Authors: Elizabeth Corley
‘Er, I’ll be off then.’
‘Good day, miss.’ Dan examined the gleaming glass for spots.
‘Goodbye.’ George turned the page.
Frustrated by their sudden indifference, Nightingale left the pub and stepped onto hot cobblestones. The crowds parted and reformed around her as if she didn’t exist. She felt lonely and confused, and all because two grumpy, in-bred, old men had given her the cold shoulder.
The steep street led to the harbour. She walked down, stared at the boats and then walked back up. Her phone remained useless, with a weak signal and low battery that kept frustrating her attempts to call her brother. There was a queue outside the public call box. In the end she found a tiny Internet café in a side street that also sold Devon violet sweets and cheerful pixies. It was busy but she waited patiently and was soon online.
She had mail. Mentally calling herself stupid she opened the inbox and found twenty messages, from Harlden Division, Fenwick and Pandora. The sight of the screen full of her past made her feel queasy. Pandora’s sustained correspondence intrigued her, but she considered Email from Harlden an intrusion. It angered her that they should presume to contact her when she had made it clear that even unpaid leave was a concession so she deleted all their Emails unread with a few angry keystrokes. She couldn’t bring herself to do the same to Fenwick’s two messages and opened the first:
NIGHTINGALE, DON’T BE ALARMED BUT I THINK THAT YOU
MAY
HAVE ATTRACTED THE ATTENTION OF SOMEONE WHO THINKS GRIFFITHS WAS WRONGLY CONVICTED. BE EXTRA VIGILANT. DON’T TRUST STRANGERS. PLEASE CALL ME. MY HOME PHONE NUMBER IS HARLDEN 526592. YOU KNOW THE STATION’S.
REGARDS ANDREW FENWICK.
It was dated two days after she’d left Harlden. Since then she had only spoken to strangers and had never felt safer so it’s warning had been unnecessary. She deleted the message and opened the second, sent only a week before:
DEAR NIGHTINGALE,
THINGS ARE VERY SERIOUS. THERE IS SOMEONE OUT THERE WHO MAY SEEK TO REVENGE GRIFFITHS. YOU COULD BE IN IMMINENT DANGER. YOU MUST CALL ME, OR AT LEAST EMAIL TO LET ME KNOW THAT YOU ARE STILL OK AND WHERE I CAN REACH YOU. ANDREW.
There was no mistaking his meaning but Griffiths hadn’t had an accomplice, had he? Fenwick must be harking back to his worries about a sympathetic supporter who was convinced of Griffiths’ innocence. She couldn’t decide what to do in response to the warning so she opened the first of Pandora’s messages instead.
WANT TO PLAY A GAME?
Nightingale typed in a succinct reply.
NO. I AM NOT PLAYING AGAIN, EVER.
She hit send and deleted the message before opening the next.
YOU CAN’T IGNORE ME. I AM IN YOUR LIFE NOW. NAME YOUR FORFEIT OR I WILL DO IT FOR YOU. IN MY GAME, I PLAY FOR REAL.
The tone was different. There was impatience here and a veiled threat. She deleted several more messages unread then opened one that had been sent that week:
I HAVE CHOSEN YOUR FORFEIT. IT IS DEATH. THERE IS NO RIGHT OF APPEAL. THE MANNER AND TIME WILL BE OF MY CHOOSING, NIGHTBIRD. WHEREVER YOU ARE, WHEREVER YOU HIDE YOUR NEST, I WILL FIND YOU. I WILL THROW YOU TO THE GROUND AND CRUSH YOUR BONES TO POWDER. YOU CANNOT FLY FROM ME, FOR I AM EVERYWHERE.
Sweat broke out on Nightingale’s forehead. The small hairs on her arms rose as a shiver passed over her. She tried to tell herself that the message had been sitting in her electronic inbox for days and nothing had happened to her. Why should she fear it now? Yet it was a death-threat. Perhaps it was what Fenwick had been trying to warn her about. The detective in her argued that this might be evidence so she took a copy, standing defensively over the printer until it delivered its single page. The café owner watched her with a smile on his face. When he leered at her knowingly she ignored him and slipped the paper into the pocket of her shorts. She deleted all the other messages unread and was about to return to Fenwick’s when the pleasant electronic voice of the machine spoke softly: ‘you have mail’. Curious, she opened the message from Pandora that had arrived seconds before:
THANK YOU! START THE COUNTDOWN, SONG BIRD. IT’S ONLY A MATTER OF TIME NOW.
She could see no significance in it. What had she done that deserved thanks? She deleted it before considering Fenwick’s Email again. When she had first read it she’d considered it an unnecessary warning. Even if he was right and there was somebody set on avenging Griffiths, they’d never find her in deepest Devon. Nobody knew where she was; no one from Harlden had a clue of her address and even her brother wouldn’t consider looking for her at the Farm. But what if the threat was real and there really was someone searching for her? Maybe it was Pandora, frustrated that she wouldn’t play THE GAME, unable to call her on the phone any more… She stared at the screen-saver with blank eyes as her detective’s brain awoke sluggishly from its sun-induced holiday. There probably was a link and Fenwick, good old determined Andrew Fenwick, had somehow made the connection. Nightingale smiled; how like him. And she’d be able to help him a little without revealing her whereabouts. Her brief reply gave no hint of the time it took to compose:
ANDREW, THANK YOU FOR YOUR MESSAGES. I AM FINE. I HAVE BEEN RECEIVING THREATENING EMAILS AND WILL FORWARD YOU THE MOST THREATENING IN CASE YOU CAN FIND THE SENDER. BUT EVEN IF SOMEONE IS LOOKING FOR ME YOUR FEARS ARE GROUNDLESS. I AM TUCKED AWAY QUITE SAFE AND NO ONE COULD EVER FIND ME HERE – NOT EVEN YOU! PLEASE DON’T WORRY ABOUT ME BUT THANK YOU FOR YOUR CONCERN. NIGHTINGALE.
As she drove to the farm, Nightingale felt confused by her brief encounter with her old world. The certainty that she would be able to face it again at a time of her own choosing had disappeared in the last hour. When she reached home she made a mug of herbal tea and took it into the garden to an old chair she had placed in the sunniest corner. It was time to think.
Before Griffiths’ trial she had read a book on cyber-stalking. The majority of obsessives were content with an electronic pursuit. Relatively few of them lured their victims into a physical encounter. Griffiths had been an exception, not the rule, and she refused to be intimidated by Pandora. Man or woman, she would simply delete all future Emails unread.
The messages from Fenwick were more disturbing. He wasn’t someone to give in to nameless fears, and he had issued a significant warning, yet she found herself disinclined to worry. Even if Griffiths had a defender, and they had taken it into their mind to be vengeful, they would never find her. The farm was the safest place she could be; no one from her old life knew where she was and the few people she’d met here had no knowledge or interest in her previous life. If anything, the possible threat meant that she should stay put for a long time. She finished her tea and drifted into a gentle sleep.
He logged on to the Internet in the tiny second bedroom of Wendy’s flat. After Wales he had waited a few days in the hills, in the holiday home he now thought of as his safest retreat. Not even Wayne Griffiths knew he still owned it.
The sultry voice of the machine told him that he had Email. His pulse quickened as he opened his inbox. Yes! She had been online and opened his latest Email, releasing the little surprise he had left for her. He had spent days crafting the virus with Iain’s help, which he had then hidden in the white space of his last message. When she had opened it the virus had greedily gathered up her documents from within the machine. It would take him days to sift through to find her messages and, within them, a clue to her location but he didn’t mind. Simply by opening his message she had exposed herself and it would only be a matter of time before he found her.
Whilst the machine saved the rifled information he decided to amuse himself by reading some of the recent Emails. The most recent was someone called Fenwick. The contents shocked him. There was no way that the police should have been smart enough to work out that Griffiths had a senior partner. Had Griffiths talked? The bitch’s reply made it clear that she had disregarded the warning. More fool her.
‘Shit!’
There was a creak from behind him and he swung round, instantly on guard.
‘What?’
‘I’m sorry. I heard you cry out. I thought you needed me.’
‘You know you cannot come in here. It is absolutely forbidden.’ He had a number of rules, drilled into her with repeated beatings. He stood up, his face impassive.
‘I’m sorry, really. I didn’t see anything. I was worried.’ She shrank back from him as he advanced but didn’t dare run away.
He caught both her wrists in his left hand in a familiar gesture that brought fear to her eyes. The sight excited him and he squeezed harder until she winced. He dragged her along the tiny passage, enjoying her whimpers of pain. When they reached the bedroom she pulled back, forcing a snort of annoyance from him, despite his preference for silence. The sound made him even angrier.
‘Please, Dave! No don’t. I didn’t do anything, honest. It will never happen again.’
He ignored her bleating and kicked open the door. Her dressing gown was hanging on a hook behind it. He yanked the cord from it and bound her wrists tight behind her back. Her clothes, summer-light cotton, ripped away easily, leaving her skinny body bare for his scrutiny. It left him unmoved but the sense of power that filled him when he threw her back onto the bed and he saw the faint traces of bruising from the last time was all he needed.
He didn’t bother taking off any of his clothes but his belt, which he wrapped once around the palm of his hand. She was crying now but she didn’t bother to protest as she knew it would do no good. When the leather bit into her flesh on the first lash she let out a small scream.
‘Ah, you want the gag.’
‘No! Please. I won’t make a noise. I can’t breathe when you do that, it suffocates me.’
‘We’ll see.’ He hit her again, harder and smiled to see a thin line of blood bloom on her thigh. She bit down hard on her lip but didn’t make a sound. After a while his arm started to ache so he decided to end it. As he forced himself into her she buried her head in the pillows, keeping her face away from him. He bit her shoulders, enjoying the salty taste of her blood. He stared at the thin twig of her neck, imagined snapping it, and with that it was over quickly.
She lay very still beneath him, waiting for him to finish, barely breathing. She could almost be dead. He smiled and bent down to kiss her cheek, wet with tears.
‘Don’t do it again,’ he whispered in her ear. ‘You know I don’t like naughty girls.’
He untied her hands but she didn’t move so he left her there, almost certain she was still alive despite her pallor and stillness. It would be inconvenient for her to die. For the last eight years he had been able to rely on her and know that she was too scared to do anything against him. All in all she was too convenient to kill.
As he soaped himself generously in the shower he heard movement in the bathroom beyond the curtain. He twitched it open and watched unmoved as she washed her cuts and smeared Savlon over the worst. When she had finished, she turned her ghostly face towards him.
‘Cup of tea?’ she asked and managed to smile.
The weather forecast had promised sun and Fenwick planned the weekend accordingly. He made the mistake of sharing his plans with the children on Saturday evening. They loved eating outside. Chris called it camping even though all Fenwick did was place some old blankets over the washing line and put a groundsheet down inside the makeshift tent.
Early Sunday morning he was woken by a loud clap of thunder overhead and the children arrived in his bed within minutes. Around ten o’clock the cloud started to break up. Bess spotted this at once and said that it was time to go outside. She slipped on her Wellington boots and splashed into the garden. Chris followed and Fenwick’s heart sank. This was not the weather for blankets over the line nor did he fancy a barbecue. But then he looked at them running about, falling over, arguing as to who would have the favourite swing – although they seemed identical to him – and his mood softened. It was the first weekend that he had spent with them uninterrupted for a long time and he wanted it to be special.
He was clambering about in the loft when Chris found him.
‘What are you doing, Dad?’
‘Stand back I’m going to drop something. No right back by the door.’
The canvas sack fell with a dull thud and clatter of aluminium poles. Chris stared at it wide-eyed and followed his father into the garden in silence.
It took nearly an hour to erect the tent. Bess and Chris were determined to help, which slowed him down a lot. It was old but didn’t seem to have perished, and it had a built in ground-sheet. As soon as he’d driven in the final tent peg, Chris and Bess took their toys inside, leaving their muddy boots on the grass. The novelty of a real tent lasted long enough for Fenwick to make progress with lunch, which they finished eating just as the rain started again. The children didn’t mind as they ate second helpings of ice cream in the rubbery warmth of the tent.
They were about to start a three-way game of Monopoly when Fenwick’s mobile phone rang.
‘Yes?’
‘DCI Fenwick? It’s MacIntyre. We think he’s struck again, in Wales this time. I’m going there. Thought you might want to join me.’
As Fenwick took down the details, his mind ran through options of what he could do with the children until seven o’clock and the housekeeper’s return. His regular stand-by babysitters were both away on holiday and there were no close friends of whom he could beg a favour. In the end, with deep-seated reluctance, he rang Sergeant Cooper and explained his predicament.
‘No problem. I’d like to join you and it would stop the missus having a go if she had your kiddies to look after. She’ll be in her element.’
Fenwick left the tent up, doused the barbecue, then packed the children and selected toys into the car. Half an hour later, he and Cooper were heading towards the M25 en route to Wales. Traffic on the motorways was heavy and it was ten o’clock before they met up with MacIntyre in a mobile incident room. He introduced them to Superintendent Amos, the local SIO, who took them through the investigation to date.
‘Tasmin Mackie, age sixteen, disappeared from Sea View campsite on Friday. She was last seen by her family at about seven twenty-five as she left to meet friends on the other side of the site. She never made it.’
Fenwick and Cooper nodded. The disappearance of the schoolgirl had received national coverage.
‘Despite intensive searches and inquiries we couldn’t find a trace of her until Saturday morning when one of her shoes was discovered on a beach three miles up the coast. We concentrated our search along the seashore and one of the dog teams found her at six twenty-five p.m. yesterday. She was alive.’
Fenwick, that most poker-faced of policemen, merely nodded. Cooper’s mouth dropped open.
‘We imposed a complete news blackout. This morning she regained consciousness enough to give us a description of the man who raped her. Apart from the eyes, which she insists were blue, it was so similar to the Knightsbridge murderer that we added the e-fit Superintendent MacIntyre sent through to photographs of known offenders for her to look at. She picked him out at once.’
Fenwick scratched his head in puzzlement.
‘I don’t understand why he left her alive. Was she badly hurt?’
‘The sexual assault was brutal. She’d been beaten and half-drowned but for some reason he didn’t use a knife. He washed her body in the sea and hid her in a shallow cave. The mouth is covered at full tide, that’s why we didn’t find her on the first search.’
‘Why didn’t she drown?’
‘A pure fluke. The cave rises from sea level and he’d pushed her right to the back, her head was above the water level.’
‘And nobody on the beach saw them?’
‘We think he attacked her away from the beach though she has no recollection of the incident. There are definite drag marks on a path down to the sea. We think he waited for the beach to empty then carried her down in the dark.’
‘Risky,’ Fenwick shook his head, ‘and out of character. Last time he used charm then killed at home with his own knife. Why this dramatic change in style? It’s more reminiscent of Griffiths’ attacks. If it wasn’t for the identification we wouldn’t have made the connection.’
‘I think we would have done, Andrew. He tried to sever one of her fingers, we think with a rock.’
Cooper went white.
‘This is bizarre. Why attack without a knife? Is it a deliberate change? I can’t believe he forgot it, he’s too methodical and clever for that.’
‘Perhaps he lost it.’ They all looked at Cooper in surprise. ‘A hole in his pocket, or it falls out when he climbs over a stile. You never know. Accidents do happen.’
‘We’ve done a finger tip search of the area around the caravan site and found nothing but we could widen the search and put up posters in case somebody found a knife and decided to keep it. I’m increasing the search perimeter anyway as we’re still trying to determine how he arrived. We have bugger all to go on.’ But Amos didn’t look despondent. Finding Tasmin alive had been beyond their hopes and the significance of the discovery was still motivating the whole team.
‘No trace evidence?’
‘None. We’re lifting the sand from inside the cave in case he left hair or a broken nail when he put her in there but that’s going to take a while.’
‘When are you going to interview Tasmin again?’
‘In about seven or eight hours, when she wakes up, provided the doctor says it’s OK. Her parents are being cooperative. As soon as they found out that her attacker might have killed before they promised to do anything to help us catch him before he strikes again.’
Fenwick shivered at the reminder of this man’s capacity to attack and kill. There was still no trace of Nightingale and he was convinced that she could be the ultimate victim, despite a more cautious stance from Superintendent Quinlan and the ACC. They accepted the link between the ransacking of Nightingale’s flat and the anonymous sender of letters to Griffiths in prison but drew the line there. In their combined opinion, the Knightsbridge killing was unconnected.
‘Do you have a photograph of Tasmin?’
Amos passed a copy over to Fenwick who took it and shook his head in dismayed resignation. He passed it to Cooper who couldn’t resist blurting out.
‘Just like all the others, just like Nightingale.’ The picture of the pretty, smiling dark haired girl, long legs draped over the back of a settee, made him shudder. MacIntyre took it from him and studied it closely.
‘Very similar to Lucinda, striking and looks older than sixteen. This could be the same man despite the lack of knife wounds. Do you need any extra officers?’
‘You’ll never find me saying no to that!’
‘They’re yours. I thought you’d be interested in the reports from the forensic psychologist in London and the FBI profiler.’ He glanced apologetically at Fenwick who still hadn’t seen them.
It was gone midnight but Fenwick was as awake as if it were midday. He accepted a cup of bad coffee while a junior officer ran off copies of the profiles. In twelve tightly typed pages the psychologist had classified all the murders and rapes on Fenwick’s original list and had concluded that, despite there being striking physical similarities in the victims, they were the work of two men. Subject ‘A’, who could be Griffiths, was in behavioural terms different from Subject ‘B’, the Knightsbridge killer who was described as an expressive killer.
Claire Keating had explained to him once that for a serial killer the murder is simply an expression of the desire to kill, an end in itself. Having life-or-death control over their victims stimulated expressive murderers. The significant degree of violence pre- and post-mortem, and the delay before killing the Knightsbridge victim suggested that the true source of pleasure was not the sexual act itself but the killer’s ability to exercise sustained control.
With Subject A, Griffiths, the profiler admitted some confusion. The entrapment through THE GAME and the stalking all suggested a form of enjoyment through control but the crimes themselves, though brutal, were clearly sexually motivated. Statements from the rape victims who survived all supported the suggestion that enough violence was used to coerce the victim and to force sex upon her but no more.
The FBI analysis was consistent. They had gone into even more detail on Subject B and had summarised their key findings:
Physical Description
: Male, Caucasian, late twenties or early thirties. Well dressed. Attractive. Employed, with reasonable income and life style.
Social and Cultural Background
: Victims are female, post-adolescent, young adult, which means there should be no automatic assumption of abuse as a child. It is entirely possible that B led a relatively normal childhood. However, it is also possible that his relationships with his parents (mother in particular) may have held tensions, e.g. he felt he had never met expectations; emotional relationships were under-developed; there was sibling rivalry; father may have been (or B felt him to have been) distant.
A well-adjusted, social, charming personality suggests well-integrated family life, regular schooling. B’s confidence and lack of respect for social norms may mean that he dabbled in minor crime during adolescence, seeking thrills. If he escaped punishment for these, he will have a reinforced a sense of superiority towards society and law enforcement.
Clear evidence of sociopathic behaviours
: He is unlikely to have any guilt for his crimes and does not respect rules. B is likely to be impulsive. There is no evidence of planning in his crimes rather they appear to be driven by desires that he has no inclination to control. He will react negatively to challenge and is likely to be deeply frustrated with a society that is not providing him with what he thinks he deserves.
It is possible that he is in a medium-term relationship with a woman
: either engaged, married or partner. This may be a ‘normal’ relationship on the surface, but is merely convenient (for sex, food, money, routine tasks or a useful ‘cover’ to prove his normality to society).
Method
: There is extreme violence pre- and post-mortem, inflicted over a sustained period. Some of this is likely to accompany the acts of rape (e.g. the biting and beating) but the scale of
genital injury and mutilation after death is an expression of hatred towards women and their sexual power. Subconsciously, he despises his need for sex as it implies that women have ultimate power over him, a concept that is deeply threatening to him. Consequently, he uses violence as both a disguise for his need and in revenge for his dependence.
The taking of a finger is not consistent with the extreme violence of the attacks and seems contrived. If A and B are acquainted it could be a simplistic means of linking their crimes to confuse investigation.
His confidence will be growing. This may lead him to make mistakes but it will also mean that he is more likely to attack again more quickly.
The incident room remained quiet after the officers had finished reading the report. Fenwick felt sullied by its contents, despite the detachment of the writing, as if looking inside the killer’s mind had contaminated his own. He eventually broke the silence.
‘This makes it all the more strange that Killer B should copy Griffith’s methods in this latest attack. Why would he do so?’
MacIntyre yawned and stretched.
‘The question’s only relevant if they are connected and that is unproven.’ MacIntyre glared a warning at Fenwick not to confuse Amos with his theories. ‘I’m going to catch a few hours sleep before the press conference in the morning. I can’t wait to see their faces when they learn that she’s alive.’
Caravans had been set aside for police use. Cooper and MacIntyre headed off but Fenwick stayed with Amos, studying the incident boards, already full of information.
‘Any ideas?’ Amos appeared to be a confident man who didn’t mind the insights of others. He was about the same age as Fenwick but heavier set and shorter. He looked as if he might have boxed and the break in his nose supported the idea.
‘Killer B is an intelligent man. Why did he hide her so close to the site instead of taking her body away by car?’
‘We still didn’t find her for thirty-six hours. We tried dogs but they lost his trail. It was raining yesterday and that helped to clear the scent as well.’
‘He couldn’t rely on the rain. It doesn’t feel right.’
There was a map on one wall with pins indicating sites linked to the crime. Fenwick pointed to a blue pin by the railway line.
‘What happened here?’
‘A sighting of a young man about midnight.’
Fenwick stared at the map.
‘There’s no evidence that he has used a car in any crime. What if he came here by train and left the same way?’
‘I have posters going up at all stations and officers interviewing people on and off the trains.’ He eyed Fenwick with interest. ‘Why are you so keen to find this man? You don’t have any open cases to worry about?’
Fenwick paused, then decided to risk the man’s cynicism by telling him of his fears for Nightingale. He emphasised the link between the ransacking of her flat and the letter to Griffiths.