by Bill Rogers
He shuffled his feet, and rubbed his chin nervously.
‘Come on, Gordon,’ she said. ‘Spit it out.’
‘The forensics report on the hair he stuffed in her mouth,’ he said. ‘The results have come through. We got a match.’
‘One of the other victims?’
He shook his head and looked away up the lane.
‘No, not the victims.’
A sense of dread spread upwards from the pit of her stomach. A cold hand reaching for her heart.
‘Tell me,’ she said.
He turned back, his eyes nervously finding hers.
‘It’s you, Jo,’ he said. ‘You’re the match.’
She shook her head. ‘That can’t be,’ she said. ‘I never touched her. I never went near it, not even after it was bagged and labelled.’
‘You don’t understand,’ he said. ‘Your DNA wasn’t on it. It was the hair itself. It was your hair, Jo.’
‘It’s a mistake,’ she said. ‘It must be. The DNA and fingerprints they took when I joined up – they must have mixed them up with someone else. Where else could he have got it from? My locker at the gym? A comb, a brush?’
But that would mean he’s been in my apartment.
Gordon read in her expression the shift from confusion to panic.
‘It was only a couple of strands,’ Gordon said. ‘Yours was just one of seven different sets of DNA. There’s nothing to suggest he targeted you, Jo.’
And nothing to suggest he didn’t, Jo reflected. But right now the most important thing was to concentrate on this latest crime scene. To find something that would lead them closer to the killer. She turned to the officer standing beside the tape.
‘Who found the body?’ she asked.
‘Woman in her eighties,’ the officer replied. ‘Lives in one of these bungalows behind us. Let her dog out to do its business. It usually nips over to that grassy bank. Performs. Comes back for a reward. Today it didn’t. It disappeared into the undergrowth. She goes in after it. Stumbles on the body. Manages to grab Poppy.’
‘Poppy?’ said Gordon.
‘The dog. Gets as far as her front gate, where she has a panic attack. Neighbour sees her and thinks she is having a heart attack. Sends for an ambulance. It’s only when the ambulance crew get here and calm her down that she’s able to tell them about the body. They have a quick look. Then they call us.’
‘Where is she now? The pensioner?’
‘Manchester Royal. They took her in for observation. Before they got around to assessing her, she actually had a heart attack. A massive one. They had to resuscitate. She’s critical, so you could end up with a second victim.’
The bushes parted five yards in front of them.
‘Right,’ said Jack Benson. ‘We’re ready for you now. Try not to snag anything on the branches as you go.’
He gave a running commentary as he led them deeper into the undergrowth.
‘Under these plates we found evidence that he’d dragged the body from the bank at the side of the road through the bushes, and between these trees. As you can see, they’re all small shrubby trees. Mainly elder, dogwood, birch, blackthorn. Close together, with weeds and smaller bushes underneath. He left a trail of crushed grass, and snapped branches. We’ve already retrieved traces of fabric snagged on thorns and smaller branches. That’s why I asked you to be careful.’
‘He clearly wasn’t,’ said Gordon. ‘That’s one difference for a start.’
‘How did an elderly woman manage to make her way through here?’ Jo wondered.
‘She won’t have,’ Benson told her. ‘There’s a cleared path off to the right. She’ll have gone that way and then come in from the side, attracted by the dog barking. I brought you this way so you could follow in his footsteps as it were. We’re only a few yards away from the path, but the perpetrator won’t have known that in the dark.’
‘Not unless he was a local,’ said Jo.
Suddenly there were two rows of stepping plates leading into a small clearing, one curving to the left, the other to the right. There was barely enough room for the four of them – Jack, Gordon, Jo, and a CSI photographer, who was busy capturing images. In the centre of the clearing lay the body.
A young woman. Petite, and slender, arms by her sides, long blonde locks that trailed away from her head as though the killer had been dragging her by her hair, and had suddenly let go. In death she looked very young, and very fragile. Jo guessed her age as somewhere between sixteen and twenty. She wore a tan faux-leather blouson over a white tee shirt. Black fitted jeans tucked into tan side-zipped ankle boots.
There was fresh bruising on her right cheek. Both eyes were open, staring skywards. Blood-red blotches covered the sclera. The mouth gaped open in the classic rictus of a horrific death. There were bruises on both sides of her swollen neck. Even without leaning closer, Jo could make out the shape of several fingers and at least one thumb.
She didn’t need the pathologist to tell them what had happened here.
‘Manual strangulation,’ she observed. ‘No sign of a ligature.’
‘And nothing inserted in the mouth that I can see,’ said Gordon. ‘Nor is there any sense that the body has been put on display.’
‘We won’t know if any hair has been removed until the doc has examined her,’ said Jo. ‘But it doesn’t look like it.’
‘So what do we think?’ said Gordon. ‘Is it him?’
‘If it is, something must have happened,’ she said, ‘for him to change his MO like this.’
‘I agree,’ said a voice from behind them.
‘Andy,’ she said. ‘How long have you been standing there?’
‘Not long,’ he said. ‘But long enough.’
Gordon shuffled to his right so the psychologist could stand beside Jo.
‘Is Nailor with you?’ Gordon asked.
‘No,’ Andy replied. ‘Too many cooks, he said. He decided to go over to Central Park and help DS Carter.’
‘Good call,’ said Gordon. ‘So, what makes you agree with Jo?’
‘Firstly, he’s a methodical predator. Carefully choosing his targets, and locations. He comes prepared to carry out a sophisticated attack, the details of which – the use of a garrotte composed of human hair, the removal of a lock of the victim’s hair, the placing of human hair in the victim’s mouth – have special meaning for him.’
Andy pointed to the body. ‘This is careless. Messy. It has more in common with rage than passion. An impulsive, reactive act of violence. Look at the bruise on her cheek. Whoever did this struck her. My guess is to subdue her. That has never featured before. Jo was right. If it is him, then something went wrong. He was rushed or spooked or both. Either that or he did not go out intending to kill. In which case, what happened to lead him to do this? One thing is certain: if he did do this, then it will have had a significant impact on him.’
‘In what way?’ asked Jo.
‘He will be furious, and frustrated. With himself, and with whatever or whoever triggered this. He will have been knocked off course emotionally. From our point of view that’s a double-edged sword.’
‘How?’ asked Gordon.
‘It will mean he is more likely to make mistakes. To be less careful. On the other hand, it will also make him unpredictable.’
‘Do we know yet who she is?’ Jo asked.
‘Her name is Allochka,’ said Gordon. ‘Allochka Burgos. She’s nineteen years of age, from Ukraine. Came here three years ago to work in the hotel and catering industry. Met a man friend, who introduced her to drugs. She lost her job as a result, and went on the game to feed her habit.’
‘How do we know all this?’ said Jo.
‘Because her mate reported her missing last night.’
‘Last night?’
‘They were supposed to be meeting up at a quarter to midnight before deciding where to peddle their wares. Allochka never turned up. Her mate tracked back to the house where she’s living. She wasn’t there. Texted
some of her other contacts. Given what’s been going on, she was scared enough to ring the numbers on the advice card we gave out. Area cars were sent to have a look around. Nothing. When she still hadn’t turned up this morning, PCSOs and beat officers were asked to look out for her. The mate had provided a description, so when she was found we knew straight away it was her.’
‘Is there room for a little one?’
Dr Carol Tompkins stood at the edge of the clearing, holding her black case.
‘I’ll get out of your hair,’ said Jo. She turned to the crime scene manager. ‘I’d like to have a look around, Jack. Is there any evidence the killer went further on to the heath?’
Benson shook his head. ‘We’ll probably never know, but since there’s no obvious evidence he did I’m not going to stop you. Just don’t disturb anything. I’ll have Tactical Aid crawling over this place when the body’s been moved to the mortuary.’ He grimaced. ‘They’re going to love me. Mind, that’s going to be the least of my worries when Gates turns up.’
‘Come on, Andy,’ Jo said. ‘You’re with me.’
Chapter 66
‘Where is this exactly?’
They were standing on a hillock composed of loose grey shale. In the direction from which they had come, there were occasional glimpses of white-clad crime scene investigators moving to and fro between the trees and bushes. High above them, in a clear blue sky, a kestrel hovered expectantly.
‘Newton Heath,’ Jo said to Andy. ‘At least what’s left of it. We’re three miles west of the city centre, a mile from the Etihad Stadium, and over there to the north are the GMP headquarters buildings in Central Park.’
‘How far is that? A half a mile away?’
‘As the crow flies. The whole area was once a vast expanse of heathland that stretched all the way from Ancoats to Fallowfield. It was bounded by four waterways: Moston Brook, Newton Brook, Shooters Brook, and the River Irwell. Most of it was swallowed up during the Industrial Revolution. What we’re standing on now is basically a slag heap from the coal mines that were around here. The only large expanse that’s left is Clayton Vale and the Medlock Valley Way just over there, to the south-east.’
‘Water again,’ he observed. ‘All of the murders have been within a stone’s throw of a body of water.’
‘You’re going to tell me there’s symbolism involved.’
He shrugged.
‘If there is, it’s in his head, which is precious little use to us.’
‘I’ve got another symbolic connection,’ Jo said. ‘Slag as in slag heap. Like the one we’re standing on. Slag as in a lewd or promiscuous female.’
Andy nodded thoughtfully. ‘That would fit with his dumping two of the bodies in waste skips as well as this slag heap.’
‘Four years ago I worked on a case with DCI Caton,’ she said. ‘The one where I went undercover?’
She watched his face to see if he made the connection. He did. His expression softened, and there was a suggestion of empathy in his smile.
‘The killer buried his victims on a slag heap much like this,’ she said. ‘Except that Cutacre was once the largest spoil tip in Europe. We wondered then if there was a connection, but none of the victims could have been described as promiscuous.’ She forced a smile of her own. ‘Least of all me.’
‘That’s the problem,’ he responded. ‘It’s as likely to be a matter of convenience as a cryptic clue. You never know till you’ve caught the bastard. Sometimes not even then. Having said which . . .’
He removed his glasses and squinted slightly as he began to turn through 360 degrees. When he finished, he replaced his spectacles.
‘He’s doubling back on himself. Heading towards the city again. Except he’s now staying away from the red-light districts, where he knows we’ll be waiting. That begs the question, has he suddenly become risk averse, or was it part of his plan all along? Is he trying to taunt us by killing this close to the building where the hunt for him is being coordinated?’
‘Or was this just an accident? You said yourself you didn’t believe it was the unsub adapting his methods. That it looked more like panic than planning.’ He sighed. ‘And I stand by that. If so, and if it was him, what was he doing here?’
‘Perhaps he’s staying near here,’ she said. ‘But then why did he start killing in Wigan? That’s miles from here.’
‘Unidentified subjects,’ said Andy. ‘More questions than answers. That’s the nature of the beast.’
He sounded the most pessimistic he had been since Operation Firethorn had started. Jo’s attention was grabbed by the sound of a small biplane approaching from the west.
‘I hope Jack gets the tent erected PDQ,’ she said. ‘The vultures are gathering.’
They met up with Gordon on the path between the Rochdale Canal and the River Irwell. He looked depressed and beleaguered. Not a good combination.
‘Dr Tompkins’s initial examination didn’t add a lot. She’s been dead over sixteen hours, which fits with the time she supposedly left home, and her not meeting up with her friend. So given the time it would have taken her to make that rendezvous, she must have been killed between 11.15pm and 12am.’
‘A lot earlier than most of the other victims,’ Jo observed.
‘Correct. She’s confirmed that death was almost certainly by manual strangulation and that there is no lock of hair in the oral cavity. Nor could she find any sign that her hair had been cut to provide a trophy.’ He rubbed his chin vigorously. ‘Basically we’re none the wiser.’
‘I can’t explain why,’ said Jo, ‘but I still think this is our unsub.’
‘I’m inclined to agree,’ said Andy Swift. ‘And if we’re right, this is his first big mistake. Apart from what that will have done to him emotionally, and how that will affect what he does next, am I right in thinking he must have left a lot more trace evidence here than at any of the other crime scenes?’
‘Absolutely,’ said Jo. ‘There’ll be footprints, fibre transfer on the trees and bushes as he dragged her body through the scrub. And if he really hadn’t come prepared, perhaps he wasn’t wearing gloves. In which case Jack’s team may be able to recover fingerprints and DNA.’
‘None of which is going to help us catch him,’ said Gordon. ‘Not if he isn’t already in the system. In the meantime, Gates wants to know what to tell the Chief, the Mayor, and the press. Does this one come under Operation Firethorn, or is it a separate parallel investigation? Either way I’m buggered. If it is him, they won’t just be baying for my blood; they’ll want their pound of flesh. And if it isn’t him we’ve got another madman out there. Possibly a poor man’s copycat. So much for protecting the public.’
Gordon’s radio squawked. He stepped a few paces away, turned his back, and had a conversation. When he rejoined them, his cheeks were burning.
‘Got to get back to Central Park,’ he said. ‘God knows what I’m going to tell them.’
Chapter 67
They watched him walk to his car. For such a big man Gordon looked diminished by the whole affair. As though the weight of responsibility was pushing down on his shoulders, bending him, shrinking him.
Jo’s heart went out to him. He had resisted promotion for years, finally giving in to his wife’s relentless pressure to ensure he left with the best possible pension. And on the day he heard that he had received the promotion board’s endorsement he learned that his boss, DCI Caton, was off on secondment. Without Tom Caton beside him he was always going to struggle. And now this.
‘It’s at times like this that I’m glad I do what I do,’ said Andy. ‘That I’m not a senior investigating officer. I don’t know how you do it.’
‘Sometimes I wonder,’ she said. ‘But in truth, if I didn’t do this I don’t know what else I would do.’
Overhead, helicopter call sign India 99 was circling slowly, ensuring no other aircraft could get close enough to get photographic or video images of the crime scene. They had already observed it chasing away a light
aircraft, and two drones. Like every other technological advance, for every benefit there was a downside. Jo had no doubt drones were set to become the greatest menace to the isolation of crime scenes.
‘We’re missing something, Andy,’ she said. ‘I just can’t put my finger on it.’
He stared at her for a moment.
‘Are you okay, Jo?’ he asked. ‘You’re not yourself today. You haven’t been for a while.’
A light breeze danced playfully around her new bob cut, and set the leaves on the birch trees fluttering. Her hand went instinctively to smooth it down.
‘There’s something I haven’t told you,’ she said. ‘About the hair he leaves in their mouths.’
‘I agree with Gordon,’ said Andy when she’d finished telling him about Jacinta Quinn, and her own DNA. ‘It sounds like a random event. A coincidence.’
Jo was not convinced. It seemed like everyone was just trying to reassure her.
‘DCI Caton taught me there is no such thing as a coincidence,’ she said. ‘Not till you’ve proved it so. Besides, I’ve been targeted before. This is exactly what it feels like.’
‘The question we should be asking ourselves,’ Andy said, ‘is if it is a coincidence, how could he have inadvertently got hold of a sample of your hair?’
Jo grabbed his arm. ‘What was it you said about hairdressers being disproportionately represented among trichophiliacs?’
‘You think he may be a hairdresser?’
‘Or someone engaged in that industry. A wig maker. A make-up artist? I don’t know. But it’s worth exploring.’
The psychologist frowned.
‘If Gordon had some DNA to work with, he could start by trying to DNA-swab every male who works in the industry within a ten-mile radius of the loci. I wouldn’t want to be the press officer who has to justify that though.’
Jo unzipped her bag and reached in for her mobile phone.
‘There’s something I’d like to try first,’ she said. ‘Would you like to come with me?’
‘Why not?’ he replied. ‘It sounds intriguing.’
