by LJ Ross
“What about the little boy?” MacKenzie asked.
“The grandmother seems to love him,” Ryan said quietly. “He was at pre-school when we paid our visit but I had a word with the social worker who dealt with the case and by all accounts he’s doing well.”
“That’s something,” she murmured. “How about the father?”
“That would be a man called Lewis Pinks.”
“Where have I heard that name before?” Lowerson queried.
“Notorious dealer,” Phillips said. “He works the area down by Walker, not far from Karen’s house. He’s a slippery bastard, as far as I remember.”
“I strongly suspect that Pinks supplied Karen Dobbs not only with a son, but also with the drugs that eventually took him from her.” Ryan paused, looking down at the carpet tiles before he added, “We’ll be speaking with him before close of play this evening.”
The details of Karen’s miserable life left a nasty taste in his mouth, one he wished he could spit out.
“We’ll be looking into Karen’s movements late last night and early this morning,” Ryan continued. “We’re working on the basis that she died only hours before her body was discovered. We have to assume that she was picked up by her killer while soliciting, although we can’t rule out other possibilities.”
Ryan stood up again and gestured towards Faulkner.
“Tom? Give us the latest news on forensics, would you?”
Faulkner shuffled towards the front of the room and tried not to panic in front of the sea of expectant faces.
“Um, yes. Okay. Beginning with Krista Ogilvy-Matthews.”
His voice was practically a squeak so Faulkner cleared his throat and tried again in what he hoped was a deeper, more macho tone.
“The ground was wet on Thursday night and we’ve been able to find tracks leading from the car park area all the way across to the site where Krista’s body was found. The imprints suggest that our perpetrator was carrying a load—we assume her body—because the tracks leading back for the return journey are considerably lighter in comparison.”
“How did he enter?”
Faulkner gave a little shake of his head.
“There are no signs of the lock having been forced on either of the entrance gates and the footprints clearly lead to and from the main parking area, so we have to assume that he used a key.”
Ryan raised an eyebrow and turned to Phillips.
“Who has the keys?”
Phillips licked the tip of his thumb and flicked through the pages of his notebook until he found what he was looking for.
“The short answer is that quite a few people have a key, or access to a set of keys to the cemetery grounds. You’ve got the ground staff, who are contracted by the Council to come in and tend the lawns and maintain the gravesites; crematorium staff, also employed by the Council; admin staff working within the Bereavement Services team and, potentially, members of the church across all denominations.”
Ryan rubbed his left temple as a low-grade headache started to develop.
“The Council are in charge of running ten cemeteries across the city including both of the ones we’ve seen this weekend, so everything is supposed to go through them.” Phillips paused for a second before adding, “In reality we all know how protocols, best practices and whatnot can slip. The Council say they hold two sets of keys to each gate, for each cemetery within their remit, and that their contractors also hold sets of keys for easy access. After a chat with some of the people involved I can already tell you that there are probably many more keys in circulation than that, not counting families and extended families who might be in a position to access keys if any one of these people failed to keep them in a secure place.”
Ryan gave himself a few seconds to stare at the ceiling and let the frustration drain from his lymphatic system.
“Right. So, anybody in Newcastle City Council who knows the right place to check; anybody affiliated with the church—any denomination—who knows the right place to look; and anybody who works as or knows somebody working as ground staff, crematorium staff or council staff. In other words, half the population of Newcastle, by the sounds of it. Correct?”
“Pretty much, yep.”
“I never thought I would hear myself say these words, but it’s a pity there isn’t more bureaucracy in the City Council.”
Phillips boomed out a laugh and then sobered up again.
“Fact is, guv, at this rate we’re going to have to go through the whole list of people who we definitely know have access and cross them off the list as we go. I’ve made a start on their statements and I’ll do the follow ups.”
Ryan nodded. It was a good, methodical approach.
“Is there a sort of ‘universal’ key that would give access to all the cemeteries in the city?”
Phillips’ eyes twinkled and he tapped the side of his bulbous nose.
“I know what you’re thinking and, no, there isn't. I made a start by looking into the contractors and Keith Wilson in particular. He says he turned up for work and discovered Krista’s body, but he wouldn’t be the first person to return to the scene of a crime, or seek out media attention for his crimes.”
“True.”
“From what I can see, Wilson has a tight alibi. I spoke to the bars and the club he mentioned and they confirmed his movements. I checked out the other contractor who works alongside him as a grave digger. She’s away on holiday in Cornwall and has been since last Saturday.”
“Alright, it’s still good progress,” Ryan said, then turned back to Faulkner who was standing at the front looking awkward.
“What can you deduce from the imprints? Can you give us anything in terms of the physical type?”
“I can give you broad estimations,” Faulkner pushed his glasses further back on his nose. “The footprints we found at both sites are of a similar size, although a different shoe was worn each time. I emphasise shoe, rather than boot, because it was a smooth sole rather than the heavy-duty tread I would expect to see otherwise.”
Ryan filed that nugget away.
“How about sizing?”
“Shoe size around a ten, or ten and a half,” Faulkner supplied. “Which would strongly suggest male.”
“Which would also tie in with the MO,” Phillips threw in.
“Exactly,” Faulkner nodded. “We took the depth of the prints found at each site and factored in the weight of each victim to come up with an approximate weight for our killer. In both cases our estimation was the same—somewhere in the region of 180 to 200 pounds—which would support the theory that we’re looking for the same man in each case.”
“Height?” Ryan asked.
Faulkner blew out a long breath.
“Here, we’re getting into the realms of statistical probability. Looking at the stride length, shoe size and approximate weight, the charts tell me that we are likely to find a man within the range of five feet eight to six feet one inches tall.”
“Alright, he’s edging towards the taller end of the spectrum. That gives us something to think about. What else?”
“Both victims were killed elsewhere. Neither grave corresponded with a kill site and we have been unable to locate anywhere in the immediate vicinity either. The evidence suggests that our perp killed them beforehand, then carried his victims from the cemetery car park to the allotted gravesite, which means that he had transportation of some kind. The tracks were single file—purposeful and direct, you might say—which would also suggest a certain familiarity with the cemeteries.”
“In other words, he knew exactly where he was going,” Ryan surmised. “He knew there was no functioning CCTV at either of these cemeteries, he had the means to access them out of hours and he knew that he would be able to take a car and park relatively nearby in the car parks at either site.”
“Yes, I would say so.”
“Phillips? We need that footage from the street cameras.”
“On it like a car bonnet,”
the other replied.
Ryan moved around his desk and came to stand in front of the murder board. He took a couple of pins and stuck them onto a large map of each cemetery to indicate the killer’s approach, then ran a thoughtful hand over his chin.
“He knew the cemetery grid and he knew about forthcoming burials. Phillips? Who has access to that kind of data?”
Phillips tugged at his earlobe and made a face.
“Anyone working in the Bereavement Services team at the Council…any of their contractors hired to dig the graves, church staff booked to do the service, even the admin staff who take care of all that, not to mention the funeral directors. That’s just off the top of my head.”
Ryan walked slowly back to his desk and leaned against it, crossing his ankles.
“Make a shortlist of everybody who was on shift to book, dig, take care of or give a service for the burials due to take place at both cemeteries on the days we found Krista and Karen. That should narrow it down.”
Phillips nodded and made a scribbled note.
“Apparently, it’s policy to dig a grave at least twenty-four hours in advance of a burial,” he commented, with a sharp-eyed look that was interpreted correctly by his SIO.
“You’re saying that, if our killer had access to the listings, he would have had a twenty-four hour window to dump a body before it was filled over by a legitimate burial the next day.”
It took Ryan less than three seconds to follow the trail of breadcrumbs.
“There was no pre-existing hole dug out for Krista’s body but there was for Karen’s body. Why the discrepancy?”
Phillips had already looked into it.
“Aye, I wondered the same thing,” he said. “I had a word with the lass at Bereavement Services, who tells me that the funeral for some old codger was put back by a day, at the last minute. The grave digger, Keith, was meant to go up to the West Road Cemetery to dig a hole on Thursday morning, but he was put back to Friday morning instead.”
Ryan nodded, the picture was getting clearer.
“Which means that our killer had a bit of a nasty surprise. There was no cushty hole already dug out and waiting for him on Thursday night, so he was forced to do it himself.” Ryan turned back to Faulkner. “What did you find? He must have left something behind.”
“We found evidence of grass stains and turf on the underside of Krista’s clothing, which would be consistent with her being placed above ground while her killer dug his hole,” Faulkner said. “As far as we can tell, he used a piece of chipped granite to dig out a shallow grave by hand. We found the corner of a headstone discarded near the site bearing the same soil samples.”
“I wonder if he panicked,” Ryan thought of a man clawing at the soil under cover of darkness. “He must have been shocked to find the ground intact when he arrived.”
Faulkner pulled a face.
“He had already carried Krista’s body across the breadth of the cemetery grounds, which would be taxing enough. Add on the added requirement of digging a grave…yes, it would have been labour-intensive, especially if there was time pressure.”
“What about skin samples?” MacKenzie asked, but Faulkner shook his head.
“Gloves were used, leather ones. We found minute samples of leather fibres embedded on the jagged edge of stone. We’re still sifting through the soil, but it’s been less than forty-eight hours since we excavated the site. It’s possible that we’ll find more; we’re moving as quickly as we can.”
“Don’t worry about the resources, Tom,” Ryan fixed him with a direct stare. “Leave the money talk to me, I’ll square it with the Chief.”
Faulkner nodded gratefully.
“As for Karen Dobbs, he had a much easier time of it,” he said, moving onto the next victim. “The winch they use to lower a coffin was already set up and covered over with tarpaulin, in preparation for the funeral planned for ten o’clock this morning. Our killer used the winch to lower Karen’s body inside, brought it back up and then used the canvas to lever himself in and out. We found hair and skin fibres on the winch canvas belonging to the victim, as well as the same leather fibres we found at the first crime scene and several partial footprints inside the grave.”
“If the rest of the evidence wasn’t enough to convince us, that adds weight to our working theory that it’s the same killer in both instances.”
“Exactly,” Faulkner nodded.
“He would need a good level of physical strength to carry these women and lift himself in and out of the grave—good upper body strength, in particular,” Lowerson chipped in.
With a more vivid picture in their minds, the room took a collective breath. Ryan cast his silver-grey stare over each of them, silently commanding their attention.
“Phillips, I want a list of burials scheduled for the next week, along with all the CCTV footage we can get our hands on. Faulkner, I want to know the minute you find any other samples, if you find a match to any existing profile…damn it, just contact me if anything remotely useful turns up.” He pinched the bridge of his nose and then pointed a finger at one of the unsuspecting constables hovering at the back of the room. “Yates?”
PC Melanie Yates almost jumped in surprise.
“Y-yes.”
“You’ve worked hard for this division; I remember your dedication from last year. Let’s see some more of it now,” he added. “I want you to assist Phillips. Work through the list of known affiliates and of all the people who might have access to these cemeteries, particularly the funeral directors and Council contractors. Interview and re-interview them all until we find our weak link. Understand?”
Bursting at the prospect of real responsibility, PC Yates simply nodded.
Ryan waited a beat and then clapped his hands.
“Let’s go.”
CHAPTER 9
The men and women assigned to Operation Angel were galvanised into action and went about the business of tracking The Graveyard Killer with gusto. As the man in charge, Ryan was acutely aware that time was slipping through their fingers. The killer had taken two lives in two days so he didn’t need a postgraduate degree in Criminology to tell him that their perpetrator was escalating; experience and common sense was sufficient. The question uppermost in Ryan’s mind was therefore not ‘if’ there would be another murder, but where and when the killer would choose to strike again.
“Phillips!”
His sergeant loped across the room to join him in poring over a list of cemeteries falling inside the catchment area of Newcastle City Council.
“There are ten cemeteries on this list,” he tapped a finger on the innocuous line of printed text. “The killer has visited two of them so far but it’s Easter Sunday tomorrow.”
Phillips tugged at his bottom lip with thumb and forefinger.
“That could be the end of it,” he said, hopefully. “There’s been a lot of splash on the news, in the papers and whatnot. It might put him off killing again.”
Ryan shook his head.
“Not if he thinks God will protect him.”
“Aye, there is that. You can’t reason with a fruitcake. What are we going to do about it?”
Ryan placed both hands on the desktop and leaned forward while he thought.
“You told me there are four funerals planned for tomorrow, two at Elswick, one at All Saints and one at Heaton which has now been put back until tomorrow. Of those, All Saints has the easiest vehicular access facilities whereas Elswick would be harder to get into with a car, but it’s also the largest at over twenty-six acres so there’s a chance he could find an access point. All the same, I’d put my money on him trying for All Saints.”
“Why not cover all of the cemeteries, to be on the safe side?” Phillips asked.
“It comes down to resources, Frank. I can order surveillance of each of the seven remaining cemeteries in the city, including those officers already assigned to sentry duty over the existing crime scenes, but it’s not going to wash with Morrison.�
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“It’s prevention—” Phillips argued.
“Not quite,” Ryan disagreed. “It might help us to catch him but if he sticks to his usual MO the victim will already be dead by the time he reaches the gravesite.”
Ryan stood back up again and began to roll up his shirtsleeves.
“I’m telling you how it will play out, Frank. I’ll sign off the resources and hope that we can keep the surveillance going for longer than just tonight. Morrison will find out and haul me in to justify the expenditure. She’s a fair woman,” he conceded, “but she has her own chain of command. We’re all living with austerity cuts and this is the blunt edge of it. I’ll bet you fifty quid that the officers I send out to guard the cemeteries this evening will be recalled by Monday at the latest.”
Phillips let out a harrumph.
“Wish I could argue with you, lad, but the fact is you’re probably right.”
“It’s hard being right all the time.”
“Let’s not start getting into the realms of fantasy,” Phillips patted Ryan’s arm and ambled back towards his own desk, leaving Ryan to flash a grin at his retreating backside.
* * *
In their quieter office down the hall, MacKenzie and Lowerson pored over the latest reports which had come through from the CSIs. Predictably, they confirmed that Barbara Hewitt probably died where she fell at her home in Rothbury. No alien substances or DNA samples were found mingled with the fermented residue of her bodily fluids; nor had there been any suspicious samples found inside the house or on any of the doors or windows not belonging to the old woman herself, or to her cleaner, Carole Dudley.
