by A D Davies
“And is this similar to the Bradshaw girl?”
“Pippa.”
“Hmm?”
“Pippa, sir. Her name was Pippa Bradshaw.” Murphy noticed a woman wandering along the shore. She came from out of the woods on the other side of the lake.
“Are you suggesting I’m being insensitive, Detective Inspector?”
The woman was short, blonde, her hair in a ponytail. Probably mid-to-late twenties. Dressed like she belonged in an office. Except for the bubble-gum pink wellington boots.
“No, sir,” Murphy said. “It’s my own way of thinking about them. First name terms.”
“We’ve talked about that before.”
“And I haven’t forgotten. Don’t worry. I’m fine.”
The woman was getting closer now. Murphy excused himself from Rhapshaw and approached over the sodden ground. “Hello? Miss?”
She didn’t look up, engrossed in the long grass along the lakeside. She bent down and picked up a Coke can, peered inside, and discarded it.
As Murphy drew closer he saw she was a pretty little thing; petite, he estimated her head would come up to his chest. He called again, “Miss, excuse me.”
This time she looked up. “Oh, hi!” She greeted him like an old friend she was surprised to see.
Murphy guided her aside. “Miss, I’m not sure how you got through the cordon, but this is a crime scene. A young woman has been…”
“Murdered, yes, I know.” She smiled cheerily at him. “I’m Alicia Friend.”
“And?”
“And Graham asked me to come along, see if I could help. Cool, huh?”
Murphy took a mental step back. Cute, blonde, seemed to almost bounce even though she was stood still. “Graham?”
“At your service.” Rhapshaw’s voice again. When Murphy turned, Rhapshaw said, “You’ve been pestering DCI Streeter for more personnel and he has been pestering me. Therefore, Detective Sergeant Alicia Friend is now on attachment from the Serious Crime Agency. She’s been a damn good copper for me, and worked as a criminal analyst in any number of departments. Seems like a good fit.”
“Sir, if by ‘analyst’ you mean ‘psychic’…”
“Murphy, how long have you known me?”
“Ten years, on and off.”
“And in those ten years, what exactly could you possibly have seen to make you think for one fleeting minute I’d employ a psychic?”
Murphy saw his point. “She’s a shrink then?”
Alicia stood forward. “I’m a psychologist. My brain is like some mini-computer, but you can’t switch it off and back on again. I’m also a policewoman with a mean right hook and a pretty decent track record wherever my little feet have taken me.”
Murphy stared at her a moment.
Did she just say “little feet”?
“DS Friend, thanks for coming down, but we don’t even have the forensics in yet.”
“It’s okay,” she said. “I already have a theory about your suspect. For starters, it’s not much of a stretch to start using the fave phrase of Hollywood thriller writers: serial killer.”
Murphy shook his head. “Sir, what the hell is this? Buffy the Vampire Slayer takes a stroll and she’s sure this is a serial killer? That mini-computer of hers needs de-bugging. We have two bodies. Similar appearance, similar age, similar deaths, but it’s not enough for a pattern. It’s barely a coincidence.”
“Really?” Rhapshaw said. “Are you saying she’s wrong?”
“Not definitively, no. I mean, there are signs it was the same man as Pippa, of course, but…”
Rhapshaw was about to respond but Alicia Friend got in first: “Well, technically a serial murderer needs three kills, but from what Graham tells me, a third girl went missing yesterday in similar circumstances to Pippa and Hayley. Close in appearance, twenty-two years old, which means there's about five days until a third body shows up.”
“We still don’t know…”
“Are you a betting man, DI Murphy?”
To Rhapshaw, he said, “Sir, I know I asked for extra feet on the ground but I’m not sure this is the answer.”
Rhapshaw shrugged.
Alicia said, “Because if you’re really into gambling and want to throw one of those little balls onto the roulette wheel—by the way, I’m using the little ball as a metaphor for Katie Hague’s life, and the roulette wheel for the chances of finding her alive—”
“I get the imagery.”
“Good, because if that’s what you’re going to do—hope that the forensics turn up a fingerprint or find the name and address of the person who beat Hayley Davenport to death secreted about her person—then I very much doubt Katie’s going to make it.”
Murphy grew conscious of his breathing, the cool air through his nose far louder than it should have been. The winter breeze blew, the SOCOs’ paper suits rustled, and the wind bit at his neck. Alicia Friend shivered but her eyes held his.
Rhapshaw said, “Murphy, your desk is clear as of now. Reporting to Detective Chief Inspector Streeter, this is your only case. Find the missing girl, and catch this bastard.”
“Fine,” Murphy said. “Let’s hear the theory.”
Rhapshaw smiled satisfactorily. “Let me know when the forensics get in.”
While the chief inspector struggled back up the hill, Alicia Friend told Murphy what she’d seen so far.
Chapter Two
Alicia constantly found herself deeply disappointed with human nature. Heck, she’d been studying it for years. And the poor, grumpy man charged with finding whoever killed Pippa and Hayley, he didn’t seem to like Alicia at all. That was okay, though. He’d come around. They always did. Five phases was what it usually took for this type of detective to respect her, but they were pushed for time here, so she had to get stuck into him quickly. With DI Murphy about to have his mind blown by Alicia’s superior intellect, his reaction would dictate whether she would be an effective part of his team or not.
When the chief ascended out of earshot, Alicia turned to the lake. “Your killer came in that way.” She pointed to the heavy woodland on the opposite side. “Probably parked up on the ring road in one of the old horse tracks and came through that way.”
“Wow.” Murphy stood beside her, rubbed his moustache in a way that Alicia thought looked defensive. She’d know more shortly. He said, “You figured that out, eh? The fact there was a carnival over the hill behind us didn’t enter into your little deduction?”
“The carnival is irrelevant. The woods would have been packed with druggies and shaggers, so he’d have had to come down after midnight when it was quieter. Even then, why take the chance of coming here? These woods are used for all sorts. He had a specific reason.”
She smiled up at him. Waaaayy up at him. He pulled his shoulders back, making himself appear even taller. She moved over to the body, beckoning Murphy without looking his way, knelt on a SOCO-approved pad, and lifted the sheet to the girl’s filth-streaked naked body. “Okay, firstly she was beaten with far less rage than Pippa. Her injuries are less pronounced. Meaning?”
“I’ve been doing this for over thirty years, DS Friend. I don’t need to be quizzed.”
“Then prove it.”
“If it is the same guy … it means he’s more careful this time. The first was rage, killed her with a single punch. When he realised she was dead, he beat the body almost unrecognisable. This time he took longer. Learned from the first time. With Hayley … he enjoyed it more.”
“Wow, you have been doing this a long time. Well done.”
“Well, thank you.”
“But look at what else he left us. Mud.”
“Forensics will confirm whether it’s mud or not,” Murphy said sarcastically. When Alicia said nothing further, he crouched beside her. “What about the mud?”
“It’s special. It’s sinking mud.”
“Oh. I didn’t realise it was special sinking mud.”
“Bear with me.”
Sh
e replaced the sheet and thanked the SOCO very much and again beckoned Murphy to follow her. With another rub of his ’tache, he rose to his full height and fell in step behind. He sighed as they walked.
“Are you jealous?” she asked.
“Of?”
“My wellies.”
“They’re pink.”
“I keep ’em in the car at all times. You should think about doing the same.”
“I’ll bear that in mind.”
They lapsed into silence again, just the squelching of mud and the light breeze and Murphy sighing yet again.
“You know where we’re going?” Alicia asked.
“I presume you’re going to show me the magic mud.”
“It’s not magic, silly. It’s sinking mud. At least it used to be.”
“Used to be?”
“Here.”
They’d arrived at the north end of the lake where it felt colder than back with the body. The path that circled the water staggered a small stream via a footbridge, the stream feeding the lake at a trickle. About twelve feet off-shore sat a mini island, with evergreens and deciduous shrubs growing side-by-side and all over each other. From here they could see through the bare branches to where Hayley Davenport’s body lay, but in summer it would have been bright and dense with foliage. Alicia spread her arms in a ta-daaa gesture toward the water between shore and island.
She considered saying Ta-daaa, but settled with, “Et voila.”
“It’s water,” Murphy said.
“When I used to come up to Roundhay Park with my mum and our dogs, this was the part of the trip where mum would tell me to be extra careful. Especially since I was usually on my bike.”
“Because of the sinking mud.”
“Right. They’ve cleaned it up a bit since me and mum and Bonker and Stonker came up, but if you grew up in these parts, you know about the sinking mud. That if you fell in and there was no one with a rope or something to save you, you’d sink in over your head and keep sinking and you’d never be found.”
“Bonker and Stonker?”
Alicia jumped and clipped Murphy round the ear. “Pay attention, Inspector.” He looked as shocked as if she’d jabbed him with a cattle prod, but she continued. “Bonker and Stonker are perfectly good names for Springer Spaniels. They’re getting on a bit, just like my mum, but they’re still going strong. Again, just like my mum. Now, perhaps you’d like to comment on my theory.”
“You hit me.”
“You deserved it. Comments please.”
“You grew up round here, heard a story about sinking mud, and you think our killer heard the same story and dumped the body here believing it would never be found.”
“Correctamundo!”
“You’re mental.”
Murphy started striding back toward the body and Alicia had to trot to keep up.
“Oh, come on,” she said, walking backwards in front of him. “Why else is she covered in mud like that?”
“There’s no mud. You said they cleaned it up.”
“It peed down last night. Think harder.”
Murphy stopped. He opened his jacket and placed his hands on his narrow hips, breathed out—a bit over-dramatically in Alicia’s opinion. Closed his eyes. When he opened them, Alicia could tell she won a minor victory in there.
He said, “It was muddy when he arrived. He dumped her before the rain came, expecting her to sink. The rain swelled the stream which swelled the lake which … floated the body.”
“And the mud—not sinking mud any more, but hey—is still pretty thick.”
“Which is why it stuck to her so much. Even the lake wouldn’t clean her completely.”
Alicia felt good about him seeing sense. But then bad, so bad, about the dead girl. “I bet we find mud in all her orifices, in all her wounds, in her mouth … the killer grew up here in Leeds, he knew about the mud, but he’s probably been away, come back.”
“Jail?”
“Or a really long holiday. But prison. Perhaps there are more like this one?”
Murphy had his mobile out, in-hand, dialling. He listened until someone picked up. “Cleaver, sorry, I know you’ve only had a few hours sleep, but for your shift tonight I need you checking parolees for the last year. Violent crimes preferred. Leeds residents. And cross-reference them with similar patterns to our murders, patterns that perhaps stopped for a while … yes, when our parolees went down. And Cleaver? If you and DS Ball need to buy in a civvie team to help crunch the numbers, I’ll authorise the overtime.” He hung up and turned to Alicia. “Okay, you’re in.”
“Cool and the gang.” Alicia couldn’t help but smile. “What now, boss?”
He stroked his moustache again, eyes wandering to the lake. “Now? Now some officer has to inform Hayley’s parents their daughter is dead.”
“Should we do that?”
“No. We have a third missing girl. We can’t do any more here.”
Alicia had left her Ford Focus in Roundhay Park’s main car park. As they trudged up the hill in that direction, Murphy filled her in about Katie Hague’s disappearance.
She was out in the city centre, clubbing with her boyfriend Brian and a group of friends. Brian claimed Katie and he rowed about whether to stay out for a bit more booze—he’d wanted to do some shots with his pals from the rugby club—but she was hungry and stroppy and demanding a curry. So he said fine, go, and she had.
1:30 a.m., 10th December.
That was the last timestamp on the nightclub CCTV, the final time anyone, namely a doorman called Duane, could positively ID her. And now, just over thirty hours later—the 11th December—she was still missing.
Why was Murphy so sure it was the same man who’d killed Pippa and Hayley?
Because of the circumstances of their disappearances.
On the 5th of December, Hayley Davenport went ice-skating with two girlfriends, wrapped up in four layers, a bright red scarf and a woolly hat to match. It was an evening in Millennium Square where Leeds City Council had erected a temporary rink next to the German market that pops up every Christmas. When it was her turn to get the hot chocolate in, she told her friends to wait by the stall selling multi-coloured mechanical dolls and delved into the crowded market. She did not return. No drinks stall-owners saw her. Her body turned up in North Leeds, today, the 11th, probably killed yesterday, or more likely—with Katie being take in the early hours of the 10th—the day before.
Five days in captivity.
On the 27th November—eight days prior to Hayley going missing—Pippa Bradshaw attended her local pub in the suburb of Chapel Allerton, celebrating a work colleague’s leaving do. Stella, the small PR firm’s HR manager, was being made redundant but was in buoyant mood having booked a six-month trip to Australia on the back of her pay-off. Pippa was so excited for her that she’d turned up holding a huge stuffed koala and wearing a cork-strung hat. Murphy learned she had been planning to make the same trip once uni finished. That night, though, Pippa—a little drunk—popped to the loo and never returned. She was found dead on the 3rd of December, in a shallow grave, in woodland in the grounds of Harewood House, a beauty spot owned by a relative of the Queen, located between Leeds and Harrogate.
Six days in captivity.
Two days later, he took Hayley. Meaning:
27th Dec: Pippa taken.
3rd Dec: Pippa found; she died that same day.
5th Dec: Hayley taken.
9th Dec: Hayley killed.
10th Dec: Katie goes missing … same kidnapper? Probably.
11th Dec: Hayley found … after being concealed. Did that mean something?
They shelved that for now.
At Alicia’s Ford Focus, Murphy said, “They’re all between nineteen and twenty-one years of age, they all have dark, shoulder length hair, and they’re all…” He trailed off.
“What?” Alicia asked. “What else is it?”
“They’re beautiful, Sergeant Friend. I mean stunning. And not air-brushed mag
azine stunning, I mean with a little extra something … a sort of … ‘way’ about them, as my mother would have said. A … strength of personality.”
Alicia thought for a moment. “You sure you’re not a little bit in love with these girls, Murphy?”
He frowned. “I’m trying to say each of them had more to offer than good looks. That to see this he would have had to watch them. Stalk them. He waited for the right moment to strike and … well … you know the rest.”
“I’ll drive,” she said. “I’ll drop you off later.”
“You don’t know where we’re going.”
“Katie’s house, right?”
“Right. How…?”
“Get in,” Alicia said. This was not going to be pleasant.
Chapter Three
The answer was simple: Alicia knew that’s where they were going because she knew Murphy had only spoken to Richard Hague—Katie’s dad—once, and that was when he came into the station to report her missing. The description rang a bell with a member of Murphy’s team and they called the DI to check the photo Mr. Hague had brought with him. Murphy deduced instantly that he had a big problem on his hands.
Now, with the emergence of a second body, they needed as much information as possible. There was still a chance the killer was acquainted with all three, and this, Alicia hoped, would be what caught him. She doubted it, though.
Once Murphy gave her the address and she gave it to the satnav, they were off to see a distraught father and ask him some awkward questions. Driving, Alicia asked Murphy his first name.
“Donald,” he said.
“Donald?” She nodded. “How about Donny? Or Don? Donald ‘the Don’ Murphy. I like that. The Don.”
“Murphy’s fine.”
“Nah. It’s Don.”
“Even my wife called me Murphy.”
“Called?”
“She’s … gone now.”
“Sorry.”
“You prefer Friend? Or Alicia?”
“What do you think?”
“I think you’re sitting so close to that steering wheel, if we crash and the airbag goes off it’ll kill you.”
