DI Giles BoxSet Page 10

  “Right, yes. Then he says ‘I eat as it was written…’”

  “Was there any evidence of cannibalism on any of the victims?”

  “No, not at all. The post-mortems were very thorough.” Yvonne paused. “But there were fork marks and food stains present in all cases.”

  “So he is referring to that.”

  “But why ‘as was written’ ?”

  “He’s making reference to something he’s read. In a book or script?”

  “So he’s not a violent movie fan.”

  “Well he may be but that’s not where he gets his ideas.”

  “How do we find his references? Where do we start?”

  ”Well let’s just go through the rest of this letter…”

  “He’s making it clear that he won’t stop unless we stop him.”

  “Right. And he’s tormenting you or the police in general with that knowledge.”

  “He’s enjoying that power.”

  “Then there is the threat to you personally. You can submit to his dominance. What we are looking at is extreme sadomasochism. That’s what these girls have been getting mixed up in either knowingly or unknowingly.”

  “We'll need to talk to experts in sadomasochism and sadomasochistic texts I think. I’ll get someone on it.”

  “You look tired. Have you been sleeping?” Tasha’s eyes narrowed in concern.

  “You’ve heard me getting up in the middle of the night.” Yvonne accused.

  “No, not at all. I’ve slept like a log most nights. Tell you what, I think we should crack open a bottle tonight. See if it helps you sleep.”

  “That sounds like the slippery slope to me, but what the hell. I’ll try anything once!”

  Everyone was now present and there were several conversations going on in the room.

  “Okay, settle down.” Yvonne leaned back to perch on the edge of the desk eyeing the incident board. Around the room, she took in the tapping fingers; the tousled hair; dark lines below eyes. “As you all know, the BBC have very kindly offered to feature the Shotover murderer again on ‘Crimewatch’. Our task this morning is to select the pieces of evidence which will be the most useful to go into the programme. We need to give enough information to help would-be callers, but not so much that we have nothing left with which to nail him when he’s caught. Brian, could you please jot down people’s ideas on the board as we call them out?”

  “Okay, Guv.” Brian took up the pen, “Well we have his shoe prints.” He said as the ideas were slow to start.

  “That is if they were genuine. They may have been left deliberately.” Tasha was still concerned about them.

  “Well he still obtained them from somewhere.” Brian was defensive.

  Tasha acceded. “Fine. Include them if you want to.”

  “What else?” Yvonne was conscious of the time and wished to speed them up a bit, “What should we say about the rituals?”

  “Nothing too specific.” Tasha was emphatic. “Make it general, something to the effect of, 'We believe this man may have bizarre bedroom fetishes involving food and domination.’ Appeal to girlfriends’ ex-girlfriends, ex-wives that sort of thing.”

  Brian was writing hard now to keep up and Yvonne couldn’t help noticing the coolness between him and Tasha. Perhaps she would probe Tasha about it later, as it was important for the team to pull together.

  “Debs, you haven’t said anything yet.”

  “I'm just thinking that saying 'food and domination' may not be enough. Surely it won't mean much without giving an idea of what he does to the girls. Eating off of someone's back really stands out.”

  “I’m inclined to agree with you on that one.” Yvonne looked questioningly at Tasha, “Can’t we say that he has a fetish for eating food off a woman’s back. Nothing more specific than that. If we combine it with ‘I eat as it was written.’ then we have something which has to jog someone’s memory, if they have experienced it.”

  Tasha nodded. “Yes, alright. It might just get us the written reference, too.”

  “I think if we use these pointers, coupled with the circumstances of each girl’s disappearance or death then we surely have to jog something in someone’s memory.”

  The briefing took longer than usual but everyone leaving the room felt more positive and more focussed than they had when they had entered.

  They left the DI looking through the window, the sad expression clouding her eyes had little to do with the case. She was somewhere else, in the middle of a different conversation.

  “Don’t forget your coat. There’s a nip in the air this morning.”

  “Okay. Okay. I’ve got it already. Don’t fuss over me I’m fine.” His words had been impatient.

  “Have you got the flask of tea and the sandwiches I…”

  He gave her a look which made her shut her mouth like a goldfish. There was a moment’s silence and they both laughed. Yvonne pushed him through the door.

  “See you later, Mr Independent,” she said, as she ran her hand down his arm, savouring the warm softness of the fabric. She pressed a light kiss to his cheek. The rough stubble stung her lips.

  “You could have shaved!”

  That was the last thing she had said to him. The very last thing on the very last time she saw him. She was critical of him. Why? Why was she critical of him at that moment? It was something for which she had been unable to forgive herself. Why couldn't she have said something else, like 'I love you'?

  The rest of the day whirled by in a flurry of organisation, but the sadness was still with her when she got home. Tasha was already there and had lit the fire and was busy warming two brandy glasses. After the DI shed her coat, Tasha handed her a generous measure.

  The liquid swam around in a rich swirl of oranges and browns as the firelight reflected and refracted in it. Yvonne sighed softly.

  “Is that warming you up?” Tasha asked, head inclined to one side as she came back from the kitchen.

  “Yes. Yes it is thank you. There is certainly a nip in the air tonight. I guess autumn has finally arrived.”

  “With a vengeance.”

  “So what’s the story with you and Brian?” the look was both mischievous and accusatory.

  “There’s no story.” Tasha frowned.

  “Oh, and I guess there wasn’t an atmosphere today in the incident room, huh?”

  “I’ll tell you if you tell me something.”

  “Tell you? Tell you what?”

  “What happened the other day in the kitchen? You were making tea. I know a panic attack when I see one.”

  “I don’t know what you're talking about and I think you're just trying to change the subject. He has a child you know.”

  “I am not trying to change the subject and there is nothing going on between Brian and myself, okay?”

  “Ooh, handbag.”

  Tasha aimed a cushion at Yvonne which glanced off her head.

  “Ow.”

  “Tell me what was happening in the kitchen.”

  Yvonne’s face grew serious. “If that is what you call it then yes it was a panic attack. I have been having them since...”

  “Ever since what?” Tasha asked softly.

  “Ever since…you arrived and started cluttering up my office.” The cushion was fired back at the bemused psychologist.”

  “Damn.”

  “Damn?”

  “I really thought you were about to tell me about the real story.”

  “Tasha it’s hard for me…”

  “Okay, I’ll wait.” Tasha had to give up, for now.

  58

  Graham tossed his brown leather hold-all onto the kitchen floor and reached for the biscuit tin. The journey had been arduous, with a two mile traffic queue for the first hour. He hadn't had breakfast and was ravenous as he raced down the M4.

  He missed Catherine and all he wanted now was to make up with her. Her face was the thing he had most wanted to see in the world and yet, during their fights, he felt tha
t to look at her made him physically sick. He shrugged his shoulders as he tucked into a Digestive biscuit. Can’t live with. Can’t live without.

  “You’re back.” Catherine announced this with an accepting certainty and a hint of resignation. She was piling washing into the machine and did not stop to look at him.

  “Yes, I’m back. I missed you.” He said this more matter-of-factly than he felt.

  “Really?” She stood up and turned to face him, leaning back to shut the machine door with her heel. She pushed back the tousled strands which had fallen over her face.

  “How was Michael?” The question was gentle. It certainly did not deserve the reaction it got. Graham pushed his chair back so hard it fell over. He left the room, slamming the door behind him.

  59

  A loud cheer went up from CID.

  Brian was at the coffee machine pouring himself a brew. The DI tapped him on the arm, “Come on. We’ve got to go!”

  “Go where?”

  “Haven’t you heard?”

  “Heard what?”

  “Okay, you haven’t. Grab your coat. I'll tell you on the way.”

  Her Sergeant barely had time to grab his jacket before he was in the street outside.

  “Right, now are you going to tell me what this is about?” he asked, struggling to get his arms in the coat.

  “It’s Michelle. She’s come round.” Yvonne wasn’t stopping for anything.

  “That’s fantastic news.”

  “Yes, it is. I know that this is probably not going to be popular but I need to talk to her ASAP. Oh bugger, where’s my keys?”

  “Bottom right hand pocket.”

  “Oh yeah.”

  “Yvonne will you slow down? Two minutes is not going to make any difference.”

  Yvonne wasn’t listening. She was already tossing her bag into the boot of her car.

  They raced to the hospital but the nurses stopped them going through to the girl.

  “I’m sorry but the doctors are with her and then her parents will want to see her, before anyone else gets a look in.”

  “Please nurse, this is very important,” Yvonne pleaded and the nurse left to check with the ward sister.

  When she returned she nodded gently. “You can go in if you stand at the back and don’t try to communicate with her until you have the doctor’s permission. You must give me your word.”

  “Thank you. You have my word. We really appreciate your help.”

  “Don’t mention it. Now if you’ll excuse me.”

  The DI stepped to the side to allow the nurse to pass. She found it hard to be patient at times like this but, as requested, she and Brian stood quietly at the back while the consultant did his job.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Michelle.”

  “And your last name Michelle?”

  “Davis.”

  “What year is it?”

  “Two thousand and twelve.”

  “Very good. Who is the Prime Minister?”

  Michelle smiled and then flinched, the movement stretched her skin and pulled the stitches of her head wound which was still sore. “David Cameron.”

  “Great. How are you feeling?”

  “Okay, I think. A bit dizzy and light-headed, but otherwise fine.”

  “So far, so good. We’ll need to carry out more tests and a scan so you won’t be going home just yet. Are you ready for visitors? Your parents are here.”

  “Yes please, they must have been so worried about me.”

  “Yes, they were. They haven’t left the hospital since you came in. You’re a very lucky girl in more ways than one. That was a very nasty head injury you received.”

  Michelle rubbed her sore throat and became agitated and panicky. “Doctor, I feel sick.”

  The doctor reacted quickly but not quickly enough. Michelle couldn’t wait for the pan. She leaned over the bed, to shed the watery contents of her stomach onto the grey hospital floor which swam below.

  “God, I’m so sorry,” she said between retches.

  The Nurse, smiling softly, ran her hand down Michelle’s arm before bending down to clean up the mess. “It’s alright, love. It’s only to be expected. It’ll just teach us to run faster the next time.”

  The Doctor rubbed his shoes on the backs of his trouser legs.

  “Doctor, may I see my parents now, please?”

  “Yes, of course. I’ll go get them for you.”

  Yvonne and Brian watched as Michelle appeared to struggle to focus on them, as they stood at the back of the room. She appeared frightened and confused, as though trying to make sense of garbled noise, as it only became clear by degrees. She reached up to touch the shaved side of her head. “I must look a sight,” she said, but her words were drowned by the excited exclamations as her parents entered the unit.

  An overjoyed Mr and Mrs Davis were initially unaware of the officers at the back of the room, as they hugged their daughter and told her things that had happened whilst she had been in a coma. They told her they loved her, before taking their leave, so the police could do their job.

  Michelle struggled to sit up straight, wincing again as the movement aggravated various muscular injuries. Brian helped her by propping up the pillows.

  Yvonne’s beginning was tentative. “Michelle, I know you will still be confused after coming round. But I am here to ask you questions about how you came by your injuries. I need to know what you remember.”

  Michelle sighed, “I've been trying to remember how I got here but I can’t. I can’t remember anything.”

  Yvonne took hold of her hand. “I know it’s hard Michelle but try to think back to the last normal day you remember. You were getting ready to go away.”

  “I bought a dress. I was packing it.”

  “Can you remember why you bought the dress? Was it for someone special?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did you catch a train?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “He hurt you, didn’t he.”

  Michelle’s features contorted and she began to cry. “Yes.”

  “Who hurt you, Michelle?”

  “I don’t know.” She was wringing her hands, her expression becoming more and more agitated.

  Yvonne lifted the young girl’s wrists and gently rubbed the rope burns.

  “He tied you up. Were you frightened?”

  “Yes. No. I don’t know. I don’t remember. I’m so sorry, I just don’t remember.”

  “It’s okay, Michelle you’ve been through one hell of a lot. More than most of us go through in a lifetime. It’s going to take time. I’m sorry for upsetting you. It’s just so important for us to catch this man before he hurts someone else.”

  Yvonne looked at her Sergeant as though he might provide inspiration. He quietly shook his head and Yvonne knew she would have to leave it for another day. With a sigh of resignation and a gentle touch on Michelle's shoulder she rose from her seat.

  “Michelle, if you remember anything, anything at all, I want you to tell someone so that they can let us know. Will you do that for me?”

  Michelle nodded and then they left, tantalised by information which was not yet at their fingertips.

  60

  Yvonne was alone in her office, studying the notes from the Emma Shilton murder file and wondering about Keith Jeffries. What it was about him, Yvonne wasn’t quite sure.

  She felt he wasn’t being straight with her and if he wasn’t, then why wasn’t he? The tie and the smarmy attitude had irked her, but Yvonne was sure that it wasn't just that which had bothered her.

  Examining the list of friends and acquaintances of Emma, she had noted Brian’s red pen, where he had managed to find and fill in the current addresses. She decided that the three most important men in Emma's circle, beside Professor Jeffries, had been Michael and Graham Swann and Gerald Adams.

  Michael and Graham were listed as antique dealers. Graham was Emma’s best friend’s husband and she recalled
Catherine’s furtive behaviour when she had interviewed her the other day. Funny how she hadn’t really talked about her husband. Graham was definitely one of the first on the list for interview.

  She caught up with him in his shop. It had taken her forty minutes to persuade Peterson that the repeat interviews were important enough to justify the expenses she was running up driving around the country.

  If the Emma Shilton inquiry came to nothing, she was in some serious trouble. She ducked her head to avoid it clanging into the large bell, which dangled over the door. It rang loudly, announcing her arrival.

  Graham straightened his tie as he came from behind his counter to greet her.

  “Graham Swann?” eHr question sounded more rhetorical than she intended.

  “Yes. You must be Inspector Giles?”

  “I am. Thank you for agreeing to speak with me at such short notice. Is there somewhere we can go to talk?”

  “It’s alright, Inspector.” Graham reversed the sign on the door. “I’ll close, just while you’re here.”

  “So what can I do to help you, Inspector?”

  “Graham, I don’t know if your wife mentioned this to you, but we are re-opening the investigation into the death of Emma Shilton, a fellow student of yours.”

  “I know who Emma was.”

  “How well did you know her?”

  “I knew her very well, Inspector, Very well. She was Catherine’s best friend. She was quite often with us.

  There used to be a whole group of us. After her death, the group stopped meeting up in the same way. It was as though we all knew, deep down, that it just couldn't be the same. That we couldn't be the same with each other. Emma’s death changed everything.”

  “What do you remember about the weeks and days leading up to Emma’s death?”

  “I remember that it was late spring or early summer and the May balls were taking place. Catherine and Emma looked stunning the night Emma disappeared. They were the talk of the ball. We all supposed that someone had taken a shine to Emma and something had gone horribly wrong.”

  “Could it have been someone outside of the ball? Could she have been on her way home, having left early?”