Class Murder

by Leigh Russell

  ‘What you want?’ Peter asked, arms and legs flailing in protest at being manhandled so roughly. ‘Let me sleep, will you? Fuck off.’

  For a moment it looked as though it would be impossible to shift his unwitting victim away from the road and into the fields. Every second they remained at the roadside he risked being spotted by a passing motorist.

  ‘Come on, this way,’ he urged.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Come on, just keep walking.’

  ‘I want to lie down.’

  ‘You’ll soon be able to rest. Now come on, I told you, I’m taking you home.’

  As they left the road behind, Peter seemed to come to his senses. ‘Where the fuck are we?’

  But by then it was too late. Catching sight of the knife, he raised his hands to protect his head and bellowed as the blade struck his forearm. He staggered backwards, stumbling and crying out in pain. With a second swipe the blade sliced through his throat and he sank to his knees, shaking, his voice reduced to a gurgle. Five more slashes with the knife and it was all over.

  The job done, he left as soon as he had changed out of his bloody clothes. Driving away, he congratulated himself on his foresight. If he hadn’t thought to leave spare clothes and a knife in the back of the van, he wouldn’t have been able to take advantage of the chance that had presented itself. As it was, he had been prepared. Even so, he remained on the lookout for any sign that he was being followed, and was nervous all the way from the fields back to the house he was renting on the outskirts of York. Although he had changed out of his bloody clothes, and was wearing clean jeans and an old blue jumper, he hadn’t been able to scrub his hands completely free of all traces of blood before leaving the body.

  Back in his garage he stripped and washed himself and the steering wheel thoroughly, put on a set of fresh clothes, rolled up the jeans and blue jumper, and stuffed them into a black bag along with the rest of the bloody evidence of that night’s work. Two sets of black bin bags were now safely stored in the lock-up where no one would ever find them. It was nearly two o’clock in the morning by the time he finally closed his front door. But although he was exhausted, he was too psyched up to go to bed straight away. At last he fell into bed and lay still, reviewing what he had accomplished so far. His only slip-up had been allowing his first victim to scratch the back of his wrist while he was stabbing her. He had tried to scrape any traces of his skin from under her nails, but was sure the police would still be able to detect his DNA. He would not make that mistake again. That one slip could have been enough to finish him. But nearly a week had gone by since then, and the police still seemed to be clueless.

  ‘Police are following several leads’ the papers said, but they sure as hell weren’t following the right leads. Because any useful clues were locked up out of sight in his garage. He couldn’t help laughing whenever he thought about them running around like headless chickens. They must be panicking by now, unable to discover his identity. He particularly enjoyed reading speculation in the media about the mystery killer. He almost regretted not being able to reveal himself to the world, but of course he couldn’t. Arrogance, like complacency, had been the downfall of others before him. He wasn’t that stupid. He knew how to keep his mouth shut. Perhaps on his deathbed – if he ever knew when that was – he might blurt out the truth, but that was hopefully a long way off. He still had a lot to accomplish before then. His plan was only just beginning to unfold, and now he had worked out how to get away with it, there was no longer any reason to hold back.

  This was just the beginning.

  17

  Geraldine felt a flicker of excitement. Something must have happened for her to be summoned before she had even set off for work. She put her coffee cup down and listened.

  ‘There’s another body. This one’s a male, found out in the fields near Greenfield. It’s about an hour’s drive away, but Ian wanted you to go and see it before they move it. The SOCO team should be finished photographing it soon so…’

  ‘I’ll leave straight away,’ Geraldine interrupted, reaching for her bag and slipping on her shoes. ‘What else can you tell me?’

  ‘It’s another stabbing. That’s all the information we’ve got so far, but we think the victim was involved in the investigation into Stephanie’s murder.’

  ‘Do we have an identity?’ She had a horrible suspicion she already knew who it was.

  ‘This has yet to be confirmed, but we think it could be Peter Edwards.’

  ‘I was afraid you were going to say that. You know he came to Fulford Road yesterday?’

  Within minutes she was manoeuvring her car out of the narrow exit to the car park underneath her block of flats. After speeding along the main Tadcaster Road, she drove as fast as she dared along icy country lanes, past trees and bushes sparkling in the early morning sun. Her destination was signalled ahead of her by the top of a white forensic tent appearing above hedgerows stripped bare by winter frosts.

  Peter was unrecognisable, his eyes concealed beneath congealed pools of blood, his nose smashed almost flat. Even his fair hair looked different, streaked with dark splashes. With a shudder, Geraldine saw that his mouth had been slashed across into a ghoulish parody of a grin, just like Stephanie’s. She wondered if the killer was intending to leave a macabre calling card, taunting the police for being unable to find him.

  ‘What happened?’ she asked, her voice muffled by its protective mask.

  ‘You spoke to him, didn’t you?’

  She turned to see Ian’s eyes gazing at her above his mask. He was pale, the skin under his eyes grey. He looked noticeably older. Knowing how the sight of bloody corpses made him nauseous, Geraldine tried to smile encouragement at him from behind her mask.

  ‘He told me he was being stalked,’ she said softly. ‘He was frightened.’ They stood side by side for a moment, gazing down at the dead man.

  ‘Why didn’t we do something?’

  She shrugged. ‘There was no evidence to back up what he was saying. Eileen thought he was being paranoid.’

  ‘What did you think?’

  She shook her head. ‘What difference does it make? I’m just a sergeant. Who’s going to listen to me or commit resources to following my hunches?’

  Ian looked at her. His eyes were brighter than before but she couldn’t read his expression, with most of his face concealed behind a mask.

  ‘Next time speak to me.’ It sounded as though he was talking through clenched teeth.

  ‘And you’re going to argue my case with Eileen, are you?’ she asked.

  He turned away without answering.

  ‘Are we OK to move him now?’ an officer asked. ‘The mortuary van’s here from York.’

  ‘Was he already dead when he was brought here?’ Geraldine asked.

  ‘No, he was alive when he arrived. The attack took place right here. His blood has soaked into the soil beneath the body, and he doesn’t appear to have been moved post mortem.’

  Leaving the tent, Geraldine peeled off her mask and drew in a few deep breaths. Tiny puffs of fog floated out of her mouth into the freezing air. Visibility was limited in the heavy mist that hung over the fields so that, as Ian took a few steps further away from her, his outline grew hazy. When he turned back, his face was no clearer than that of the battered corpse. Realising her own features would be similarly obscure, Geraldine moved towards him. His face came into focus as she drew near, as though he was emerging from a misty lake.

  ‘Are you OK?’ she asked.

  He grimaced. Not many people knew how uncomfortable he felt around dead bodies. As a detective inspector investigating murders, colleagues naturally assumed he was fine viewing victims of the cases he worked on. He wasn’t the only officer Geraldine had worked with who felt physically sick at the sight of blood. She sometimes wondered if she was unusual. Dead bodies drenched in their ow
n blood had never bothered her, however shocking their injuries. It was the suffering of those left behind that disturbed her. For every murder victim there were family members, friends and partners, violently bereft of someone they loved. It was the sight of their grief that kept Geraldine awake at night, not the memory of the dead who were past pity and compassion. As far as she was concerned, dead bodies cried out only for justice to be visited on their killers.

  ‘It’s…’ he broke off and looked down.

  ‘What?’

  When he looked up again she was surprised to see he was smiling. ‘Just that I’ve missed working with you.’

  In an instant, all the stress Geraldine had been feeling since her arrival in York seemed to lift, like the mist rising above the surface of the muddy field.

  ‘There are car tracks in the grass verge over there,’ a scene of crime officer called out to them as they walked back together towards the road. ‘A vehicle seems to have parked there, by the gap in the hedge, not far from where the mortuary van is now.’

  ‘How many cars were parked there?’ Ian asked.

  ‘Just the one.’

  ‘So it looks as though the victim and his killer came here together. Have we got a cast of the tyre tracks?’ He glanced around at the police vehicles parked along the verge.

  ‘That’s already been done,’ a SOCO said briskly. ‘We got that done first thing, before all these cars arrived.’

  ‘The road wasn’t closed then,’ Geraldine muttered.

  ‘Well, if you’ve finished here, let’s move the body and see what else we can learn. Come on, Geraldine, we’ll get back to the station.’

  ‘I’ll see you there.’

  There was barely time for Geraldine to write up her decision log and grab a coffee before she had to head to the incident room for a briefing. Eileen swept into the room just as Geraldine arrived.

  ‘Another body,’ she snapped, as though the assembled team were somehow responsible for the second murder. ‘You spoke to him, didn’t you, Geraldine?’

  ‘Yes. I put in my report that he thought he was being stalked.’

  ‘And we thought he was just being paranoid,’ Eileen said.

  Geraldine didn’t reply.

  ‘Well,’ the detective chief inspector went on, ‘it seems he might have been right that someone was out to get him, but let’s not arrive at any conclusions about that just yet. Stephanie was stabbed in her flat in York and this murder took place out in the fields in Saddleworth, so it could be a coincidence they were killed within a week of each other.’ She paused. ‘Of course, this victim’s connection to Stephanie is highly likely to be significant, but then again they weren’t close, were they? Although they were at school together, they hadn’t seen much of one another since then, isn’t that right?’

  Geraldine nodded. ‘Peter told me he hadn’t seen her since they left school five years ago,’ she replied. ‘He had an alibi for the night of her death.’

  ‘So two former schoolmates were both killed within a week of each other,’ Ian commented.

  ‘The fact that they were at school together could be irrelevant,’ Eileen insisted.

  Geraldine understood her reluctance to acknowledge a connection between the two murders. Dealing with isolated independent murders was less worrying than the prospect of investigating a double murder.

  ‘The fact is, a lot of people living around here attended that school,’ Eileen continued. ‘Statistically it’s not that unlikely that two unrelated murder victims would have been at the same school.’

  ‘They were in the same class,’ Ian said.

  ‘Ian’s right,’ Geraldine said firmly. Briefly she described how both victims had not only been attacked in the same way, but had been cut across the mouth so that they appeared to be smiling broadly. ‘This was no coincidence. They were victims of the same killer.’

  Eileen raised her eyebrows. ‘Very well. But for now, we share none of that. Details of the attacks do not leave this room. Is that understood?’

  There was a murmur of consent. No one wanted the media to go wild with stories of a serial killer on the loose. Such publicity would not only make the job of the police more difficult, it could spur the killer to commit more atrocities.

  Geraldine went with Ian to find out what had been discovered at the post mortem. Since his admission that he was pleased to be working with her again, without a word spoken they seemed to have teamed up once more. Geraldine couldn’t have been more pleased.

  Jonah went through the usual routine, telling them Peter’s age, his general health which was unremarkable, and the cause of his death.

  ‘This was another vicious assault,’ he concluded. ‘From the angle of entry, many of the wounds were inflicted when the victim was already lying on the ground, and several were made post mortem.’ He paused to let his words sink in. ‘Even after he was dead, his killer continued his attack,’ he added, as though wanting to be sure they had understood what he was saying. ‘It was an extremely ferocious attack that went on for some time.’

  ‘So are you implying this was a different killer to the one who murdered Stephanie?’ Ian asked.

  ‘That doesn’t necessarily follow. He would have been able to spend more time with Peter,’ Geraldine pointed out. ‘When he killed Stephanie he would have needed to get away as quickly as possible, for fear of being discovered. But this attack happened late at night, out in the fields, in foggy weather. He wouldn’t have had to worry too much about being seen.’ She turned back to Jonah. ‘How many times was he stabbed?’

  ‘Seven times in the chest. Twice while he was still upright.’ He pointed to two bloodless gashes in the white flesh near the dead man’s heart. ‘The other three injuries were more forceful. The blade was driven straight down into his chest while he was lying on the ground. Then there are further incisions here and here.’

  He indicated several lacerations on the dead man’s neck, shoulders and forearm. With the blood cleaned away, the apertures looked surreal, like lipless mouths.

  ‘What time was he killed?’ Ian asked.

  ‘It’s difficult to give an exact time as he was lying outside overnight, but I’d say it was around midnight, give or take an hour or two either way. He’d been drinking quite heavily before he died, so you could check the local pubs in case anyone remembers seeing him. You might be able to find out who he was drinking with.’ He paused. ‘But it was the same killer, or, at least, the deaths are related. Look!’

  With a flourish, he pointed to the dead man’s mouth.

  ‘I noticed that,’ Geraldine said. ‘It’s in my report from the crime scene, and I’ve brought it to the attention of the DCI. She wants it kept quiet for now. We don’t want the press getting hold of it.’

  Jonah grinned at Ian. ‘Your new sergeant doesn’t miss much. You’d better buck up your ideas, or she’ll be leapfrogging over you on the career ladder.’

  Ian glanced at Geraldine as though to apologise for the clumsy comment, although of course Jonah could hardly be accused of insensitivity, since he knew nothing about her recent demotion.

  ‘She’ll do,’ Ian replied gruffly and Geraldine laughed.

  ‘So, is there anything else? Any DNA under his nails?’

  ‘Not that we’ve been able to find. There don’t appear to be any defence wounds at all. He must have been caught off guard, or perhaps he was too drunk to retaliate.’

  The three of them stared at the dead man.

  ‘Of course it doesn’t help us to find out who the killer was,’ Ian said slowly, ‘but at least we can confirm that the victims were both killed by the same person. So we now know there’s a connection between the crimes, and we also know the victims were at school together, five years ago. I think we should start there. Do you want to arrange a visit to the school tomorrow, Geraldine? What do you think?’

  Geraldine
was still staring at the body.

  ‘Peter was right,’ she replied miserably.

  Whatever else happened, nothing could alter the fact that they had failed to protect Peter from a violent maniac.

  ‘We weren’t to know,’ Ian said softly.

  ‘We should have known. Isn’t that our job, to protect people?’

  18

  The schools in Yorkshire had not yet opened after the Christmas holidays. A borough intelligence officer told Geraldine that a new head had started at Saddleworth Secondary School two years ago. The previous head having remained in Uppermill, Geraldine decided to start her enquiries there. Susan Mulvey had been head of Saddleworth School for over fifteen years, her residency covering the two victims’ final seven years at the school. There was a slim chance she might be able to shed some light on the case. Geraldine called to make sure she was at home before setting out, and the ex-head promptly responded by inviting her round for tea. She sounded as though she would be pleased of the company.

  The journey to Uppermill was beginning to feel familiar. As she drew up outside Susan’s house and climbed out of the car, Geraldine had an uncomfortable sensation that someone was watching her. She dismissed it as guilt at having failed to protect Peter when he had told her he was being stalked. All the same, she looked around uneasily. The side street where she had parked was deserted. Telling herself she was imagining things, she marched up to the front door and rang the bell. Turning suddenly, she thought she caught a glimpse of a figure in a long dark coat darting out of sight at the far end of the street, too far away for her to register any distinguishing features. She wasn’t even sure that she had seen a human figure. It was the rapidity of movement that had caught her eye. She looked again but there was no one there.