible, sir.’
Brophy gave a brief nod. ‘I’ll get on to them.’ Watts waited. Brophy clearly had something on his mind. He looked at Watts. ‘Remember the help I said I might have for you? We’re in luck. The chief constable has suggested a name. Somebody he personally rates. A criminologist.’ Brophy pushed stapled A4s across the desk towards him. ‘Have a look at his CV.’
Watts reached for it, read the name on the topmost sheet, returned it to the desk. ‘I’m not happy about having him on the investigation, sir.’
Brophy sat forward, face reddening. ‘This isn’t a situation where you can be choosy. It’s too high-profile.’ He pointed to the CV. ‘You recognize his name because he’s an expert in the area of violent crime. He analyses it, measures it, but he’s not just an academic if that’s what you’re thinking.’
‘It isn’t.’
The chief continued as if Watts hadn’t spoken. ‘He’s worked on some of the most challenging homicide investigations we’ve had in the UK over the last fifteen years. He’s got a wealth of criminological theory, plus analytical skills, plus a lot of direct experience of offenders and their behaviour, all of which means he’s able to take their perspective. Think like them. Be a step ahead. What’s more, he knows the law, so he can be trusted to follow the rules and not be compromised by the media.’
Watts’ eyes were on the CV. To date, he hadn’t heard Brophy talk with such vigour and in such detail on any issue. ‘I know about William Traynor. So does the media.’
‘In that case, judge the man, not the talk,’ snapped Brophy. His eyes were fixed on Watts. ‘I’ve already agreed Dr Traynor’s involvement in this case with the chief constable. As I said, he rates him.’
Feeling Judd’s eyes on him, Watts decided against a response. A silence grew between them. Brophy made some conciliatory hand movements. ‘Bernard, I hear your concerns, but what I said about Traynor still holds. You’ve got a hell of a case here and his skills are exactly what’s needed.’ He pushed the CV back towards Watts, not looking at him. ‘According to the chief constable, Dr Traynor is available and willing to come on board. Think about it. It could be like old times for you. The specialist help you had from the forensic psychologist when you headed the Unsolved Crime Unit worked very well, from what I’ve heard.’
Watts suspected that Brophy’s persuasive tone owed much to his reluctance to go back to the chief constable and tell him that the help he’d suggested hadn’t been welcomed. Watts gave a mental shrug, knowing that his reservations wouldn’t cut much ice.
‘I’ve heard that Traynor knows his stuff, that he gets results. I’ve also heard that he can be difficult to work with. The Zoe Roberts homicide is a high-profile homicide, sir, without the media knowing about the Barlow skull. Yes, we could use specialist help but it has to be from somebody who’s able to be part of the team.’
Brophy stood, held out the CV. ‘Dr Traynor’s expecting you to contact him. Ring him this morning. Go and see him as soon as possible. Take PC Judd with you. Show her how professionalism operates in today’s force.’
Watts took the CV. ‘I’ll see him at his office.’
Brophy sat, moving papers around his desk. ‘He works mainly from his home. You’ve got his contact details and address. Let me know that you’ve agreed his involvement.’
Watts came out of the office knowing he’d been stitched up. Bypassing the squad room, he headed downstairs, Judd trailing him.
‘Sir, Sarge? Who’s this criminologist? Why don’t you want him on our case?’ She followed him through a door and into a large, silent room, its blinds half down. After the friction with Brophy, Watts needed to be here. Preferably, on his own. Judd pointed up at scripted words high on one wall. ‘“Let justice roll down.” Hey, cool! A mission-statement. Like it.’ She turned, stared at the massive screen of the wall-mounted Smartboard. ‘Look at that. What goes on in here?’
‘Nothing. It used to be the Unsolved Crime Unit where I worked until the start of this year.’ Judd was at the Smartboard, had located its on-button. The huge screen radiated sudden light. ‘This is some kit.’ She glanced at him. ‘What happened to this unit you’re on about?’
‘Stop messing with the technology and I might tell you.’
She switched it off, came to the big worktable.
He avoided her gaze. ‘We sorted a lot of unsolved homicides here but one good colleague left, another did the same and the brass decided to close it down.’
She sat on the table. ‘Happens all the time, Sarge. People come. People go. I’ll be moving on in a couple of years. Hopefully, sooner. To get promotion.’ She raised her hands, fingers hooked. ‘Ker-ching.’
He closed his eyes, adding another irritation to a growing list: too brash by half. He headed for the door, her voice following him. ‘These two mates you’re on about, Sarge, where did they go?’
‘America.’
She got off the table, hurried after him, face lit up. ‘Go on! You’re saying they got jobs there? How did they—’
‘That’s enough Memory Lane. I’ve got a press conference in half an hour and a phone call to make first.’
‘Who to?’
He headed down the corridor. ‘Dr William Bloody Traynor.’
Facing scribbling journalists, their phones and cameras, Watts brought the appeal to a conclusion with a statement he knew they wouldn’t like. ‘For investigative reasons, I’m not releasing any details of the Zoe Roberts homicide at this stage.’ Ignoring the dissatisfaction on the faces, he spoke above the clamour of voices, indicating the man in his mid-thirties seated next to him at the table, his face drawn, eyes downcast. ‘We’re very grateful to Mr Alec Prentiss for being here today. He’s going to say a few words about his sister, Zoe.’
Watts turned to Prentiss who had grey shadows u
nder his eyes, starting to doubt that he would manage to get through the brief sentiments about his sister which he had been persuaded to say. The press watched in anticipation as Prentiss unfolded the single sheet of paper with quivering fingers and got to his feet, despite Watts’ advice to remain seated. He held up the large photograph he had also brought with him. It shook in his hand. ‘This is … my sister, Zoe … Actually, her hair was blonder than you can see …’ He swallowed. ‘Our family is shocked and devastated that anyone could do this terrible thing. Zoe was funny and clever and … she didn’t deserve …’ His control wavered. ‘If anyone thinks they might have seen her at Blackfoot Trail yesterday, sometime between six thirty a.m. and seven forty-five, or any other day, please, contact the police.’
He sat heavily as Watts stood. A hand shot up. ‘DI Watts, do you have a statement yet from the victim’s husband?’
The press had obviously got on to that aspect of Zoe Roberts’ life. He sidestepped. ‘We’ll release more details as appropriate. West Midlands Police is committed to apprehending whoever committed this violent act which resulted in Zoe Roberts’ death.’ Alec Prentiss bowed his head. Watts spoke direct to camera. ‘This is an appeal to anybody who was in the vicinity of Blackfoot Trail early on the morning of Monday the fifteenth of August, from say five a.m. onwards, to contact headquarters on the number at the bottom of the screen. We would also welcome information from anyone in that area during the previous seven days, no matter how insignificant that information might seem.’ He turned, gave a quick nod to Prentiss who got to his feet. They and the family liaison worker went to the door and out, shouted questions following them.
Judd stared out of the window at greenness rushing past. ‘Are we going to this service road you mentioned to Brophy?’
Watts’ eyes were on the satnav’s screen, which he tolerated as long as he didn’t have to listen to it. ‘No. The criminologist is expecting us and I want to get it over with.’ He felt her eyes on him. ‘Whatever I do or don’t agree with him, I want you to note down the details, along with anything else that’s said.’ Watts had already decided that he wouldn’t be leaving this meeting without details he might need in the future to make a case against Traynor’s involvement in the investigation. Seeing an indication of a left-hand turn, he slowed.
She looked up at him. ‘You know what, Sarge? That name rings a bell.’
‘Whose name?’
‘Dr Traynor’s.’
‘That, I doubt, but cast your mind back a decade or so. Which in your case, Judd, is probably of no help, as you’d have been about ten, tops.’
‘Depends what was happening then.’
‘Try three homicides in different parts of the country, all three linked by the motorway network and committed inside the victims’ homes.’
She smacked her hands together. ‘Got it! I remember them.’ Seeing Watts’ disbelief, she said, ‘I do. I decided I wanted to be a police officer when I was six, so I started reading crime reports in the papers.’
He stared at the road ahead. If he’d learned anything about Judd during the last couple of days, it was that she wasn’t like anybody else he’d ever met. And he’d met plenty. She was tiring, irritating, opinionated and now he was having trouble believing what she was telling him. ‘You’re having me on.’
‘No.’
He took another left, deciding to go along with her. ‘Remember any details of those three homicides?’
She nodded, itemizing them on her fingers. ‘The first in York, the second, Oxford … and lastly, some place in Surrey.’
‘Guildford.’ Details came into his own head, including the theory the police worked to at the time that the killer was a lorry driver. He glanced across at her. ‘You’re telling me that at ten, you were interested in homicides?’
She gazed at him. ‘No. Way before that. I remember one when I was about seven. A really scary one. While he was on the loose, I slept with my hands like this.’ He looked, saw her hands folded around her own neck. ‘Because he was a strangler, somewhere in London.’ She grinned at Watts. ‘I was convinced he was on the prowl where I was. No way was I taking any chances.’ She saw his face change. ‘What’s wrong with that?’
Wondering where to start, he chose his words. ‘Anybody ever tell you back then that you had unusual interests for your age?’
‘The woman at our local library.’
He gave her a sideways look. ‘I thought your generation was born complete with a CD-ROM.’
She gave him a bright-eyed look. ‘Those three linked cases were really interesting, Sarge. Too bad, Dr Traynor and the police couldn’t catch the killer.’ Watts slowed, entered a steep drive and followed it to where it opened on to a large area of land surrounded by sturdy trees, in the middle of it a rambling stone and tile house. He switched off the ignition, ignoring Judd’s finger-point. ‘Look at that. This criminologist must be well rich to have a place like this.’
He looked across at the house. ‘Your memory for that triple homicide case is disturbingly on the money in every respect, Judd, except one.’ They got out of the vehicle and Watts headed for the big house.
Judd followed. ‘But he was involved in it, like he will be with us?’
Watts headed across the expanse of yellowing, otherwise immaculate grass. That massive police investigation had been worked by the combined York, Oxford and Guildford forces. He recalled chaos borne of desperation to find the killer of three women and a lack of evidence culminating in its demise. Suppressing irritation at a nudge from Judd, he glanced at the silver-grey, fifteen-plus-years-old Aston Martin parked next to the house. They walked towards the house, up shallow steps up to the wide front door. Looking for a bell, not finding one, Watts pounded glass. They waited. He pounded again, seeing movement deep within, a shadow approaching the door. It was opened by a tall, slender, fair-haired man in his early forties, rimless glasses giving his face a cool, bookish air. Despite the passage of a decade or so, Watts immediately recognized him. He showed ID. ‘Detective Inspector Bernard Watts, Doctor Traynor. We spoke earlier.’
Traynor gave a brisk nod, opening the door wider. ‘Come inside. The chief constable contacted me yesterday and outlined your case.’ Traynor’s gaze was direct, his voice deep, well-modulated. He held out his hand to Watts, his handshake firm.
‘This is PC Chloe Judd,’ said Watts.
Traynor held out his hand to her. ‘PC Judd.’
She took it, blushed. They followed him into a huge, square, high-ceilinged room of glowing wood floor, bookshelves and pale, immaculate walls, its wide windows looking out on to a small lake several metres away. Traynor indicated for them to sit. Whatever Watts had heard about him during the last decade, this tanned man wasn’t the twitchy, rumpled individual he’d been anticipating. His eyes drifted over a pristine white linen shirt, black jeans, burnished leather boots. Traynor looked like an academic. Which was exactly what he was. Watts had read his CV. Eight years ago, Traynor had left the Oxford college where he worked and was now Researcher in Criminology at one of Birmingham’s central universities. Watts also knew that somewhere beneath the crisp white linen was scar tissue. He’d come here anticipating a lot beneath the surface where William Traynor was concerned. It looked like he might have got it wrong.
He got down to the reason for their visit, outlining the murder of Zoe Roberts, its location and the finding of the skull in a nearby field. ‘That’s not yet been released to the press, by the way. If it was solely the Roberts murder, I wouldn’t be here, but this case is now bigger, more complex than we anticipated. Which is why our acting chief spoke to the chief constable about you joining our investigation.’
Traynor gave him a cool, direct look. ‘As a criminologist, I routinely follow the city’s homicide investigations in the press. My understanding is that you already have the services of a forensic psychologist. A Professor Hanson.’
Watts kept it brief. ‘Not any longer. Right now, I’m heading a team of eighteen officers, plu
s in-house SOCOs and forensic experts.’ He glanced at Judd, the words ‘green’, ‘inexperienced’ and ‘annoying’ surging into his head. ‘PC Judd has joined the investigation as part of her training and she’s bringing keenness and ideas to it.’ He looked directly at Traynor. ‘Your university job allows you time for investigative work?’
‘With my agreement, yes. It’s a quid pro quo. In exchange for my skills my department adds to its research knowledge and development. I teach two days per week. The remainder of the week I work from here, contacting my post-grad researchers via email. I select the best, so they know what’s required of them and they do it.’
Watts looked towards the wide windows and the rural scene beyond, then back. ‘Sounds like a convenient arrangement.’
Traynor was on his feet. ‘Unfortunately, I have very little time to talk this morning so, if you don’t mind, we need to continue our discussion whilst I get on with some preparations.’
Watts stared up at him, wrong-footed by Traynor’s sudden change of focus. Finishing what she was writing, Judd tracked Traynor as he walked away from them across the room, her words following him. ‘You’ll find working at headquarters a big change, Dr Traynor! No chance of anybody being lonely there.’ She caught Watts’ look, returned an irritated one of her own.
‘What?’ Traynor had disappeared inside a room off the one they were in.
Watts raised his voice. ‘We need your skills, your research knowledge on our case. Starting now. Today.’ Beyond the open door of the room, he saw part of a wall covered in maps, charts, notes, labels, all linked by tape of various colours.
Traynor reappeared, carrying a leather backpack. ‘I’m not fully available until probably the end of next week at the earliest, but until then I’ll provide whatever advice I can.’ He reached for his keys. ‘To do that, I’ll need whatever case data you have so far. Courier it to me here and I’ll email you my initial responses.’
Watts was on his feet, his eyes fixed on Traynor’s face. ‘I haven’t come here for “advice”. I’ve got two homicides and sky-high media interest. I need you at headquarters. At the scene. Working with us, now.’
