Flawed Beauty Page 11

  Hesitating, Erin then adds, “And therein lies the problem, sir. Other than their good looks, our three victims have completely different characteristics or ethnicity. I’m also struggling with the part of my criminal-profiling training that was concentrated on gaining an understanding of the four main types of serial killers.”

  “Which are?” Anderson asks.

  “Which are, sir, the thrill-seekers, the mission-orientated, the visionary killers and the power slash control seekers.”

  Erin briefly explains each of the types and then says, “I’m torn in this case, though. The bloody markings on each of the bodies steer me towards a man on a mission and the evidence in the Singh and Wilton murders strongly suggests a high likelihood of premeditation. But I don’t see that in the Pope case.”

  “The cause of death?” Anderson suggests.

  “Yes, sir. It’s been confirmed beyond doubt that Singh and Wilton were killed by a blow to the head from a hammer. It’s obviously not normal behavior to be walking the streets at night with a hammer in your pocket, so in those cases, premeditation for me is clear. Darren Pope, however, is where things become unclear. Darren’s cause of death was cardiac shock caused by massive blood loss, and my gut is telling me that his killing wasn’t planned. For me, his death was more likely the result of a chance encounter.”

  “Wrong place, wrong time, wrong punter,” Anderson suggests.

  “Exactly, sir. But if that is the case, then either our killer got his initial thirst for blood murdering Darren Pope before moving on to kill Shelley Wilton and Shreya Singh… or…”

  “Or we’re looking for more than one killer,” Anderson says, finishing the sentence.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Okay.” Anderson nods. “And what is your gut telling you about that?”

  Pausing a moment to reflect, Erin says, “On balance, I think we’re after just one man, sir. The details of Darren Pope and Shelley Wilton’s deaths were never made public until today. And it is just too much of a coincidence to believe that there can be three so similar murders carried out by two killers in the space of three months in two different cities.

  “Three murders, I would add, that ended with the killer writing something across the victim’s chest using their own blood. That’s not a coincidence, sir.”

  Anderson nods his concurrence. “Yes. I think you’re right, Erin.” Slowly shaking his head, he turns back toward Terri. “Tell me what you know about the Wilton case, DI Marchetti.”

  “Yes, sir. Shelley Wilton was twenty-seven years old at the time of her death. She was a part-time cashier in a Tesco supermarket in the Hyde area of Manchester and was seen leaving The Bamford Arms Public House at around 11.30 pm on Saturday the 29th of December.

  “From there, she was picked up by various security cameras and was last seen on camera around half a mile from her home address in Harpurhey at 12.14 am on Sunday the 30th.

  “That was the last confirmed sighting of her, until her body was spotted floating face-down in the Manchester Ship Canal by a constable from Greater Manchester Police just a few hours later at 2.47 am the same morning. Like Shreya Singh, the cause of death was a hammer blow to the right temple. In this case, though, hydrochloric acid was poured onto or thrown into her face.

  “There was also a quite significant pre-mortem blunt-force trauma to the back of the skull. So, it’s reasonable to assume that she was approached and struck from behind to disable her and was possibly already unconscious before she was disfigured and killed.”

  Chief Superintendent Anderson loudly sighs and then shakes his head. “Let’s hope, for the sake of that young girl, that your assumption is correct, Inspector Marchetti. What else have you got?”

  Terri shakes her head. “Unfortunately, it’s another case at a dead end, sir. As of now, GMP have investigated nearly three hundred possible lines of inquiry and have analyzed more than six thousand hours of CCTV from the pub and any and all security cameras within a five-mile radius of Manchester’s Arndale Centre. So far, everything has drawn a blank.”

  “How is that possible?” Anderson asks, shaking his head in frustration. “What about forensics? There must be something.”

  Without waiting for an answer, he shakes his head again, then turns to Erin and points to the newspapers. “What about the Singh case and this guy? Anything conclusive from the hotline yet?”

  “Not yet, sir. But we’re extremely hopeful of an early result. The picture alone was always a long shot, but in my opinion, the discovery of the hammer has shifted the odds in our favor.”

  “In what way?” Anderson asks.

  “It’s very distinct,” Erin replies. “The brand, the gouge on the side and the blue paint on the handle. If somebody has been using it regularly, then there is a very good chance of somebody recognizing it.”

  “Unless our man is a loner,” Anderson suggests.

  “Yes, sir. That is a possibility,” Erin concedes.

  Anderson shakes his head, “No, ignore me. I’m just spit-balling. I think you’re right. So far, the hammer is our best shot at catching this guy. Is it right that a forensic glove was also found in the same location as the hammer?”

  “Yes, sir. We can’t say specifically if it was a forensic glove, but a glove of the same type used by us was found a few minutes after the hammer. Unfortunately, it hasn’t yielded any DNA or other forensics as of yet.”

  “A coincidental find and unconnected to your case possibly?” Anderson asks.

  “That was my initial thought, sir. But on reflection, that doesn’t make sense. The glove was found inside out, which suggests it was pulled off in a hurry. The lack of DNA evidence, however, strongly suggests that it was wiped down, which contradicts the glove being discarded in a hurry, which also doesn’t make sense. If the glove does belong to our killer, then why not just take it with him and dispose of it away from the crime scene?”

  “Yes, and very convenient that both were suddenly discovered just before the press conference,” Anderson remarks. “Very odd that they weren’t found during the first round of searches. Somebody playing games, do you think?”

  “Yes, sir. Somebody playing games and somebody else leaking information to the press,” Erin says frowning.

  “Or possibly even the same person. I’d love to be able to—”

  Anticipating her thoughts, Anderson interjects. “I’ve already told you, Chief Inspector. Don’t even go there. Unless you have firm evidence to suggest that Edgar Balmain or any other journalist is receiving confidential information from a suspect or an insider, or indeed are involved in anything else illegal, Balmain and all others of his ilk are well and truly off-limits.” To emphasize his point, he frowns and points to the front page of the Liverpool Echo. “Unless you want more headlines like this?”

  Erin shakes her head, and Anderson asks, “I take it you don’t have evidence to suggest anything untoward?”

  “No, sir. I don’t. Balmain knows too much, though. I’m convinced that someone close to the case is feeding him confidential information, and if I find out who it is, I’ll bloody—”

  Realizing she is ranting, Erin abruptly stops herself from going any further. “Well, you know what I mean, sir.”

  “I do,” Anderson says. “It’s frustrating, but don’t let it distract you from what you’re doing. What else have you got to tell me?”

  Erin spends the next five minutes describing Shreya Singh’s modeling aspirations and the meeting with Derek Bannister.

  When she’s finished, Anderson nods his agreement with her conclusion. “That does sound like a dead end, but you’re right to keep an open mind. That business with the network failure could, of course, have been a complete coincidence, but let’s not completely close off that line of inquiry just yet. My suggestion is to flag Bannister’s operation to your uniformed colleagues. Let them keep an eye on him so that your team can remain focused elsewhere.”

  “Thank you, sir. Yes, I’ll do that.”

&nbs
p; Smiling, Anderson asks, “Is there anything else?”

  Erin shakes her head. “That’s it for now, sir. Tomorrow morning, we’ll start to review the hotline results. I’m hoping we’ll have something promising to work with.”

  “You have enough manpower, Erin? I can ask uniform for three or four additional officers for a few days if you need them?”

  “No, that won’t be necessary, sir. GMP are sending me three officers on secondment from the Manchester Murder Squad for a couple of weeks. They’ve all been directly involved in the Wilton case, so that should be a big help. Thanks for the offer, though.”

  “Okay, well, if you’re sure,” Anderson concedes. “Let’s catch up again at the same time tomorrow.”

  Taking this as her cue to leave, Erin stands up. “Thank you, sir. I’ll let you know if we get anything conclusive before then.”

  She is about to leave when Anderson asks, “The glove – where is it now?”

  “It’s with DI Gladwell, sir. He’s the SOCO assigned to this case.”

  “That’s good.” Anderson nods in approval. “Tell him to keep at it. That glove being there was no coincidence, Chief Inspector.”

  . . . . . . . .

  In the corridor, Erin thanks Detective Sergeant Cheeseman for his input and then asks him and Tony to excuse themselves.

  “Thanks for today, fellas. Go and check in on your guys, then you can both call it a day. It’s going to be a big day tomorrow if the hotline comes up trumps.”

  Cheeseman says goodnight and takes his leave, but Tony Bolton remains and smirks at Terri as he speaks to Erin. “That’s okay, boss. I’m happy to hang around a bit longer if there is anything that needs to be done before tomorrow?”

  Preoccupied with her own thoughts and failing to pick up that Tony’s only interest in hanging around is to watch Terri squirm, Erin politely declines his offer. “Thanks, but that won’t be necessary. Go on. Get off and enjoy the rest of your evening.”

  Reluctantly, he thanks Erin and wishes her a good evening. Then smirking even harder, he turns back to Terri before leaving. “You too, DI Marchetti. Have a great evening.”

  Once he’s out of earshot, Terri shakes her head in disgust. “I’m sick to bloody death of his attitude and lack of respect.”

  “Then don’t give him the ammunition to make yourself look stupid,” Erin snipes unsympathetically. “Let’s go to my office, shall we? We need to talk.”

  . . . . . . . .

  To ensure they can’t be seen or overheard, Erin closes her door and lowers the window blinds before joining DI Marchetti at a small table. Keen to explain herself, Terri tries to speak first but is quickly shut down by Erin’s raised hand.

  “You’ll get your chance, Inspector. But you’ll hear me out first.”

  “Wow,” Terri gasps. “If you’re calling me ‘Inspector’ behind closed doors, you must really be pissed with me.”

  “What do you bloody expect?” Erin barks. “You didn’t just make yourself look stupid by holding out on me like that. You also made me look stupid in front of Bolton and Cheeseman. For Christ’s sake, Terri, you’re my second-in-command. What the hell were you thinking?”

  “I wasn’t. I mean, listen, I’m sorry, Erin. I should have told you as soon as I made the connection. I realize now that it was a serious error of judgment.”

  “Yes, it bloody was,” Erin snaps. “So how about you explain why you didn’t tell me about your link to the Wilton case sooner, and why you only felt fit to declare it just before going in to brief the chief super?”

  Clearly nervous, Terri takes a deep breath. “I recognized the name at the press conference, but with one thing and another, I didn’t get a chance to see you again until our regroup. I was going to tell you then, but there wasn’t an opportunity to see you alone, and I didn’t particularly relish the prospect of explaining myself in front of Tony Bolton.”

  “But it was okay to suddenly blurt it out in the corridor in front of him and Frank Cheeseman?” Erin angrily exclaims. “That was okay, was it?”

  “No, and I’m sorry. I panicked. It dawned on me just before we left the regroup that it would have been wrong to let you go into the briefing without letting you know about my involvement in the Wilton case. I should have asked you to wait. I know that now. I’m really sorry, Erin.”

  “You’re sorry for embarrassing me or you’re sorry for screwing up?”

  Terri’s face is visibly flushed by the tirade. Calmer now, Erin shakes her head. “Don’t answer that. I don’t want to know. I do want to know, though, about the night of your leaving party and any interaction you may have had with the victim.”

  Unbeknownst to Erin, Terri has been carrying a fourth file with her. Forcing a half-smile, she hands it over. “You’ll find a copy of the statement I gave to Greater Manchester Police on the 31st of December in there. The file also contains copies of the statements given by my colleagues who were with me in The Bamford Arms on the 29th of December.”

  Erin carefully arranges the statements in front of her, then starts by reading the one given by DI Marchetti. Partway through, she looks up dumbfounded and shakes her head. “You spoke to her at the bar?”

  Terri nods. “It was just small talk while I was waiting for my drink.”

  “You were flirting with her!” Erin screams. “According to your statement, you offered to buy her a bloody drink.”

  “I was being friendly,” Terri says quietly. “I offered her a drink. She declined. I went back to my mates. End of story.”

  “I certainly know it was the end of her story,” Erin mutters to herself. Then, more loudly, she continues, “I also know only too well that you don’t give up that easily when you see someone you like.”

  “Oh, so what is it?” Terri asks, now angry and on the defensive. “You think I was so offended by her refusal to have a drink with me that I followed her home and caved her head in with a hammer before dousing her face with the bottle of hydrochloric acid that I always carry around in my purse. Is that what you think?”

  With the tables now turned and feeling slightly foolish for making it sound the way she did, Erin starts to blush. “No, of course that’s not what I think. I just meant that I know what you’re—”

  “I know what you bloody meant,” Terri interrupts. “What you meant is, I’m usually like a dog on heat when I see a girl I like. Well, maybe you’re right. But on this occasion, she turned me down flat, so I took my drink and rejoined my mates at our table. I didn’t see or hear about Shelley Wilton again until her picture was plastered all over the news the next day.”

  Stunned by her outburst, Erin is momentarily lost for words. Quick to fill the gap, Terri angrily points to the statements on the table. “If you still bloody think there was anything more to it than that, then read through those. There are seven other statements there, including two from my former DI and DCI. All of them will corroborate what I’ve just told you.”

  Slightly ashamed of herself, Erin carefully gathers the statements together, places them back in the file and closes the cover. “It’s okay. That won’t be necessary. I’m sorry for sounding like I was doubting you, Terri. It’s been a tough couple of days, but that’s no excuse for my behavior. And particularly not when you consider our past relationship.”

  Clearly pissed off, Terri gets to her feet and shakes her head. “You’re damn right about that, Erin. If I was anybody else, there is no way you would have spoken to me like that.”

  Erin tries to speak, but Terri is far from finished. “No, you’ve had your say. It’s my turn to speak now. Yesterday evening, I made the mistake of misinterpreting your reason for turning down my offer of a drink with you. In response to that, you made me look like a right fucking idiot and told me in no uncertain terms to get over it. We both know, though, that what you actually meant is that I should get over you.

  “Well, Erin, you’ve just demonstrated quite clearly that it’s not me that has the problem. It’s you. You’re the one that ende
d our relationship for the sake of trying to save your marriage and for your kids. And it’s you that still needs to bloody well get over it. I’ve moved on and so should you.”

  Emotional but unwilling to cry in front of Erin, Terri angrily wipes the corner of her eyes and reaches for the door.

  Jumping up, Erin follows her to the door. “Hold on, Terri, please. I didn’t mean to upset you. Please sit back down so we can talk. We can’t leave things like this.”

  “I’m done bloody talking for today,” Terri scowls. “And now I need a drink. And if it’s all the same to you, if I see somebody I like, I might just ask them to join me.”

  She then adds quite unnecessarily, “Who knows? If I really like her, I might even take her home.”

  The pain etched across Erin’s face is instant and crushing. Instantly regretting being such a bitch, but not wanting to back down and lose face, Terri storms from the office, leaving Erin shocked and teary.

  Terri holds her own composure just long enough to reach her car, but the door has barely closed before she breaks down and sobs uncontrollably into her hands.

  She is battered by wave after wave of pent-up emotion, and it is a full minute before she is able to pull herself together. Reaching for a clean tissue, she takes a deep breath, dabs the corners of her eyes, and starts the engine. Examining her appearance in the rear-view mirror, she takes another deep breath, then says to herself, “You absolute fucking idiot, Marchetti. Why didn’t you just keep your big mouth shut and take the bollocking that you deserved?”

  Chapter Seven

  Wednesday 20th March 2019

  After a restless night, Erin arrives at the station and is surprised to find Terri waiting in her office. The blinds are still closed, and clearly expecting another confrontation, she closes the door and goes straight on the offensive without allowing her former partner the opportunity to explain herself.

  “You were way out of bloody line last night, DI Marche—”