Killing by Colours

by Wonny Lea

  Martin rose to his own challenge and suggested that the most important clue in both cases was the colour. ‘To begin with we had the red envelope and notepaper, and then we were directed to think of red in the first line of what I will call the red poem. Let’s assume that the colour is intended to refer in some way to the location of the crime as we know that the first victim was killed at the Red Dragon Centre. If the colour red had been our only clue it would have been pretty useless as there are possibly dozens of other red-associated locations in and around Cardiff.’

  Matt chipped in. ‘The Welsh rugby team plays in red so we could have thought of the Millennium Stadium and the Welsh word for red is coch, so we may have been directed towards Castell Coch.’

  ‘Yes,’ continued Martin. ‘We could think of many more possibilities but red was not the only clue we were given. The killer/poet has called his victim a dragon and with the benefit of hindsight those two clues could have taken us to the Red Dragon Centre. So let’s look at this second poem to see if there is anything other than the colour orange that may be directing us to the location where I believe a murder has already been committed.’

  Matt turned his head away from the whiteboard and stared at Martin. ‘The third verse of this poem seems to indicate that if there has been a second murder it may only be number two on a possible list of seven, as he talks about sending another “five to Hell”. There’s also that personal reference to you, guv, and I hate to say this but we have to consider the possibility that you are one of the other five he mentions.’

  ‘Either that or he is going to make it his business to ensure that I am publically seen to be the lead detective in the case of a serial killer with seven trophies and no arrest.’ Martin grimaced. ‘I must confess the personal element is bugging me, but let’s focus on trying to find the location with the vague clues we have.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking orange,’ said Helen. ‘There’s Orange the mobile phone company, and they have a number of shops so that’s a possibility, and there’s a company called Orange Forestry in Radyr. I only know about them because my neighbour has just had some work done on two ancient trees in her garden. I also know of a place called Orange Grove that is somewhere near St Fagans and I remember going there last year when there had been a spate of burglaries and the local force asked for extra help. Apart from those few I’m struggling to think of any orange related venues.’

  Matt nodded. ‘The only thing I’m coming up with is the fruit itself in that oranges are fleshy and juicy and maybe we’re looking for a place where oranges are sold – and I’ve seen crates and crates of them piled up in Bessemer Road Market.’

  Just as Matt was finishing his sentence the door opened and Sergeant John Evans appeared. ‘Guessed I would find you all here and I’ve come to give you something else to worry about. A woman has just rung in to report the finding of a body and in her words the man has been stabbed with a knife and has bled to death.’

  ‘Where was the body found?’ asked Martin.

  ‘It was in one of the smaller units on the Tremorfa Industrial Estate,’ Sgt Evans replied. ‘According to PC Davies, who is now at the scene, it looks as if the victim has been stabbed twice.’ As he had been speaking Evans’ eyes had taken in the words of the second poem Martin had written on the whiteboard and was about to ask a question but Martin saved him the bother.

  ‘Yes, sergeant, we have had another so-called poem, but there may be no connection between these new verses and the body that has been discovered this morning.’

  Sgt Evans shook his head and replied. ‘Oh, but there is, sir, as according to PC Davies the body was found swimming in orange juice. Apparently the company that rents this particular unit produces a range of citrus drinks, and in the area that the body was discovered they were squeezing oranges to make orange juice.’

  ‘No prizes for guessing why our killer chose the orange juice – it’s just to fit into his macabre game. He is one very sick bastard,’ said Matt. ‘What do we think this poor sod did to annoy him?’

  ‘If the killer is to be believed, this victim is possibly a pervert,’ suggested Helen. ‘But of course that may be far from the truth.’

  ‘Possibly,’ replied Martin. ‘However there was some truth in his description of Miss Rossiter as a dragon and certainly a number of the people we interviewed saw her in that light. The sooner we know who the victim is the sooner we can start putting the pieces together. Who is at the scene?’ Martin directed his question to Sgt Evans.

  ‘There are four of our lot, and I saw Alex Griffiths and his team heading off in the SOC van before I left the front desk to come up here. Professor Moore has been notified, but as it’s the weekend he will go straight from his home to Tremorfa so I suspect he is on his way as we speak.’

  ‘OK, thanks,’ said Martin. ‘I would appreciate your input at the scene of the crime, John, so would you mind taking Helen in one of the squad cars with you and Matt, and I’ll go in my car. No point in blue flashing lights and sirens because the crime has already been committed, as sadly we were in no doubt that it would be.’

  Sgt Evans replied. ‘I’m happy to help, but I won’t be able to leave here for about fifteen minutes as I’m waiting for cover.’ He turned to Helen. ‘Fancy a coffee while we’re waiting?’

  Helen left with Sgt Evans and for a while Martin turned his attention back to the rhymes he had written on the whiteboard. ‘Last time we had a clue to the victim’s occupation and we believe that she and the killer met as a result of her job. We also believe that she used her position to make the killer do things he disliked, such as playing certain games. Do we have any such clues this time?’

  Matt responded. ‘Well, here again we are presented with the idea that the victim was unkind to the killer at some time, and we are led to believe that he was subjected to an unbearable level of ridicule and scorn. It was something to do with not being able to tie a knot. The only time in my life that I was ever tasked with learning how to tie knots was when I was in the Cubs. I never made it to the Scouts as I’d become more interested in rugby by then, but I guess you’d learn even more complicated knots as a scout.’

  ‘Come on,’ said Martin. ‘Let’s see what he has left us with this time – it’s got to be more than the absolutely nothing he left at his last murder.’

  Ten minutes after leaving Cardiff Bay Martin turned off Rover Way and followed the signs to the Tremorfa Industrial Estate. The small unit they were looking for was at the far end and easy to spot because of the number of familiar vehicles parked outside. Three marked squad cars, the SOC white van, and the cream-coloured Lexus belonging to Professor Moore.

  ‘We’ll almost certainly be spending most of our day checking CCTV footage,’ suggested Martin. ‘I would think that every one of these units has their own security cameras and the recordings from all of them will have to be watched.’

  PC Davies beckoned to them from the front entrance and they followed him down a corridor flanked by toilets, offices, and a small staff room, then into an enormous cold room where crates upon crates of lemons, limes, grapefruits, and of course oranges were stacked from floor to ceiling.

  A short, rather plump woman dressed in white overalls and a white hairnet was leaning against a door on the other side of the cold room and PC Davies introduced her. ‘This is Mrs Elaine Dixon, she is the lady who found our victim and she is also the person with responsibility for the production process this weekend.’

  Martin introduced himself and Matt, and shook hands with the woman who was trembling and had obviously been crying. ‘Is there anyone here who could make you a cup of tea or something?’ asked Martin. ‘I will need to talk to you but first of all I need to see exactly what has happened.’ He turned to PC Davies. ‘Take Mrs Dixon to the staff room or one of the offices and get someone to make her a drink. How many other members of staff are there?’

  Mrs Dixon lifted her head and replied to Martin’s question. ‘There are only three of us here today. We�
�re getting new equipment installed on Monday and we were just doing a small batch of fresh juice to ensure we had enough to satisfy our customers because we won’t be able to restart production until Tuesday. It’s normally a five-day working week for us and we use Saturday and Sunday for cleaning and sterilising, but this weekend is a bit different.’

  As she spoke the last few words tears streamed down her face and the courage she had been summoning faded. ‘Well, more than a bit different,’ she sobbed. ‘That poor man … his staring eyes … and his blood mixed in with the orange juice – I don’t think I’ll ever be able to close my eyes without seeing him lodged half in and half out of that pulp receiver.’

  PC Davies took her arm and guided her in the direction of the staff room while the two detectives went through the door she had been leaning against and walked into a scene that was all too familiar to them.

  The SOC officer on the other side of the door ensured that before they actually stepped into the room both Martin and Matt were covered from head to toe with the usual protective garments. Everyone else was already wearing the white uniforms. Not for the first time Martin considered how, as well as protecting the crime scene, the ritual of wearing these clothes seemed psychologically to protect the wearers by creating just that small barrier between them and the evil they were investigating.

  Alex acknowledged Martin and suggested he took care, as the floor towards the middle of the room was very slippery due to the spillage of a mixture of blood and orange juice. ‘It’s enough to put you off orange juice for life,’ he remarked. ‘Unfortunately for me it’s a very sterile environment, as all the staff must routinely wear hair nets and hats, white coats, overshoes, and latex gloves. The only hope we have is that if we do find any evidence of another human being apart from the victim, it will be that of the killer. So far nothing, not a single fingerprint, and I’m getting a feeling of déjà vu.

  ‘In the circumstances there’s not much we can do other than take all the usual pictures, and that’s been done. The professor has confirmed that the man is dead, although we were none of us in any doubt, and I get the feeling we are keeping him from somewhere else he would rather be.’

  The Professor had picked up on the last part of Alex’s conversation but spoke to Martin. ‘I’m sure we would all rather be somewhere else, but yes, I do have a prior engagement, so as soon as you’ve seen what you came to see I would like to turn the body over and then get it removed. Unless you want someone else to do the PM it won’t be done until after six o’clock, and quite frankly I don’t think it will tell us any more than we already know.’

  Martin didn’t want anyone else to do the post-mortem examination but he knew that the Prof. was normally reluctant to say very much at the crime scene and he wanted a bit more information.

  He responded. ‘I would prefer to have you do the PM, but as I have to wait for that perhaps you could just fill me in on what it is you already know.’

  The Professor replied in two succinct sentences. ‘Two stab wounds. The first was probably fatal and the second unnecessary.’

  The body was turned and as suspected the victim’s hands were tied behind his back, this time with orange cord but with the same example of a perfectly tied reef knot.

  ‘So, two stab wounds, and hands tied with the relevant colour cord – just like the victim at the Red Dragon Centre. The same killer has struck again, hasn’t he?’ Martin said.

  ‘I’m the pathologist, not the detective.’ The Professor muttered the words as carrying his beloved Gladstone bag, he made his way out.

  Alex raised his eyes to heaven. ‘Thank God for small mercies,’ he said and turning to Matt. ‘Just imagine having to work with him day in and day out – we should get a gong struck for Mrs Williams, she certainly deserves some sort of recognition.’

  Mrs Williams worked with Professor Moore as an assistant in the post-mortem rooms, and was the only person to whom the Prof was consistently civil. She was his right-hand man, so to speak, and he had been heard to say that PMs were murder themselves when she was away. Hardly singing her praises, but coming from the Professor such words were tantamount to adoration.

  Martin eased his way carefully around some of the stainless steel pipes in the room. The receptacle in which the victim’s head and torso had been resting was a circular affair about six feet across and approximately two feet deep. The man’s knees had been bent over the edge and his legs draped down the outside at an awkward looking angle, not quite reaching the floor. There was some juice to be seen, but for the most part the stainless steel bowl was full of orange skin and the flesh of the oranges from which most of the juice had been squeezed.

  He guessed he was looking at the pulp receiver that Mrs Dixon had mentioned, and she was right about the chilling effect of the victim’s protruding eyes and the grotesque combination of blood and orange juice. ‘Just check if there’s anything in the victim’s pockets and then you can remove the body whenever you like,’ he told Alex. ‘I’ll speak to the staff, as what’s puzzling me at the moment is what the was victim doing here – he’s not part of the establishment, is he?’

  ‘No, according to Will, the young man we spoke to when we arrived, none of the three staff members have ever seen the man before.’ Alex spoke as the body was placed on a white sheet on the floor alongside the pulp receiver and he bent down to check the victim’s pockets. He handed over a wallet to Martin and started to bag the remaining items that amounted to a set of keys and two till receipts.

  ‘I’ll take those,’ said Matt indicating the keys. ‘I’ll take a walk around the outside of the building to see if I can match up any car with them. On the way in I noticed three vehicles apart from ours, but there are three members of staff so they could well be theirs.’

  ‘Check with the staff first,’ suggested Alex. ‘Will told me that Mrs Dixon is his aunt and so there’s a chance they came in the same car.’

  Matt nodded and made his way to the staff room and was on a mission to find the car belonging to the set of keys he held.

  ‘No mobile phone?’ asked Martin.

  ‘No, that’s it.’ Alex looked at Martin who had found a debit card, two out-of-date credit cards, three store loyalty cards, and forty-five pounds in notes in the wallet. ‘Do I take it from the similarities between this and the Red Dragon murder that this one also came with a poem?’

  ‘Yes, exactly the same pattern as the last time, just a colour change. This time the killer is focusing on the colour orange, but everything else is the same – the envelope containing the poem was addressed to me at the cottage and would appear to be giving us some clues.’

  Alex was more than usually concerned as he asked. ‘Was there any personal message this time?’

  Martin didn’t answer directly, mainly because Alex had hit on a point that he would prefer not to think too deeply about. He suggested that they could go over all the details later and scanning the cards found in the wallet he came up with the victim’s name.

  ‘Always supposing that this wallet is in the pocket of its rightful owner the name on all the cards is Mr Victor Davies. The bank cards are Barclays so we will easily be able to find out who he was and where he lived, but I keep coming back to the question of what was he doing here?’

  Alex turned his attention to supporting his officers regarding the removal of the body. Martin made his way to the staff room, but stopped at the doorway to listen to the conversation within.

  Mrs Dixon had obviously benefitted from her infusion of tea and was giving PC Davies a potted history of the company that traded as ‘Freshly Squeezed’.

  ‘It’s my daughter’s company, you know,’ she said. ‘Her father and I are very proud of her. She did some market research before setting things up and decided to aim for the upper quartile of the business. Apparently most of the orange juice that the public buy has been heated or cooked and may have additives or even been made from concentrate. It’s a huge market and very competitive.

  �
�Karen decided to produce freshly squeezed, unpasteurised juice, so offering a drink with the flavour of the whole fruit and nothing else. The supermarkets take small amounts from us but they are the squeezers when it comes to profit margins and so we deal mainly with speciality food stores. Karen has established a really good customer base in spite of the poor economic conditions.’

  Once again tears welled up in Mrs Dixon’s eyes, but these were not for the dead man – they were for her daughter – and she stumbled on her next words. ‘What’s this going to do for her business?’

  Without giving her the time to consider that question Martin spoke, introducing himself to her nephew Will and to the stunningly beautiful young woman sitting next to him. Clearly PC Davies had not missed this vision, who looked more Mediterranean than Welsh. He could hardly keep his eyes off her blue-black hair, lightly tanned skin, and dark green eyes.

  Will interrupted Martin’s introductions. ‘Calandra speaks very little English, she is my cousin from Sicily, but don’t worry because I lived there until I was eleven and speak the language fluently.’ He demonstrated the fact by translating Martin’s introduction and receiving a faint smile of gratitude from his cousin.

  Mrs Dixon went on to give a fuller explanation of Calandra’s involvement. ‘Will’s father is Sicilian and their family business is citrus fruits, and it may well be that our visits to Sicily over the years was how Karen got her idea for this enterprise. Ironically it’s the blood oranges they grow that produce the most delicious orange juice and gives it that rather dark, almost burgundy, colour that our customers love. I don’t imagine that any of them will want to buy it after this murder hits the headlines.’

  Martin shook his head. He felt a great deal of sympathy for this family’s predicament but he needed to focus on the murder, and for the next ten minutes he asked them all questions about their recent activities and where they were all likely to have been when the murder occurred. Normally he would have had to consider them all as possible suspects, but Martin knew that he was looking for the tall, well-built man he had seen on the CCTV of the last crime and none of these people fitted that image.