Pretty Little Things

by T. M. E. Walsh

  Caroline – 17.

  Juliet – 16.

  Melissa – 15.

  Katie – 15.

  Despite being used to crime scenes by now, some occasionally very brutal in nature, she still felt stirrings inside her that made her want to turn around, walk out of the incident tent and just keep on going, walking across the wasteland and never looking back.

  ‘It’s going to take a while to formally ID them,’ Charis said, swallowing hard.

  Madeleine squatted down close to the pit. Seeing the bodies in situ was a necessity but it was a hard scene to take in and digest.

  Casting her dark-brown eyes over the remains, she caught sight of wisps of copper-coloured hair, just poking out from beneath another body.

  Madeleine’s thoughts were immediately drawn to the photograph of Juliet Edwards her parents had given to the police when she first went missing. It had been taken at her sixteenth birthday party. In the photograph, Madeleine had noted that, around a face that was still full, puppy-fat yet to be fully shed, Juliet had beautiful green eyes, complemented by a shade of hair that reminded Madeleine of the colour of autumn leaves.

  Madeleine looked deeper into the crude grave and saw the willowy limbs and ash-blonde hair that she knew had to belong to Caroline White.

  The side of Caroline’s face was only just visible but Madeleine could see one gold-star stud in her earlobe.

  Madeleine knew those earrings had been given to Caroline by her mother the Christmas just gone. The enormity of what she was facing was starting to really hit home now she had the bodies of the young girls here in front of her.

  ‘Guv,’ Charis said, coughing, trying to clear the lump in her throat as she thought of her own daughter safe back at home with her mother-in-law. ‘We have some DCs doing rounds of house-to-house and specialist officers with the teens who found the . . . pit.’ She avoided using the word ‘grave’. This wasn’t worthy of being considered that.

  Madeleine nodded a response but her attention was drawn to the forensic pathologist hovering in the corner of her peripheral vision.

  Dennis Roach pulled his face mask down under his chin, although he was clearly reluctant to, given the scene around them.

  ‘It’s going to take time, as you might expect,’ he said, gesturing to the bodies. ‘There’s a lot of insect activity and there are various stages of decomposition . . . not to mention there’s been some dismemberment, likely from animal activity.’ He looked like he had a nasty taste in his mouth and Madeleine could more than relate.

  This was a mess.

  ‘Understood,’ she said. ‘Too early to say, I suppose, but any indication on cause of death?’

  Roach grimaced. ‘As you say, very hard to even gauge at this point but I can see signs of trauma to one of the victim’s necks, just here,’ he said, gesturing towards the nearest body.

  Madeleine looked at the body lying on top of the rest, eyes open, face pointing skyward.

  Katie Allen.

  Madeleine knew it had to be her. She’d not long since pinned the girl’s photograph to the board in the incident room back at the station, maybe two weeks ago at most.

  ‘Her throat has been cut,’ Roach said.

  Madeleine visibly jolted as if she’d forgotten she wasn’t alone. Her eyes were drawn to a savage cut right across the girl’s neck, almost from ear to ear.

  It looked deep, although it was hard to tell under the dried blood and grime.

  An overwhelming feeling of sadness threatened to swallow Madeleine whole, right there and then.

  She quickly left the tent.

  *

  After her suit had been taken and bagged up, Madeleine sat in her car, legs hanging out the door. Her face frozen, rigid, staring ahead at the cars and news vans that had turned up far beyond the police cordon.

  Cameras rolling, reporters gesturing to the cameras, photographers with zoom lenses, vying for that perfect shot to sell on.

  ‘Is this what four young girls’ lives are worth, what they’ve been reduced to? A sideshow?’ Charis said as she approached the car. She looked back over her shoulder, sweeping back her long brown hair from her eyes as the wind picked up, howling across the wasteland.

  ‘Just doing their job,’ Madeleine said, voice drenched in sarcasm.

  ‘I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it. What kind of monster do you have to be to do something like this?’

  ‘Monster? No,’ Madeleine said, shaking her head. ‘This person isn’t a monster. Monsters aren’t real, and besides, whoever did this doesn’t see themselves as a monster, villain or bogeyman.’

  She swung her legs into the car and her fingers wrapped around the steering wheel, knuckles white. ‘This person is the hero in their own story.’

  ‘Hero,’ Charis scoffed.

  ‘In their eyes.’

  ‘They won’t like how the media will portray them.’

  ‘I know,’ Madeleine said. ‘And that’s a problem. It could make the killer impulsive, more than they appear to be already.’

  ‘You think they could up the stakes?’

  ‘It’s what I’d do if I were the killer. They have some kind of message to send. If they feel they’re close to being caught, or being ridiculed . . .’ Madeleine clipped her seatbelt into the slot then turned to look up at Charis. ‘Where are we on that list of newly released sex offenders?’

  ‘Some have had visits but nothing of note so far.’

  ‘Violent offenders?’

  ‘One released in Luton, two weeks before Caroline went missing, but he has an alibi. CCTV confirms his whereabouts that Sunday.’

  Madeleine cast her eyes over the wasteland, the desolate horizon towards the hills beyond. ‘You’d need a vehicle to bring the bodies here,’ she said. ‘The actual murder scene must be close.’

  Charis nodded. ‘It’s mostly farmland out this way.’

  ‘Organise some officers to look around the farms, outbuildings, barns, that kind of thing.’ Madeleine’s mobile rang before Charis could respond. The caller ID display revealed it was DC Alex Farr.

  ‘Alex,’ she said, pressing her mobile to her ear.

  ‘Guv, I’ve had Mispers on the phone.’

  Madeleine felt her insides knot and her mouth was immediately dry. She struggled to find her voice.

  ‘Shit,’ was all she managed, her voice low, but Charis, who was standing over her, drew closer, her face now paler than before.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Alex. ‘Another one’s been reported missing. Same age range, missing under similar circumstances.’

  Madeleine’s body felt stiff. She ended the call and took a few deep breaths before remembering Charis was standing over her.

  By the look on her face, Madeleine knew the other woman already understood.

  ‘Not another one?’ she said, the disbelief clear in her voice, wanting it desperately not to be so.

  Madeleine nodded, and said, ‘Head back to Sutton House. Team brief in an hour.’

  CHAPTER 3

  Sutton House, home to Chiltern & South Bucks LPA, where Madeleine and her team were based, was a dull-looking, grey-brick building built in the mid-seventies.

  The official main HQ for Thames Valley Police was in Amersham and Madeleine was part of the Major Crime Unit, the Force CID, which was made up of a number of smaller teams based in the local policing areas (LPA).

  Being based at Sutton House rather than in the bigger hub of a town or city, Madeleine sometimes felt she was a little restricted and not always fulfilling her potential. Most crimes she had dealt with included robberies, home invasions and violent crime on occasion, but murder was rare.

  Suddenly finding herself involved in a high-profile murder and missing persons investigation that was already fairly complex, she was feeling the pressure of the enormity of it all.

  She was heading up a large team of people, and she knew you were only as good as your last case, your last success, in the eyes of her superiors. She wanted to obtain justice
for the families that had been left destroyed by the events unfolding around them, but the thought of screwing up frightened her more than she’d realised it would.

  She had been offered a small office, almost cupboard-like, but she’d declined it, preferring to be in the thick of things.

  Right now, she was in the deep end, and silently prayed she wouldn’t drown.

  Charis was sitting with DC Farr at the far side of the large, open-plan room, packed tight with desks and equipment, with a large board at the front that had a photograph of each victim pinned to it, with various information that had been collected, including key points like the date and time they had last been seen.

  Madeleine stared at each photograph in turn and, as she had done many times before, each time a new photograph had been added, silently promised them she’d find them and bring them home again.

  Now, though, she would be bringing them back to their parents only for them to have to bury them.

  The weight of this was heavy on her mind, on her soul.

  The fact that she’d just been handed another photograph to pin to the expanding board of information made her feel ill.

  She tried to pull herself together. To keep herself focused and try not to absorb too much of the sadness playing out in front of them.

  Young life cut brutally short, with another innocent likely to end up the same way if she and her team couldn’t find her in time.

  ‘Bryony Keats,’ she said, pinning a 10 x 8 photograph to the board as everyone came together to huddle around the large table in the centre of the room.

  All eyes were now on the photograph of a petite teen wearing a jumper bearing the logo of the school she attended. Chestnut-coloured hair framed a face of delicate features, and flowed around her shoulders. A pretty, ornate, metal hair clip held back a section of hair from her face, revealing wide, dark, expressive eyes looking directly at the camera.

  Although her mouth was pulled into a smile, it didn’t reach her eyes. Something Madeleine was more than conscious of.

  ‘Bryony is seventeen years old and lives in the village of Bronze Mead, just on the outskirts of Kennington. She’s a sixth-form student at Kings Hill Secondary School.’ She paused as she sat down at the far end of the table.

  She then took a moment to look at her team.

  ‘Bryony’s been missing since last Wednesday.’

  A collective silence fell over those gathered at the table.

  ‘As you’re already aware,’ Madeleine said, ‘the bodies of four young girls were found on the Heath Edge wasteland late last night by a group of teenagers. It quickly became apparent that they were the bodies of the four missing teens, although official identification will take a little longer due to the state of each body.’

  She breathed out heavily.

  ‘To have the families formally ID the girls is out of the question. That’s the advice we’re being given.’

  ‘What do we know about Bryony Keats?’ Charis said.

  Madeleine looked to Alex.

  ‘Bryony seems to be the average teenager. Nothing really stands out as suspect or particularly different about her or her home life,’ he said, looking at the file from Mispers. He rubbed his grey beard as he read through his notes. ‘We’ve already been collecting information on her social media accounts, bank records . . .’

  He looked up at Madeleine and shook his head.

  ‘Her mother logged into the account online and there’s been no activity since the day she went missing when she drew out £200.’

  ‘So, we know the name and location of the cashpoint – there’ll be CCTV footage we can use. Alex, can you make that a priority?’ Madeleine said.

  ‘Yes, Guv.’

  ‘Phone records too.’

  He nodded. ‘On it.’

  ‘Why wasn’t Bryony reported missing sooner?’ Charis said.

  ‘Something we need to ask her mother, but it’s been noted that Bryony had threatened to leave before,’ Madeleine said. ‘She was definitely going somewhere. She took her rucksack and a change of clothes, deodorant, hairbrush, toothbrush.’

  ‘Given that, are we sure she isn’t just a runaway? She’d obviously planned to leave.’

  ‘I see your point,’ Madeleine said, ‘but she hasn’t been in contact with anyone. Her mobile is switched off, which is unusual in itself, and sadly, she fits the victim profile. We need a Family Liaison Officer over at her house ASAP and a search of her room. We need to seize any home PC, her laptop, any tablets, any other mobile phones.’

  ‘Do we know who the last person was to have contact with her?’

  ‘Her older brother texted her to ask if she was OK after an argument with their mother over her partner. Bryony stormed out.’

  Madeleine wrote a few details down, before addressing the team.

  ‘All four of the girls were at surrounding schools. Caroline White and Juliet Edwards had part-time jobs in Kennington itself. We need to look again at all the victims’ social media, friends, boyfriends . . . What do they have in common? None of the girls knew each other, and nothing in their lives stands out as unusual, but what about Bryony Keats?

  ‘Pay close attention to social media. Just because we’ve found no connection between the girls in person doesn’t mean they didn’t interact, even in the smallest measure, via the internet. I know we’ve looked, but look again.

  ‘Similarly, with home life. Any problems at home or school? Check again. Something must connect these girls.’

  ‘All the victims were last seen before they went down country roads,’ Charis said. ‘I’ve already organised a check of nearby farms and any outhouses, stables.’

  ‘Good, and everyone who gave a statement when the girls were missing, I want re-interviewed.’ Madeleine looked further down the table at a few DCs. ‘HOLMES team,’ she said, ‘cross-reference everything.’

  Madeleine set a few more tasks for people to do – more door-to-door, acquiring CCTV footage – before she began to wrap up the briefing.

  ‘Bryony’s been missing for four days now. Time is crucial.’

  The room fell silent, each person more than aware what this could mean.

  ‘The more time that goes by since the last sighting of Bryony, the more we have to assume we’re looking for a body,’ Madeleine said, voicing what they were all thinking. ‘Given that we now have the bodies of four teenagers, we must assume that Bryony has been taken by the same person or persons, unless we have something concrete to suggest otherwise.

  ‘Bryony fits the victim profile; she’s in her mid to late teens, she lives in one of the surrounding villages where, as we know only too well, CCTV is limited along the country lanes. We do have one advantage, in that people who reside in small towns and villages tend to notice anything out of the ordinary. We need a fresh appeal for witnesses and I’ll be organising a press conference with the Chief Constable as soon as possible, but I can’t stress this enough: no one is to let slip anything to the media.’

  Once the rest of the team dispersed, Madeleine called Charis and Alex into a small, stuffy interview room.

  ‘You guys are my eyes and ears more than anyone right now,’ she said, looking at each one of them in turn, making sure they understood how the pressure to get speedy results was weighing on her mind.

  Alex’s dark-blue eyes looked sideways at Charis. ‘Guv,’ he said, his attention back on Madeleine. ‘Maddy . . . we have your back here. Everyone does.’

  Madeleine smiled, but it was weak. Alex was in his early fifties and had a lot of experience, but he’d never wanted to progress to a higher rank. She’d always supposed it was because he didn’t want the axe to fall on his head should an investigation go wrong, as they’d all seen happen before.

  Reality was, as Madeleine had come to realise, Alex wanted to remain a DC not through lack of ambition but because he wanted to help the families left destroyed by serious crime. The closer you got to the top, the less time you spent doing the groundwork.

 
; The interaction with the families was key for him, Charis too.

  It’s what kept them all focused.

  ‘No one wanted this investigation,’ Charis said. ‘Remember, you’re the one who stepped up when no one else would.’

  Madeleine gave her a smile. ‘It’s my head if we get this wrong.’

  ‘We won’t,’ Alex said.

  Madeleine blew out a long breath and shook her head. ‘Something about this whole case is off. It’s someone local, has to be. The locations, the timings . . . it all seems so random, desperate, like the killer has an insatiable need.’

  Charis put her hand out and rested it on her shoulder. ‘We’ll find Bryony Keats alive, Guv. We will.’

  Madeleine admired the optimism but the truth was, she knew in her heart that Bryony was almost certainly dead already.

  CHAPTER 4

  CHARLOTTE

  I needn’t tell you that my relationship with Elle was strained before my accident. I wasn’t such a good mother – there, I said it.

  I, Charlotte Monroe, was a bad mother.

  Was.

  Not now. I’m trying to make up for years of putting my career first, never really paying much attention to the beautiful baby girl I had. I missed out on so much of her early years. All those milestones they tell new mothers to document with photographs and scrapbook memories because kids grow up so quickly? That never really resonated with me.

  I didn’t feel that maternal instinct and I used to think there was something wrong with me.

  I knew what I should be doing, but I could only handle the bare basics.

  Iain thinks I could have had a touch of post-natal, but I know the root cause is because of what happened to my brother Miles.

  I guess at the time I was scared to get too attached and risk the pain that would result if anything bad happened to my own child. I remember how detached my mother became with me after that summer.

  I sit in the living room, staring at the photographs of Elle that are dotted around the room. I don’t appear in many. Mostly it is Iain and Elle.