by Sally Rigby
‘I think we were at home, both times. Weren’t we, Hal?’ Harriet looked at Henry.
‘No. Sunday, we went into town at around three, remember. You wanted to buy Mother’s birthday present. Monday we were at home.’
‘Oh, yes. That’s right.’
‘Can anyone corroborate this?’ she asked.
‘Are we allowed to corroborate each other?’ Harriet said. ‘If not, Lydia might. I can’t remember if she was here or not. She often stays at her boyfriend’s flat.’
‘Yes, you can. But we’ll have a chat with Lydia too, if you could ask her to pop down.’
Harriet jogged out of the room, and Whitney could hear her footsteps as she ran up the stairs.
‘Would you like another coffee?’ Henry asked.
She was impressed by his manners. She’d love it if Tiffany could find someone like him to settle with. Not necessarily as posh as him, but with his personality and manners.
‘No thanks.’
They sat in silence until Harriet arrived back, with Lydia following behind.
Whitney and Matt stood. ‘Hello, Lydia. We’re investigating the murders of two students, and we’d like to ask you a few questions. It appears both attended the party you had here recently,’ she said.
‘Yes. Harriet told me,’ Lydia replied.
‘Were you at the party?’ Matt asked.
‘Yes. But I didn’t stay overnight. I stayed with my boyfriend. We left around midnight.’
‘Were you here on Sunday afternoon on the third and Sunday night, going into Monday morning, on the eighteenth?’ Whitney asked.
She paused for a moment. ‘Not on the first Sunday afternoon, but yes. I did stay overnight on the second Sunday.’
‘Thank you,’ she said.
‘Do you think the Campus Killer will strike again?’ Lydia asked.
She rolled her eyes at the crass nickname the media had already given the killer. Then again, it was the most obvious.
‘We hope he won’t, but until we’ve caught him, make sure you don’t go out alone. Pass that message on to all of your friends.’
‘I won’t let Harriet go anywhere on her own. I make sure I’m always with her,’ Henry said.
‘He even tries to go into the ladies’ loo with me.’ Harriet rolled her eyes.
‘I don’t care what you say. Until the murderer’s caught, you’ll have to get used to it,’ Henry retorted.
‘But you’re always together, anyway,’ Lydia said as she laughed.
‘The main thing is you’re careful. Here’s my card. If any of you remember anything more about the party. Anyone acting strange. Anything out of the ordinary, please call me.’ She pulled out a couple of cards from her pocket and handed one to Henry and one to Lydia.
‘Will do,’ Henry said. ‘I’m sorry we couldn’t have been more help.’
‘You’ve been fine. And don’t forget the photos,’ she said.
As they left and headed to the car, her phone rang. ‘Hello.’
‘Jamieson here. We’ve called a press conference, and I want you with me. Where are you?’
‘On my way back to the station.’
‘Head straight for my office when you arrive.’
‘Yes, sir. I’ll be back in fifteen.’ She ended the call.
‘Crap.’
‘Problem, guv?’
‘More an inconvenience. The DSI wants me with him at the press conference he’s decided to call. He’s perfectly capable of managing on his own, so why the fuck he can’t do this alone, I do not know.’
Chapter Nineteen
Panic is rife, everywhere I go. And I love it. There are so many stupid girls acting like someone’s going to pounce on them at any minute. Constantly looking over their shoulders in case the “Campus Killer” is walking behind them. I can’t say I’m enamoured by the nickname. It’s totally predictable. They could’ve been more creative. Like—like— “The Student Strangler”. That has a good ring to it.
Anyway, back to these frightened girls. They should be so lucky to find themselves on my radar. I don’t choose randomly. They’ve got to be very special to have the privilege of being my next target. I want to march up to them and explain they have nothing to worry about. But where’s the fun in that?
What everyone fails to realise is Millie and Olivia were chosen for specific reasons.
Reasons only I know, and I’m not prepared to share. So, don’t ask.
You have to keep an air of mystery over these things. To be honest, my reasons aren’t deep, but they are reasons, nonetheless. And they’re all mine.
Now it’s time to make plans for number three. Every time I think about what I’m going to do to her, excitement courses through my whole body. I imagine savouring every squeeze on her neck. Enjoying every ragged breath she takes, each one closer to her very last one.
The preparation’s been fun and is mostly done. I’ve yet to make a decision on the actual date, but it will be sometime soon. Her favourite food is sushi, which needs to be bought, as do the drugs. Once the bed’s been stripped and clean sheets put on, there’s nothing left to do.
It’s surprising how different it feels now I’m up to number three. The first time, I was hesitant, lacking in confidence. I wasn’t sure how hard to press down on her neck before she’d stop breathing. In fact, it happened so suddenly it was over before I’d realised. The second time was easier and more enjoyable, apart from how much she wriggled and squirmed, despite having the same drug dose as number one. That taught me a valuable lesson.
I’ll be giving number three a larger dose. I don’t want a repeat performance of number two trying to escape. I say trying to escape, but she wasn’t going anywhere. The ties on her wrists and ankles made sure of that. But it was messy. And I don’t do mess.
Number three is going to lay there unable to do anything other than stare up at me. So all she has are the horrendous thoughts in her head. The agony of not being able to express them, suffering so badly inside all she wants to do is scream. But she can’t. She’ll have to endure the pain. And endure the knowledge she’s going to die in silence.
Having no release is something I’ve experienced. It eats you up inside. When you long to scream and scream without let up. But in reality, all you can do is bottle it up inside, until it explodes. I don’t remember much about the day I totally lost it, but my hands were covered in blood from where I’d ripped apart the furniture and punched through the glass of the patio doors. I had to be restrained to stop me from destroying everything in my path.
But I got through it. I’m here to tell the tale. It’s amazing what money, drugs, a good psychiatrist, and six months in a secure wing can do to fix everything. Now if you asked anyone, they’d never believe once I’d had such a severe breakdown I couldn’t speak for months.
Now I’m perfectly normal.
Just ask my friends.
Chapter Twenty
Whitney popped into the ladies’ to inspect her appearance. Looking at herself in the mirror, she was glad she’d taken the time, as her eye shadow had mostly come off and mascara flakes were on her cheeks. After reapplying her make-up and smearing on a fresh coat of lip gloss, she brushed her hair and retied it. At least now the person staring back at her was passable. She had no desire to be dubbed the UK’s female version of Columbo.
Fronting up to the press was not her idea of fun, but she’d been given no choice. It came with the territory. As much as she loved being a DCI, there were certain duties she’d give up in a heartbeat. Especially all the strategy meetings she was supposed to attend.
She was just about to leave when the door opened and Sue, one of the DCs on her team, came rushing in, tears streaming down her face.
‘What is it? she asked, reaching into her bag and passing Sue a tissue.
‘Sorry. I know I should be focusing on the case, but I’m finding it so hard.’ Sue sniffed and wiped her nose with the tissue.
‘Why? Tell me what’s happened.’
‘My dad’s in hospital having heart surgery today. A triple bypass. I stupidly googled the procedure this morning and read all the risks with the surgery. I haven’t told Mum because I don’t want to worry her.’
She pulled Sue into her arms and gave her a hug. ‘I’m sure it will be fine. It’s a routine operation. I remember my granddad having one, and he was perfectly okay after. It gave him a new lease of life.’
‘I know. But I can’t stop worrying about it.’ Sue pulled away from Whitney’s hug and wiped her eyes again.
‘Take the rest of the day off and go to the hospital. Be with your mum. You’ll feel better if you’re close by.’
‘Are you sure? What about the case?’
‘We can manage without you for the afternoon. Family comes first.’
‘Thank you. I really appreciate it.’
‘You’re more than welcome. Now I better be going, before the DSI sends out a search party,’ she said, checking her watch.
She left the ladies’ loo and headed for his office, knocking on the door once she arrived. He called her in.
‘Sit down, Walker.’
He’d got his full uniform on, but the jacket didn’t hide his prominent stomach, which was straining the silver buttons to within an inch of their life. Any moment now she expected them to pop off in revolt against their torture.
‘Sir.’ She sat on the seat in front of his desk.
‘I know we don’t have anything new to report, but the DCSI has been on my back. She’s been getting it in the neck from the public. They’re concerned by the lack of progress we’re making.’
Easy for them to say, as bystanders. She hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep since the first murder. They’d all been working their socks off: background checking, interviewing, trawling through mountains of CCTV footage, following up on potential leads from the public. But she got it. Hard work meant nothing if they didn’t have results to back it up.
‘I wouldn’t say lack of progress, sir. We’re pursuing lines of enquiry. Although we have no solid leads, we have been able to eliminate possible suspects from our enquiries. I’m using a forensic psychologist to help with the profiling. Dr George Cavendish, who works at the university.’
‘Interesting.’ Jamieson arched an eyebrow. ‘I wasn’t aware you liked bringing in outsiders to the team.’
‘Dr Cavendish offered, and I accepted. It’s not costing the department anything. In the past, budgetary constraints meant we were unable to use this type of service. So, contrary to what you believe, it’s nothing to do with my personal preferences.’ She immediately regretted her flippant response, as a dark expression crossed Jamieson’s face. She flinched. He held her career in his hand and annoying him for no real reason wouldn’t do her any favours.
‘And how’s that working out? Is he coming up with anything you can use?’
Good question. How was it working out? Well, underneath all that poshness, George wasn’t as bad as she’d first thought. Okay, they’d never be best friends, not least because George was way too single-minded and serious. Whitney would never mock anyone for hard work, but that was all George seemed to do. And certainly, all she ever talked about. Then again, they weren’t friends, so why would she share any personal details? She hadn’t either. Anyway, it didn’t matter. All she cared about was finding the killer before he took another life.
‘He’s a she, sir. Dr Cavendish has provided us with a detailed profile and has also contributed to our investigation.’
‘Good.’ He nodded.
‘Do you want me to speak at the press conference?’ She assumed he’d be the one doing all the talking. It was good for his image, his major preoccupation.
‘I’ll lead and pass to you any questions you’re better placed to answer.’
Of course he would. Questions which are tricky and might not put her department in such a good light. Because all that was going to come out of the conference was that they were no closer to cracking the case than they were a week ago.
‘Okay. Are you ready to go now?’ She glanced at her watch, noting the conference was due to start in five minutes.
He got up from behind his desk, picked up his cap, and put it on.
‘Let’s go.’
When they reached the conference room, Jamieson opened the door for her to go in. The room was full. There were reporters sitting on chairs, and TV cameras at the back. Whitney sucked in a breath. This wasn’t going to be easy. They wanted answers, and at the moment she didn’t have any.
Michelle, the PR officer, was waiting for them beside the table which was situated along the front. She ushered them along and sat at the end.
‘Good afternoon. Thank you for attending the press conference,’ Michelle said. ‘Detective Superintendent Jamieson will read out a short statement, and then we’ll take questions.’
Jamieson held the statement that had been prepared by the PR department, took a sip of water from the glass in front of him, and cleared his throat.
‘We’ve asked you in today to give you an update on what’s happening with our investigation into the murders of two female students from Lenchester University. We are making steady progress and following some potentially good leads. We are treating the crimes as linked. We believe the killer is male, probably between twenty-five and forty, and has a connection to the university. We ask the public to be vigilant, and in particular request young women do not go out alone. Also, if you are suspicious of anyone you know or have come in contact with, please contact our incident room, so we can investigate. All calls will be treated confidentially. Any questions?’
‘The leads you mentioned. Are you holding anyone in custody?’ a reporter in the front row called out.
‘I’ll leave DCI Walker to answer questions about the leads.’ Jamieson smiled and nodded at her.
She should go into fortune telling, she’d called it right. Leave the difficult stuff for her to deal with.
‘Thank you, sir. At the moment we don’t have anyone in custody.’
‘Does that mean you have no leads whatsoever regarding who’s committing these crimes?’ another reporter called out.
In a word. Correct. But if she said that, then she’d be off the case quicker than she could say serial killer.
‘Not at all. It means we have a number of leads we’re pursuing which I can’t talk about without jeopardising the investigation. But I will reiterate what Detective Superintendent Jamieson has said: we’re anxious to hear from anyone who thinks they might have some information. Don’t worry how trivial it might seem. We want to hear it.’
Asking for the public’s help was a double-edged sword. On the one hand, they might get that one piece of information which could lead them to the killer. On the other, every Tom, Dick, and Harry would call in. Often with totally useless information. Or, and this is what got her so angry, people would phone in with a fabricated story. Or fabricated confession.
‘Is it true the killer took photos of the victims with their phones and left them for you to see?’ a female reporter towards the back called out.
What the fuck?
They’d deliberately held those details back. She glanced at Jamieson, whose face was set hard. She mentally ran through those people who knew about the phones and photos. All of her team. The officers at the scene, plus a few others. Also, some of the top brass. And the pathologist. Even George had known about it from overhearing officers speaking. Too many people.
But who leaked it? What if it was George? She could’ve discussed it with her colleagues and they mentioned it to the media. She’d have a word with her once she left the press conference.
‘I’m not sure where you got that information, but it’s not entirely accurate.’
‘Are you saying the killer didn’t do anything with the victims’ phones?’ the reporter persisted.
‘What I’m saying is it’s not entirely accurate,’ she repeated, trying to keep her cool.
‘Can you be more specific?’ the
reporter continued.
‘You heard DCI Walker,’ interrupted Jamieson. ‘Thank you all for your time.’ He stood up. ‘Walker, with me,’ he said quietly, through gritted teeth.
She followed him out of the room, and they walked in silence until they reached his office. After entering, he closed the door behind them. She braced herself for the onslaught.
‘What the hell happened in there?’ His cheeks were red, and he looked about ready to explode. ‘Who told them about the phone?’
‘I don’t know, sir. It was as much of a shock to me as to you,’ she replied.
‘You need to bring your team in line, because from where I’m standing, you’re looking less than competent.’
He had no proof it was anything to do with her team, and she wasn’t going to stand there and let him get away with accusing her like that. She didn’t care how much it went against her.
‘I’ll be speaking to them. But it’s not just my team who know about this evidence. Some of uniform are aware of it, as are you and others.’
‘I hope you’re not implying I leaked the information to the press.’
She was certain it wasn’t him, but that didn’t mean she shouldn’t point out he knew about it.
‘No, sir. But maybe someone was discussing the case and inadvertently mentioned the phone. Unfortunately, too many people had knowledge of it. I’m not pointing the finger at anyone, just letting you know it’s not just my team who could’ve done it.’
‘What about the forensic psychologist you brought in?’
‘I’ll be speaking to her, and if I find out she was the one, we will no longer be using her.’
She left the office and went back to the incident room, glad to get away from him, but not happy with something else to divert her attention from what was important. Finding the killer before he killed again.
Chapter Twenty-One
George grabbed a table while Stephen queued for their coffee. It was a pleasant surprise when he’d popped into her office and asked her to join him in the university café, as she’d been unable to concentrate on her work. She’d been preparing a report for a meeting of the department research committee, which she chaired. Usually she had no trouble writing her monthly report, but her mind kept wandering to the murders. It was only a matter of time before the killer struck again, and they were no nearer finding him. Was it her fault? Had she missed something?
