A Wreath for my Sister

by Priscilla Masters

  She frowned. ‘Nothing in that.’

  “‘My dreams of you are in red because to me it is a special colour. Blood, wine, roses.”’ Mike jabbed the word with his finger. ‘Blood, Joanna.’

  ‘She might not have read anything into that.’

  He picked up another letter. ‘Then what about this? “Sometimes I dream I am making love to you.’”

  ‘Nothing in that either.’

  Mike didn’t even look at her as he read out the next sentence. “‘Until you beg me to stop.’”

  She was alerted now, like a hound with the scent of quarry in its nostrils. ‘Go on.’

  ‘“But, Sharon, my little bird,”’ he quoted, “‘I won’t stop. And in the end what I desire you will want too. I promise.”’

  ‘Are they all like that?’

  Mike could hardly look at her. ‘They’re all the same, Jo –’

  ‘All on the edge of perversion.’

  She sat, silently pondering, then looked at him. ‘Any fingerprints?’

  He shook his head. ‘Anyone with the IQ of a gnat would know to wear gloves but we’ll get them checked out anyway.’

  She shuddered. ‘They’re horrible, Mike.’

  ‘But what beats me is why did she go out with him? It’s obvious the guy was a complete pervert. Why the hell did she go?’ His face took on a puzzled look. ‘Any woman – surely – would smell a rat at this sort of stuff.’ He slapped the letters down on her desk. ‘So why?’

  ‘I think,’ she said slowly, ‘I can answer that one. Christine said above all Sharon dreamed of excitement.’

  ‘But surely ...’

  ‘No woman thinks she’ll be harmed. They all dream of taming a stranger.’

  ‘God,’ Mike said disgustedly. ‘What fools women can be.’

  ‘And what ...’

  ‘Yes – all right.’

  They stared at one another, both disturbed by the contents of the letters.

  It was Joanna who moved first. ‘I’d better get on with the briefing,’ she said.

  She began with the map pinned up on the board and a resumé of the case. Then she gave a brief description of the Macclesfield murder.

  It was Timmis who picked up the point. ‘Are we sure they’re connected?’

  ‘The MO is exactly the same,’ Joanna said. ‘It’s too much of a coincidence that there should be two such similar murders a few miles apart. However, we’re doing tests at the lab and the Cheshire Police should give us more info. We’ll know more later on today. I’ll keep you informed at tonight’s briefing. The DNA tests, as you know, can take a while. For now,’ she said, ‘I want you to treat this as a routine murder hunt. In other words, focus your questioning on Sharon Priest’s life and death. Bu ...’ She glanced around the room, ‘if Stacey Farmer’s murder is connected, I’m sure you realize, it’s quite a man-hunt.’

  There was a ripple of subdued comments. Everyone was watching her.

  ‘According to the criminal psychologist we’re probably looking at a man in his mid-twenties to thirties. Someone who was dominated by his mother in his formative years.’

  The murmurs grew louder and she caught one or two of the uniformed boys glancing at each other with a look of sceptical amusement. She knew they mistrusted her reliance on science. Leg work would be what solved this case. And not some bloody trick cyclist sitting in his ivory tower ...

  She smiled. No matter how many times psychologists were proved right, some of these officers would never be convinced. She ignored the murmurs and carried on reading out the psychologist’s report.

  ‘... then married and almost certainly divorced or separated. Possibly with children.’

  A few of them groaned.

  Timmis spoke. ‘That describes half the male population of Leek,’ he said gloomily. ‘They’re all married and divorced, separated, remarried, living in sin.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ Joanna agreed. ‘But it also describes two men we know who had recent, intimate relationships with Sharon. Sam Finnigan, her ex-husband. Thirty-seven years old, the father of two of her children, October and William. They were divorced two years ago. We know he is a violent man, that he was charged with ABH after he found her in bed with another man.’ The wave of sympathy was tangible as it moved around the room.

  ‘He broke her jaw,’ she said sharply.

  Mike, on her right, moved uncomfortably. ‘Do we know who the other man was?’

  She shook her head. ‘No. But I want you to work at finding out who he was, Mike. In other words, listen to the gossip.’

  She turned her attention back to the roomful of police. ‘Then her ex-boyfriend, Paul Agnew. He works at the oatcake shop in Pick Street. We don’t know much about him except that he smokes grass. Supposedly he kicked her out just over a year ago when he found out she was pregnant.’ She stopped. ‘For some reason he refused to believe the child – Ryan – was his.’

  A muttering moved around the room.

  ‘Yes ... yes,’ she said impatiently. ‘I’ve worked that one out too. But they were together less than a year. Unless he was impotent...’

  All the males in the room shifted uncomfortably. This was a word that made them uneasy. Incest, murder, rape ... These words they could cope with. But impotence ...

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘this is something we need to find out, isn’t it?’ She faced them. ‘Because if he was impotent he can’t have bloody well raped her, can he?’

  She turned back to the board and chalked up two more references. ‘As well as those two suspects, according to her friend Christine Rattle Sharon had had an affair with a married man. We know very little about him except that she said he was “well off”. Remember Sharon was barely financially solvent. Practically anyone with a Barclaycard and a bank account would have fitted the bill. So don’t go hunting out all the local millionaires and accusing them.’

  There was a ripple of laughter around the room.

  ‘We don’t know the name of this married man, but it seems they had some sort of a row. Christine thought it was something to do with the baby who Christine believed was his son. Maybe he helped her financially with the child,’ she said, recalling the expensive quilt on Ryan’s cot.

  She glanced at Mike, spoke in a soft aside. ‘I’ll ask Christine again about this guy.’

  ‘Then there is the man who signed himself Prince Charming, the man we believe answered her ad in the personal column. Sharon’s last date.’ She blinked. According to Christine, he seemed to know things about Sharon that she definitely hadn’t told him. She had all their attention now. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘Explain that if you can. I can’t, except by saying Prince Charming was someone who already knew his Cinderella.’ Quickly she explained the reasons as she had discussed them with Colclough the night before.

  ‘There is something else you should all know.’ She glanced around the room. ‘Prince Charming wrote Sharon several letters. Mike has been looking through them.’ She paused. ‘They show distinct evidence of perversion. This man is dangerous to women.’

  She looked up. ‘Any questions?’

  ‘Have you any idea who Prince Charming is?’

  ‘He could be anybody,’ she said quietly. ‘But I think it was the same Prince Charming who raped and garrotted Stacey Farmer in Macclesfield.’

  ‘And you think he knew our girl, Sharon?’

  Joanna perched on the corner of the desk and crossed her legs. ‘As Colclough was warning me last night,’ she said, ‘we need to keep an open mind. But, as said, the modus operandi was exactly the same for both girls.’ She paused. ‘Both were picked up in a pub, as a result of lonely hearts ads. There were other similarities too. Stacey was a single-parent mum, desperate for romantic love, adventure ... call it what you like. She was met at a pub by a man who would be difficult to recognize again – his anorak hood was turned up. He looked at no one, crossed the bar straight to her and they left together immediately. And she was raped, then garrotted. The killer used fine steel cable w
ith part of a wooden broom handle to twist it.’

  McBrine spoke up. ‘Why?’ he asked. ‘Why use the broom handle?’

  ‘Have any of you tried twisting cable?’ she asked, her eyes sweeping the room.

  No one had.

  ‘To kill someone with wire as thin as that,’ she said, ‘would have cut our killer’s hands. He needed to exert a certain amount of pressure. Therefore he used a broom handle.’

  She glanced around the room. ‘What I find most disgusting,’ she said, ‘is the fact that he preyed on two such needy and vulnerable women.’ She paused. ‘Both wanted to meet somebody who was kind to them – who cared for them – their idealized Prince Charming. And both were looking for excitement to light up their humdrum lives. Only in this case he wasn’t exactly Prince Charming. More like Vlad the Impaler.

  ‘If he is the same man – and I think he is – he got away with killing Stacey. I don’t want him to get away with it this time. And I don’t want there ever to be a next time.’

  There was silence in the room now. The gossiping and chatting that normally took place in the background of a briefing had died out as the officers chewed over her words.

  Joanna stood in front of them and outlined her plans. ‘DS Korpanski and I will speak to Sam Finnigan and Paul Agnew later on today, as well as Christine Rattle and Doreen Priest, Sharon’s mother. Any questions?’

  Timmis – always quick and vocal – objected. ‘Can we rule anyone out?’ He frowned. ‘I mean a married man doesn’t fit into the psychologist’s profile, ma’am.’

  ‘He could do,’ she said slowly, ‘if since the affair he split up acrimoniously from his wife. We don’t know he’s still married. He could be divorced. It is possible.’ She felt she needed to concede a point. ‘Anyway, we can’t afford to exclude someone from the enquiries just because he doesn’t fit into the profile.’ She ignored the smirks and glanced at Mike.

  ‘Tell them about the lonely hearts, Mike.’ Gratefully she sat down.

  Mike stood up, twisted the knot of his tie in embarrassment, cleared his throat. ‘She had more than forty replies,’ he said, then grinned. ‘All those rampant men on the loose.’

  ‘Just get on with it, Mike.’ But the comment had sent ripples round the room and it was a minute or two before it was quiet again.

  ‘I’ve managed to trace about half,’ he said. ‘Some of them were married, just after a bit on the side. One or two were positively weird. Not one admitted to actually having met up with Sharon. So many of the replies had no address—’

  ‘They’ll all have to be traced,’ Joanna interrupted. ‘Just in case they can tell us anything.’

  Mike was fiddling with his tie. He cracked his knuckles and held up a sheet of paper. ‘The letters from Prince Charming,’ he said, ‘were all handwritten. I’ve sent the originals off to forensics just in case they can turn up anything, but a sprinkling of magic dust only turned up smudged fingerprints. I think she’d handled them a lot.’

  ‘We can live in hope,’ she said. ‘There’s always ESDA – impression reading to you morons,’ she said, laughing. ‘But again, don’t hold out too much hope. They’ll also get the handwriting expert to take a look at them.’

  Mike handed out a sheaf of paper. ‘These are photocopies. See if you can find anyone who recognizes the writing.’

  ‘It’s a fairly distinctive hand,’ Joanna said, glancing at one of Mike’s copies.

  WPC Sheila Locke spoke up. ‘What about the postmark?’ she asked shrewdly.

  Mike made a face. ‘No bloody envelope.’

  As he cleared his throat and sat down, Joanna touched his shoulder briefly. ‘Thanks,’ she said.

  Mike looked at her, his eyes gleaming. For a minute or two his gaze rested on her, but he said nothing more and she turned her attention back to the room.

  ‘I don’t suppose there’s any lead on Cinderella’s missing shoe?’

  WPC Sheila Locke shook her head. ‘I’ve found the shop where she bought them,’ she said. ‘They were brand new. She only bought them on Saturday, for a special date. The woman serving in the shop remembered Sharon. She said she seemed happy, lively and talkative and very friendly. And that’s about it.’ She looked at Joanna. ‘Apart from that I’ve found out nothing. She was wearing them that night – both of them. One of them’s disappeared. That’s all.’ After Mike’s story she knew it was an anti-climax. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said and sat down.

  Joanna looked at the knot of uniformed officers sitting halfway down the room on the right.

  ‘What about the cable used to strangle her?’

  ‘We’ve been everywhere – DIY, car shops, electrical retailers.’ Greg Scott spoke up. ‘We’ve got nowhere. It seems no one quite uses that particular cable in that thickness or that twist. Sorry.’ He sat down.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she said, encouragingly. ‘It’s early days yet. We’ve got time.’ But under her breath she added, ‘I hope.’

  Mike heard her, raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Well,’ she said softly, frowning at him, ‘this is the second time – that we know of.’

  He was staring at her. ‘That we know of?’

  ‘I’ve only looked at known murders,’ she said. ‘I haven’t even touched the Missing Persons Files. And how many of those do you know are single, on the hunt for adventure and excitement – Deborah Halliday, just for one?’

  He blinked. ‘I hadn’t thought of it,’ he said.

  She nodded. ‘Exactly.’

  The team who had started interviewing everyone who had been at the Quiet Woman that night were next to report.

  DC Alan King stood up, an impressive figure, standing six and a half feet tall. ‘Paul Agnew was at the Quiet Woman that night,’ he blurted out.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The barmaid told us.’ He leafed through his notebook.

  ‘Was he there at the same time?’

  ‘Apparently ...’ DC King was reading through the barmaid’s statement. ‘When she arrived he drained his glass and walked out without even looking at her. The barmaid knows Agnew by sight,’ he added, ‘but not Sharon.’

  Joanna spoke quietly to Mike. ‘Well, well,’ she said. ‘The worms are starting to crawl out of the woodwork.’

  Mike nodded.

  ‘Thanks, Alan,’ Joanna said. ‘Leave the statement on my desk. Well done,’ she added. ‘We’ll have another briefing this evening, at six.’

  The force dispersed.

  When the room was empty Mike looked at her. ‘Who shall we start with?’

  ‘How about Doreen Priest?’Joanna said. ‘I’m curious to know what she’s like. And she might be able to enlighten us on a few points.’

  Sharon’s mother lived in a small terraced house on the extreme northern edge of Leek, one of the last houses in the town before entering Blackshaw Moor, the start of the long climb up to the Winking Man, the stone crag at the highest point of the road to Buxton. The garden was untidy, with plants dangling over the path and the lawn a mixture of mud, weeds and grass. The door was scratched at paw level. Joanna lifted the knocker.

  It was opened by a short, stocky woman with straw-coloured hair wearing a dressing gown. She glared at Joanna. ‘I was just going to bed,’ she said in a voice gruff with too many cigarettes, and frankly hostile. But she didn’t look distraught with grief.

  ‘I’m Detective Inspector Piercy,’ Joanna said, flashing her ID card. ‘And this is Detective Sergeant Korpanski. We’re investigating the death of your daughter.’

  A quick spasm of pain flashed across the woman’s face. She blinked and pressed back against the door. ‘You’d better come in,’ she said.

  They followed her into a small, overheated room that stank of cigarettes. Doreen Priest switched the gas fire down.

  ‘Cup of tea?’ she asked.

  Both Mike and Joanna nodded. This would not be a quick business.

  Doreen Priest had put the three mugs on a plastic tray. ‘I didn’t know if you took sugar,’ she
said, handing round the bowl. Both declined and Doreen lit a cigarette.

  ‘I always thought something might happen to Sharon,’ she said. Then she looked purposely at Mike. ‘You saw her. Good-looking girl, wasn’t she?’

  Mike nodded and Doreen took a long drag from her cigarette. ‘Too bloody good-looking, that was her problem.’ She waved her cigarette at him. ‘Not that I’m saying she was a nympho. My Sharon wasn’t like that. She was just a rotten picker. She got all the wrong men.’ She gave a loud sniff and her breast heaved up and down quickly before she could speak. ‘It’s the kids I feel sorry for,’ she said in a strangled tone. ‘Them kids.’

  ‘Mrs Priest,’ Joanna said softly, ‘were you on good terms with Sharon?’

  Doreen crossed her short legs and considered. ‘We used to be.’

  ‘What happened?’Joanna leaned forwards.

  Mrs Priest took another deep drag from her cigarette. ‘Well, I didn’t blame her for splitting up with Finnigan. He was a brute. I knew that when they got married. I did warn her. “Watch him, my girl,” I said. “Watch him.’” Her small black eyes were bright as a robin’s. ‘ “And watch him even more when he’s a couple of pints inside him,” I said. I was right. Though he weren’t bad with October and William. Give him his due.’ She stopped and gave a small laugh. ‘But of course, you know Sharon ...’

  Neither Joanna nor Mike felt inclined to mention that, no, they did not know Sharon. Had not known Sharon. And now would never know Sharon.

  Doreen carried on regardless. ‘Anyway, Finnigan came home off nights – found her with this bloke.’ She stopped. ‘Something must have snapped. He nearly bloody killed her. Had to have her jaw wired straight.’

  ‘Who was the man, Mrs Priest?’ It was Mike who spoke.

  They were due for a disappointment.

  ‘Oh, just some bloke from work,’ she said, airily dismissing him with a wave of her smoking hand. She sighed. ‘Then she moved in with that nutcase, Agnew.’

  She puffed twice on her cigarette before continuing her story. ‘Well, I knew that was a waste of time. Never even got off the ground because he was always flippin’ high as a kite. Besides,’ she gave Joanna a bawdy wink, ‘he had some very strange habits, that one. Personally me and Sharon thought he was pretty kinky. Then along comes this married man.’ She stopped. ‘And that was when I fell out with her. A married man, Sharon, I said. No way. I mean, I’ve got my bloody standards. And husband-sharing I do not approve of.’