by Sarah Flint
The very last words from his final ever conversation came to mind.
So take my last piece of advice… and die.
He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, smiling inwardly at the recognition that a tiny part of him would miss the voice and what it signified; a ghost from the past, dominated by the commands of the present. The Ice that had been his future had won the game, and as he flung his body out into the darkness, he knew without doubt that when news of his death was reported, Ice would be smiling too.
Chapter 21
Charlie knew exactly who the suicide at Thames Waterworks would be. The workmen conducting the late afternoon security check called it in, the tattooed, scarred dead body hanging grotesquely from the ladder, its neck stretched unnaturally, its mouth gaping open.
They had gone straight there, Charlie immediately recognising the corpse to be that of Samson Powell from the custody image. His body was still in situ, the same electrical cable as had been used on Leonard Cookson and Philippa McGovern gouged deep into the skin of his neck. His arms hung lifelessly by his sides, his shoulders slumped forward and his feet splayed outward. His midriff was bare, gravity having pulled the waistband of his trousers down over his elongated body as far as his knees, leaving only a scruffy pair of boxer shorts clinging around his groin to maintain any sort of dignity.
‘Fuck it,’ Hunter muttered as they peered over the railings. ‘We missed our chance.’
Charlie said nothing, unable to tear her gaze away from Samson Powell’s final statement, knowing that his last act of violence turned inwards had effectively robbed the relatives of his victims of any chance of closure. They would never see justice served and they would never breathe a sigh of relief at the knowledge that the killer of their loved ones was locked up for life. The police could fill in the gaps, the when’s and the how’s, they could come up with their own theories about his motivations, but they would never, ever, have the chance to really know why.
‘At least he won’t kill again,’ she said, knowing that the words were admitting failure. It was their job to put an end to his activities, not his. Samson Powell had exercised total control over the situation from the beginning to the end and they had been powerless to stop him.
She broke away from the well-shaft and wandered towards a broken-down fence, noting immediately the empty bottle of vodka weighing down a black plastic carrier bag surrounded by scraps of brown paper. The cordons were being put in place now. The forensic examiners and lab technicians would have yet another crime scene to pore over. Divers would be sent down into the pit to scour for any further clues. The team would still have to search through hours of CCTV, compile lists of witness statements and check retrospectively over the last known movements of their named suspect. The investigation would continue, even though there would never be a satisfactory conclusion. The coroner would expect nothing less before the cause of death could be formally entered on the death certificates of their victims and confirmed in court.
Charlie knew, however, that in addition to the investigation into each murder, the life of their murderer would also require a full dissection. Samson Powell’s background would have to be scrutinised and full factual reports compiled, before the myriad bloodhound journalists got going, intent on being the first to publish the diary of a serial killer or the biography of a psychopath.
She returned to where Hunter still stood by the well-shaft, listening as he sighed loudly and turned to leave. ‘I just wish we could have got the bastard to Crown Court instead of just the Coroner’s,’ he said, as if reading her mind.
Charlie nodded, staring down at Powell’s disfigured body one last time. His actions had been beyond comprehension, his chosen methods of murder both barbaric and heinous. He would justifiably be labelled one of the capital’s worst ever police serial killers but, as she tore her eyes away from his dead face, Charlie registered silently that there was something desperately pathetic about how he now appeared; the obvious burns, his efforts at masking the scarring with ink, his eyelids closed as if in sleep.
His life had clearly been as violent as his death.
*
Ice turned the volume up on the TV, listening to every word of the headlines. Samson Powell’s picture filled the screen, his stupid, fucked-up arrogant face dominating the news. The man was a loser, in life and in death; he deserved to die. They all deserved to die.
The vision of a woman lying dead at the foot of a flight of stairs came to mind, a young child crying by her crumpled form. A man in uniform stood over her lifeless body, his mouth curled up in a snarl, his foot held above the small child, daring the child to speak the truth. ‘Accidental death’ was recorded on the certificate, the stair carpet blamed for causing the fall, the woman’s brutalised body buried, like the truth had been. The child had remained silent, but now the adult was being heard. Now was the time for retribution.
The file lay open on the cabinet, the details inside, concise and accurate. Samson Powell – Number One, was a violent brute of a man, broken from childhood, moulded by abuse, an uninhibited monster… and one that Ice had recognised as a kindred spirit, played with and ultimately defeated.
Ice pulled out a pen and scored through the page. Samson Powell had been strong but with a fatal flaw, one that he was unable to control and one that ultimately had led to his death, falling, falling, down, down through the air, his mind broken and his body destroyed. It was perfect.
The face of Number Two came into focus, already activated, already dedicated, already desperate. Number Two would continue where Number One had failed.
Ice paced the floor, staring in fury as the face disappeared from the news. More deaths would follow. For a short while, though, because of Number One’s disobedience the plan had to wait; at least until it was safe again to proceed. The words of a song started to replay, quietly at first but growing, growing in strength until everything else was obliterated. The best was yet to come.
Ring a ring o’ roses, a pocket full o’ posies, atishoo, atishoo, we all fall down.
Chapter 22
Tina Ashton was waiting in the reception of Lambeth HQ when Charlie and Hunter returned. Baby Bryony was strapped to her bosom in a baby sling sleeping soundly, totally unaware of the passage of officers and visitors in and out of the building.
She stood as she saw Charlie enter through the revolving doors and searched her face curiously.
‘Not a good day?’ she pronounced uncertainly, reading Charlie’s mind exactly. ‘I wondered if I could speak to you in person if you have a minute.’
‘Of course you can, Tina. Anytime.’ Charlie pasted a smile on her face, waved Hunter off and indicated a small interview room to the side of the reception, peeping in towards Bryony as Tina stepped past. She reached out, stroking the baby’s soft downy head gently. ‘She’s growing already. Come in. What can I do for you?’
Tina took a deep breath, and started to speak but stopped suddenly, her voice faltering at the first word. She looked close to tears.
Charlie guided her towards a chair and she slumped down into it.
‘I’m really sorry but I think I might have inadvertently misled you when I said that Bri had the kids’ birth certificates in his wallet when he was killed.’ She swallowed hard. ‘The day after I came out from hospital I collected as much as I could from home and took the kids to stay at my parents. I couldn’t bear to stay at our house knowing that Brian was gone.’ She glanced down at the baby, moving her hand without thinking to rearrange her tangled legs. ‘Well after we spoke on the phone I decided I should go home and check everything out, just in case. I went back this morning, but when I arrived, I found the kitchen window had been smashed and I’d been burgled. Whoever had broken in had obviously cut themselves on the broken glass as there are blood spots around the kitchen.’
Tina stopped talking and looked stricken.
‘Go on,’ Charlie prompted, pursing her lips. For the second time in a matter of hours, she knew what was c
oming next.
‘I haven’t reported it yet because I think it might have been Carl. Hardly anything was stolen, certainly nothing that you would normally expect. In fact, it looked like the study was the only room that he’d gone in. There was a photograph of Bobby and Emily in their swimming costumes on a beach, on holiday a few years ago that was missing from the wall… and the filing cabinet was open right at the section where we kept the kids’ documents; their passports, baptism certificates and school stuff, that sort of thing. The birth certificates weren’t there.’ Tina shook her head, her eyes cast downwards. ‘Brian may well have returned the certificates to the filing cabinet. Carl must have got them when he broke into the house. He might not have had anything to do with Bri’s death.’
Charlie smiled at the woman. She must have lain worrying that Carl had somehow been involved in Brian’s murder. It couldn’t be a particularly palatable thought suspecting that the father of your first two children had somehow despatched the father of your third.
‘Tina, I don’t think you need worry any further. We have yet to confirm all the details, but we are pretty sure we have just found Brian’s murderer. Unfortunately for us, he killed himself before we could get to him, but all the signs are that he is responsible for all three deaths. That’s where we’ve just returned from.’
Tina Ashton burst into tears, dropping her head into her hands. ‘Oh thank God it’s not Carl. I’ve been so worried that he was involved, especially after you said you’d arrested him yesterday.’
‘What I didn’t tell you was that we’d found blood spots in his car and on his bag. That’s why we brought him in; to ask him about them. Not that he said anything.’
Tina wiped her eyes, her mouth gaping open in disbelief. ‘And you thought they were Brian’s?’
Charlie grimaced. ‘We thought they might be, but we had it confirmed this morning by the lab, that the blood was indeed Carl’s, and if your suspicions about him breaking into your house are correct, that would explain where they came from… and why he didn’t want to talk to us.’
‘The stupid man,’ Tina suddenly blurted out, before shaking her head. ‘He must have been more desperate than we thought.’
‘Well that was pretty much all he said in his interview… that he didn’t want to lose his kids. He is a fool though. He should have told us what he’d done, but I guess he knew that he’d be in trouble for breaking in and that we’d suspect him as soon as we heard about the burglary… but it could have been far worse for him. It’s lucky for him that we know who the real murder suspect is.’
‘Poor Carl. Will he get into trouble for breaking in?’
‘That’s totally your decision. It’s up to you whether you want to report the matter and pursue it, or not. There’s enough evidence already to have him charged with burglary and sent to court. With the recent domestic problems you’d been having, I’m guessing the courts wouldn’t look too kindly on him. He may well even get a prison sentence.’
Tina stood up and turned away from Charlie, her hand gently cupping Bryony’s tiny head.
‘I don’t know. Can I think about it?’ she said. ‘He should never have done what he did, but maybe I should have realised how much stress he was under and how much we were pushing him. He does adore the kids, even though he has a funny way of showing it sometimes. Maybe we can come to an amicable arrangement if he admits what he’s done and pays for the damage.’
‘Of course, Tina. You’ve got enough on your plate at the moment. Give me a ring when you’ve decided about Carl, and any other issues worrying you.’ Charlie smiled warmly at Tina as she turned back round to face her. ‘We’ll wait for your decision before we make ours.’
Tina reached out towards Charlie and they shook hands, Tina’s handshake stronger than Charlie was expecting. Their eyes held each other’s for a moment and Charlie had the distinct impression that Tina had guessed exactly where she’d been the previous evening.
Chapter 23
Monday 3rd July 2017
Every day the list of emails got longer, report after report landing on Charlie’s lap. Hunter had designated her as the main point of contact, so she was in charge of collating the evidence coming in on the three murders and the suicide of Samson Powell that would eventually be presented to the Coroner, the Commissioner and the IPCC. It would take some time to complete the full report, so initially they needed to prepare interim files.
The team were all assisting as best they could. Paul and Bet were tasked to look at any overarching evidence around all three crime scenes, such as CCTV, the presence of the roses and where they might have come from, liaison with the forensic services and the general call data on all three victims’ phones, as well as what appeared to be a personal phone found at the home address of Samson Powell. As they retrieved information, they then screened it and passed it on to the relevant team members. Naz was in charge of the report on DI Philippa McGovern’s murder, Sabira on PC Brian Ashton’s and Nick was compiling the file on DS Leonard Cookson’s death.
The additional officers, so recently drummed up by DCI O’Connor, had all returned to their respective units, their assistance on the investigation having lasted for less than half a day in total.
Charlie was also compiling the report on Samson Louis Powell, the choice having been given to her by Hunter who was in overall charge of the final draft. It would be interesting to discover what had made the man tick, as well as trying to establish the catalyst for the horror that had unfolded.
They were determined, as a unit, to produce a comprehensive, professional report for the sake of each murdered officer, but it still felt as if they were working towards an inevitable consequence; like swatting for an exam but knowing the result was destined to be failure.
Each morning they would sit together discussing what new evidence had come in. Powell’s guilt was absolute. The presence of the red roses, the stems devoid of thorns at each murder scene connected them irrefutably. However, the significance of the roses remained unknown, and the only reason for the removal of the thorns appeared to be the avoidance of inadvertent DNA contamination. The team wanted more; they wanted to find every possible speck of evidence to link each case and show Powell’s guilt. It was a matter of pride now.
Although he had clearly been careful in his flat, destroying or disposing of most of the articles and implements used in each crime, he had been unable to eradicate the tiny scraps of forensic material transferred from his clothing, shoes, property or body to his residence. Even without the rose connection, Powell had made errors and now they had him matched to the McGovern crime scene it was just a matter of time before further forensic evidence connected him conclusively to the others.
Sabira was the first to start getting her results coming through, Brian Ashton’s murder being the initial scene to be examined. Powell had driven a battered old silver Toyota Avensis on an 04 plate and it was from this vehicle that the majority of the evidence was now being found.
The car had been parked on the road outside his flat when they’d turned up to arrest him. It was unregistered but had been linked to him on many occasions; a set of keys left on the table inside confirmed this. The car was immediately lifted on to the back of a low-loader, covered and taken for a full examination.
With a make, model and registration number of a vehicle now known, Paul and Bet had scoured the CCTV from Brian Ashton’s place of work to his place of death. The Toyota had been spotted travelling along main roads in the vicinity of both areas with only one male occupant inside. The quality of the footage wasn’t good enough to identify Powell facially whilst in motion, but the driver appeared to be a similar height and build and sported the same shaved head. In one clip, about two hours before Brian Ashton left work, a clearly identifiable Powell had been captured leaving the car on the forecourt of a petrol station in Waterloo and buying snacks. It was implausible that he had lent the vehicle out to another person fitting his description in the timescale that they had. Powell wa
s therefore in the right place at the right time.
The forensic results, when they started returning were as conclusive as they had hoped and it was these that linked Powell directly to Ashton’s murder and the other crime scenes. In the foot well and underneath the driver’s seat of his Toyota was a miscellany of evidence, a jumble of fibres, fluids and flora mixed together in a potpourri of proof.
Three black hairs carefully removed with tweezers from this mixture was the clincher; three black hairs that had no doubt been stuck to the soles of the footwear worn by the killer. Three black hairs that, on closer examination, belonged to Casper, Brian Ashton’s Labrador. The shoes were missing, but the remains of the shoe treads had provided everything they needed. The dog may have been the reason Brian Ashton was on the common that night, but the attack on Casper was also the reason they could prove the guilt of his master’s murderer. Brian Ashton had clearly been targeted. If he hadn’t died then, it was highly likely he would have been killed elsewhere. Charlie wondered whether this knowledge might now push Tina to accept the dog remaining with her.
Sabira’s report was thorough and well presented; every shred of evidence, whether vital or insignificant, listed; the time, place, method and consequences clearly laid out in words, with photographs graphically illustrating the speed and ferocity of Powell’s attack. Brian Ashton had not stood a chance.
Nick’s report on Leonard Cookson’s murder was just as comprehensive. Bet and Paul, whilst trawling through CCTV footage, had spotted Powell’s Toyota in close proximity to the Lonely Mole, where Cookson had spent his birthday evening, within an hour of closing time. Although the CCTV cameras did not extend to the side roads at the rear of Streatham Common, it was deemed likely that the car would have been parked up nearby. A revisit of all the houses in Leonard Cookson’s road was undertaken and threw up information from an elderly neighbour that she had noticed a strange car parked in a lay-by at the back of the common, its silvery hue manifest in the beams of an adjacent street light. Unfortunately, the witness had not scribbled down the registration number or seen an occupant, nor had she thought to phone it in, but there was no doubting that it was, in all probabilities Powell’s silver Toyota.
