by Wonny Lea
‘I don’t know whether to concentrate on the school list or the smaller number of names from the home tutorials. I was hoping for some matches but nothing so far. As you can imagine there are a number of common names and so we still have hundreds of possibilities.’
Martin interrupted. ‘Yes, but I am certain that the killer was taught by Miss Rossiter and so his name will be there somewhere.’
Helen continued. ‘We have the names of the boys who were scouts during the time that Mr Davies was the scoutmaster, although we are pretty certain that this is an incomplete list. Apparently lots of boys join the scouts and only stay for a short while. It’s not until they are officially enrolled that their names are recorded, and only then if the scoutmaster is competent. Mr Davies doesn’t seem to have had that sort of reputation. Work is still going on with the cross-referencing of the pupils against the scouts but once again it’s just the common place names that are found on both lists.’
Matt jumped in. ‘We’ve given Helen’s group the names of anyone owning a BMW of the type the killer was seen getting out of in Rookwood, but again there is the possibility that we won’t have a completely accurate list. We have so far come up with a David Jones and a John Davies and both have been ruled out.’
‘That’s right,’ said Helen. ‘The David Jones on Miss Rossiter’s list is not the same person as the man who owns a BMW. I have spoken to both of them and neither was ever a scout. The John Davies that is on both lists, and who was also a boy scout, made us hopeful – but I visited him and he is only just a bit taller than me, and skinny as a rake.
‘We are nowhere near to finishing the exercise as we’re spending time going down what turn out to be blind alleys – but we can’t risk ignoring them, that’s why it’s taking so long.’
Martin nodded. ‘This part of the process can be tedious and unrewarding, but it has also been known to come up with the goods, so keep at it.’
‘I’m beginning to hate this killer’s poems even more than some I was forced to learn in order to regurgitate for examination purposes in school. Still, we did use the third poem to help us consider the possible location of that murder and it was amongst the ones we came up with. How did we do that?’
‘Well we had the colour,’ suggested Helen. ‘As the first two locations had been colour linked we presumed that the third one would follow the same pattern.’
Martin agreed and then said. ‘So we have had red, orange, yellow …’
‘Green, blue, indigo, and violet.’ Helen completed the well-known sequence of colours. ‘He’s not just killing by colours, he is using the colours of the rainbow. A rainbow isn’t a physical object – it isn’t something we can touch – and maybe the killer thinks that by using its colours he too will become untouchable.’
Helen had become really excited and her suggestions seemed plausible but Martin reined her ideas back a bit. ‘You may well have hit the nail on the head, Helen, and in my book it is certainly something I could see the killer doing. It somehow fits in with the poetry and the colour thing in general, but there are other possibilities. For example, the first three colours are the colours of heat or sunshine, or possibly anger or fire, so will he keep to those types of colours?’
‘Maybe,’ agreed Helen. ‘However, according to him he has four more murders to commit, and there are four more colours of the rainbow left – it all seems to fit.’
‘OK,’ said Martin, ‘let’s run with it.’
‘In that case,’ Helen said, ‘we will be looking at a green location for the fourth murder. Do you want to take suggestions for possible murder sites?’
‘It worked last time, so why not?’
Martin had barely finished his words when the ideas started flowing in.
‘The Cathedral Green in Llandaff.’
‘Cardiff Greenpeace – they meet in Roath.’
‘Green bin recycling.’
‘Golf courses – they all have greens.’
‘The Cardiff Green Party.’
‘The Green Lady – that’s a pub in Caerphilly.’
‘The Green Down – that’s a pub in St Georges-super-Ely.’
‘Green Bay – a media production company – think it’s on or near Talbot Street.’
‘Parks and green spaces.’
‘Green Shoots Catering – they’re based not far from Freshly Squeezed.’
‘Green Devil Tattoo – business premises on Clifton Street.’
‘Green Willow Funerals – I think they have premises near the Heath Hospital, and they’re certainly down in Dinas Powys.’
‘There’s a new dress agency called Mint Green where you can take your no-longer-wanted designer clothes and they sell them for you. Anyway, they’re based in Llandaff.’
Martin held up his hands, as like before the suggestions were drying up and he had no more space on the whiteboard to write them.
‘There are probably lots more we have not considered but if we had just ten minutes to guess which of the suggested locations our killer would use next, which one would it be?’
The team talked amongst themselves, and after five minutes the only suggestions that Martin had left on the whiteboard were the Cathedral Green, both the pubs, golf courses, and the Green Devil Tattoo shop. The others had for one reason or another been removed but the actual location was still wide open.
Martin summed up what was left. ‘Apart from the golf courses we have identified places that are relatively self-contained, and if we received a poem directing us to one of them we would soon get it covered. Golf courses on the other hand are a different kettle of fish. How many are there in and around Cardiff?’
‘Well, I can think of ten or twelve just off the top of my head,’ said Matt. ‘I’m not a golfer, so maybe we should enlist the help of Superintendent Bryant – he’s the man for the little white ball.’
Martin didn’t even give that suggestion time to register and instead asked if there were any golf clubs that maybe had a reference to the colour green in their name.
Matt Googled the combination, but only got information about the green fees charged by the various clubs.
‘Doesn’t look like it,’ he said. ‘I’ll get some work done on the location and layout of every club within a ten-mile radius of Cardiff and have it at the ready.’
Martin tapped the board as the meeting was breaking up and he needed to keep everyone focused.
‘This is a good suggestion that Helen has come up with regarding a possible sequence of colours but I want to take it one step further. We have just spent time considering locations associated with green and I now want groups of you to think about just about every other colour there is, including black and white. Go through the same exercise we have done here and for every colour get a short list of possible sites that could attract the killer. We will continue to concentrate on green but we were so close on the yellow clue and I want us to be ready for whatever colour the killer throws at us next. The other thing is the timing. The first two murders were two weeks apart and then we get a third just one week later. The only common denominator is that all three were on a Saturday morning. The last one didn’t go according to plan, and the study of serial killers shows that once things start to go wrong they tend to escalate any programme they may have planned. I want to be as many steps ahead as is humanly possible. Let’s be ready and let’s get there before he stabs the next person to death.’
Martin left his team to get on with the task he had set them and made his way back to his office. What he wanted to do was take a brisk walk around Mermaid Quay and get some quality thinking time for himself, but one look through his office window soon pushed those thoughts away. The press were camped out on the doorstep and he knew that he would be the subject of their attention if he gave them half a chance.
He had heard the television news last night and had listened to his car radio on the way to work that morning. He was not the blue-eyed boy of a few months ago when he had solved the Coopers Field murder
and uncovered some untimely deaths in a local nursing home. He had potentially saved dozens of lives by stopping a rogue doctor who was killing for the financial benefit of himself and the home owner.
The press had short memories and the news since Saturday had only spoken of tardy responses, incompetence, lacklustre performance, and issues of public confidence. Several of the newspapers had suggested that perhaps Phelps was past his sell-by-date and needed to be replaced. Martin was still one of the youngest DCIs in the country so the statement seemed to be aimed at his ability rather than his age.
It was an unpleasant and unfamiliar experience to be on the blunt end of these accusations and Martin knew that every member of his team was feeling the same hurt that he was. The killer would have been in his element if he could read Martin’s mind at this moment. He had of course revelled in what the press was saying about the DCI – that part of his programme was going exactly according to plan.
Martin went through his tried and tested method of writing down the known facts of the case in one column and then writing second column where he ticked off one by one the facts that needed to be considered. They were all in the capable hands of his team. He concentrated his efforts on what was always his third and favourite column, headed ‘What If’.
Today he hesitated over the page and then pondered the ‘what if’ Helen’s rainbow theory is correct. That would make the next colour green but from a personal point of view it was the colour that followed after green that scared him. Blue was the colour most people would give if you asked them for one they associated with the police force. Martin was sure that the killer would use that colour to target the boys in blue – and one in particular. What didn’t fit for Martin was the fact that if the killer intended to kill him at that point what would be the significance of the indigo and violet deaths?
He sat and thought of the numerous criminals he had been party to bringing to justice during his career and wrote down the names of those that had particularly blamed him for their capture. Surely it had to be one of those people. It had to be someone who, if it were not for Martin’s intervention, would still be doing whatever it was he had put a stop to – but who?
He crossed off two names because he knew that Sgt Evans hadn’t been involved with either of the cases and was left with five seriously hard criminals. After making a few phone calls he crossed off four more names as the prison service had been able to confirm that the men he was asking about were still inside.
That left him with just one name, but Martin remembered that this man had hanged himself about six months ago. He had seen the grieving widow protesting her husband’s innocence and blaming the prison for his death. What she hadn’t mentioned was the fact that he had been caught red-handed bludgeoning to death a pensioner for the sake of £11, and that he would have got away with it if Martin hadn’t persuaded two witnesses to testify.
So there were no names left on his list, and even though others were popping into his memory he put the paper back in his desk and went to see how the team was getting on. It had been a long day and although there had been some progress it was not good enough and he knew that unless he could come up with something in the next couple of days he would be seriously hung out to dry.
He praised his team for the work they had done and encouraged them not to feel despondent.
‘It’s almost seven o’clock,’ he said. ‘We have done as much as we can with the information at our disposal. Get home all of you, chill out, try to get a good night’s sleep, and we’ll all meet back here at 8.30 in the morning.’
No one needed second bidding and the room emptied quickly. Martin noticed a text message from Shelley asking him to text her when he was planning to leave the office. He did that.
She was leaning against the bonnet of his car and he caught sight of her before she noticed him. She wore a pair of cropped linen trousers and a long, pale blue cotton top, and with her hair tied back loosely she looked so young and carefree. He would not burden her with the worries of his day and he made her laugh with an appreciative wolf-whistle.
‘Behave yourself,’ she said, ‘and come with me. If we walk away from the Quay and then turn back in a wide circle we’ll miss running into the mob that’s hanging around the side and front entrances. As long as they can see that your car is still in the car park they’ll assume you are still inside.’
She caught Martin’s hand and pulled him in the direction she had suggested. Ten minutes later they were lost in the midst of the large numbers of people enjoying the temporary resurgence of summer. They found a bench and were sitting in companionable silence watching the boats, the birds, and the people when Shelley suddenly spoke. ‘Those reporters don’t know you. They don’t know how hard you work. How dare they suggest you don’t know what you are doing – how dare they?’
In spite of having similar feelings Martin laughed and kissed her on the tip of her nose.
‘It’s OK,’ he said. ‘It comes with the job. One minute you’re the hero of the hour and the next minute you attract more pins than a voodoo doll. It will all go away once this killer is caught.’ He hugged her and got tied up with the rucksack she had on her back.
Changing the subject he joked. ‘What’s with the backpack? Is it going to be a permanent feature? I know – you’ve discovered a way of avoiding having to pay the five-pence charge whenever you’re out shopping and need a carrier bag. You are always going to wear one on your back.’
They both laughed. From where they were sitting they could see the Welsh Assembly government building, where the law relating to the payment for plastic bags in Wales had been passed. The exercise was part of an initiative to stop millions of bags ending up on landfill sites, and as the money for the sale of the bags had to be donated to charity it had been quite well accepted.
‘No,’ Shelley smiled. ‘I enlisted the help of Iris to make us both a picnic and she insisted on putting it all into her granddaughter’s backpack. Didn’t you notice the Hello Kitty logo?’
‘I thought it was a bit pink and girly for your taste, but never mind the outside – let’s get a taste of what delights are inside.’
Martin took the bag from her and took out a container on which Iris had written ‘Eat these first’. They tucked into strips of toast topped with sardines that had been soaked in balsamic vinegar, and licked their fingers to show joint appreciation.
‘They were good,’ said Shelley. ‘Simple but tasty, and they were certainly an appetite stimulator! What’s next?’
Martin had already delved in, coming up with a couple of homemade meat and potato pasties and some thick slices of ham and cheese. ‘What a lovely change – a picnic without a sandwich in sight. Iris has style!’
Although it had been a beautiful autumn day, it was nearing the end of September and approaching eight o’clock, and as so often happens at that time of the year the light suddenly faded. The sun had gone to bed and the lights from the bars and restaurants were starting to shine but they were unable to supply the same warm output and so the ambient temperature had dropped quite quickly.
‘You warm enough?’ asked Martin.
‘I’m fine,’ said Shelley, as she took the lid off the last container of the picnic and offered Martin a slice of lemon tart.
Ten minutes later, and with hardly a crumb left, they packed up and made their way back to Goleudy. ‘Remind me to thank Iris in the morning,’ said Martin. ‘She’s a lovely woman and a really good cook and we are very lucky to have her.’
The interlude with Shelley, complemented by the culinary delights from Iris, had been just what Martin had needed but as they turned the corner that would take them back to the car park they received a sudden and unwelcome dose of reality.
Without warning they were surrounded by reporters and microphones were being thrust into their faces from every direction.
‘Taking time off from a triple murder enquiry, are we?’ A man that Martin had never seen before shouted out the question. ‘Mus
t be pretty confident of a result – want to share the identity of the killer with us?’
Martin said nothing and with his arm around Shelley’s waist he walked defiantly into the mob and guided her to the back entrance of the car park. Questions and open abuse followed them but he refused to rise to the bait and once inside the barrier of Goleudy car park he relaxed. The press would not pass that barrier without an invitation and Martin was not about to offer one.
‘I’m so sorry about that,’ he said. ‘I should have realised that they would still be there. Presumably they were waiting for me to come out of the office as they didn’t see me leave earlier. They’ll put their own spin on how long I’ve been off enjoying myself while innocent members of the public go about in fear of their lives – but I’m way past caring what they say or print.’
Shelley responded. ‘It’s me who should be sorry, as I’ve probably made things worse for you.’
Martin lifted her chin so that she was looking directly up at him. ‘You could never do that, you are the best thing that has ever happened to me.’ He kissed her tenderly but the moment was ended abruptly as with the familiar sound of a camera and the sight of a flash they both realised that their kiss had been captured and would give the public even more reason to believe that DCI Phelps did not have his mind on the job.
They drove off in the direction of Shelley’s home, but Shelley made him change direction. ‘I want to be with you tonight,’ she said. ‘I need to make sure you are safe – I can’t explain it, but don’t argue with me, Martin, just drive to the cottage.’
Martin didn’t argue. He had never felt less like wanting his own company, and falling asleep much later and with Shelley wrapped around him was just the comfort blanket he needed. He fell into a deep, dreamless sleep until he was aware of Shelley shaking him. Had he really slept the whole night without waking? It didn’t feel like that.
