by Tim Ellis
‘Possibly . . .’
‘I thought you said you had a match?’
‘Oh I do.’
‘But?’
‘It’s only a match to DNA found at the scene of another murder.’
He sighed. ‘This is not the open-and-shut case I was hoping for, Doc.’
‘When was the last time you had one of those?’
‘Never.’
‘I’ve sent the details of the other case by email to DC Richards.’
‘Thanks, Doc. Have a good one.’
‘And you, Inspector.’
Chapter Nineteen
He was on his way back to the station to interview Andrew Ross about the alleged rape of Giselle Hamill, but he was deep in thought about Isaac Scully and what Doc Paine had told him.
Isaac Scully had been murdered himself in 1986 while serving a life sentence in Wormwood Scrubs for three counts of murder – he was an executioner for the Hayes’ Gang in Basildon during the early 1980s, and his preferred method of despatching his victims to the underworld was the garrotte.
But he was dead and buried long ago, and the garrotte he’d used was presented as evidence at his trial, which had subsequently been secured in a plastic box in the Evidence Storage Warehouse (ESW) next to the railway sidings on Salisbury Road in Rye. How had it fallen into the hands of another killer?
‘Any news?’ Sergeant Catalano asked him when he walked into the Custody Suite.
‘I hear that the European Union are . . .’
‘Hey, you want to get your own show.’
He smiled. ‘No, no news yet.’
‘You’re not planning on keeping the truth from me to protect my feelings, are you?’
‘No. You’ll get the whole truth and nothing but the truth.’
‘So help you God?’
‘So help me, God.’
‘Okay.’
‘Right, I’m ready to interview Mr Ross now.’
‘Interview Room 3. He’s got a swanky solicitor with him.’
‘He’ll need one.’
He ambled along to the Interview Room, went inside, activated the digital recording and sat down opposite Andrew Ross and his solicitor – who happened to be a middle-aged woman with shoulder-length brown hair and a bony chest.
‘Good morning, Mr Ross.’
‘You’d better have a good reason for dragging me down here.’
‘I am Detective Sergeant Gilbert. It’s Friday, August 8 at ten thirty-seven a.m. Also in the room is . . . please state your name and address for the recording.’
‘Andrew Ross, 54 Forest Lane in Chigwell.’
‘And?’ Stick said, looking at the woman.
‘Janet McQueen from McQueen, Heckford and Jowlett Solicitors, also in Chigwell.’
‘Thank you,’ Stick said.
‘Why am I here?’ Ross insisted.
‘Can you tell me what happened on Wednesday morning?’
‘What happened?’
‘Yes. You stopped to help a young woman, and then drove her to the hospital.’
‘That’s right. I should be getting a medal for what I did. Instead, you’re treating me like a criminal.’
‘Can you describe what happened in your own words, please?’
‘I saw the woman walking along the side of the A10. She looked dazed and confused, and the A10 is a dual carriageway and not the type of road you take a stroll along. So I stopped, as any concerned citizen would. Although, I have to say that nobody else stopped.’
‘What time was this?’
‘Quarter past nine. I remember glancing at my Rolex.’
‘And where were you going?’
‘Work.’
‘Which is?’
‘Well, when I say work – it’s not actually work. I have my own award-winning editorial design and publishing company for magazines, newsletters, journals, annual reports and bespoke publications. I’m mostly retired now though, but I do like to show my face now and again to keep the minions on their toes.’
‘Okay. Carry on, Mr Ross.’
‘As I said, I stopped the car . . .’
‘What type of car do you drive?’
‘A silver X-Type Jaguar.’
‘Registration number?’
‘PW58 TJZ . . . Anyway, I pulled over and got out of my car to ask the woman if she was all right, but she didn’t answer. I could see there was something wrong with her, so instead of leaving her there I drove her to the hospital.’
‘King George Hospital was thirty-five minutes away – why there? Why not somewhere closer?’
‘That’s just what came into my mind.’
‘And you drove straight there?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did the woman speak during the journey?’
‘Not that I recall.’
‘Did you speak to her?’
‘Of course. I kept asking her what was wrong, telling her everything would be all right – that type of thing.’
Janet McQueen put her pen down. ‘I think it’s time you told us what this is all about, Sergeant.’
‘Miss Hamill has accused Mr Ross of rape, and signed a written statement to that effect.’
‘Rape!’ Ross paled significantly. ‘For Christ’s sake. You can’t be serious?’
‘I’m very serious, Mr Ross.’
‘Well, I categorically deny it.’
The solicitor snapped her folder shut. ‘I think my client has finished answering your questions, Sergeant. Are you charging my client, or are we free to go?’
‘Before you do go, I’d like your client’s permission to take a DNA sample.’
‘Absolutely not,’ Ross said.
McQueen leaned towards Ross and whispered something in his ear.
‘I don’t care,’ he said.
‘I’d like to talk to my client in private, Sergeant.’
Stick glanced at the clock on the wall. ‘Interview suspended at seven minutes past eleven.’ He paused the recording and left the room.
‘How are things going?’ Sergeant Catalano asked.
‘Quite well.’ He rang forensics and asked a technician to come down with a swab. ‘Any chance of a coffee?’ he said to Rosanne when he put the receiver down.
‘You wouldn’t have time to drink it.’ She nodded her head towards the interview room.
Mrs McQueen was standing in the doorway. ‘When you’re ready, Sergeant.’
He returned to the interview room, sat down, switched the recording back on and said, ‘Interview resumed at sixteen minutes past eleven.’
‘My client will provide a DNA sample.’
‘Excellent.’ He passed the solicitor a copy of the search warrant. ‘You should also be aware that while you and your client have been here in the station I’ve obtained a search warrant for Mr Ross’ car, which has now been impounded for a forensic examination.’
‘You can’t . . .’
McQueen put her hand on Ross’ shoulder to shut him up.
There was a knock at the door and the forensic technician entered wielding the swab. He wiped the cotton bud round inside Ross’ mouth, sealed the swab, wrote the details on the label and left.
‘Is there anything else you’d like to say, Mr Ross?’
‘No comment.’
‘Interview terminated at eleven thirty-three. You’re free to go, Mr Ross, but please don’t leave the local area.’
***
She watched as the subject came out of a side door from Du Pont Engineering Limited and climbed into his red VW Polo.
As he pulled out of the car park and turned left towards her, she switched on the engine, indicated left and pulled out behind him.
After twenty minutes driving along Old Nazeing Road, the subject turned off into the grounds of the Kingsmead Country Hotel. She continued to follow him past the three-tier fountain and parked up on the opposite side of the gravel car park.
The subject locked his car and made his way into the hotel, which was a large sprawling stone count
ry house with chimneys, ivy and Georgian windows.
She took a series of photographs, and then went into the hotel after him.
The lobby was full of oak panelling, flowery wallpaper and a green-patterned carpet.
A thin grey-haired man wearing a black tie who looked more like a professional funeral mourner for hire than a hotelier employed to welcome guests approached her. ‘Yes, Madam?’
‘Lunch?’
‘Of course, Madam. If you would care to follow me?’
She hadn’t really given much thought to what she would do once she was inside the hotel. The subject might have arranged to meet a woman in a pre-booked room, or he might have seen that he was being followed and slipped out through the kitchen to shake her off his tail.
Jen followed Mr Misery through a glass door and into the dining room. She was glad to see that the subject was sitting at one of the dining tables next to a window. But she wasn’t at all happy that he had an attractive woman sitting with him. She was bordering on skinny with long brown hair, wore a blue and white halter-neck summer dress without a bra, and a gold ring on the third finger of her left hand.
If she was being truthful, the subject wasn’t ugly – far from it. He was certainly much better looking than Rowley, but Rowley had other qualities that she wouldn’t have swapped for all the tea in China. The subject had black hair that needed cutting, facial hair that was neither a beard nor a four o’clock shadow and he would have benefitted from a close shave with a cut-throat razor. He wore a scruffy pair of faded dark blue jeans and a black t-shirt over a body that she would have happily paid to massage.
A smile rampaged across her face.
‘Can I get Madam a drink?’ a young spotty-faced man asked.
‘Orange juice, please.’
‘And is Madam ready to order?’
‘Not yet.’
He nodded and left.
She looked at the menu and decided on the king prawn salad with rocket, avocado, feta, tomato, capsicum, salmon roe and prawns.
The waiter came back with her drink, and she ordered her food.
The subject and the woman seemed to be engaged in a heated conversation while they were eating their lunch. She wondered why they weren’t screwing like bunnies in a room in the plush splendour of the Kingsmead Hotel instead of sitting in the dining room. The subject was due back at work soon and didn’t have much time.
The waiter brought her salad. She picked at it. What was the subject and the woman up to? Why were they here? Why weren’t they upstairs in a room making the best use of their time? What were they talking about?
The woman stood up and walked towards the toilet. The subject called the waiter over and paid his bill. Then he made his way to the hotel lobby and out of the hotel.
She was caught unawares. She left thirty pounds on the table, followed the subject out and stopped outside the hotel door.
The subject was manoeuvring his car so that it was boot-to-boot with a green Fiat Punto. Then, he climbed out of the car, transferred three heavy-looking black plastic sacks from the trunk of the Fiat to the trunk of the Polo and moved his car back to where it had previously been parked.
What was in the black plastic sacks? Jen was totally confused now. Why had he transferred the sacks from the green car to his car?
The woman barged past her, walked to where the subject was standing, and hugged and kissed him on the lips. Then, she got into the green Fiat and drove out of the car park towards the Old Nazeing Road.
The subject followed her.
Jen followed the subject.
The woman turned right.
The subject turned left.
She continued to follow the subject, who drove back to his place of work, parked up in the same parking place the car had been in before and returned to the building.
Now what?
***
‘Would you really rat me out to the Chief Constable?’
‘Do you think that posing naked for photographs is compatible with being a police officer – a murder detective, no less?’
‘Well . . .’
‘Imagine if you become a pin-up in Wormwood Scrubs.’
‘A pin-up?’
‘The men you lock up would be fantasising about you in prison.’
‘Really?’
‘And you know what I mean by “fantasising”, don’t you?’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘You’re being disgusting again, aren’t you?’
‘You’re the one who’s being disgusting by thinking disgusting thoughts.’
She pulled a face. ‘Where are we going now?’
‘I think we could justifiably stop for lunch somewhere.’
‘It’s only ten to twelve.’
‘Which is lunchtime if my stomach is anything to go by.’
‘Pretty soon you’ll be eating lunch before breakfast.’
‘Mmmm! There’s a tempting idea.’
‘What about having a working lunch?’
‘Go on.’
‘Well, we could stop at the bakers on the High Street, get some healthy five-a-day filled rolls, take them back to the station, make a coffee and . . .’
‘You’ll make the coffee?’
‘All right, I’ll make the coffee. Then we could eat lunch and discuss the case with all the facts in front of us.’
‘I’m not keen on healthy five-a-day filled rolls.’
‘You always have to spoil it, don’t you?’
At Angel’s Bakery Richards ordered two whole-grain rolls filled with ham, honey and mustard. Parish had three healthy Mexican chicken and pepper wraps with a side order of salsa, and for afterwards – a Cognac truffle and a sponge cake topped with strawberries and cream.
‘You must be rotting from the inside out,’ Richards said once they were ensconced in the Incident Room.
‘Is this the face of concern,’ he said, stuffing a mouthful of spicy wrap into his mouth. ‘Right, where do we go from here, Detective Constable Richards?’
‘You know that I input a database query with all the known facts of the case?’
‘Yes.’
‘The results were spewed out last night.’
‘Anything interesting?’
‘Just a minute.’ She read through the print-out while she ate her whole grain roll, and then compared the details to the email that Doc Riley had sent her concerning the Low Copy DNA match to another murder.
‘Take your time.’
‘I am.’
She slapped the table with her open hand.
‘Are you trying to give me a coronary?’
‘She’s the victim of a serial killer. I told you she was, but you wouldn’t believe me, would you?’
‘I knew she’d been murdered by a serial killer before you, but I wanted you to do the work to prove it. Making snap judgements based on flimsy evidence . . .’
‘You lie like a cheap Chinese watch.’
‘Go on then, what’s in the reports?’
‘Catrina Golding is his fourth victim, and up to now he’s slipped under the net. Nobody but me . . .’
‘Us.’
‘Nobody but us has found the connection.’
‘Which is?’
‘The date. He’s sexually assaulted and strangled four women who were alone in their apartments or houses on August 1 each year beginning in 2011. There was no sign of forced entry in any of the cases, and one earring was missing in the 2012 murder as well as the more recent one. I bet he took earrings from the other two crime scenes as well, but the detectives missed it.’
‘What about Doc Riley’s DNA match?’
‘It links to the 2012 murder.’
‘Okay, turn the whiteboard over.’
‘I’m sorry . . . ?’
‘Are you incapable of multitasking all of a sudden?’
She pushed her food and drink to the other side of the table, walked round to the mobile whiteboard, flipped it over and locked it in place. ‘Shoot.’
‘We have four
murders, a confirmed DNA profile for two of the murders, no match on the national database, and the probability that he’s a trophy-taker. Put the details of each murder on the board, and then get a map and mark the location of the crime scenes on it.’
‘Or, you could get the map . . .’
‘I’m having my lunch if you hadn’t noticed.’
‘You’re a pig.’
‘Mmmm!’ he said, as he filled his mouth with spicy Mexican wrap.
Petrina Vincent was murdered in 2011. She was twenty-three years old, lived at 4 Vineyards Road, Northaw and worked as a clerical assistant at Manson Training, 251 Tolmers Gardens in Cuffley. Joanna Ormrod was murdered in 2012. She was twenty-two years old, lived at 23 Amesbury, Waltham Abbey and worked as a Shop Assistant in Pansy’s Florists, 147 Honey Lane in Waltham Abbey. Emma Carter was murdered in 2013. She was twenty years old, lived at 39 Hoe Lane, Nazeing and worked as a receptionist at Epping Primary School on Carters Lane in Epping Green. Catrina Golding was murdered in 2014. She was twenty-five years old, lived in Apartment 8, 34 Plomer Avenue, Hailey and worked as a child care assistant on Dymokes Way in Hailey.
‘There,’ Richards said.
‘Map?’
‘But . . .’
‘We also want the three other case files, which hopefully will contain photographs of each woman when they were alive.’
‘And what are you going to be doing while I’m working my fingers to the bone?’
‘Thinking.’
‘Don’t do yourself an injury,’ she threw over her shoulder as she left the room.
So, Richards was right – another serial killer. She certainly had a nose for serial killers. Four victims, one a year for four years. What was that about? An anniversary possibly? Of what? Who? Why? He was strangling the victim first, and then having sex with the corpse. How did a man become a necrophiliac? What now? Would plotting the crime scene locations help them identify the killer? Would a victim profile help them discover what had set this psychopath on his murderous journey?
They had followed every lead: The social networking and pornography, the photographer, the boyfriends, the husband of her workplace manager, the stranger witnessed by her next door neighbour on the Saturday, the planted sperm that had belonged to a homosexual – everything had come to a dead end. Now, all they had were loose ends that didn’t seem to go anywhere: The missing earrings, the unforced entry, the father of Catrina Golding’s baby.
