DI Giles BoxSet Read online

  “We have a lead.” There was not another sound as Yvonne related her conversation with Eileen Williams. As she finished she took a deep breath and asked, “Can we put a trace on this Master SlaveStalker?”

  All eyes switched to the two IT experts. The taller of the two stood up and walked to the front of the room. “We can certainly try. We’d have to talk to the Internet Service Provider for the chat site, and ask for the IP address of the chatter’s PC. Even if we are not able to pin-point the user, we can certainly narrow down the area we are looking at and, if we can get him to email us, well that could narrow it even further.”

  Yvonne stood up, “Well, Mrs Williams has agreed to help us to get chatting to him. She is going to meet me online at Twenty-hundred hours.” The DI looked apologetically towards the guys from IT. “Can you be here then?”

  The shorter of the two experts looked at his watch, sighed and then nodded. “Sure.”

  Yvonne sensed Tasha watching her and at the end of the meeting, Yvonne was more hurried than usual as she set off down the corridor.

  “Are you avoiding me?” Tasha pressed the office door closed and gave Yvonne an uneven grin, her brown eyes glinting with amusement.

  “Not at all.”

  “Did I offend you?”

  “No.”

  “Then, what?”

  “Tasha, I’ve just been busy.”

  “You didn’t wait for me to finish my story.”

  That was true, Yvonne had been very quiet as she finished her meal at Brown’s restaurant and even she wasn’t sure why. She wasn’t homophobic but the psychologist’s disclosure had been unexpected, and Yvonne was unclear about how she should behave. Especially, in view of how close they had been growing.

  “Do you want to know something?” Tasha asked slowly, she knew that Yvonne was feeling uncomfortable and perversely wanted to punish her. She moved in closer, trapping Yvonne in the corner - her hand on the wall blocking the exit.

  “What?” Yvonne’s breathing had quickened and there was the look of frightened animal in her eyes.

  Tasha’s voice was low. “When I was younger, and first started ‘coming out’ to people, I’d mention that I was gay and all the women in the room would immediately check that their skirts were covering their knees.”

  The DI ducked under Tasha's arm. Trembling, she placed her hands on her hips. “Look, Tasha, I really don't have an issue with you being gay. Okay?”

  It was only partly true, but any issue she did have was more to do with her own feelings than with Tasha's sexual orientation. “I have to get back,” she said, mustering her calmest smile. “We can talk later.”

  Tasha looked amused.

  68

  The old bungalow in Abingdon was in need of a fresh whitewash. The loose pavers at the front of the house clunked and threw water all over their shoes and ankles as they passed the old glasshouse which was covered in ivy, the only plant it was cultivating.

  The gravy stains on the pale blue cardigan, the laddered tights and the dirt-greyed slippers with the gnarled toe nails poking through all spoke of neglect and abandonment. The door opened revealing the timid, elderly lady.

  “Are you from the gas board?” The eyes darted from Yvonne to Brian and back again.

  “No, Mrs Shilton. We are not from the gas board, we’re police officers.” Yvonne held up her ID. “It’s nothing to be worried about.”

  “Oh.” The disappointment was audible. “I thought you were the gas board. I’ve been having trouble with my gas fire. I can’t turn it off and I have to keep phoning my neighbour.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Mrs. Shilton.”

  “It’s alright.” Frances Shilton turned slowly around and beckoned them into the house. “Would you like coffee?” She asked shuffling towards the kitchen. “Forgive my slowness, I’m waiting for my hip replacement.”

  “That’s alright, here let me help.” Yvonne followed her into the kitchen, scanned the jars and began helping the old lady to make three mugs of hot coffee, her eyes drawn to the frighteningly-loose electricity socket in the kitchen into which the old lady was plugging the kettle.

  The coffee made, she followed Mrs Shilton as she shuffled painfully-slowly back to the living room.

  “Mrs Shilton, we’ve come to ask you a few questions about Emma.” Yvonne began, wanting to work slowly towards the crux of their visit. How on earth did you ask someone if you could violate the grave of their daughter?

  Mrs Shilton sat down heavily in her well-worn armchair. “She was my only child you know. My only child. She could be quite wilful when she wanted to be, but I’ve missed her terribly. You know she camped out at Greenham Common. Greenham Common. It was all in the papers and on the news.”

  Yvonne smiled gently at the anachronistic reference. “It sounds like your daughter was a courageous girl.”

  “Oh, she was. She believed in standing up for what was right.”

  “Mrs Shilton…”

  “She was murdered you know.”

  “I know Mrs. Shilton and that’s…”

  “They never did find out who did it. My poor, poor Emma. Murdered.”

  “We want to help find out who did it.” Yvonne began tentatively, “That’s what we’ve come here to talk about.”

  “She was Craig’s pride and joy. His pride and joy. He died you know. Died without knowing who killed her. You’ll find out, you say?”

  “We hope so, but we’ll need your help.”

  “My help?” The old lady appeared surprised at the idea. “How can I help? I didn’t see. I don’t know anything.”

  “I know, Mrs Shilton. It’s just that there are still unanswered questions and we need your permission to answer them.”

  “Can you write down your telephone number for me on there, please?” The old lady pointed to the tray of her walking trolly-come-zimmer frame. “There’s a pen. There’s a pen somewhere there, under the paper, I think. Is it there?”

  Yvonne found the pen and began writing down her details, as Brian stood looking out of the window, a look of boredom on his freckled features.

  “I never know who to phone you see. We get vandals round here. They don’t work you know, those new anti-social...anti social…”

  “Behaviour Orders?”

  “Yes that’s it. They don’t work.”

  “Mrs Shilton,” Yvonne decided the time was now. “There’s something we need to do in order to try to solve your daughter’s murder. But we need your permission. We need you to sign this request form.”

  “My permission? Sign?” Mrs Shilton sounded doubtful.

  “Yes. Mrs Shilton, do you know what an exhumation is?”

  “Exhumation?”

  Yvonne had been running the words over and over in her mind, looking for the most gentle and acceptable way of putting it.

  “Yes, we want to bring your daughter’s body back to the surface so that we can examine her again.”

  Mrs Shilton was silent for a moment. “Will it help to catch him? Craig would like that.”

  “I hope so, yes.”

  Frances Shilton snatched the paper out of the DI’s hands. “I’ll sign.”

  As she left the bungalow, there was a definite spring in the DI's step. Her hand gripped the paper with the precious signature. Options and avenues were well and truly opening up.

  It was eight in the evening and Yvonne was sat at the PC, logging in to the web address she had been given by Eileen Williams. Tasha was sat next to her and on the next PC along sat the guys with all the experience of cracking hard-case, hard core internet crime.

  Although relations hadn’t exactly been smooth between Yvonne and Tasha, the DI was very glad of the psychologist’s presence at this moment in time. Even though she was in a police station, and would not be communicating with the putative killer face to face, her palms were sticky - the soft flesh sore with the fresh, livid imprints of her nails.

  Fifteen minutes felt like fifteen days as they waited for Lady Firebir
d to open her chatroom.

  Nobody talked. It was as though everyone was saving their energy for the chase to come. When Lady Firebird arrived, and the chatroom appeared, Yvonne looked towards Tasha for a smile of support before double-clicking ‘Citadels of Fire’. She was to chat under the pseudonym dahlia.

  Lady Firebird: dahlia, how are you feeling? Are you ready?

  dahlia: I think so.

  Lady Firebird: remember you must not speak of yourself in the first person. Only as ‘this one’ or ‘this girl’ do you understand that?

  dahlia: Yes this one understands.

  Lady Firebird: Good and remember you must call me Mistress or Lady Firebird and Master SlaveStalker you must call Master or Master SlaveStalker. Be self-effacing at all times.

  dahlia: Will he be able to see any of this?

  The DI was suddenly afraid that the game could be over before it began.

  Lady Firebird: No dahlia. He will only see anything that is written AFTER he enters the room.

  dahlia: Thank God. Will he be here soon do you think?

  Master SlaveStalker has joined the conversation.

  Yvonne almost jumped out of her seat. She began to tremble as her fingers pressed the keys, she knew that he couldn’t possibly have known what she had just written and yet here he was – like the devil. She typed slowly as she assessed and reassessed each word she wrote.

  Lady Firebird: Greetings Master

  Master SlaveStalker: Hello LadyFirebird and hi to dahlia. You are new to the room little one…

  dahlia: yes, this one is very new Master.

  Master SlaveStalker: It is lovely to make your acquaintance.

  Lady Firebird: dahlia is quite new to my room but I have seen her from time to time in the slave school.

  Master SlaveStalker: Indeed.

  dahlia: yes Master this one has been taught by the best.

  Master SlaveStalker: dahlia… come kneel at my feet.

  LadyFirebird was ‘whispering’ to the DI, telling her what to say each time there was a pause.

  dahlia: slips quietly to the Master and kneels at his feet.

  Master SlaveStalker: good girl, now let me stroke your hair.

  dahlia: yes Master.

  Master SlaveStalker: do you trust me?

  dahlia: Yes Master.

  Master SlaveStalker: Then all is well.

  Yvonne looked across at the IT team who were nodding, her signal that Lady Firebird had passed on the IP address they needed. The DI gave her apologies and left the chat room.

  69

  The following morning, the DI was humming as she added the finishing touches to her interim report.

  “Bad news.” Tasha tossed the newspaper down onto Yvonne’s desk.

  “What? Oh no.” As she read the article her heart sank.

  KEVIN BROWN MURDER TRIAL BEGINS.

  Huge numbers of people gathered together today outside of the Leeds Crown Court, as the trial of Kevin Brown, accused of the brutal murder of Miss Kelly James, got underway. The parents of the murdered girl and several of her relatives were present as the prosecution, lead by QC David Morley, opened its case to presiding Judge Douglas Cairns.

  Angry scenes followed as stones were thrown at the heavily guarded prison van making its way towards the Court. Brown emerged, hidden underneath a prison guard’s coat as more stones were thrown and police, including mounted officers, were called in to help control the situation.

  The jury have been under strict orders not to read any newspaper articles about the case and have been asked to ignore rumours that Kevin may be the so-called ‘Shotover Sadist’, said to be terrorising the female population in Southern England where Kelly’s body was found.

  Detective Inspector David Spencer of West Yorkshire Police, declined to comment earlier this week, but sources say that police are confident of getting a conviction due to ‘unimpeachable forensic evidence’ obtained in the days following the discovery of Kelly’s body.

  West Yorkshire CID are said to disbelieve the rumours of a serial killer on the loose, favouring instead the idea that the murderer of Hannah Wilson was a copycat killer using the methods of Kevin Brown which had been published on the internet shortly after Kelly’s discovery.

  “I don’t believe it. How can they possibly still think that Kevin is the murderer? It flies in the face of all the evidence. Surely, even they can see that?”

  “Well, not all the evidence, Yvonne. As far as they are concerned, the bloody shirt carries the most weight. They badly want a conviction. They had forensic evidence and a case to put before the CPS. In the eyes of the public, they’ve done their job, and the CPS must believe there's a case to answer.”

  Yvonne tossed the paper in the bin, look of disdain on her face. “He just doesn’t have the wherewithal to carry out that murder. He’s innocent and he could be jailed for life.”

  “Well, he’s not convicted yet and it’s just another reason for us to catch the real killer as soon as possible.”

  At that moment, Brian entered with yet more bad news, this time from IT regarding the IP address.

  “They’ve narrowed it down to the London area, but they can only get a trace as far as the proxy.” he ran his hands through his hair, his face full of apology.

  “Meaning what exactly?” Yvonne’s frustration made her sound angrier than she was.

  “If a proxy sits between the users and the net, all of the users appear to come from one computer. Meaning he could be on one of hundreds of computers in the London area and possibly an Internet Café PC. I’m sorry.”

  “Damn.” Yvonne stopped pacing the room and sat down heavily. “What now?” She asked, rhetorically.

  When she returned home that evening, Yvonne tossed her keys down on the hall table and slumped onto the sofa. She was exhausted and, once again, demoralised.

  Tasha followed closely behind, unsure of how to comfort her. Her instinct as a friend was to put an arm around those tired shoulders but, in view of their recent conversations, she decided it would probably not be appropriate. Nonetheless, she was concerned about the strain beginning to show through the tired face, and bloodshot eyes, of the detective.

  “Talk to me.” She said softly.

  “Oh, Tasha,” Yvonne sighed heavily. “I thought we were onto something. I honestly thought we would get a trace on him.”

  “You still have other avenues to explore.” Tasha placed a reassuring hand on the other’s shoulder.

  “Yes. An exhumation that nobody really wants, a bunch of jaded academics who all claim that somebody else must know a lot more than they do and a devastated victim who cannot remember anything about her attacker.”

  Tasha searched for the right words but, unusually for her, they wouldn’t come.

  “Wait a minute.” Yvonne’s eyes suddenly lit up and she had the look of someone about to burst. “There is something else I could do.”

  “Go on...”

  “Well, if Master Slave Stalker is picking up young women from the internet, then why not me?”

  “You? You mean entrapment?”

  “Well not entrapment exactly, more enticement. It’s been done before with paedophiles. So why not a serial sex killer, if he picks his victims up via the internet?”

  Tasha thought for a moment. Then: “You’ll have to be careful. You can’t put words into his mouth or try to entice him into confessing to anything.”

  “I know. Will you help me?”

  “Help you in what way?”

  “To say the right thing, silly.”

  Tasha looked concerned, she had a niggling sense of foreboding about this plan, but nodded, “I’ll do my best.”

  70

  White clouds of breath curved and broke, dissipating fast in the flesh-tingling chill of the clear night air. She watched it distractedly for a moment, in a strange state, as the insistent hum of the generators made her sleepy. The harsh light of the flood lamps, and the immediacy of the nights work, prevented her from relaxing. She
yawned and checked her watch. Nine-fifty pm. They had nearly finished inside the tent. The coffin was already above ground. There was no real need for her to be here at all except for the nervous superstition that had dogged her all day.

  It had taken lengthy reports, and lots of back and forth with the Home Office, for the Chief Constable to obtain the licence. Yvonne was praying, in the frozen air, that it would all prove worth it.

  Not for the first time she questioned her motives, self-doubt wrestling with the single mindedness which had brought them all to this point.

  Even if they were able to obtain DNA from the foetal femurs; even if it were not too degraded; even if it were of sufficient quality and quantity to be amplified and analysed, it was likely to be mitochondrial DNA and not nuclear DNA. Forensics was better if they had nuclear.

  Although there were several uniformed officers around, she was afraid of sabotage by some hidden and elusive adversary. She could almost feel eyes, like the maggots of Blow flies, boring into the back of her head. Was he, even now, laying his seed in some poor unwilling victim. A victim whose death steadily approached with every moment.

  A shudder racked her body and she spun around hard and scanned the trees in the blackness at the edge of the cemetery. She could see nothing, save the mirage of lights imprinted on her retinas, from the flood lamps.

  “I bet you’re out there,” she said out loud and turned her attention back to the tent, hopping from foot to foot in a futile attempt to warm herself up.

  “Surprise.”

  Yvonne jumped, as a hand came over her shoulder holding a plastic cup of hot liquid.

  “Bloody hell, Tasha!” The DI held her chest with her hand in an effort to calm it.

  “Sorry. Thought you might like something hot and wet.”

  The DI’s eyes shot up, her right eyebrow raised.