by Graham Smith
‘What’s her story?’
‘We don’t know yet. The officer I spoke to said that someone from their station is going round to speak to her family. They’ll let us know what the score is.’
Beth added Caitlin’s name to her spreadsheet and started inputting the details she knew about the Dragon Master’s fifth victim, while she thought of the girl’s parents receiving the terrible news that their daughter was dead.
Beth tried to work out why she might have been chosen as a victim. The first four victims were all Cumbrians. While there might be others as yet undiscovered, she couldn’t include them in her thoughts; she could only go with known facts. Caitlin was from Liverpool, which meant she’d either moved to the area or was holidaying in the Lake District.
Aware that she could do nothing more than speculate until there were some hard facts to deal with, Beth concentrated her focus on the four people she knew something about. Fiona McGhie’s file was still thin compared to the others, but it would fatten when the reports came in from the officers speaking to neighbours and people she’d had dealings with. And, with luck, the search team would find a client list for commissioned pieces that would have the name of someone closely associated with one of the other victims.
She reached for a pen and started to make notes of the known commonalities. Both men were staunch Carlisle United supporters. Both worked with their hands, as did Fiona McGhie. While there was a connection there, it was a stretch and Beth knew it. Yes they may all be skilled at what they did, but a secretary who could type 120 words a minute was just as skilled with their hands as a builder or an artist, it was just a different skill.
Rachel and Nick both lived in Carlisle, but Angus’s house was in Longtown, whereas Fiona lived in the countryside.
The men were married, while the women were both single.
Beth picked up the phone and asked the guys at Digital Forensics to check the social media profiles of the four Cumbrian victims. She wanted to know if they were connected on any sites, if they liked similar pages or even frequented the same places.
The fact that Caitlin wasn’t a local played on Beth’s mind. It would be so much easier to get onto the Dragon Master’s trail if they could watch the missing persons’ list. His pattern had been two women, two men and now he’d targeted another woman. If he stuck to his pattern of two, then his next victim would also be a woman.
The idea that the killer was operating on a two-by-two basis flitted across her mind and produced the obvious biblical connection: could the Dragon Master be making pairs of mythical beasts? She pushed aside the idea. Whatever the killer’s motives may be, unless the police knew for certain what they were, they were irrelevant to the investigation. Should they guess at the wrong idea, all that would be achieved was a waste of time and effort.
The more she researched the lives of the first four victims, the more Beth got the feeling that at some point in the investigation she’d seen or heard something which would prove significant in catching the killer. She knew the clue would be listed in her document, that it was a connection between the victims that didn’t show itself directly in the columns or rows.
Even as she was feeding more data into the spreadsheet, her mind was poring over all the known and new facts.
That she’d overlooked a clue, or not made a connection, was a thought which haunted Beth. Caitlin may have died because of her failure to work out the connection between the first four victims. But then she rejected the idea before the tentacles of self-doubt could worm their way into her mind and suffocate her thought process.
As she returned her gaze to the list of commonalities, Beth twirled a pen around her fingers. Her phone beeped and when she checked the message, she saw it was O’Dowd requesting that she get herself to Penrith’s station at once.
Sixty-Seven
Beth dumped the heap of reports onto her desk. The summons from O’Dowd had been for assistance with interviewing several people the DI had hauled in because of the various beefs they’d had with either Fiona McGhie or Rachel Allen.
While Carleton Hall may be the official HQ for the Cumbria Constabulary, it had neither cells nor interview suites, so any interviews the team conducted had to be done at Penrith’s station.
None of the men and women she’d interviewed with O’Dowd had presented themselves as anything other than innocent. What had been interesting though, were the extra details she’d picked up about each of the victims’ lives.
Fiona McGhie may have been a talented artist, but she was an acerbic woman whose tongue was famed for its sharpness. The arguments she’d had had all been minor ones that had been escalated by the viciousness of her response about trivial matters.
From everything Beth had heard about her, it was little wonder the artist had cloistered herself away. She had no friends outside the art world and even then, the people she associated with described themselves as acquaintances rather than friends. They spoke of her talent with a brush, not her likeability as a person.
Rachel Allen, on the other hand, was gregarious and outgoing. She had a wide circle of friends and only a few people had anything negative to say about her. A co-worker had described her as a tease. He’d shared a kiss with her after a leaving party, but she’d not let things progress and had blanked him the next day.
Rachel’s friends had told of similar experiences with other suitors. By all accounts, Rachel had often dressed to impress – one of her friends went so far as to use the term ‘fuck-me dresses’ – but had rarely hooked up with any of the men she attracted.
As Beth and O’Dowd had dug deeper into Rachel’s life, they sketched a picture of a confident young woman who always loved to be the centre of attention. On more than one occasion, Rachel had fallen out with a particular girlfriend over her flirting with the girl’s boyfriend. Rumours had circulated that she’d slept with the guy, but both Rachel and the man in question had apparently denied anything had happened.
One of Rachel’s ex-boyfriends had described her as a wannabe princess who’d expected him to wait on her like a slave. He’d broken up with her when she’d refused to do anything for herself other than buy clothes and beauty treatments.
Neither Beth nor O’Dowd had picked up any signs from anyone they’d spoken to that they had a serious grudge against Rachel, or that they’d kill her let alone embark on a killing spree. Even the girl whose boyfriend had allegedly slept with Rachel had admitted she’d used the flirting as an excuse to dump the guy, rather than having any real belief he’d cheated on her.
With so many possibilities exhausted, there was nothing to do but keep going over all the statements until she found the elusive connection between the victims.
Beth checked her emails and found another update from the Digital Forensics Unit, plus an email from the Merseyside police.
Caitlin’s life was laid bare for her. The girl had been in and out of trouble since she left primary school. Her family were well known to the police as small-time drug dealers who also dabbled in stolen goods and whatever else they could lay their hands on. Two of her brothers were currently residing at Her Majesty’s pleasure, as were an uncle and a cousin.
According to her parents, she’d left the house on Wednesday after a row with her mother and had gone to stay with her boyfriend. The notes on the boyfriend’s family showed them to be almost as troublesome as Caitlin’s.
Like Suzy Keane, Caitlin’s family had swiftly moved on from grief to anger. They’d threatened to complain to every paper in the land should their precious daughter’s killer not be caught. Her father had even requested that the Merseyside police turn the killer over to him so he could deliver a biblical revenge.
It was a normal response to sudden violent death. Beth knew that despite any family tensions or petty squabbles, the Russells would miss and mourn Caitlin. Grief was a raw and visceral thing, and the first instinct was always to lash out, to try and achieve the transference of pain.
Caitlin’s boyfriend was th
e obvious next step in her investigation. The Merseyside police had done their bit and had gone round to his house, but he’d left with Caitlin an hour after she’d arrived. His mother had said they were going to the Lakes, but she didn’t know why, or had deigned not to say, as she perhaps had felt that the truth would be incriminating.
Whatever the reason, they had to find her boyfriend. Beth felt it was unlikely he was mixed up in Caitlin’s death, but he still needed to be interviewed as he would have been the last person to see her.
A worse thought entered Beth’s mind. Maybe he too had been killed. His body displayed with a pair of wings emerging from his back after the killer had snatched the couple in a weird two-for-one deal.
As she read on, she was pleased to note that a trace had been issued for both his mobile phone and his number plate – finding him shouldn’t be too hard.
She moved on to the second email.
The various social media profiles of each of the known victims were telling if not informative.
Angus Keane had used Facebook as a place to advertise his business. He had a page where he uploaded photos of completed work and his header picture was little more than a billboard for his building work. He didn’t engage with anyone other than those who messaged his page or commented on the pictures of the completed projects that he posted.
Beth remembered her training and tried to get a measure of the man from his posts. The spelling and grammar were good; even the timings of his posts suggested a consideration for others. He’d go online once a day between eight and nine at night and post his messages. Beth could imagine him reading his girls their bedtime stories, tucking them in and then heading downstairs to do what needed to be done online before settling down to watch some TV with his wife.
Nick Langley had used Facebook to discuss football, politics and generally complain about the state of the country. His posts were full of misspellings and littered with mild xenophobia, but other than references to Carlisle United or generic local places like the cinema, there were no obvious connections with any of the other three Cumbrian victims.
Rachel Allen’s social media was what Beth expected from a single twenty-something. She was on Facebook and Instagram. Her Instagram posts were connected to her Facebook account and there were countless selfies of her in her mirror at home and on nights out. Looking through the pictures, Beth could understand the friend’s comment about Rachel’s dress sense. Almost every picture of Rachel showed her in clothes that accentuated her figure or downright flaunted it. Each one was a prime example of a person screaming, ‘hey, look at me’.
Beth knew one or two people who dressed the way Rachel did. Behind all the front and the noise, they were insecure and she pitied them for thinking they had to dress provocatively just to get attention. There was nothing wrong with wearing an outfit that made you look and feel good, but for Beth, there had to be a balance. If the pictures of Rachel were anything to go by, she’d never heard the old rule about showing either legs or cleavage, but never both.
Facebook comments and emojis to friends’ posts, check-ins at every place she’d been, and countless tags in the pictures of others – her profile was typical of her age group: whinges about work; excitement for forthcoming events and a plethora of shared memes.
As with many people her age, Rachel hadn’t yet settled on a particular career path. She was listed as having one job after another, the longest lasting just over a year. She worked as a secretary or admin assistant and had been employed at a variety of different locations around Cumbria.
Beth supposed she had been trying out various things until she found a job she loved. When that had failed, she’d decided to go travelling.
Fiona McGhie’s Facebook was little more than an advertising hoarding, in the same way Angus Keane had used his account. It listed nothing bar her latest works and provided links to various blog posts. Her Twitter account told a different story. It was here that she expressed her opinions on all manner of topics in caustic 280-character soundbites. No target was immune from her scorn, although Beth noticed she had the good sense not to criticise her customers.
When Beth checked out the blog attached to Fiona’s website, she found a collection of posts which commented on the issues facing independent artists mixed in with posts on Fiona’s inspirations and some of the artistic techniques that she used.
While the blog might have been of interest to some of her customers and fellow artists, Beth found it had an undercurrent of unspoken rage. The post on her blog about the supplier who’d failed to deliver on time had been a vitriol-fuelled hatchet job that bordered on the libellous.
Beth finished her reading and pushed her chair back so she could stand and stretch her limbs. After everything she’d learned about the minutiae of the victims’ lives, she now felt closer to them, understood them more.
Sixty-Eight
Sarah slid her feet into three-inch heels and walked across the room to check herself in the mirror one last time. She applied a final layer of lip gloss and inserted another kirby grip into her hair. All day she’d agonised over whether to wear her hair up or down and in the end she’d decided on up. That way she could also leave her neck exposed for any kisses that may come its way.
For what seemed like the thousandth time that day, she looked at her watch. Kevin was due in ten minutes and she wanted to be ready when he arrived. Not that she wanted to be too keen and be waiting at the door, but she prided herself on her good manners and she didn’t know whether he’d be early, bang on time or fashionably late.
The last thing she did before going down the stairs was to dab a little perfume behind her ears and stuff her mobile into the clutch bag alongside the lip gloss and the one or two other pieces of make-up she always carried for emergencies. Her credit card was there too, along with a couple of twenties.
She didn’t expect that she’d need any money tonight, but if he suggested they stop off somewhere for a drink on the way back, the least she could do was offer to pay for it.
Sarah had planned on switching her mobile to silent and leaving it in her bag all evening, but her mother had called to say that Nana had taken a bad turn earlier in the day. It would be rude to take a call during dinner, but she planned to forewarn Kevin of the situation. If he was as decent as he purported to be, he’d accept the intrusion with polite grace.
Should it prove to be an issue for him, then she’d know from the start that he wasn’t the right man for her. Family was everything, and if he couldn’t accept that she may get a call summoning her to her nana’s deathbed, he wasn’t the kind of man she wanted in her life.
As she looked out of the window to anticipate his arrival, Sarah felt an unfamiliar flutter of nerves. She was used to going on dates and wasn’t sure why she was nervous until she admitted to herself how badly she wanted tonight to be perfect.
There was already a spark, obviously, but she wanted to know he was kind and respectful. She also suspected, like lots of men she met, that he might be dating other women. So she knew she had to stand out – be the kind of girl he’d take out again and again.
Another factor to consider would be their disparate backgrounds; she would have to find common ground and shared interests.
The main thing was, she had to leave him wanting more.
As she gazed out of the window, a gleaming Range Rover pulled up outside her door. She liked how he climbed out and walked up her path to knock on the door instead of just beeping the horn. He wore a designer suit, and an open-neck shirt without a tie and there was a suaveness about him that made her nerves give way to a far more primal feeling of desire.
Sixty-Nine
Five names in succession on the notepad. Each of them a victim, yet all of them were speaking to Beth. Their voices almost became one as they mocked her for her failure to solve the case. Loudest of all were the vicious tongues of the cultured, but acerbic Fiona McGhie and the half-educated, coarse scouse accent of Caitlin Russell. Rachel Allen was full of
accusations about Beth letting her down, while the two men implored Beth to give their families the closure of justice.
Beth re-ordered the names on her list in several ways to try and find a pattern.
Old to young didn’t make any sense as the oldest victim was the first and the youngest the last. Reversing the list didn’t work as the middle three victims’ ages were out of sync with the order of their deaths.
Rather than list them horizontally, Beth tried listing them vertically, and added their jobs and careers alongside:
Angus Keane – Builder
Nick Langley – Builder
Rachel Allen – Secretary
Fiona McGhie – Artist
Caitlin Russell – Unknown / Unemployed ???
As soon as she’d written the five names, she realised her mistake. It had been habit that had made her write them that way, as it was the order in which she thought of them: that’s how they’d been introduced to her. She re-wrote the order of the list from the victims’ discovery to the chronology of their murders:
Fiona McGhie – Artist
Rachel Allen – Secretary
Angus Keane – Builder
Nick Langley – Builder
Caitlin Russell – Unknown / Unemployed ???
No matter how she stared at the names, they didn’t speak to her in a way she could understand the connections between them.
With nothing obvious coming to her, she decided to grab a drink and give her brain a chance to reboot itself.
‘D’you want a cuppa, Paul?’
Unthank was the only one in the office. Thompson was off speaking to Fiona McGhie’s neighbours again, and O’Dowd was in conference with the DCI, ACC and the press officer. It was a meeting Beth was delighted not to attend.
