by Luke Delaney
‘The second scene was different,’ he continued. ‘A young girl called Heather Freeman, a runaway teenager. She was abducted and killed on waste ground out near Dagenham. He cut her throat, but still the scene was left as clean as a whistle. Nothing but a plain footprint.
‘So we wait. If we get alien samples from the scene, we’ll move and arrest Hellier, but we wait until then.’ Sean saw Vicky moving in her chair. He knew what she was thinking. He held a hand up. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘But trust me. Hellier won’t be contaminated with anything from the scene. Any clothing he used will be destroyed by now.’
‘You’re absolutely certain of that?’
‘No,’ he replied. ‘Not absolutely, but certain enough. I need something irrefutable. Whether it’s from one of the scenes or whether it’s something Hellier leads us to, I don’t care. But I’m not going to have him dance circles around me in an interview again. I need something damning.’
‘It’s your call, Sean, but don’t forget the Stephen Lawrence inquiry. Those guys were slaughtered for not making early arrests and seizing clothing for forensics. If you go down, I go down with you.’
‘No you won’t,’ Sean assured her. ‘Make an official note of your objections. I’ll do the same, and then you’re covered.’
‘Hold on,’ Vicky said. ‘That’s not what I meant.’
‘I know it isn’t,’ Sean replied. ‘But the branch I’m on is too thin for two people. You register those objections. They’ll be entered into my Decision Log.’
Vicky didn’t argue further.
‘I’d like to get a briefing out to the media today.’ Sean changed the subject. ‘You do it, Vicky. Keep my name out of it and don’t mention the link to other murders. Make it an appeal for public assistance. I want to see it in the Evening Standard tonight.’
‘Not a problem,’ said Vicky. ‘Their crime editor owes me a couple of favours.’
A knock at the door ended the conversation. Sean turned to see a detective he didn’t recognize. ‘Sister’s here, guv’nor,’ was all he said.
Sean’s hand hesitated as it rested on the handle of the witness room. Linda Kotler’s sister waited inside. Sally was with him, but he’d decided to do the talking this time.
Telling someone a loved one had died was one thing. As devastating as that news could be, it was nothing compared to telling them someone they loved had been murdered. That news would shatter lives. The living would be forever haunted, imagining the last moments of those now dead. The worst was telling parents a child had been murdered − few marriages survived that burden. The parents see their dead child every time they look at each other. Eventually they can take no more reminding, no more torture, and push each other away.
Sean gently nudged the door open. He wanted her to see him entering. Debbie Stryer looked up. She was younger than he’d expected, healthy and slightly tanned. Her country complexion made Sean conscious of his own ghostly city skin. She’d been crying. Her eyes were pink and rimmed bright red. She wasn’t crying now. It was a long trip from Devon. Had she run out of tears?
She began to stand before Sean or Sally could stop her. Her sore eyes darted between them. Sean had seen that look on the faces of other victims’ loved ones. Fear, disbelief; desperate for information.
She spoke first. ‘Hello. I’m Debbie Stryer. Linda’s sister. Stryer’s my married name.’
Sean nodded that he understood. Sally held out a hand. When Debbie Stryer took it, Sally gently pulled her hand forward and embraced it with both of hers.
‘I’m Sally Jones. I’m a detective sergeant. I’ll be helping to catch whoever did this to your sister. I’m so sorry for your loss. Everybody tells us Linda was such a good person.’ Sally waited for a reaction. The tears began to fall in heavy drops from Debbie’s eyes. Real tears, like those of a child in pain. ‘You need to know we’ll catch the person who did this to Linda,’ Sally promised her.
Sean looked on in admiration. His plan to take the lead just hadn’t happened. If he tried to emulate Sally now, he would sound clumsy. He would introduce himself and help explain any procedural matters Debbie might wish to know, but little more.
He waited for Debbie Stryer to take her hand away from Sally. It was a long wait. She was struggling to speak clearly through her grief.
‘Thank you,’ she told Sally. ‘Thank you.’ She turned to Sean. The awfulness of the day was beginning to break her. She seemed to be visibly shrinking.
He held out his hand. She accepted it. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Sean Corrigan,’ he said. ‘I’ll be in charge of this investigation.’ He wanted to say more, but couldn’t find the right words.
Debbie almost immediately stopped crying. She looked at him strangely. This was not what he had expected. He’d only introduced himself. Just said his name. He couldn’t have said the wrong thing already.
‘She told me about you,’ Debbie said. She couldn’t help herself checking Sean’s left hand. She saw his wedding ring and almost smiled. ‘She didn’t tell me you were married. That’s typical of Linda.’
Sean and Sally simultaneously turned to each other, confusion and surprise etched on their faces.
Sean had briefed DI Townsend on the meeting with Debbie Stryer. She had listened almost without speaking. The only thing she said was that there must have been some mistake. Sean knew better. He was being played. Hellier was laughing at him.
But Hellier was taking an unnecessary risk in doing so. Showing off came with a price. Debbie Stryer was able to tell them he had approached her sister close to her home, sometime between eight and nine, maybe a little earlier. Christ, he’d even had a conversation with her in the middle of the street. He was beginning to think he was uncatchable. His sociopathic arrogance was matched only by his violence.
Sean and Sally donned forensic suits and entered Linda Kotler’s flat. It looked very different to how Sean remembered it, forensic examiners going about their work making it seem full of life. They went directly to the living room, where Sean had seen the docking unit for Linda Kotler’s home phone. He examined it without touching and saw traces of aluminium powder on both the phone and the base. ‘Has this phone been dusted yet?’ he asked a middle-aged woman, shapeless in her paper suit. They all resembled workers in a nuclear power plant.
‘Yes,’ she answered. ‘I did it.’
‘Have the messages been listened to?’ Sean asked.
‘No. We’ll do that back at the audio lab, for continuity.’ But Sean had had enough of waiting. He pressed the message playback button and hit the ‘speaker on’ switch. ‘I don’t think you should be doing that,’ the woman protested.
‘DI Corrigan. I’m in charge of this investigation.’
The machine beeped long and shrill. A ringing tone could be heard. Linda Kotler’s voice filled the room. Everyone stopped and listened to the woman who had been murdered only two plaster walls away.
They listened as the sisters chatted. This was it. Sean’s heart was going faster and faster. He knew what was coming, but he didn’t want to hear it.
‘And does this man have a name?’ Debbie asked.
He could see Sally watching him out the corner of her eye.
‘Sean,’ Linda’s voice said. ‘Sean Corrigan.’
The middle-aged forensics officer was staring at him now. ‘Haven’t you got work to do?’ he snapped. She moved quickly away.
Sean stood and led Sally to the bedroom, where they found Donnelly wearing a forensic suit. Sean also recognized the slim figure of Dr Canning, kneeling over Linda Kotler’s lifeless form. A number of labelled specimen jars and exhibit bags were spread across the floor close by, within easy reach of the pathologist. DC Zukov was doing his best to assist Canning.
‘Anything interesting yet?’ Sean asked.
Dr Canning was stony-faced. ‘Inspector Corrigan. I shall assume you are responsible for dragging me halfway across London.’
‘Sorry, but I felt it was necessary.’
‘Because y
ou believe you have two connected murders. Sergeant Donnelly here filled me in on the details.’
‘Three murders,’ Sean corrected him. The pathologist frowned. ‘There was another. The first of the series occurred about two weeks ago. Post-mortem’s already been done, but I’d like you to cast an eye over it.’
‘Very well,’ Canning replied. He went back to work. He talked as he examined the body.
‘So elaborate. Probably the most elaborate bindings and ligatures I’ve ever encountered.’
‘Why?’ Sean asked. ‘What’s the purpose?’
Canning pointed to the knot on the stocking that ran along the victim’s spine. ‘That’s a slip knot. My best guess at this time would be that it’s a type of harness.
‘He positions the victim face down on the bed, then by pulling the slip knot up and down he can control the tightness of the bindings around her throat and legs simultaneously. Quite the instrument of torture.’
‘Anything else?’ Sean asked.
Canning scanned the body, wondering where to begin. ‘You’ll have to wait until the post-mortem before it’s confirmed, but I’m sure the cause of death will be strangulation.’ He pointed to the victim’s neck. ‘You can see the ligature’s sunk into the flesh quite deeply. Far more deeply than was necessary to kill her. Quite a surprise the skin didn’t break. There’s other severe bruising too. Probably all caused by the same ligature.’ Canning took a deep breath. ‘This is a strong man you’re looking for, Inspector.’
‘What caused the other bruising around the neck?’ Sean asked.
‘I believe the killer repeatedly tightened the ligature around her neck, but released it before death.’
‘And before she passed out too,’ Sean added.
‘I wouldn’t be able to say.’
‘He wouldn’t have let her pass out,’ Sean assured him. ‘He wouldn’t have let her escape into unconsciousness. Not even for a second.’
Canning raised his eyebrows. ‘It would appear he had knowledge of auto-erotic asphyxiation,’ he continued. ‘Popular with sado-masochists.’
Hellier’s face flashed in Sean’s mind.
‘She was sexually assaulted, too. Raped both vaginally and anally by the look of things. No immediate signs of semen or a lubricant. I suspect he used a dry condom.’
Canning spoke to DC Zukov. ‘Could you pass me that halogen lamp, please, Detective?’ Zukov passed him a metal-cased lamp that was big enough to be a helicopter searchlight. Canning flicked the lamp on. It gave off a less bright light than expected, but that wasn’t its purpose. Held at the right angle, it would allow the naked eye to observe otherwise near-invisible marks. Fingerprints, footprints, hairs, tiny fragments of metal …
Canning began to slowly sweep the light across the body. He started at the lowest point. In this case it was the knees. The legs were still bent and tied back so her feet almost touched her buttocks. The light moved to her back. ‘Hello there.’ Canning had found something. He froze the light on the victim’s back. Sean moved two steps closer.
‘Careful,’ Canning warned him. ‘We haven’t examined the entire area around the body yet.’
Sean stopped and crouched down. He craned his neck to get a better view of the victim’s back. ‘What is it?’
‘If I’m not very much mistaken,’ Canning said, ‘it’s a footprint.’ He moved the lamp to another angle. ‘Yes. There.’ The shoe-shaped bruise came more into focus. ‘Definitely a shoe mark. Pretty plain, though. No ridges or pattern.’
‘A plain-soled man’s shoe, between size eight and ten.’
‘Yes,’ Canning agreed. ‘That would be my guess. I’ll have it photographed back at the mortuary. Should show up well enough.’
‘Why would he do that?’ DC Zukov asked the question, the disgusted look clear on his face.
Sean knew why, but he wouldn’t say. He knew Canning would work it out.
‘He pressed down on her back with his foot while pulling the ligatures tighter. That’s probably when the other marks around the neck were caused.’
‘Sick bastard,’ Zukov said. ‘Sick, evil bastard.’
No one disagreed.
Needing a break from the scene, Sally stood outside in the street smoking. She doubted whether the male officers felt what she did for the victim. Did they ever feel vulnerable and scared like a woman could? Did they ever consider how intimidating a big man could be to a woman, just by standing a little too close in a bar, at a bus stop? Probably not.
What must it have been like for Linda Kotler? Those last minutes, God forbid hours, of her life. Totally overpowered by this man, this wild animal. Did the male officers have any real idea how hundreds of thousands of women across London would feel when details of the latest murder were released to the press?
Many would stop going out at night until he, the killer, was caught. Others would rush to buy rape alarms, some would start to carry offensive weapons. All would check the locks on their doors and windows. They would want their men home before dark.
Sally would be no different. When she thought of Linda Kotler, the way she had died, she couldn’t help but see her own face on the body. She shivered repeatedly. The cigarette helped a little.
God, she wished she had a lover. Someone special to share her life with, good or bad. Her achievements and her failures. Her hopes and her fears. This wasn’t an easy job to do alone.
Her thoughts turned to Sebastian Gibran. Was that what he wanted? To be her lover? When they’d first met his eyes had definitely rested on her for longer than normal. She was pretty sure he would be married, but maybe that didn’t matter to him. How did she feel about being a mistress to a wealthy benefactor? Was the whole ‘something sensitive to discuss’ a ruse to get her to meet him for lunch? Wine and dine her? Seduce her? She couldn’t deny she had found him attractive: power and presence in a man were strong aphrodisiacs. She would find out soon enough.
The cigarette grew hot between her fingers, snapping her back to the present. She tossed it away and headed back inside the scene, all thoughts of pleasanter things a distant memory.
Dr Canning moved the halogen lamp to the victim’s head. He held a fine-toothed comb in his other hand, the better to groom the victim’s hair before the body was moved. A tiny, vital piece of evidence could easily be lost when moving a body. With the help of DC Zukov, he’d lifted the head very slightly and slipped a three foot by three foot white paper sheet under her head. He began to comb the hair slowly from the scalp outwards.
As he combed, a little of her hair fell on to the sheet. Then he saw it, floating the short distance to the sheet. It landed gently. He dared not breathe. He swapped the comb and lamp for a plastic evidence bag and a pair of delicate metal tweezers. He moved the tweezers stealthily closer to the hair. When he was no more than an inch or two away he suddenly moved quickly, grabbing the hair in the small metal claw. He allowed himself to exhale.
Sean had been watching intently. As Canning held the hair above his head, Sean could see it glistening. ‘The victim’s?’ Sean asked.
‘Definitely not,’ Canning replied. ‘Too long and too fair. And there’s a root on it. Your lab shouldn’t have too much trouble getting DNA off it.’
Sean hid the excitement swelling in his chest, making it difficult to breathe. The root of that hair could solve this murder on its own.
‘What are the chances it belongs to our killer?’ he asked.
‘Unless there was another person here with the victim last night, I’d say it’s almost certainly the killer’s,’ Canning answered. ‘This hair wasn’t buried deep in amongst the victim’s. It was virtually sitting on top of hers, waiting to be found.’
Sean was still concerned. He wanted it to be absolute. In court it would have to be absolute. ‘How could that be?’ he asked. ‘A hair, with a root, just lying there?’
‘Most likely caused by the killer removing a head cover of some description,’ Canning surmised. ‘When you remove a hat or similar there is alwa
ys a good chance you’ll pull a hair out, and often the root will come with it.’
‘So you think he took his off?’ Sean asked.
‘Yes. Hairs like this, with roots attached, don’t fall out naturally.’
‘Why the hell would he take his head cover off?’ Sean wondered.
‘That I can’t answer,’ Canning said. ‘But if he did take a head cover off, then we’ve a good chance of finding more hair on the body or around it. That would further diminish the possibility of an accidental transfer of hair from body to body at some other point during the day at another location.’ Sean understood the importance of eliminating that possibility. Defence solicitors had become skilled in arguing their way around forensic evidence.
The pathologist handed the evidence bag containing the hair to DC Zukov. He handled it as if it was an unstable bomb. Canning picked up his lamp again and began to examine the area around the body. He bent so low his face was almost on the carpet. Sean hadn’t blinked for minutes. He watched as Canning’s eyes suddenly narrowed. He saw him stretch out with his tweezers and snare the thin fibre. Canning looked directly at him.
‘It would seem the forensic gods are with us today, Inspector.’
‘The same?’ he asked.
‘I would say so,’ Canning answered. ‘This has a root too. DNA will no doubt confirm they come from the same person. If your killer’s on the National DNA Database, then it’ll be case closed for you.’
‘The man who did this isn’t on the database,’ Sean told him. ‘But that doesn’t matter, because I know where to find his DNA.’
Canning looked a little confused. ‘And where would that be?’
Sean answered: ‘In his blood.’
Hellier hadn’t been asked to see any clients in over two days. He no longer cared. Only a few weeks before he would have taken steps to ensure the firm weren’t trying to cut him out. Now it was irrelevant. The firm had served its purpose. He didn’t need them any more.
It was almost 6 p.m. Only he, Sebastian Gibran and the perfect secretary remained in the office. It was a shame he couldn’t be alone with the secretary. He would have liked to give the beautiful bitch a going-away present she wouldn’t forget, but he couldn’t risk it with Gibran lurking inside his office. Maybe sometime in the distant future their paths would cross again.
