Unlikely Killer Page 10

  “I understand you had a brief conversation with the couple. Could you tell me what was said?”

  “Mmmm, I’ll try. Lucy and I had had a bit to drink ourselves, I think it started when the girl stumbled, I said something about her being drunk, jokily. The man said it was her birthday, and she’d drunk too much. I said something else, but I can’t remember what it was.”

  “Did the girl speak at all?” Jackie knew she couldn’t have, but she wanted to check Mr Walter’s credibility as a witness.

  George’s face strained in recollection. “I don’t think so, if she had it was only a murmur, but I don’t recall her saying a word.”

  Krein was angry, he felt usurped. He understood that the four police forces needed to work together on this investigation, and he was happy with that, but he wanted to be with Jackie Goodman whilst she took statements from the witnesses. After all, he knew the background intimately, he’d been working on this case since the twelfth of May when Annabel had gone missing. He’d worked late into the night, sussing out the killer’s psyche, the way he operated. So why had they driven two hundred bloody miles just to sit on a press conference, when he could offer so much more than that. Anyway, that bloody Jackie Goodman was another story. Fine, she had worked her way up to a position of respect, and good for her, but if she was too ignorant to even address Katie by the name everyone used for her, what else would she miss in her questioning? He should be there, with her.

  Krein paced up and down the functional room, his mug of coffee going cold on a nearby desk, he could feel the tension in his back and neck from frustration.

  MacReavie eventually broke. “For heaven’s sake, Krein, will you bloody well sit down!”

  Krein stopped mid step, this was the excuse to blow that he needed. “No! It’s not on, Guv! We should be with them on these interviews.” He was trembling with fury.

  MacReavie, in his usual manner, missed the point. “Quite agree, quite agree. A woman interviewing important witnesses, not on, not on at all. But you know how the system works. This is out of our jurisdiction.”

  Blatant sexual discrimination in this day and age, how did he get away with it, Krein mused to himself. He restarted pacing, hands clenched into fists. “Well, I’m sure she’s capable of doing the job, woman or not …”

  “Rubbish, Krein. Detectives and Inspectors should be men, women shouldn’t be allowed on the force, unless it’s for typing and making cups of tea.”

  Krein cringed, maybe he could now understand why Jackie Goodman’s manner was so direct: she must have needed a tough skin to get to her rank. He felt an unexpected glimmer of respect for her.

  “Hello Mrs Walters, thank you for agreeing to make a statement today. I shall be as quick as I can.” Jackie sat back down on the sofa alongside DS Washington, as Lucy Walters seated herself in the chair her husband had vacated minutes before.

  “The couple you saw last night, can you remember what they looked like?”

  Lucy’s manner was calm and confident, her words concise. “Yes, clearly. She was elegant looking, she wore a pale trench coat, loosely tied in the middle rather than buckled. It needed ironing, but that’s par for the course at the end of a night out. She had a long black dress on, it looked dated, but wearing vintage fashion is all the rage nowadays, isn’t it. Her hair was beautifully done, in a neat chignon with a couple of long tendrils falling on either side. To be honest, it looked far too neat for someone who was as drunk as she appeared to be. And strange, but I think she may have been pregnant, she looked it, but most women don’t get drunk when they’re expecting, do they?”

  Ahh, the straw inside her dress, why was Katherine made to look as if she were pregnant? “Lovely, Mrs Walters. I need to clarify that the girl you saw was the victim we have found. I have a photo to show you, would you be able to tell me if it may be the same girl?” Jackie produced the recent photo of Katie Joyce that had been supplied a few weeks previously by the Thames Valley force.

  “Goodness me! Isn’t she lovely. That is the same girl, without a doubt, but last night her skin was a lot duller.”

  “How could you tell?” Jackie was impressed with Lucy’s observational skills.

  “Oh, I know it was dark, but her skin looked unnaturally pale, it just seemed odd. You know when you have a drink, well, it always brings a bit of colour to your cheeks. Well, this girl was drunk to falling down, but she had no colour, she was almost grey, if that were possible.”

  “Yes, I think I understand you completely.” Of course she’d been pale, grey. She was dead, not that Lucy Walters knew that yet, and Katie had been heavily made up. “What about the man?”

  “Well, before I describe him, could I just point out one thing that may or may not interest you?”

  “Please do.”

  “It was the smell, there was a really horrid smell, and it was coming from her. It wasn’t like stale perfume, but a sort of, I don’t know, just an unpleasant, heavy smell. Quite horrid.”

  Jackie could well imagine, having attended the autopsy, however she kept the morning’s revulsion from her face. “Thank you, I’m sure that will be an important point. So, tell me about the man.”

  “Very handsome, scruffy, but handsome. His hair was dark, not black, not dark brown, but a sort of light chestnut. It was quite greasy, and had been cut badly. He had a wispy beard, a very fine beard, but it wasn’t as dark as his hair, it looked blond, but that may have been a trick of the light.”

  “How can you be so sure of the colour?” Jackie found it easy to respect Lucy, she was a wonderful witness.

  “The streetlight was on him, of course! He wore a lovely Arran jumper, which I can imagine cost a fortune, but again, it wasn’t well looked after. It was grubby, and it was snagged in several places. He wore jeans and trainers. He was a slim man, about George’s height, probably mid twenties.”

  “Would you be prepared to help us create a photofit of the man?”

  “Of course.”

  “Thank you. Just one thing, though. Could you just tell me if you heard the girl speak at all?”

  “Yes, she quite clearly said ‘home’ at one point, I watched her lips move as she said it. It was quiet, but I’m sure she said ‘home’.”

  Damn you, woman, thought Jackie. A bloody good witness, but a defence attorney would make mincemeat of her statement if that comment was read in court. She was sure the girl Lucy had seen was Katherine, but any defence lawyer would claim it wasn’t. She sorely wished she hadn’t asked the question now. The interview continued.

  Jackie Goodman waved to Mr and Mrs Walters as they pulled away in their car. They had agreed to come to the police station so Lucy could assist in preparing a photofit of the man, and George had agreed that it was a good likeness. Jackie strode back to the station, climbing the stairs towards her office, where she had left MacReavie and Krein to compare the new photofit with the previous one.

  “The hair has changed, but it’s definitely the same man.” MacReavie sat up straight, satisfied, as Jackie entered the room.

  “I believe so too. It’s lucky we’ve got this so quickly, it will be a great help at the press release, the newspapers will help to make this a nationwide search.”

  Krein glanced at his watch. “Twenty minutes, looks like we got it just in time.”

  The Thoroughfare in Halesworth centre was virtually deserted as the newly disguised Paul strolled into Forbuoys newsagents. He grasped a copy of the local newspaper, folding it to conceal the bold headlines, and paid. Keen to read about his murder, it was bound to be the major story, he wanted to board the train before starting. Paul headed towards the station, the bulging holdall tossed over his shoulder, and the newspaper loosely folded in his hand.

  Apart from a woman who was on a bench, engrossed in a book, the station was desolate. Paul scanned the timetable briefly, noting the arrival time of the next train to London, and sat down on another bench. He unfolded the paper and a light smile settled on his lips as he absorbed the article a
bout his duty.

  The train arrived within minutes and Paul, along with the woman and a group of breathless teenage girls who had just dashed onto the platform, stood, patiently waiting for it to stop. Paul followed the woman into a carriage, and sat, re-opening the paper to continue the report. The train pulled away.

  A few minutes passed and the platform remained silent, until a train approached in the opposite direction and slowed to a stop. A group of excitable reporters and photographers alighted, they were visiting the quiet town for one reason: the press conference. They murmured and chatted, hustling and bustling, enthusiastically keen to head for Halesworth Police Station.

  One man pointed to the large building that overlooked the station, its nineteen seventies architecture bland yet functional, and pointed. “That’s it, there’s the police station.” And they marched together, retracing the steps of the man they pursued, unaware that they had just passed him on the train just minutes before.

  Having welcomed the vast bunch of reporters to the conference, and briefly explaining the circumstances, Jackie passed the microphone to MacReavie.

  “Good afternoon gentlemen.” MacReavie cleared his throat dramatically, ignorant that Jackie and the female reporters were bristling at his disrespect. “According to witnesses, the man we are looking for currently has short, chestnut brown hair and a beard.” He held up the latest photofit. “A copy of this photofit is available for you to take back with you, and your help in publishing it will be invaluable.” He replaced the sketch on the extended table. “We believe he is roughly five foot nine or ten, and every witness so far has described his clothes as a large, probably an Arran jumper, blue denim jeans, and trainers. He is early to mid twenties, slim, and talks with a soft voice in a southern accent, as far as we can tell.”

  Having not been as involved in the investigation as Krein, MacReavie had little more to add, and his speech was over rapidly. He passed the microphone to Krein, who continued relating the case succinctly, yet thoroughly. He detailed from the very first day, the abduction of Annabel Keeley, finding her car in Dorset. He mentioned the bloodied clothes, but deliberately omitted the discovery of the foetus, that was only relevant to the gore-hungry vultures, therefore unnecessary at this point. However, Krein realised he would have to divulge that nightmare to Gregor Keeley soon, now this had become a public matter.

  A brief mention was made of the motorcyclist, Alan Benton, being killed in a hit and run collision with the car, emphasizing it was likely the crash was accidental.

  Immediately a reporter stood up, she waved her hand and coughed to attract Krein’s attention. Krein nodded at the woman. “My name’s Victoria Threlfall, I’m a reporter with the Sun. Do you not find it of interest that Alan Benton’s death was likened to Lawrence of Arabia’s, and that Katie Joyce’s murder is so similar to Rose Harsent’s in nineteen-oh-two?”

  Krein stared at Victoria, his mouth briefly gaping. The silence in the room was palpable. He fished for words, before asking, “Rose who?” He realised immediately that it was the wrong thing to say.

  Victoria was enjoying this, her lifelong studies of murders and their perpetrators finally being of some use. “Rose Harsent, aged twenty two, pregnant, was murdered in Providence House, Peasenhall on the thirty first of May, nineteen oh two. Her neck was slashed from side to side, and the body was drenched in paraffin before being set alight.”

  Krein visibly paled, Jackie focused on the back wall, her lips taut, and MacReavie’s face reddened. Satisfied at the reaction, Victoria continued. “Katie Joyce, aged twenty two, made to look as if she was pregnant, was murdered beside Providence House, Peasenhall on the thirty first of May, two thousand and eight. Her neck was slashed from side to side, then her body was drenched in paraffin and set alight. I rest my case” She sat down smugly, the analogy over, the resulting embarrassment severe.

  And suddenly the noise was tremendous, talking, shouting, laughing, groaning, the collective result becoming white. Sternly, Jackie stood, her presence stilled the outburst within seconds. The crowd waited as she scanned the room, her confidence enviable. “Thank you for your help, Victoria, this is certainly an avenue that we are aware must be investigated, we have already linked the two and are doing our research accordingly.” Krein gasped inwardly in amazement, aware that the reporters had swallowed the lie. “However, now that you, yourselves, have spotted the possible connection, I must point out that Katie Joyce actually died approximately four days ago, the official cause of death is asphyxiation by drowning.”

  Gasps resounded throughout the room, and the murmuring restarted. Krein, having now digested what Victoria had said, realised that they were searching for a man far more sinister than he had imagined. A ritual, serial killer who researched his methods, selected his targets, and killed by choice. He stared directly at Victoria, she smirked subtly and winked.

  Now that Krein and MacReavie had gone, Jackie sat at her desk with her head in her hands, her mind whirring wildly. She glanced out of the window: it was late, the summer sun was beginning to sink slowly. Grabbing her keys, she jumped up and hastened to the door. She needed to see how her team were doing at the scene of the crime.

  The area was still cordoned off, but there wasn’t much to see now the body had been removed and the evidence bagged up. Scene of crime officers and forensic specialists from the Scientific Services Unit at Halesworth Police Station milled around, looking for anything that may help to solve the case. Jackie sighed deeply, sifting through the evidence they’d recovered so far in her mind, she knew they still had little to go on.

  There was no Low Copy Number DNA on the touch points on Katie’s body, leading them to believe the killer had worn gloves. Jackie was preparing to drive back to Halesworth when she spotted a constable rushing towards her. She got out of the car.

  He was breathless, and excited too. “Ma’am, we think we’ve found where Katie was imprisoned. There’s a derelict barn down there.” He bent over, gasping, rubbing at his side.

  A determined expression flooded her face, she strode briskly in the direction he’d pointed, he followed. Crossing the stream, Jackie waded through the undergrowth, the dew soaking into her trousers. Her pace quickened when the constable indicated the entrance. She pushed the rotting wood aside, and clambered into the darkness, grabbing a torch offered by a colleague. Her decision was instantaneous. She climbed back into the fresh evening air, and stood tall. “Cordon it off, we need SOCO’s, forensics, the whole damned team, and we need them now. He can’t escape now, we’ve got him.”

  The rapping on the door awakened Jackie, she sat upright, her neck aching and her face reddened from resting on the desk. She winced as she stretched her numbed arms. “Come.”

  Detective Inspector Dormer entered with a pile of papers, he laid them carefully before Jackie. “A list of the evidence found in the barn, and the tests we’ve run so far.”

  Jackie’s tired eyes scanned the top page. “Black trouser suit. Soiled with urine and excrement. Proven by DNA profiling to have been worn by Katherine Joyce. Fibres. Footprints in the mud. Casts have been taken. Fingerprints that match Katherine Joyce’s. Blah. Blah blah. Anything in this lot that has given us any leads yet?”

  Dormer shook his head. “No, but the details have all been fed into the Holmes System, it’s all catalogued.”

  Jackie nodded slowly. She clicked her PC on. “I’ll email DI Krein, let him know we’ve got more evidence. He’ll be interested in these.”

  Due to retire the next month, Dormer had been in the police force for thirty years, but in all his time he’d never known a colleague so committed to the job. His eyes gazed at her softly. “Come on, Jax, it can wait until tomorrow. Krein won’t be there at four in the morning, anyhow.”

  Krein sat at his desk, a steaming, deathly strong mug of coffee keeping him awake. But his fatigue dissipated when the email from Jackie pinged on his computer. He clicked it open hopefully.

  Sunday 8th June

  Mary K
rein opened the door and carried the tray into the bedroom, the aroma of bacon and eggs wafting into the room. Unusually her parents were both still asleep, so she laid the breakfasts on the bed. “Hey, you two, wake up. Happy anniversary.”

  Krein groaned, work had been so intense recently he could do with sleeping all day. He tugged a pillow over his head, while Linda propped herself up. She nudged him in the back. “Dave, look what Mary’s brought for us.”

  Mary grinned proudly as Krein shrugged the pillow away, raising his head to see the food. The tempting aroma of bacon drifted under his nose, prompting his tummy to growl hungrily. He hauled himself up, awash with tiredness, but aware of his fatherly duties. “This looks delicious, Mary. Breakfast in bed! What have you been up to?”

  Linda gazed at her husband, bemused. “It’s our anniversary, Mr Unromantic. She’s trying to make it special for us.”

  Under the covers Krein’s toes curled. How was he going to smooth this one over? How could he forget their twenty fifth wedding anniversary? From the day he’d first seen her flowing blonde curls, her impish, cheeky smile, the day he’d first held her hand and kissed her tenderly, Linda had been the love of his life. To the consternation of their families they’d sneaked away to get married, it had been so romantic. And now? He’d not even got a card, let alone a present. He wished he could die there and then, anything but deal with the row that was about to happen. Unless he did some quick thinking.

  Krein leaned across the covers and kissed Linda’s forehead. “I know, love, I was only joking. Happy anniversary, I’ve got a surprise planned for you later.” That should buy some time. Hastily, he took the knife and fork and unwrapped them from the serviette, and lifted one of the plates closer. “This looks delicious, Mary, thanks love.”