DI Giles BoxSet Page 2

  “Sauce?”

  “Yes. As in meat sauce. Bolognese might be a good guess.”

  Yvonne shook her head with incredulity .

  "The victim sustained thirty-six cuts to her breasts, upper arms, neck and thighs. These appear to have been inflicted over a period of days prior to death. The wounds are at various stages of healing. I believe they were made by a long, thin blade, which was extremely sharp - possibly a filleting knife.”

  “Any idea on a make?”

  “Afraid not. At least, not yet” Henderson changed his latex gloves for a new pair and signalled for help to return the victim onto her back. “She was whipped with a flail of some sort and there are numerous wheals on her shoulders, buttocks and breasts.” Henderson took a scalpel from the trolley next to him and, as Yvonne and Brian looked on, he began to cut the skin.

  The first incision curved from behind the left ear, down to the sternum and up to the right ear. The second cut went straight down the middle of the torso.

  Yvonne's knuckles were white as she gripped a work top. A mortuary assistant jotted notes as Henderson spoke into his microphone.

  "The majority of cuts to her arms and breasts are one to two inches long and don't go much deeper than just below the mesoderm. One or two go to a depth of about a centimetre."

  The squelching noise of skin, muscle and organs was the only sound as Henderson unfolded his grim investigation. Cutting and separating, excising and weighing. After noting the weight of the liver, Henderson began careful examination inside the chest cavity. After several moments of silence save for the squelching, Henderson continued his commentary.

  "The oesophagus shows extensive haemorrhaging, and the hyoid bone is broken in two. The heart shows Tardieu's blood flecks.” Henderson stood back and began pulling off his soiled gloves. “Well, detectives,” he said looking from one to the other of them, “she was definitely strangled. We'll await the toxicology report, but that is almost certainly the cause of death.”

  “Time of death?” Brian asked, hopefully.

  “I’m afraid I can’t be more specific than I already have been, there.”

  Yvonne pulled a face.

  “Don’t worry inspector,” Henderson smirked at her. “The insect pupae are with entomology. Hopefully they’ll come up trumps.”

  “I knew you wouldn’t let me down.” Yvonne grinned back at him. “Come on Brian, we’ve got work to do.”

  As they left the mortuary, Yvonne was in no doubt they were dealing with a psychopath. But there was something about the circumstances of this murder which triggered a half-memory in her. A vague, misty thing which curled and wisped and then disappeared. She shrugged her shoulders and set her face against the wind.

  6

  Dramatic music, introducing the BBC real-life crime show ‘Crimewatch UK’, sounded around the studio and in the homes of several million viewers across the country.

  Presenter Fiona Bruce began with introductions for the cases they would cover that evening, whilst Yvonne straightened her clothes, patted her hair and breathed deeply to calm her pre-camera nerves.

  “But first, detectives from Thames Valley need your help in identifying the victim of a most brutal crime in Oxfordshire last week. A young woman, in her early twenties, was murdered and left amongst some trees in the Shotover Country Park near Oxford. Do you recognise her? Police have her finger prints and dental cast but they need your help.”

  Nick Ross looked gravely into the camera, as an artist’s likeness of the girl came up in the right hand side of the screen. “Here with me in the studio is Detective Inspector Yvonne Giles from Oxford CID. What can you tell us about the victim?”

  “We know the victim was young, around 20 to 24 years old, five foot four and slim, with long dark hair. We believe she was killed exactly one week ago. We've been checking medical and dental records in the Thames Valley area, but so far have not been able to identify her. We would dearly like to know her whereabouts in the days leading up to her murder. She was tortured before death and died from strangulation.”

  A loud huff and scrape was heard as Yvonne nervously knocked her microphone with her sleeve. She looked apologetically at Fiona. She'd never felt comfortable in front of a camera.

  “This was a particularly heinous crime.” Fiona nodded for emphasis. “And you believe that the killer could strike again.”

  “Yes, it’s certainly a possibility, as the victim was found naked and without any belongings. We believe the place she was found is not the same place that she was killed. We cannot rule out the possibility that the killer could attack someone else.”

  Fiona turned back to the camera. “So please, if you know who she is, do call us now on 0500 600 600. This was a particularly vicious crime and this killer needs to be caught. Or, if you saw anything suspicious involving this girl, do let us know. Remember anything you can tell us, no matter how small, may help to shed light on this terrible crime. Detectives here are waiting for your call.”

  “And now on to an armed robbery at an off-licence in Leicester…”

  Yvonne was ushered to another part of the studio, where a number of tense police officers from around the country were waiting to take calls from viewers. Brian was waiting at one of them for her to join him. Their phones were already ringing.

  7

  In the small Yorkshire market town of Otley, on the banks of the River Wharfe, Philip James had settled in front of the TV for the evening.

  Otley, birthplace of the world-famous furniture maker Thomas Chippendale, was an ancient town. It was friendly and picturesque. Serious Crime very rarely touched the rural triangle between Leeds, Harrogate and Bradford within which it nestled.

  “Sandra, it’s Crimewatch love,” Philip called to his wife, as she made coffee in the kitchen, he knew she wouldn't want to miss it.

  “Coming.” She called, carrying in two big mugs. Handing Philip his, she settled onto the large leather sofa next to him and felt a slight twinge in her chest. Angina. She’d take a tablet after Crimewatch. Philip put his arm around her as he always did whenever they sat watching TV. She smiled and rested her head on his shoulder.

  A split second after the presenters introduced the first case, and the artist's impression of the young woman hit the screen, Sandra’s coffee mug hit the floor. The dark liquid crept like blood through the sheepskin rug.

  “Oh Lord. It’s, it’s...it can’t be…” She stumbled as her knees became weak.

  Philip grabbed his wife, unsure at that moment if it was or wasn’t their daughter Kelly.

  “I’ll call her love. It can’t be her.” He picked up their phone and dialled his daughter’s mobile.

  After eight or so agonising rings, the answer phone message cut in. “I'm sorry I can’t take your call right now. But if you leave your name and number I will get back to you as soon as I can. Beeeeeeep.”

  “Hello love. It’s your dad. Please call us, we are worried about you.” Philip was sweating and yet felt cold. “Shall I call them?” He did his best to appear calm for the sake of his wife.

  “Yes, please call them.” The words trembled from her lips.

  “What if it’s not her though love?”

  “It’s her. I’m sure it’s her. I think it’s her. Oh Philip.” She sobbed softly.

  Kelly had been away for a fortnight and was due back the next day. She had told them that she needed a holiday, and was going to stay with a friend in London. She'd specifically requested that they not call her unless it was an emergency. In his state of panic and disbelief, Philip phoned the programme.

  “Ma’am,” Brian placed his hand over the receiver. “This could be the victim’s parents.”

  Yvonne rushed to Brian’s desk. She took the phone, breathing deeply. There was always the feeling of inadequacy in the face of death: of having been unable to prevent it and of being unable to do anything to change it. They could only discover whoever was responsible for it. Like closing the stable door after the horse was gone.<
br />
  Her own voice was reassuring as she answered their questions. Their tearful voices a bleak reminder of a killer's ability to destroy more than just the victim's life.

  Arrangements were made for the couple to come down and formally identify their daughter. Harrowing though it was, this was the breakthrough that the detectives had been hoping for.

  8

  The following morning, in a three storey Georgian house in Lansdown Road, Bath, Mrs Catherine Swann sat down to breakfast with her husband Graham. A small brown package fell to the mat at the foot of the front door.

  “I’ll get it,” Graham called, pushing his glasses back up his nose. Setting down his copy of ‘The Times’, he wandered over to retrieve it.

  “It’s for you Cath.” He handed her the package. “Were you expecting something?”

  “No, I wasn’t.” She was open-mouthed as she took it from him.

  Oxford graduates in their forties, the Swanns were proud of their achievements. They ran their own successful antiques shop in Lansdown Road. Graham, and his identical twin brother Michael, had inherited their father’s antiques business in the Camden Passage, Islington.

  Michael still ran the shop there but Graham had always wanted to branch out on his own. It wasn’t that he hadn’t enjoyed working in London. He still travelled up there often - to help out or to look after Michael’s flat when he was away. He just needed his independence.

  Catherine opened the package with its typed address, and found a small purse constructed of coloured leather patches. No note accompanied the purse, which was empty and appeared second hand.

  "Well it’s not an antique," Graham offered, as he took it from his wife and examined it.”

  “Hmm. I guess whoever sent it will be in touch soon to tell me about it. It’s quite pretty,” Catherine mused, setting it to one side and glancing at her husband. He gazed back. The morning sun glinted in her long, grey-flecked hair, highlighting the profile of her face. It struck him that his wife was still a very beautiful woman.

  His mind wandered back to the first time he had laid eyes on her. She had literally taken his breath away. He’d been getting ready to row for St. Cross College rowing team at Oxford whilst she stood on the banks of the Isis, watching his best friend Gerald Adams. They had not intended to fall in love, it just happened. Graham had known even then that he would never let her go.

  "I have to go out for a while, Cath. I have to meet a client. Will you be alright to open up the shop?" He gulped down the dregs of his earl grey and pressed a kiss to his wife's cheek.

  "Yes of course. Will you be long?" Cath was only partially paying attention.

  "A couple of hours, dear. I'll see you later."

  Graham grabbed his jacket, keys and briefcase and disappeared. Catherine looked one final time at the purse, shrugged her shoulders, and went back to battering her boiled egg with a teaspoon.

  9

  Hannah shivered in the half-light. Where was he? Every passing minute amplified her dread. Why, why, why had she agreed to come here? Why had she been so trusting? It was not like her to take such risks, but she had believed she knew him. Believed he loved her. Now she trembled in the knowledge that she had no idea where this was going. She had longed to be at his mercy, now she desperately longed to be free. God help her.

  The muffled noise of a heavy carpet being drawn across the thick oak floor, caused a sickening fear to bring her to the point of fainting. She heard the trap door being lifted and his heavy tread on the wooden stairs. Hadn’t she suffered enough? It must be at least a week since she was imprisoned here. He'd become increasingly sadistic. He was out of control.

  She wished she could see, but the blindfold prevented all but the merest hint of light from penetrating through. He grunted as he pulled her roughly towards him. She felt the shackles being removed and tried to stand but her legs gave way. She collapsed to the floor. With enormous force of will, she stopped herself from sobbing. He mustn't see her broken.

  Thick ropes were being tied around her wrists and she tried in vain to struggle free. However, she'd been naked for three days, apart from a cold metal collar. She hadn't eaten and had consumed only two cups of water. She as weak and delirious.

  She felt her arms being stretched wide, by some sort of pulley system, and a nauseating pain shot through her as she was raised from the ground. The muscles in her arms and back stretched to their elastic limit The joints cracked in complaint and her feet left the floor. Unable to stop herself from crying out, she begged for mercy.

  “Please, please, no more. Please, no more.” Was the voice hers? Her throat was so dry that the cracked, half-strangled utterance seemed to come from somewhere else.

  'Crack'. The huge whip lashed across the already raw skin of her back. Hannah closed her eyes and screamed with shock and pain.

  “When you speak to me you address me properly.” His voice, edged with a menacing cruelty, echoed around the home-made dungeon.

  “N...No more please. M…Master.”

  'Crack'.

  “Now, say you’re sorry.”

  “T...This one is very sorry, Master.”

  “Louder.”

  'Crack'

  She screamed. It was a desperate sound. “This one is very sorry, Master.”

  'CRACK'

  She screamed again.

  “That’s better.”

  Hannah felt the ropes slacken and fell to the floor, crying out as her legs buckled beneath her.

  “Now, on all fours.”

  Hannah, slowly did as he asked - back and head straight, eyes to the floor. Her blindfold was removed, and her eyes gradually adjusted to the low lighting from a single lamp in the room. As her head swam, she just wanted it to end.

  “Now, fetch my paper and my coffee. Don’t use your hands.”

  Using only her teeth, Hannah brought first the paper and then the coffee. Turning her head at an angle so that she might grab the handle, she spilled hot liquid on her face. Gasping loudly, she grabbed the coffee with both hands and threw it at her captor, simultaneously running for the door. Mercifully, she did not see him raise the iron bar that came down on her skull with an appalling thud.

  10

  You always do that.”

  “Do what?”

  “Raise your right eyebrow when you tell me off.”

  “I do not.”

  “Yes you do. Look, you’re doing it now.”

  Yvonne ran into the bathroom, trying desperately not to change her expression so that she could check in the mirror. He followed her in, laughing.

  “See.”

  “Well you drive me round the twist.” She laughed, splashing water at him. “Look, I’ve really got to get bathed. John and Kirsty will be round in an hour and it’s going to take ages to get everything ready.”

  “Oh woe is me. Alas. Alack.” He sighed mockingly, putting the back of his hand to his forehead. He got out just before the wet flannel hit the door.

  “Are you alright, Ma'am?” Brian could clearly see she was miles away. She shook her head to clear the daydream. “Yes. Sorry, Brian. I’m fine. What were you saying?”

  “Mr and Mrs James will be at the hospital in half- an-hour.”

  “Right, thanks.” Yvonne could feel the cold sweat on her brow and palms, as she accompanied Brian out of the station. She dreaded the grief that must surely accompany the James’ visit, but they both hoped for a positive ID on the victim.

  They were not quite prepared for the numbers of press and curious members of public camped outside of the station. They fought through reporters who fired questions at them, only some of which they answered and then only enough to get them off their backs.

  Yvonne lost count of the number of time she said, “you’ll find out more at the press conference.” As they drew near to her car, her mobile phone rang.

  “Yvonne Giles.”

  “Yvonne, it's David. I thought you should know we got the bloods back for Kelly James.”

  “Fin
d anything?”

  “Yes, actually. We found high levels of THC.”

  “She’d been smoking dope?” The image didn’t sit right in Yvonne’s mind.

  “I don’t think so. There were no traces of tobacco components and the levels of THC were extremely high.”

  “So it was taken by a means other than smoking.”

  “Yeah, I’d say so.”

  “How? Injection?”

  “No sign of needle marks so I doubt it was intravenous.”

  “Stomach?”

  “There were traces in the stomach and in the intestine. There were also traces of alcohol.”

  “Could she have taken it in a drink?”

  “I’d say that would be the most likely scenario.”

  “We'll talk to her friends, find out if she was using.”

  “We tested her hair.”

  “And?”

  “No sign of previous use of the drug.”

  “So it was almost certainly given to her by the killer.”

  ”I’d say so, yes.”

  “Well, at least we now know how he brings them under control. Thanks David. I’ll be in touch.” Yvonne snapped her phone shut and jumped in the car. She filled Brian in on the way to the hospital.

  11

  They waited just outside the door as Philip led his wife into the quiet of the hospital Chapel of Rest. Their bodies shuddered almost in unison when they saw their little girl lying on the cold, steel table. The attendants had done an amazing job with make-up. Kelly looked peaceful, as though she had simply slipped quietly away.

  Sandra pressed a kiss to her dead daughter’s cheek. Although it was to be expected, she was still startled at the coldness of it. But it was still soft. So soft.