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  The ducks had seen the sandwiches and Yvonne chuckled at their fake innocence, as they waggled their way to them alongside the lake. Fluttering upwards every now and then to ward off the competition.

  She turned her head back towards the rest of the park but the sky had become a swirl of orange and rust, the eerie glow reflected on everything around. At the other side of the water was the student Yvonne had watched earlier, frantically struggling with a man who dwarfed her in height. He had her by the throat, lifting her bodily from the floor with one arm. Yvonne pointed, pulling at David who showed no signs of having seen anything at all. She tried to shout, but her sandwich had gone down the wrong way and a clogged choking was all that came out. Shaking, she tried to run but the student and the attacker disappeared into a mist, which had gathered at the opposite bank.

  She looked desperately back to David who still appeared unstirred. No, not just unstirred, he was hovering. Confused, she shook her head violently and looked again. He was floating a good foot above ground level.

  "Nooooo" Was that her voice?

  "I'm so sorry, Yvonne. I'm so very sorry."

  "Don't go. Please, don't go."

  "Forgive me."

  Her face awash, she watched helplessly as he drifted up into the unworldly red of the sky and tried to run in his direction. Her feet wouldn't move.

  Yvonne bolted upright. Awake. Sweat-soaked. Ears wet and itchy from copious tears. There was nothing. Just the thick, penetrating heaviness of the dark and the rasps of her own rapid breathing. Chin to her knees, she placed a hand either side of her head and softly sobbed.

  28

  Jim Meadows, an Otley post-office employee, had been wrestling with his conscience for some time. When urgent appeals for information appeared in Tuesday’s local papers, accompanied by pictures of Kelly's grieving parents, Jim stopped wrestling; stopped chewing his toast and phoned the police.

  West Yorkshire called the Oxford incident room but, unfortunately for Yvonne, she was out of the office. Mike took the call and went straight to Peterson.

  “Sir, we've had a breakthrough in the murder of Kelly James." Mike, savouring the moment, paused for effect.

  "Well?"

  "Apparently, the ex-boyfriend tried to wash a blood-stained shirt shortly after her murder.” Mike's smile was self-congratulatory.

  “Really?” Peterson's eyes bored into the Sergeant.

  “Yes. A Mr…,” Mike cross-checked his notebook, “…James Meadows. Works at the local post-office and rents one of two rooms over the shop. Kelly's ex, Kevin, rents the other. According to Yorkshire CID, Meadows witnessed Brown taking a pile of washing into the utility room, but the washing machine was broken and Brown just left it in the basket. The good news for us is that when Meadows went to investigate several days later, the shirt was still there!”

  “Has Brown been arrested?”

  “Not yet, sir, Yorkshire police have taken him in for questioning. Brown denies the shirt is his and says he doesn’t know how it came to be in his washing. Forensic bods are carrying out DNA tests to see if the blood is Kelly’s.”

  “Okay, well get down there and find out what’s happening. I want our team in on the interview. Oh, and let Yvonne know will you?”

  29

  Yvonne was increasingly sure that Kelly and Hannah’s deaths were connected. If Kevin had murdered Kelly, then what was the link with Hannah? Yorkshire police reluctantly delayed interviewing the suspect until she and Brian arrived.

  In the claustrophobic interview room a dishevelled, agitated young man sat on one side of a centrally placed desk. On the other side was a clean-cut West Yorkshire DI, placing two tapes into the recorder. One for evidence and the other for working use.

  “It 's four forty-five pm on Tuesday the fifteenth of September. This is the interview of Kevin Paul Brown who is being questioned in connection with the murder of Kelly Ann James. I am Detective Inspector David Spencer and with me are…”

  “Detective Inspector Yvonne Giles, Thames Valley Police.”

  “Detective Sergeant Brian Leach, Thames Valley Police.” Yvonne and Brian said on cue.

  “Mr. Brown has waived the right to legal advice. Kevin, can you state your name and date of birth clearly for the tape, please.” David Spencer looked hard at the suspect.

  “I ain't done anythin'” Kevin glared back.

  “Just give us your name and date of birth.”

  “Kevin Brown, thirty first of April, nineteen ninety three… this is nowt to do wi' me!” Kevin stood up, his muscular frame taut beneath jeans stained with thick, black motor oil, his t-shirt rusty from the repairs he had been carrying out on an old Harley-Davidson.

  “Sit down, Kevin,” David Spencer commanded. “Kevin Paul Brown, you do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence, if you do not mention now anything which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand?”

  “Aye.”

  The room was silent for a whole minute apart from the soft rustle of papers, as the Detective Inspector sorted through them.

  “Can you tell us your whereabouts on the morning of Thursday the fifth of August?”

  “Can’t remember.” Kevin put his hands on the table, spread his fingers and stared at them.

  “It would be better for you if you could,” Yvonne said softly.

  Kevin looked at Yvonne, and his expression changed a little. He liked her face. “I dunno, I think I was working on me bike.”

  “You think?” David Spencer was stern. “Either you were or you weren’t. Which is it?”

  “Okay, I was.”

  “Can anyone verify this?”

  “No.”

  “Why not Kevin?”

  “I was in the garage at me mate Martin’s house. He was at work.”

  “Do you often work in your mate’s garage?”

  “Aye.”

  “When was the last time you saw Kelly?”

  Kevin sat back in his chair. “Months ago,” he said moodily.

  “When exactly?”

  “I dunno...July sometime.”

  “Kevin, we are in possession of a white t-shirt covered in blood, found amongst your dirty washing. James Meadows says that it is yours. Is that correct?”

  “No. I know you lot. If you’ve not got a suspect you just stitch someone up. Well, it’s not gonna be me.”

  “Kevin Brown, I must remind you that you are under caution. What can you tell us about the shirt?”

  Kevin was getting to know every vein and blemish in the skin on the back of his hands.

  David Spencer rephrased. “Was there any reason for you to have a blood-stained shirt in your possession?”

  More minutes passed. Kevin said nothing.

  The Yorkshire DI sighed heavily.

  Yvonne thought she would try. “Kevin, you’re not helping yourself. We’re not here to stitch you up. We’re here to find the truth.”

  Silence.

  After thirty minutes of unanswered questioning, David Spencer had lost patience. “Interview suspended five-thirty pm.”

  They drove in silence on the long journey back to Oxford. Both were uncomfortable with the idea that Kevin was the killer, but this was hard to justify. Gut instinct was no match for bloodstains.

  30

  A weary Yvonne arrived back at HQ and, as she entered her office, her head jerked back in surprise. Another woman had invaded her space and, bent over with her back to the door, was busily removing sundry items from a small cardboard box. The intruder proceeded to place them on the spare desk in the corner.

  “Can I help you?” Yvonne asked tartly, her voice bordering high pitch.

  “Natasha Phillips.” The trim other turned briskly around to offer her hand. So this picture of confidence, in a smart pair of tweed trousers and neatly pressed silk shirt, was the new case psychologist. As Yvonne took the offered hand, she could see the light reflecting off the gel used to keep the short, chocolate hair in plac
e.

  “Detective Inspector Yvonne Giles.” Yvonne returned stiffly.

  Natasha smiled, softening her features and square jaw. Yvonne would have smiled back, except that she was already knee-deep in resentment.

  “Look, I hope you don’t mind me moving in like this. It’s just that the Chief thought that this would be the best place for me, as we need to work so closely together.” Natasha’s eyes stayed on her.

  Yvonne realised that her negative feelings were being analysed. The psychologist was enjoying this, but this was the DI's space and her case. The half-smile that she furnished on the psychologist was a long way from being warm. “I’ll show you around Doctor.”

  “Thank you.” Natasha said simply, smiling amusedly as she followed Yvonne out of the office.

  The tour took in the other offices, where to get coffee and where the drinking water dispensers were located – the important stuff. Then the DI introduced her to the rest of the team.

  Brian liked Natasha. He liked her shining brown eyes and pert bottom. “I’m Brian,” he said, grinning as he took her hand. “Fancy a drink later?”

  “Brian you’re a tart.” Yvonne couldn’t help smiling. She felt the psychologist’s eyes on her. “And this is Debs.”

  Debs nodded. “Welcome to the team, Doc. I’m sure you’ll have some interesting cases for study here - and not just criminals.” She laughed, looking at Brian who stuck out his tongue.

  Mike puffed out his chest. “Mike.” he said in his deepest Australian drawl. He clasped Natasha’s hand, holding it just a fraction too long. The DI raised a brow.

  “Well it’s very good to meet you all. I just hope that I can help you crack this case.” Natasha’s face was serious as she reclaimed her hand. “Hopefully, before any more women are killed.”

  “Have you had a chance to look at the case notes yet?” Yvonne asked Natasha. Brian left to make coffee.

  “I’ve had a quick scan through the file, but it’ll take me a couple of days to come up with a decent profile.”

  “Anything you can tell us at the moment?”

  “Well, I think I can safely say that the offender is organised. I can tell this from the way he leaves the bodies and the lack of hard forensic evidence. He takes his time. He relishes the fear by lingering out the torture. The meetings are well planned, this man is intelligent. That is supposing this is a lone offender.”

  “Yes.”

  “These women were fairly successful. I am convinced that the killer is charming and probably sophisticated but, as I say, I will give a full and frank appraisal when I prepare the profile.”

  “Thanks, Natasha.”

  “Please call me Tasha,” she said sweetly, adding just for the hell of it, “all my friends do.”

  31

  The sun blazed in through the carriage window, overheating the air. Tiny black insects alighted on Michelle’s white cotton dress.

  She was excited, nervous and happy. She was on her way to meet him. She felt sexy and guilty, but he made her feel and she trusted him. The heat of the airless carriage made her sleepy. She put back her head and closed her eyes.

  “Michelle.”

  The Master was gazing lovingly into her eyes. He took her hand and led her out of the carriage.

  He was gorgeous. Beautiful sun-baked skin in a Savile Row suit. Dark-haired and handsome. Well-proportioned and toned. Tall too. A good foot taller than Michelle who was five feet exactly.

  A black Aston Martin awaited them in the station Car Park. The Master bent her over the bonnet, pulled up her dress and started to spank her. It stung slightly, but Michelle was enjoying it as he pushed her hard against the metal. She groaned, and hoped that no-one else around could see or hear.

  ‘Slap.’

  “Oh yes,” she sighed as she felt herself moisten.

  Then he turned her around to face him and his lips met hers as he pressed her hard against the bonnet.

  “This is Paddington Station. Excuse me, miss. We’re at Paddington.”

  Michelle awoke with a start.

  “Oh God, I must have dozed off.” She took a deep breath and shook her head to clear it. “Thank you. Thank you,” she said to the elderly lady who had woken her.

  Hastily gathering her things together, she made her way to the train door - bumping the cases down the narrow aisle.

  The cool station contrasted sharply with the hot train ride and, despite the heat of the day, Michelle felt a shiver ripple down her back. She could smell hot coffee and croissants from one of the stands. It smelled good but excitement had stolen her appetite.

  “Oh Goodness.” She had almost forgotten. She reached into her handbag and pulled out a pair of sunglasses and a white baseball cap. Putting these on, she straightened her dress and waited.

  A full ten minutes passed before she saw him. He was wearing a trench coat and a white Panama - just as he had said he would. He seemed wary so she waved, unaware that he had been watching her from the moment she left the train. Her timidity had singled her out for him even before she had put on the hat and dark glasses.

  He was taking no chances - watching to check that she did not talk into a phone or a hidden microphone. He knew that the police would be looking for him. It was simply a matter of time until they worked out that he was picking up the girls from this station. He’d change it for the next time.

  “Michelle?” He moved closer.

  “Yes.” Michelle’s voice was breathless. Staccato.

  “How very nice to meet you at last.”

  He was controlled, sizing her up. He liked what he saw. If Michelle was surprised at his coolness, she didn’t show it. She was just happy that he was there. She felt a hunger in the pit of her stomach and couldn't wait to be alone with him. The Master was almost exactly as she had imagined except that he was perhaps a little older. He steered her towards a black cab.

  32

  Shotover was quiet. A lone, straggly line of blue and white police tape fluttered back and forth in the wind. The bodies were long gone but, it seemed to Yvonne, that they lingered in the silence. She and Tasha made their way towards the tape.

  The whole of the Country Park was still under surveillance but the killer had so far not returned.

  “This is where Kelly James was found.” Yvonne indicated the dank cleft amongst the trees.

  Natasha pulled out the SOCO images and took up a crouching position in the ditch, concentrating hard as she compared the images with the surroundings.

  A hawk appeared, hovering high overhead, beating an unheard rhythm as it waited for a flash of prey.

  Yvonne shuddered as she watched.

  “It really got to you, didn’t it.” Natasha was looking at her from the ditch, and the DI was aware of those dark eyes probing her again.

  “Seeing her lying there, Tasha, wondering what she must have gone through."

  “And you were afraid.”

  “Yes. Yes, I suppose I was.”

  “Anyone would be. There's nothing quite like death to bring home to you your own sense of mortality and vulnerability.

  “What a waste. What does he gain from it?”

  “Power, Yvonne. Control over life and death. It’s what motivates him - gets him out of bed in the morning. The rest of his life pales in comparison.”

  “Will he will kill again?”

  “As sure as eggs are eggs, if he can, he’ll kill again. He has the taste for it. “

  “But will he come here to dispose of them another time?”

  “Hard to say. If I were to take a guess I would say no. It was easy for him before, no-one expected the first two bodies to turn up here. Kelly, because she was the first victim and Hannah, because no-one knew that he would kill again.”

  Yvonne wiped the bottom of her shoe on a damp leaf. “Damn this mud. Why leave them here?”

  Tasha's forehead furrowed. “Shotover must mean something to him. The question is what?”

  “We're continuing surveillance for a while in case
he returns.”

  Tasha pulled a steel flask from her bag and twisted hard at the stiff lid. She quietly noted that the Inspector's attitude towards her was mellowing. “Would you like some tea?”

  Yvonne shivered in the wind and the fine drizzle which had just started to come down. “Yes, thank you. I would”, she answered, watching the steam curl up and disperse from the open flask.

  Tasha poured liberally into battered, enamel mugs. The DI gratefully wrapped cold-stiffened fingers around hers.

  "Thank you." Her voice was husky. She watched as Tasha screwed the cap back on the flask. For a brief moment her gaze was returned.

  "You're welcome."

  The DI felt nervous under the psychologist's gaze, “Is this going to help you with the profile?”, she asked as coolly as she could.

  “Yes.” Tasha lingered the word and her eyes did not leave the DI's face.

  Brian leaned back in his chair at St. Aldate’s, and put his feet on the desk, hands behind his head. He was tired. Between this case and his one-month-old son, he was getting little sleep. Morbidly, he imagined how he would feel if it was his kid sister in the photographs on the incident board.

  The phone intervened.

  “Brian Leach, CID.”

  “David Spencer, West Yorkshire. I thought you ought to know that we have a match for the blood on Kevin Brown’s shirt. It's Kelly James’.”

  “Oh.” Brian scratched his head. “What about Kevin’s DNA? Does it match the semen found on Hannah Wilson?”

  “Forensics ran the tests. It was difficult, apparently, ‘cos they had to separate the two profiles. But they’re sure it’s not Kevin’s.”

  “But the MO suggested the same killer for both murders.” Brian was frustrated at what she was hearing.

  “Yes, but maybe the semen was left by some nut who just happened across the body and got turned on. Just a thought.”

  “I guess that’s a possibility." Brian frowned. "Have you arrested Kevin?”