by Jay Gill
Chapter Six
How could this be? I picked up the photos again. There was no doubt. I went cold. My mind felt like it’d been hit by a tornado. My mouth was dry.
“Cerise Williams,” I repeated. “Rosie’s goddaughter.”
“You know her?” asked Fuller.
I was silent. I was having difficulty comprehending what my eyes were seeing and what my brain was telling me. How could these sickening images be of the same sweet young woman who had only a week ago chatted so attentively with my little daughters? They’d been so excited by the attention and so disappointed when she wasn’t there again this morning at breakfast. I wanted to rage and swear and curse God.
I took a long trembling breath and said, “Yes, I know her. Her name is Cerise Williams, but she liked to be called Ceri. She is the goddaughter of a very dear friend.”
I wondered how I was ever going to break the news to Rosie. I knew I’d be breaking her heart forever.
“How sure are you?” said Fuller.
I looked at him and he took a step back, then muttered something about updating Chief Webster. Jensen waited for him to leave.
“I’m truly sorry, Hardy,” she said gently. “Would you like me to leave you alone for a while?”
I took a breath and tried to focus. However much I was hurting, there was work to be done. I owed it to Ceri and to Julia Moore to catch the sick bastard who had done this to them.
“Carry on. You’re doing great. I want to know everything,” I said and nodded encouragingly.
From what I’d seen of her, Jensen was a very capable detective sergeant, and she understood that right now we had to put all emotion aside. The anguish I was feeling was unbearable, and I was fighting hard to hold back tears. The shock of seeing someone I cared for end up murdered in this way was unbearable. Yet, no matter how much I wanted to express my rage, it would have to wait. There would be time enough later to face the heartache. Right now, I had to hold it together and do my job.
We spent a good couple of hours going over the files and bouncing questions and scenarios back and forth. I was keen to ensure I knew as much as Fuller and Jensen did, and Jensen was keen to understand my perspective and glean early insights into the type of man I thought was responsible.
Jensen said, “The press has started calling him the Regent’s Park Ripper. Pretty sick, I know. On top of that, the mayor’s giving Chief Webster a hard time. I guess that’s why he called you in. To help us, I mean. And hopefully before this guy does it again.” We were both aware of the pressure that put us all under.
“You’ve done a great job so far. Everything you tell me makes sense,” I said. “The crime scenes were handled as I would have expected. We’ve collected DNA evidence from the victims. But what we don’t have are suspects. And if our killer isn’t in the DNA database, then DNA is no good until we have a suspect. We’re a long way from catching this guy.”
“What do we do next?” asked Jensen.
“I need to discuss that with Fuller. This is his case,” I said diplomatically.
Keen as I was to take the lead, this was Fuller’s investigation and I wasn’t about to step on his toes. I had been brought in to advise, and that was what I would do – in theory, at least. Jensen looked like she was about to say something but changed her mind.
She rubbed her eyes.
“The best thing you can do right now is to get something to eat then go home and get some rest,” I told her. “You’re no good to anyone if you can’t think straight. I promise I’ve been where you are right now, and even though it feels counterintuitive, sleep really is your friend. I’m going to take the copy files and study them at home. I’ll probably have some questions in the morning.”
Jensen handed me my duplicate case files. “Our mobile numbers are on the insides of both files, in case you need to reach us. Call me day or night. I’m not much of a sleeper.”
“You might regret that offer,” I said, trying to muster a smile.
“I want this killer off the streets more than anyone else I’ve investigated,” said Jensen. “And with only a two-week window until he kills again, I feel like the countdown has already begun. I don’t want to waste a second.”
“The countdown has begun, and if he waits another two weeks to kill again, I’ll be very surprised.”
Jensen looked shocked.
“I’ll know more tomorrow,” I said. “Get some rest.”
Chapter Seven
One of the worst parts of a police officer’s job was telling a stranger that someone close to them – a child, a partner, a parent, a friend – had been snatched from them, that someone they cherish beyond words had been snuffed out in a violent way.
It was almost unbearable when the person you were telling was a friend.
Rosie had closed up and as usual was working late on getting things ready for the following day. I’d deliberately waited until the cafe was closed. I took a deep breath then tapped on the glass of the front door.
From behind a table Rosie looked up at me and waved. “We’re closed – come back tomorrow,” she joked, loud enough for me to hear.
She unlocked the door and welcomed me in. “Not that it’s not always lovely to see you, but don’t you have a home to go to?”
She closed and locked the door behind me. Out of habit, she checked the ‘Closed’ sign was the right way around. When I didn’t answer, she turned and looked at me. “You look like hell, James. Are you okay?”
I forced out the words I couldn’t let anyone else say. “Rosie, I’m so sorry. I’m here about Ceri. She—”
Rosie knew instinctively what I was about to say. Something – a look in my eye, maybe – told her I was about to deliver the worst news she could ever hear.
“Don’t you say it, James. Don’t you dare tell me it’s her. Not her, not that sweet child. You can’t come here and tell me this.” Her legs buckled and I reached out to catch her. She slid to the floor next to the counter.
I sat beside her and held her hand. “I’m sorry, Rosie, so deeply sorry. I saw her myself. There’s no doubt.”
We held each other, cried and talked. Rosie told me about Ceri’s movements over the last few days and weeks. People she’d met, friends she’d made. Her relationship with her parents and Ceri’s need to break free from the small Welsh town she’d grown up in and find herself. It was the same coming-of-age story that had been told a thousand times before, but for Cerise Williams it had ended tragically.
“I suppose if you’re asking all these questions, you don’t know who did it?” asked Rosie finally. She got to her feet, went to the back of the Tea Shop and returned with a half-bottle of single malt. She poured us each a large glass.
“Not yet,” I said honestly.
“Do you think you ever will?” Rosie drank hers down in one and poured herself another. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said it like that. I know you’re hurting as much as I am.”
“I’m going to get whoever did this. You have my word. Whoever is responsible will pay.”
Rosie said nothing. The pain was too much to say anything else right now. Instead, we sat together and finished the bottle of whisky.
Chapter Eight
Accompanied by a large pot of strong coffee, I spent the rest of the evening and most of the night working through the case files, doing all I could to know as much about the murders as Fuller and Jensen did.
Eventually, exhaustion caught up with me and I fell asleep in my big old comfy chair. During the night Monica must have checked on me and, rather than disturb me, put the case files aside and covered me with a blanket. She was a good friend.
The sound of Alice and Faith getting ready for school drew me to the kitchen.
“Morning, Daddy,” said Faith.
“Morning, Daddy,” said Alice. “Did you fall asleep in the ugly chair again?”
They looked at me disapprovingly.
“Morning, girls. I may have done. It’s my thinking chair; it’s not
ugly. It won’t happen again.”
“That’s what you said last time,” said Alice.
“You don’t think in it – you sleep in it,” said Faith. “It is ugly. Mummy always said it was ugly, and she was right.”
I looked to Monica for support without success.
“You’ve got me there – I give in. That’s exactly what Mummy always said. Give me five minutes and I’ll take you to school.” The girls broke into whoops of delight, which made me smile.
I retreated to the shower, and thirty minutes later we were outside the school gates. The girls bundled out of the car, and I stepped out to the kerb with them, kissed them both, and hugged them a little tighter than usual. “Work hard, you two. Listen to your teachers, but don’t forget to find—”
“Don’t forget to find the fun,” said Alice.
“You tell us that every day,” said Faith. “Find the fun, find the fun.”
I pulled a face and growled like a bear. “Are you telling me I sound like a broken record? Get out of here.” The girls giggled and disappeared inside.
It didn’t take long before my mind returned to Ceri and thoughts of how eventually I’d have to break the news to Alice and Faith. I headed back to my car, where I looked at the two case files on the passenger seat. I took a deep breath and headed to Regent’s Park.
Moving between Julia Moore’s crime scene and Ceri’s, I began looking for similarities. Location-wise, they were both large, open spaces, which meant the attacks had been daring. There was some tree cover where Moore’s attack had taken place, but there was quite a distance between the path she would have walked and the trees where her body was discovered.
Ceri’s body had been found between a bandstand and a large weeping willow tree. Once again, a path ran alongside and there was an open grassy area.
Choosing these locations for the attacks meant that the killer had taken quite a gamble. It was possible that the risk of being discovered was part of his sick game, but he must have felt comfortable enough with his surroundings to know he was safe.
That must mean he knows the park, I thought. And if he knows the park, then there is a better than average chance he lives locally. I wondered if he had spent time studying Moore. We knew she frequently used the park to push her baby.
Ceri, on the other hand, wasn’t local. She lived with Rosie, and that was at least a thirty-minute bus ride away. He couldn’t have studied her. That meant the attack on her had probably been spontaneous.
The lack of planning, the open location, the spontaneity of the second attack, the element of daring, the bravado and the brutality, along with the killer’s choice of weapon, all made me think the attacker was young, somewhere between twenty and thirty-five, maybe forty at a push. I felt sure an older male would take less risk.
Think, Hardy, I told myself. To catch this killer, you have to think like him.
Why here, and why them?
Chapter Nine
He laced up his trainers and put on a new sweater. The bag under the bed caught his eye. The contents needed to go in the incinerator. I’ll do it tonight, he said to himself. He kicked the bag under the bed and out of sight.
He could hear Mum in the kitchen. Could he get out of the front door without speaking to her? Was that mean?
He simply couldn’t face going through the whole ‘gratitude’ thing again today. He looked at himself in the mirror. Another year older. He put his middle finger up at himself, and the world, and forced his anger through it. He added the finger on the other hand. They wouldn’t catch him: he was too smart.
Halfway down the stairs she heard him.
“Morning, sleepyhead. You almost slept your birthday away.” His mother rushed over and gave him a tight squeeze and a kiss. “You’re never too old for one of my special hugs.”
“I guess not,” he said. He pulled away when she started tidying his hair with her fingers. “Mum?”
“Come into the kitchen and I’ll dish up your breakfast. I suppose it’s brunch now, judging by the time. Come on.”
“Nah, I gotta go. Maybe later.”
“Don’t be silly. Come on, for your mum. I don’t see you that much. You’re always out. Always working. It’s Sunday. It’s your birthday.”
She had a delicate nature, which, to a certain degree, had been her downfall. She was one of those people who were too trusting and too easily taken advantage of by others.
He smiled and gave her a kiss.
“Goody-good,” she said.
He sat at the table while she fussed around him. As the eggs fried she put a mug of tea down. “Nice and milky, with one sugar,” she said. “Just how you like it.”
“Perfect.”
“My big boy – look at you. All grown up. You’re a man now. I remember when you were tiny, probably only four or five, and you used to fly up and down the pavement out there. Do you remember? On that blue bike of yours? You never bothered with stabilisers. You jumped on and away you went. All day you’d be out there. Up and down, up and down. Those were the days.”
“You mean the days before Dad fucked off with that slut-bitch of his.”
Mum’s smile turned to pain.
“Sorry,” he said. “Sorry, Mum.” What an idiot. He studied her face.
But nothing was going to spoil today. She carried on buzzing about like he’d said nothing. She slid the eggs onto his plate and put the full English breakfast down. “The bacon should be nice and crispy, just how you like it. Burnt to a crisp, I call it.” She laughed.
He squirted on some tomato sauce. The toast popped up in the toaster, and Mum buttered it before sliding that in front of him, followed by a couple of presents.
She sat down opposite and beamed.
“Thanks, Mum. You didn’t need to.”
“Yes, I did. I’m your mother. If I can’t spoil you, then who can? It’s not every day Mum’s baby boy turns twenty-six. I want to make each day count. One of these days some fine young woman will catch your eye and that’ll be it – you’ll be gone. So I’m going to spoil you.” She dabbed her eyes.
“Oh, Mum, don’t cry. I ain’t leaving. I’m staying right here. I’m going to look after you. Remember? It’s you and me. The dynamic duo.” He got up and gave her a hug. He passed her some kitchen roll.
She wiped her nose. “I’m a silly cow, I know. I’m sorry. I’m spoiling your brunch. Come on, eat up.”
“You’re not silly. Don’t put yourself down. You’re amazing. Look at what you’ve done for me. And I don’t just mean this morning.” He tried to make her laugh.
She smiled and put her hands either side of his face and gently squeezed. “Thank you, sweetheart. I just wish—”
“I know. It’s his loss. The bitch turned his head and that was it. He was weak.”
“And stupid,” she said, wiping away the tears.
“Exactly.”
“It’s harder on birthdays and at Christmas.”
“We’re all right.”
“Yeah, we are, aren’t we?” She tucked the kitchen roll in her sleeve and sat up straight. “Don’t let it get cold. Eat up. I want to see you open your presents.”
“This is good, Mum. The sausages are lovely.”
“They’re just cheap ones.”
“They’re nice.”
“I’ll get my phone. I want to take some pictures of you.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really. Mums like having photos. It’s one of the things that make us mums.” She disappeared into the other room and he looked at the clock.
He was keen to get to the park and take a look. He couldn’t leave her, not yet. He’d go out later. Run an errand of some kind and at the same time pass by. He felt sure the place would be swarming with police. He wanted to see.
“Smile. Come on, give me a big birthday smile. That’s better.”
“All done?”
“You are an old grump, you know. You take a good picture. You’re very handsome. You should have a girl, you
know.” She started looking at the pictures and showing him.
“What about that girl from college? What was her name? Polly, Pippa?”
“Poppy.” He felt himself flush with tension. “She was nothing.”
She turned her back to him and plugged in her phone. “That’s a shame. She seemed lovely.” She paused then said, “You’re a man. And I know a man has needs. Mrs Schumann can help. We could call it a birthday treat.”
“For Christ’s sake, Mum. Can we not talk about this? I’m eating my breakfast.”
“Okay, but I understand. I do. And she only keeps, you know, clean girls. I just don’t want you taking any chances. She said you’re always welcome.”
He put down his knife and fork. “You talked to her about me?”
“Not really. I just bumped into her at the chemist and I mentioned your upcoming birthday.” Recognising her unintentional play on words, she tried to hide her smile.
He stared at his breakfast. “Can we please change the subject? I don’t need Mrs Schumann or her tarts.”
“Of course,” she said. “Just so long as you’re sure.”
“I’m sure.” He started eating again, then, shaking his head, said, “Mrs Schumann? What are you like?”
After a moment’s silence they both burst out laughing.
“‘She only keeps clean girls,’” he said, mimicking his mother’s voice.
Chapter Ten
With only two victims from which to build the killer’s narrative, I knew it would be hard to pin down his motive. The sad truth is, the more victims, the easier it is to find important similarities between them and get closer to the killer himself.
In cases like these, I usually started with the victims and why a killer would choose them. Often, a victim’s appearance or personality type played a role in why they were chosen.
In the case of Ceri and Julia’s killer, I wondered if he went out with the intention of killing a young woman, any young woman? Did they look at him the wrong way? Did they speak to him? How had he approached them? Why did he choose them over all of the other women who must have been in the area at the same time? Why did he feel the need to not only rape them but kill them? And why so brutally? The attacks had been ferocious, and this killer’s choice of weapon showed he wanted to inflict maximum damage. It wasn’t enough to just kill them; he rained down blow after blow after blow. Why did he hate them? Who or what did they represent to him?
