by Andy Maslen
Stella looked down at her green and white hospital gown.
‘Not quite. Give me a few minutes to get dressed.’
Once she’d completed the forms to discharge herself from the hospital, and they were driving back to Paddington Green, Stella spoke.
‘How are you doing?’
‘Me? Fine, now. I was scared we’d lost you.’
She grinned.
‘Yeah, but you wouldn’t have minded that much. No more teasing about your love life for one thing.’
He smiled back.
‘True, true, I hadn’t thought of that. And no more ranting about the coffee running out. Although I think there’s one bloke who might have missed you.’
‘Who’s that?’
‘Jamie Hooke. He called the station asking for you. I had to give him the gist of it. You know, what with you two…’
‘Being an item?’
‘Yeah.’
‘What did he want?’
Garry shrugged.
‘Nothing. I think it was just a social call. You should probably phone him.’
Stella nodded. She called Jamie.
He answered almost before the first ring had purred in Stella’s ear.
‘Oh my God, are you OK? Garry said you were missing.’
‘Yeah, I’m fine, I’m fine. Robey had a sister. She called me pretending to be his wife. She was the killer.’
‘Did she hurt you?’
‘Yes. She got in a swipe with a machete. But don’t worry,’ she added hastily, hearing his indrawn breath. ‘It’s all patched up, good as new.’
‘Wait a minute, “was” the killer?’
‘She’s dead. She attacked me. Self-defence. I can’t say anymore, there’ll be an internal inquiry.’
‘Look, call me as soon as you can. I want to see you.’
‘OK. Me, too. I’d better go.’
‘He all right, then?’ Garry asked.
‘Yeah, fine. Just a little shaken. You know how overprotective men are.’
Garry laughed.
‘Yeah, especially when the woman is a little shrinking violet like you, boss.’
Back at Paddington Green, Callie called Stella into her office the moment she appeared at the door of the SIU incident room. Having first checked Stella was OK, and offered her a drink – refused – she moved on to business.
‘What happened?’
‘I chased her into a kind of hut where they had an oil storage tank. I cautioned her and tried to arrest her. She ran at me with a machete.’
Stella lifted her left arm to show her boss the bandage. The painkillers the hospital doctor had given her were doing an adequate job but she still felt the underlying ache, and winced.
‘Then what?’
‘I tried to wrestle her off me and, in the struggle, she went into the oil. I couldn’t risk going in after her. I thought I’d drown.’
‘You know I’ll have to call in Professional Standards.’
It was a statement not a question.
Stella nodded.
‘Death of a suspect while being arrested. It’s OK, boss. I’ve got nothing to hide.’
Two hundred miles to the north, the new Bishop of Whitby led the congregation at York minster in a special prayer. Celia Thwaites spoke with a clear, steady voice as she asked those gathered in the sight of God to remember Niamh Connolly, Sarah Sharpe, Moira Lowney and Amy Burnside.
It took the detectives three days to organise a couple of tanker trucks to drive to Beckton and pump out the oil pit. The fleet manager confirmed by text that the final volume, as measured by the trucks’ gauges, was nine thousand, three hundred and forty-three gallons.
Preserved like ancient peat bog people in the anaerobic conditions of the oil-filled pit, and as slick and black as sea lions, were eighteen corpses, fourteen female and four male. Those at the bottom of the pile had been squashed and distorted by those above.
The topmost body, impaled on a fence post that the CSM concluded must have been one of those submerged in the oil, belonged to Miriam Robey. Below her were Craig Morgan and Ade Trimmets. The men’s skulls were stoved in and they had been strangled, but not mutilated. Both were recognisable by their facial features alone, which were easy enough to clean up with detergent.
The scrapyard search took a full month, with a team of thirty CSIs, cadaver dog teams and specialist searchers from across the Met working full time. Burnt fragments of women’s clothing, mainly cheap nylon underwear, vinyl miniskirts and stilettos, were discovered in a three-foot deep firepit.
Along with the homemade grille, the team recovered a battered, brass-banded wooden sea chest. It contained a pair of vintage Burgon & Ball sheep shears, a collapsible crossbow, a bone-handled antique grapefruit knife, and a skinning knife, all of which were spattered or stained with blood and tissue fragments that matched Miriam’s four female victims. Fingerprints recovered from the tools and weapons matched Miriam’s.
The rope Stella found in the wardrobe, when measured, was found to be twenty-five metres long. It matched exactly the composition of those manufactured by Sherborne Ropes. Miriam Robey’s DNA was all over it.
The bodies from the oil pit were autopsied over a five-week period at Westminster Mortuary. Dr Craven was one of the team of forensic pathologists who carried out the post mortems.
Malachi Robey was identified by a DNA match to his record on NDNAD and a match to tattoos and prison dental work on his criminal record. Cause of death was given as massive internal injuries including a ruptured liver and spleen.
The final male corpse, which had been down in the oil for longer, judging by its position relative to the others, was identified as belonging to a Jack Haggerty, the original owner of the scrapyard. His skull was crushed. Haggerty’s name was still on the title deed as the owner, so whatever sort of legacy he’d left Malachi Robey, it wasn’t one recognised by the courts.
Eight of the female bodies were eventually identified through DNA and fingerprints as belonging to prostitutes who had been reported missing by their friends. All had been arrested at least once and were logged on NDNAD as well as IDENT1. The causes of death were varied, from blunt force trauma to the back of the head to manual strangulation.
The five remaining female corpses, all judged by the pathologists to have been aged between fourteen and sixteen, were never identified. They, too, had been bludgeoned or strangled to death. The best guess of the investigators was that they were runaways, possibly from the care system. Budgetary constraints and the sheer volume of new cases led to their cases being quietly sidelined.
All the identified bodies that could be were returned to relatives for burial or cremation. The five lost girls were taken to Kensal Green Crematorium in an unmarked private ambulance. Stella travelled with them and watched as their ashes were scattered, with due reverence, over a rosebed in the memorial garden.
The internal inquiry into the events at the scrapyard behind 55 Gasworks Lane took three weeks. The department’s investigators seized the fence post on which Miriam Robey was impaled. They left it to drain for five full days and then examined it for fingerprints using every chemical, electronic and digital technique available to the Met, and some they had to buy in from an external forensics lab. It came back clean.
The inquiry determined that DCI Cole had used force proportionate to the perceived threat and had acted not only professionally but with personal courage in attempting to bring a known serial killer to justice. The formal conclusion was that DCI Cole had not been guilty of any form of professional misconduct.
Stella received a Commissioner’s Commendation for her actions at the scrapyard.
104
NOON, SATURDAY 27TH OCTOBER
HYDE PARK
The bright autumn sun was warm, though the breeze blowing across the lake carried a promise of colder times to come.
The two couples in the rowing boat on the Serpentine were laughing. Jamie had just lost an oar overboard and he and Damian were enga
ged in a frantic effort to retrieve it. Sun glittered off the water, turning the spraying droplets into airborne diamonds.
‘Come on, Jamie,’ Stella said, almost helpless with laughter. ‘Or do Vicky and I need to show you how it’s done?’
‘Oh, ha! Very funny!’
She looked over the side of the boat at her reflection. Just for the briefest moment, as a splash disturbed the smooth surface, the woman looking back at her appeared to wink.
Then the water smoothed out and it was just Stella again, smiling back.
The oar retrieved, the quartet resumed their leisurely progress around the lake.
The End
Read on for a BBC Radio 4 interview with Stella.
Radio interview with DCI Stella Cole. Partial Transcript.
You’re listening to BBC Radio 4. In the first in a new series of interviews with the people who keep us safe – soldiers, police officers, prison warders, paramedics – Vicky Riley interviews Detective Chief Inspector Stella Cole of the Metropolitan Police Service in Our Lives, Their Hands.
Vicky Riley:
Let’s get some of the basics out of the way first, DCI Cole. What made you decide to join the police force?
Stella Cole:
[laughing] Well, the first thing we should do is drop the DCI bit. Just call me Stella. I won’t arrest you! As to your question, I studied Psychology at university and I became fascinated by the question: why do some people do bad things? I wanted to understand it but I also wanted to be part of the fight to stop them. The police was the logical career choice.
VR:
So, Stella, you didn’t think of following an academic path. Research and so on?
SC:
I could have done, I suppose. But I’d had enough of studying and research by that point. I guess I wanted to get my hands dirty. [Laughs] Probably not the best choice of words. Let’s say I wanted to be hands-on.
VR:
And you certainly were. You were one of the youngest female officers ever to make detective inspector in the Metropolitan Police.
SC:
Yeah. The Met’s come in for some stick over the years about equal opportunities, but my experience has been pretty positive.
VR:
So no sexism, then? No problems when your male colleagues saw you get promoted ahead of them?
SC:
Look, the Met isn’t perfect, what organisation is? Certainly not the BBC. But there were plenty of female officers who watched me get promoted as well. Maybe they wanted it as much as the guys. Maybe they saw me as a role model. I don’t know. But, right now, my boss is a woman and although her boss is a man, his boss is a woman. And, obviously, the commissioner is a woman, so I think it’s a pretty safe assumption that the Met, whatever its past, promotes on talent not gender.
VR:
Let’s turn to your work. Now, I know you can’t discuss on-going cases, but can you give me a flavour of the type of case you get involved in? I believe you work in a specialist team that deals with a particular sort of crime?
SC:
That’s right. It’s called the Special Investigations Unit. We look at crimes that, by their nature, fall outside the normal run of things.
VR:
Such as?
SC:
I’m sure your listeners will be familiar with the most serious types of crimes from the news or TV dramas. Hopefully they don’t have personal experience.
VR:
You mean murders, sexual offences, things like that?
SC:
Yes, plus arson, terrorist offences, obviously. Well, the Met had established teams who investigate those types of crimes, but there are times when things go beyond what you might call a simple murder, and yes, I know that murder is never simple. But if there are, for example, multiple victims, or aspects of the case that require a different style of investigation, that’s where we get involved.
VR:
Let’s call a spade a spade. Are you talking about serial killers?
SC:
We prefer not to use that term. We tend to talk about multiple linked offences. But yes, that could be an example, though I would stress that this sort of offender is incredibly rare in the UK. Despite what the telly would have us believe.
VR:
[laughing] Yes, if we believed everything we saw on TV we’d never get a wink of sleep, would we? Now, you’ve said you and your colleagues work on these sorts of very serious crimes, maybe a serial murderer or perhaps some sort of very dangerous terrorist. And I’m wondering what kind of a personal toll that sort of work takes on you and your colleagues?
SC:
[sighs] Obviously, we have to get involved in some fairly distressing situations. But we’re working against the criminals. So when we solve a case, make an arrest, see a perpetrator found guilty in a court of law and sent to prison, that acts as a massive boost to our morale. I guess on a personal level, every police officer will tell you more or less the same thing. You develop coping mechanisms. Everyone knows about copper humour. It can be pretty dark at times, but it’s really a safety valve.
VR:
You’ve looked people in the eye who have committed all sorts of the most horrendous crimes. Most recently, the serial killer Miriam Robey. Are they evil? Mad? What?
SC:
That’s a very good question. Some of them are clearly insane, and when they get to court, that’s what the process will determine. We have a specific verdict of not guilty by reason of insanity and in that case, although they don’t go to prison, providing the evidence against them is strong enough to convict, they’re sent to a secure psychiatric institution. As to evil, I’m not sure what that word means. It feels almost like a word for theologians to use, not police officers. It does get used, of course, and some of the criminals we’ve had in this country, well, I guess evil would definitely cover it. Personally, I’m less interested in labelling them except as innocent or guilty. I guess, deep down, I’m still just a girl in blue.
Glossary
A* – top grade at A-level, equivalent to US A+
A-level – exam taken in a single subject e.g. biology at the end of British secondary school education at age 18
arsey – pugnacious, argumentative, especially with authority e.g. police
banging up – sending to prison
bobbies – British uniformed police officers
boffins – scientists, technical specialists
bollocks – literally, testicles; slang expression of disgust meaning, “Oh, shit!”, “rubbish”
brief – British lawyer equivalent to a US attorney, especially a trial lawyer (barrister in British legal system)
cut-and-shut – illegal practice of making one car by welding together two undamaged halves of other cars
diddling – cheating (someone out of something)
dip – pickpocket
DC – detective constable (lowest rank of detective in British police forces)
DCI – detective chief inspector
DCS – detective chief superintendent
DI – detective inspector
DIY – do-it-yourself (in the UK reserved mainly for household jobs like putting up shelves, minor electrical or plumbing jobs)
dodgy – unreliable (of people or things), not completely legal
DS – detective sergeant
DVLA – Driver and Vehicle Licensing Agency
fag – cigarette
FATACC – FAtal Traffic ACCcident
fence – someone who buys and sells stolen goods, to perform that activity
filched – stole (sneakily rather than brazenly)
FLO – family liaison officer, police officer whose job it is to comfort families of victims of crime and keep them informed of developments in the case
FMO – force medical officer
GCSE – general certificate of education, single-subject exam taken at age 16 in British secondary schools
ghosted – moved from one prison to another
with no notice
ghillie – (Scottish) man or boy who helps people on a hunting, fishing or deer stalking expedition
git – horrible person
Hendon – short for Hendon Police College, Metropolitan Police Service’s main training centre
hob – cooktop or stovetop
holdall – carryall
home counties – the counties surrounding London: Surrey, Kent, Essex, Middlesex, Hertfordshire, Buckinghamshire, Berkshire, Sussex; as an adjective applied to accent, it means upscale/privileged
IPCC – Independent Police Complaints Commission, body responsible for overseeing the police complaints system in England and Wales
J20 – a fruit-flavoured, juice and water soft drink available in British pubs and bars
kit – equipment, to provide equipment e.g. “kit you out”
kosher – trustworthy
lairy – loud, aggressive, excitable
loadout – a soldier’s personal array of weapons and equipment
M&S – Marks & Spencer, British department store
Met – The Metropolitan Police Service AKA “Scotland Yard”
muppet – stupid or dimwitted person
nicked – stolen
numpty – stupid or dimwitted person
occie health – Occupational Health, police department responsible for monitoring, protecting health of officers
PACE – Police and Criminal Evidence Act 1984, legislation governing conduct of police officers in England and Wales
pissed – drunk
plods – uniformed police officers
plonk – derogatory term for female police officer
Portakabins – brand name for portable or mobile buildings
