by Paul Gitsham
To the left of the scene an ambulance was parked, lights off. Through the windscreen Warren could make out two forms, clad in fluorescent jackets, drinking coffee and reading newspapers. His heart sank. If the ambulance was still here, then the body must also still be here, not yet removed from the shrubbery where it was found by an unfortunate lorry driver doing nothing more than answering the call of nature.
“Sorry, DCI Jones, she’s still in situ. We had a heavy rain-burst a few hours ago and had to stop work to shore up the tent. She’ll be on her way in about half an hour.”
“Nothing was compromised by the rain, I hope?” asked Warren.
The CSI shrugged. “Hard to say definitively, but I doubt it. There’s been rain several times over the past few days. If it were going to bugger anything up, it did so long before we arrived.”
Warren nodded his acceptance, there was no point grumbling about it. It seemed unlikely that he would hear anything back from the PM until the following morning at the earliest.
Conscious of the fading light, Harrison decided to lead the two detectives on a whistle-stop tour of the scene himself. The first thing he confirmed was Warren and Sutton’s feeling that the body had been hidden well enough to give Cameron time to escape and cover his tracks, yet not so well that it would lie undiscovered for weeks.
This was something common to all three previous murders and had been the source of some speculation back at the station. Ideas for why this was so ranged from simple carelessness, which seemed unlikely given that he went to such lengths to cover his tracks in other ways, to the killer needing to experience gratification from the police not being able to find any evidence. It was even pointed out that Cameron was, by all accounts, very religious and might be troubled that his victims wouldn’t receive a proper and timely Christian burial if he concealed them too well.
The body was hidden from the road, but would have been visible from the cab of any parked-up lorry. The Polish driver had only failed to spot her sooner because he had pulled over after dark and then had stumbled over to the bush for a pee the following morning, bleary-eyed and sleepy at the crack of dawn.
Regardless, Cameron probably expected at least another day or so head start. The fact that Saskia Walker was so local suggested that he was still in the immediate vicinity. Warren made a note to share that with the search teams scouring the country for the missing rapist.
Next, the two officers were taken to see the body. A large double tent had been erected over the scene. Before entering the inner tent where Saskia Walker still lay, the two officers donned paper suits and booties to minimise any contamination. Despite the cold weather, the air in the tent was starting to ripen.
The body lay on its back, its face clearly visible and unmistakeably that of the missing sales assistant. Dressed in tracksuit bottoms and trainers, she was almost completely topless. A lightweight fleece jacket lay in a crumpled heap a pace away. Her bra had been ripped open and hung from one shoulder, leaving both breasts exposed. A red T-shirt was tied in a loose knot around her throat.
“Strangled with her own T-shirt?”
“It looks that way. The PM will tell us for sure. The other victims had scarves or belts. I guess this was the best he could do.”
“I suppose that using her own clothes as a ligature means he doesn’t have to bring his own — it’s one less potential clue for us,” mused Sutton.
“It looks as though she’s been out jogging. We should see if any of her friends know her regular route. Somebody may have seen something,” Warren commented to Sutton.
“Any other evidence?”
Harrison shook his head. “Very little. The rain did a good job. Indentations either side of her suggest he knelt astride her, but I’m not sure they’ll tell us anything. There’s a partial footprint, badly damaged by the rain. There might be enough to link it to Cameron’s boot print from the farmhouse. We’ve done a fingertip search of the layby and recovered a ton of litter and rubbish, but there is too much to do anything with at the moment. If we can’t link Cameron to the scene in any other way we could look for prints or other trace, but it’ll be a big job.”
He means expensive, thought Warren ruefully.
“We’ve got a few tyre tracks, but most have been washed away and the layby is quite popular. We’ll run them through the database and see if any match Cameron’s Land Rover.”
Warren noted that the CSM, a cautious individual, was freely assuming Cameron was the culprit.
“What’s your gut feeling, Andy?”
“Cameron again,” he replied without hesitation. “It’s too similar to the last scenes for it to be a coincidence. If Professor Jordan suggests otherwise, I’ll eat my booties.”
“How long until you can move her?”
“Not long. We’ll need to set up a clear path to the ambulance. With all of this rain washing everything, I’m especially keen not to disturb the ground protected underneath her. You never know what we might find.”
The smell in the tent was becoming more cloying and Warren was keen to move on. The look on Sutton’s face suggested he felt the same.
It had stopped raining, so both men removed their paper suits outside, breathing the fresh cold air deeply.
“So, almost certainly Cameron again. But it doesn’t do us much good, does it?”
Warren nodded; he knew what Sutton meant. Cameron had gone to ground; finding him was now more of a manhunt than an investigation. Warren felt helpless. He knew it was irrational — police work was a team effort. His CID team had identified the suspect and their job was to now build a water-tight case to lay against the man if — no, when — he was finally caught. But he knew that the case had moved into a new phase now. Cameron’s likeness was being distributed around the country, his face staring out of TV sets and off the front pages of newspapers up and down the country.
The most likely scenario, assuming he didn’t kill himself, was that an observant member of the public or a lucky police officer would spot him somewhere and narrow his location enough for them to swoop in and arrest him.
Middlesbury CID’s role was far from over, but Warren knew it was unlikely that he or a member of his team would have the satisfaction of snapping a pair of cuffs on the man and reading him his rights. It almost seemed unfair.
Tuesday 27th December
Chapter 52
Warren arrived in work the following morning ready for the challenges ahead of him. He and Sutton had stopped off for a quick Boxing Day pint before returning home the previous evening; however, neither man had felt like celebrating. Besides which, Tony’s family were having a late supper. He’d invited Warren to join him, his wife, his ex-wife, his son and both his sets of in-laws but Warren had sensed it was more out of politeness than anything else. The two men had become friends since the summer and Warren liked both Josh and Marie, Sutton’s son and wife, but he wanted his subordinate to switch off from work completely tonight, so that he would be refreshed the next day. Having the boss over would make that difficult.
Besides which, Warren wasn’t sure he had the mental energy to deal with Sutton’s complex and unique family set-up. Celebrating Christmas together this year was a huge leap forward that had put a spring in the older man’s step, but the relationships were still fragile and Warren was reluctant to enter the minefield.
So instead, he’d gone home, had a long hot shower, made some bubble and squeak and enjoyed a leisurely phone call to Susan. By ten p.m. he was flagging and decided to catch the rest of the evening’s festive TV at a later date on the Internet. By the time the clock struck eleven, he was sound asleep, his new Kindle rising and falling slowly on his chest.
His early-morning drive had been quiet — too quiet, he realised. Despite it being two days after Christmas, when the guilt from over-indulging started to bite, he hadn’t seen a single jogger. Perhaps that would change later in the day when the sun came up; nevertheless, he felt a surge of anger towards Cameron and his sick compulsions. As a
police officer he was supposed to protect the public so that they could feel safe going about their daily business and he couldn’t help but feel that, so far, he wasn’t doing that. People, especially young women, he suspected, were too nervous to go out jogging where they might be snatched by the rapist and murderer.
At least the number of joggers being mugged or knocked over by cars would go down, he supposed, although he had no doubt that when Cameron was found people would soon forget about the dangers of running alone in the dark and things would return to normal. The thought both depressed him and energised him in equal measure.
First order of business, whilst they awaited the results of the autopsy, was to speak to Saskia Walker’s friends to see if she had a regular jogging route. From there they would go door-knocking to see if anyone had seen or heard anything. Warren had a meeting first thing with Grayson to see if it was worth mounting a fingertip search of the route for clues. He hoped that the young woman’s route wasn’t too long. The cost to the force of this operation had long since surpassed a million pounds and he knew that they were starting to feel the squeeze. They had already brought in additional officers from Welwyn and other parts of the county to conduct the door-to-door enquiries and assist with the searches. In addition to the regular costs associated with such redeployment, they were going to have to fork out some hefty overtime pay given that it was the festive season and many officers were off duty.
It was clear from the moment that Warren entered his office that Grayson was excited about something. He was almost dismissive of Warren’s request for extra manpower, signing the appropriate requisitions with barely a glance. The reason for his excitement soon became apparent.
“We’ve got a slot on BBC Crimewatch tomorrow night. They’re going to film around the areas that all four women were snatched and include a detailed description of Richard Cameron and that Land Rover of his. They want me to travel to Cardiff to make a direct appeal and help man the phones.”
“Well, that could be a big help, especially if Cameron has left the area. We should make sure that the programme is advertised on the local news and in the local press. We did that in the West Midlands Police whenever we used Crimewatch. That way we ensured a spike in the number of local viewers who can’t resist tuning in to see their local area on TV.”
Grayson’s enthusiasm dimmed slightly as he realised that Warren probably had more experience of the iconic BBC TV show than he had, given his years of experience in the WMP before moving to the comparatively quiet Middlesbury CID.
Truth be told, Warren had only ever been involved in the show once and thankfully not on camera. He’d worked with a couple of the show’s researchers for a reconstruction of a serious armed raid on a jewellery store in Birmingham city centre. Nevertheless he couldn’t resist the urge to ask his boss to “Say ‘Hi’ to Kirsty and the team if you bump into her,” referring to the show’s attractive Scottish presenter.
Leaving Grayson to dream about his future TV career, Warren returned to his own office. Just as he crossed the threshold his desk phone started ringing, an external number from the ringtone.
“DCI Jones.” He tried not to sound too eager.
“Ryan Jordan here. I’ve finished the PM on Saskia Walker. I’m heading home, but I can swing by now if you have the time.”
“That’s fantastic news, Professor. I’ll assemble the team.”
“Great, I’ll be there in about twenty.” The man yawned. “Make sure you have decent coffee and some of those custard cream cookies — that’s about all that’s keeping me upright at the moment.”
* * *
Professor Jordan was dressed in ‘civvies’ when he arrived and Warren thanked him again for this hard work.
“Just catch the bastard, that’s all I ask.” He yawned.
The briefing room was filled with Warren’s team and the air was redolent with freshly brewed coffee. A couple of plates of biscuits — including custard creams — sat in the middle of the large table. A half-dozen colour copies of the report were evenly spaced around the table’s edge.
“First things first: I’m willing to place good money on it being Cameron. The method is just too similar for it not to be.” He looked down at his notes, reading them formally as if in court.
“The victim was a Caucasian female in her mid to late twenties, fitting the description of the missing person Saskia Walker. One hundred fifty-nine cm tall and fifty-four kilogrammes, slim build with below average body fat. Naturally blonde—” He broke off for a moment. “I’d say she fits the type that this animal goes for.” A series of quiet murmurs of assent prompted him to continue.
“All of her major organs were healthy and aside from a missing appendix — removed several years ago, consistent with her medical records — she was in good health and apparently reasonable fitness.” He turned a page and the team mimicked him with their own copies of the report.
“Cause of death was strangulation with a ligature. Almost certainly using the red T-shirt, which we are assuming is hers. As in the previous cases, it looks as though she was subdued by an anaesthetic agent, probably administered by a cloth to the face. We’ve sent off for toxicology as usual, but we are still waiting to hear back from the first case — the backlog is weeks with all of the cutbacks over there.
“Externally, I can see little trauma. A fresh scrape on her left knee might have been caused during the attack, but it could equally have come from any other minor collision. No blood unfortunately. Her fingernails reveal no trace evidence. However, her coat has some of that powdery cardboard residue and some of those blue nylon fibres that we’ve seen previously.
“Her clothing was disturbed in the attack, as you can see, exposing both her breasts and her pubic region, but again we can find no fingerprints or traces of bodily fluid externally. However, it looks as though he’s been either careless or unlucky again. An internal examination again reveals evidence of rough sexual intercourse and, as with Gemma Allen, traces of semen. We’ve put a rush on the DNA typing and we’ll know by tomorrow if it’s Cameron again.”
“Thanks, Professor, that’s very helpful.”
Tony Sutton had been frowning for the last few moments.
“It seems a bit weird, don’t you think? Cameron has been meticulous about not leaving behind any trace evidence that links directly to him, such as DNA or fingerprints. For the first two murders we still only have circumstantial evidence linking him. Yet with Gemma Allen, he leaves behind a semen sample. OK, maybe the condom split or whatever. Yet exactly the same thing has happened with this next victim. Two mistakes one after another?”
It was a fair point and it divided the room.
“Maybe he doesn’t care any more,” suggested Karen Hardwick. “After the first slip he must have known that we’d pin it on him. And even without that evidence his face is all over the news and we are describing him as our number one suspect.”
A few people nodded at her logic.
Hastings, shook his head. “He still seems to be taking some precautions, though. There still isn’t much evidence at the scenes and the trace evidence suggests that he’s still pulling his trick with two condoms. I’ve been doing some reading about serial killers and I wonder if he’s starting to break down. I think they call it ‘decompensating’.”
All eyes in the room turned to Professor Jordan. “The psychology of serial killers is above my pay-grade, I’m afraid, but what I do know, especially from cases I worked back in the States, is that Cameron is displaying signs of a loss of control. His attacks are very close together, barely a week apart. Serial killers often wait months or years between attacks.
“He is also making mistakes; it looks as though Carolyn Patterson managed to land a blow on him before succumbing to the anaesthesia and evidence from the crime scene where Gemma Allen was snatched, plus her facial injuries, suggests that she too put up a fight and may have nearly escaped. We’d expect him to be getting better over time, but it doesn’t look as thoug
h he is.”
“What might this mean for the future?” asked Warren.
Jordan puffed out his lips. “Now we’re really straying from my remit. I think it is safe to say that he will probably strike again, and sooner rather than later. As to whether he makes a fatal mistake that leads to his capture — I can’t possibly say.”
Warren nodded soberly. “That’s pretty much what I feared.”
* * *
The remainder of the day was frustratingly slow. The team were busy following leads on all of the different murders but so far the only information that truly mattered — the whereabouts of Richard Cameron — remained stubbornly elusive. After the meeting with Jordan had broken up, the pathologist had remained for a few minutes to finish his coffee.
“I’ll suppose there’s at least one glimmer of hope in this whole sordid affair,” he’d mused tiredly. “Cameron won’t be fathering any more offspring. It looks as though the genetic legacy stops with him and his son.”
Warren had expressed surprise at the apparent non sequitur.
“The technician that identified Cameron’s semen sample from Gemma Allen commented that, even allowing for the time elapsed between her rape and us finding the sample, Cameron had a very low viable sperm count. The sample from Saskia Walker was even lower. The old boy’s pretty much shooting blanks.”
“Is there any significance, do you think?” asked Warren.
“Probably not, it’s just an observation. However, some medications are known to reduce the numbers of viable sperm. It did occur to me that Cameron might be suffering from a serious illness. Chemotherapy for cancer is known to affect sperm counts.”
“Could Cameron be suffering from cancer? He appeared pretty robust when we interviewed him.”
Jordan shrugged. “Hard to say without access to his medical records.”
“If Cameron is terminally ill that might explain his behaviour — he hears the ticking of the clock and decides it’s time for one last hurrah. That might account for why he has switched from adamantly claiming to be a changed man to going back to his old ways.”
