by Paul Gitsham
Tony Sutton leant forward immediately, putting a reassuring hand on the man’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Mr Patterson, but there’s nothing that you could have done by then. We found her on Saturday night. Unfortunately, she didn’t have any identification on her so it took a little while for us to identify her, or we’d have been here sooner.”
Warren saw the sudden flash of hope in her mother’s eyes and knew exactly what was coming next.
“Could it be a mistake, then? Maybe it’s some other poor girl?”
Warren knew it was a false hope; her mother’s uncanny resemblance aside, a family picture of the couple standing proudly either side of their daughter at her university graduation stood above the fireplace. It was unquestionably the same young woman. Nevertheless, he took out the colour photograph of the victim from the morgue.
The wrenching sob from her mother and the stifled cry from her father was all the confirmation they needed. Karen Hardwick leant forward and gently touched Carol Patterson’s hand. “Can I make the two of you a cup of tea or coffee?”
Carol Patterson looked up, blinking; her voice was distant. “Of course, where are my manners?” She started to rise, before Karen touched her hand again. “No, I’ll make it. You just sit here. Is that the kitchen through there?”
Not for the first time Warren was impressed by the young officer’s instincts. After taking orders, she disappeared into the kitchen; as she did so she discreetly signed to Warren the universal symbol for a telephone, mouthing the words “Family Liaison?” Warren nodded. He’d wanted confirmation that the body was that of Carolyn Patterson before arranging for the team to travel all the way over from Welwyn.
Carl Patterson touched the photograph tenderly. “She looks so peaceful…” he murmured. “How did she die? Did she suffer?”
“No, she didn’t suffer. We believe that she was sedated with a chemical before she was strangled. She won’t have felt a thing.” Strictly speaking it was a bit of a white lie — they couldn’t know if Carolyn Patterson had been semi-conscious or not during her ordeal and there was no telling how much pain she was in before she was sedated. Her broken hand could have been excruciating. However it was a lie that Warren was comfortable with — there was no need at this stage for too many details. A glance from Tony Sutton showed his agreement.
Sutton looked at the graduation photo above the fireplace. Another picture next to it, taken on the same day, featured Carolyn Patterson next to a gangly, dark-haired girl of about fifteen or sixteen. Despite the acne and an impressive set of wire braces showing through her smile, the resemblance was unmistakeable. However, whereas Carolyn Patterson was clearly her mother’s daughter, the teenager was obviously Daddy’s girl.
“Is there anybody that you would like us to contact for you?”
Carol Patterson tore her gaze away from the photograph. “Oh, no, Caitlin. How can we tell her what’s happened? She’ll be devastated.”
“We have another, younger daughter, Carolyn’s sister. She’s at Durham University and just about to submit her master’s dissertation. She’s due to come back at the weekend to celebrate Christmas, then it’s full steam ahead for the ‘wedding of the century’.” Carl Patterson gestured at the photo above the fireplace. “That’s her. She’s six years younger than Carolyn. She was so excited and proud when she graduated. Although she’d never have admitted it at the time, of course, she idolised her big sister.” He smiled wistfully. “Carolyn’s final year was also the year Caitlin took her GCSEs. She didn’t know what she wanted to do and wasn’t taking her studies at all seriously. She was hanging about with the wrong crowd at school and we were a bit worried about her, to be honest. Carolyn insisted that she stayed with her for a few days during the October half term. She came back full of how much she wanted to go to university and really started working hard.” He took his wife’s hand affectionately and his face creased slightly at the memory. “Between you and me, I think Carolyn’s housemates had the biggest influence on her — good-looking boys, all three of them.”
“And the beer,” his wife reminded him.
“Oh, yes, I think Carolyn got her into the Students Union one night — not that we approved, of course — but she certainly came back with a new-found attitude.”
Both Jones and Sutton smiled along with the Pattersons, sharing a brief moment of lightness on this darkest of days.
“We can arrange for Durham Constabulary to break the news to her and bring her home, if you’d like. Or you could phone her or go up there in person. We can assist you in any way necessary. You don’t have to decide now,” he added, noting the indecisive look on the couple’s faces.
“What did Carolyn study?” asked Karen as she returned with a tray of coffees.
“Graphic design,” answered her father, cupping his hands around the coffee as if he were standing outside in the cold, rather than a slightly stuffy, overheated living room. “She worked for a few years in London, then moved to Middlesbury about four years ago. Strictly speaking, she’s freelance, but she has a long-term relationship with a small publishing house in town and pretty much works full time for them now, doing the odd freelance job on the side to earn a bit of ‘play money’ as she calls it.”
“Did she work from home a lot?” Warren was careful to keep on using the past tense to refer to Carolyn Patterson, whilst not correcting the couple’s use of the present tense. Coming to terms with such a loss was a very individual thing and Warren knew that the couple would need space and time to deal with it in their own way.
“She did most of her work at home on the computer. She went into their main office about twice a week to drop off and pick up work and to meet with clients. She loved her work.”
There was a lull in the conversation as the group sipped their coffee. Warren tried to decide how to broach the more delicate subject of suspects. However, Carl Patterson saved him the job.
“She was murdered, wasn’t she? Was it the same person that killed that other poor girl?”
Warren nodded cautiously. “We are keeping an open mind, but, yes, she was and it looks as though the two may be linked.”
Carl Patterson’s voice shook. “We’ve been following the news and we saw the announcement earlier in the week about what happened to that other girl. Was Carolyn also…interfered with?”
Warren nodded again. “It looks as though that might have been the case, although we have no clear evidence either way. Her clothing had been disturbed.”
Carol Patterson bit down on her fist as if to stifle a cry.
“I’m sorry, I have to ask, but do you know of any connection between your daughter and Sally Evans, the other victim? We’re looking into any links between the two women, but it would help greatly if you could think of anything.”
To help them, he produced a number of photographs of Sally Evans. Both parents shook their heads, recognising neither the name nor the pictures beyond what they’d seen on TV.
“When was the last time that either of you saw or spoke to Carolyn?”
“Last Sunday lunchtime, we met up in a pub near Duxford. We’d do that sometimes, split the distance between us.”
“And how was she?”
“Very happy. She’s really enjoying work and looking forward to Christmas. She’s really excited about Caitlin’s wedding. She’s going to be maid of honour. She picked out the dress a couple of weeks ago and…” Suddenly she stopped talking as she realised what she was saying. Carl Patterson placed his arm around his wife and hugged her to his chest as the dam finally broke and the tears flooded free.
The three officers sat helplessly, knowing that there was nothing they could do. Had this been any other type of death, a road traffic accident or other tragedy, then this would have been the time to step back and let the professionals, Family Liaison, take over. But it wasn’t, it was a murder investigation; the clock was ticking and Family Liaison weren’t here yet.
After a few moments, Warren cleared his throat.
�
��I’m so sorry but I need to know — are you aware of anybody that might want to harm Carolyn? Any ex-partners or people that she had disagreements with?”
The couple looked at each other for a long moment before Carl Patterson let out a long breath. “Her ex-boyfriend, Alex Chalmers. They split up back in February. It didn’t go well, but I can’t see him being responsible.”
“He hit her.”
“What?” Carl Patterson turned to his wife in disbelief.
“She denied it, but a mother can tell.”
Carolyn’s father looked at his wife as if seeing her for the first time. “When? Why didn’t you say something?”
Carol Patterson’s voice shook. “It was about eighteen months ago. You were away a lot, during that frantic last six months before you retired. I popped in to see her one day unannounced. I woke her up before she had a chance to put on her make-up. She had a bruise under her eye. She insisted that it was from her boxercise class, made a joke about it. Said she ducked when she should have dived.
“I wasn’t sure and I didn’t want to worry you. I knew you wouldn’t take it well.”
Carl Patterson looked sick. “I can’t believe it…”
“Was it just the once, do you think?” asked Warren, his interest piqued.
“I don’t know. Thinking back on it, I think it must have happened more than once. There were little signs.”
“Like what?”
“We knew that they were arguing a lot in the last few months. They had moved in together after only a couple of months of dating, but he seemed nice enough. A bit rough around the edges, but Carolyn was happy. She hadn’t had much luck with boys before, so we were pleased for her.”
“When did things change?”
“Back the summer before last they had a big row. I don’t know what it was about but she phoned me up in tears. Said that he had been really abusive and called her some really horrible names.” Carol Patterson’s voice shook. “At the time I thought it was a lovers’ tiff. I calmed her down and reassured her that he loved her and told her that it was probably nothing. Like I said, he’s a bit rough around the edges, he had a tough upbringing, so I put the horrible language down to that. I should have told her to run away…”
“You weren’t to know. But I wish you’d told me.” Carl Patterson sounded hurt.
“She begged me not to; you know what a temper you have. She was worried you’d go around there and make things worse.”
“And do you think he was hitting her then?” Warren prompted.
“Maybe. I wasn’t sure. I’ve been retired a couple of years now and so sometimes we’d meet up for lunch during the week when she was working from home. Do a bit of shopping in Cambridge. A couple of times she cancelled at the last minute and we’d not see her for a week, then she’d turn up wearing far more make-up than normal. Once we met up on a hot July day, and she wouldn’t take her cardigan off. We caught the Park and Ride into Cambridge, standing room only. Anyway, the bus swung around a corner really fast and I knocked into her arm. Not very hard, but she let out a real gasp of pain. Again, she blamed boxercise.
“Anyway, after they broke up, I looked up this boxercise thing on the Internet and it seems that they don’t hit each other, so she couldn’t have got her bruises from there. By now they’d split up, of course, so I didn’t say anything; I couldn’t see the point.”
“When did it end?”
Now Carl Patterson took up the story. “February. It was completely out of the blue. She just phoned up one evening and said, ‘It’s over. Here’s my new address. Don’t tell Alex.’ She didn’t want to talk about it, but she must have been planning it for some time. She moved into a new apartment in less than twenty-four hours.
“It seemed to take Alex by surprise as well. The following evening he phoned up demanding to know where she was, claimed he came home from a weekend with his brother to find all of her stuff gone and a note on the kitchen table. We refused to tell him and hung up.
“The next night he turned up on our doorstep, banging on the windows convinced she was staying here. He wouldn’t leave until we threatened to call the police. A week later he turned up again, claiming that Carolyn owed him her share of the outstanding rent and bills as he’d had to give notice on the flat they shared. He was brandishing a piece of paper that he said was their contract and that they were co-signatories. Reckoned he’d take her to small claims court if she didn’t cough up. In the end I wrote him a cheque for six hundred quid on the understanding that he never tried to contact her again. We never told Carolyn — she didn’t need to know.”
“And did he contact her again?”
“Not as far as I know. Carolyn never mentioned it. Although my wife may know differently — it seems there’s a lot she doesn’t share with me.”
Warren almost winced at the barbed remark. At times like this, the couple in front of him needed each other more than ever; he truly hoped that this issue wouldn’t become a wedge between them. To the side of him Tony Sutton also shifted uncomfortably, but said nothing. Doing his best to steer the conversation away from the topic, Warren asked about any other people that might wish Carolyn harm. After thinking hard, the couple said no.
Finally the doorbell rang as two officers from the family liaison unit arrived. With the Pattersons in good hands, Warren and his team left. The drive back to Middlesbury was quiet, each officer deep in their own thoughts.
Chapter 28
Whilst Warren, Tony Sutton and Karen Hardwick had been with the Pattersons, Middlesbury CID had been busy piecing together Carolyn Patterson’s last night. First Gary Hastings had tracked down the instructor who gave the boxercise class. An insurance broker by day, Mandy Albright also taught aerobic classes weekday evenings to keep fit and earn a bit of extra money. She’d been understandably shocked to hear of Carolyn Patterson’s death.
She’d confirmed that it was normal for several members of the class to go for a quick drink in the sports centre bar after a session. Normally it was little more than a half-hour and one drink. However, Carolyn and three of the other women in the class had decided to stay for a bit longer, since Ms Albright’s upcoming ski trip meant it was the last class before Christmas.
The part-time fitness instructor had been able to furnish Gary Hastings with the names and details of Carolyn’s three friends from class and he’d spent the next couple of hours tracking the women down and getting a description of the night in question. All four of the women had agreed to attend the station in the next couple of days to undergo a full interview.
Whilst he did this, a small team of detectives had descended upon the Middlesbury Publishing Services Group — the closest thing that the freelance Carolyn Patterson had to an employer. A modestly sized business operating out of a converted farmhouse, MPSG specialised in performing various jobs for small, individual publishing houses.
“Some of these publishers are so small and specialised they only produce a handful of titles a year,” the company’s managing director had explained. “They can’t afford to have a dedicated marketing department or to employ full-time artists. We act as a sort of one-stop shop, matching individual jobs to our pool of freelancers. Strictly speaking, all of our employees, except for myself, our accountant and our human resources manager are freelance. But for a skilled and reliable worker like Carolyn, we could all but guarantee full-time work for her. In fact some of her clients even requested her personally and were willing to wait until she was available.”
In a typical week Carolyn would visit the offices on a Wednesday and a Thursday; she didn’t have her own desk as such, rather a large cubby-hole where her mail and any physical work would be stored. Her work was becoming increasingly computer-based these days; nevertheless clients often liked to meet her face-to-face and discuss their requirements and so the building had a plush meeting room for this purpose.
Carolyn had been in work on the day that she died and so brief statements were collected from everybody who had me
t her. Again, everybody was shocked and upset and willing to attend the station to give a more detailed statement in the future if necessary.
By the time the CID unit assembled for an after-lunch briefing, Gary Hastings had largely pieced together Carolyn Patterson’s last known movements.
According to her work colleagues, Carolyn had been at MPSG between about nine and five p.m. on Thursday, joining in their traditional, weekly cake session. She had been described as happy and cheerful, looking forward to Christmas. One of her colleagues remembered her refusing a second slice of cake, since she still had a few pounds to lose before her sister’s wedding. When another colleague suggested that she could eat the cake then go for a jog, she’d turned her nose up, saying it was too cold, she’d just work extra-hard at boxercise that night.
After she left work, there were no sightings of her until she arrived in time for her fitness class at about five to seven. She only lived about a mile away and preferred to walk rather than drive or catch the bus. As usual, she simply paid for her class with cash and signed in on the paper register. CCTV images showed her wearing the same outer layers that she had been found in. She went into the changing rooms but emerged about a minute later dressed in the same tracksuit bottoms and a yellow T-shirt, carrying her boxing equipment. After the class, she disappeared back into the changing room for about fifteen minutes, before emerging redressed with apparently damp hair.
A T-shirt similar to that seen on the CCTV was stuffed in a carrier bag in the locker along with several other dirty T-shirts and underwear. A second bag contained clean underwear and T-shirts and a towel in the locker appeared to have been used and allowed to dry several times. The best explanation was that Carolyn got changed into her gym kit at home, then walked the mile to the sports centre, discarding her overcoat in the changing room and picking up her boxing gloves from her locker.
