A Very Mersey Murder E-Book

Brian L. Porter

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

1966. England wins the soccer World Cup. The same night, a barmaid's body is discovered near an abandoned lighthouse. Two more murders follow; all remain unsolved.

2005. D.I. Andy Ross is called in when a disturbingly similar series of murders begins in the same location. If their estimates are correct, Ross and his team have one week to solve the case before the next Lighthouse Murder takes place.

D.I. Ross and Sergeant Izzie Drake seek to apprehend the vicious killer. But with few clues and even less evidence, can they catch him in time?

Leseprobe

A Very Mersey Murder

Mersey Murder Mysteries Book V

Brian L. Porter

Copyright (C) 2018 Brian L. Porter

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2019 by Next Chapter

Published 2019 by Next Chapter

Cover Design byhttp://www.thecovercollection.com/

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

Dedicated to the memory of Enid Anne Porter 1913 – 2004

Acknowledgements

For the fifth book in the Mersey Mystery series, I have to say a big, big thank you to Debbie Poole. As my one-time proof-reader, Debbie has moved on to fulfil not only that role but has grown into her new role as my on-the-spot researcher in Liverpool. I've been away from the city for a long time, so it's obvious that not everything is as it was 'in my day' and Debbie is able to first of all, correct me if I try to include locations or buildings that no longer exist, or sometimes, corrects my faulty geography when it comes to local geography.

Debbie also throws herself into the research role and has driven many miles around the city and its environs, seeking appropriate locations for scenes in the books. For example, she recently drove around, looking under railway bridges for a perfect 'body dump' site. Thank God the police didn't pull up and ask what she was doing examining railway cuttings, bridges and tunnels. “You see officer, I'm just looking for a perfect place to dump a body,” wouldn't go down too well, I think. Debbie has recently been joined in my 'research department' by Dot Blackman and these two fearless and intrepid ladies can often be seen in some of the most unlikely places as they delve into parts of Liverpool that others may shy away from as they go in search of locations, background stories and interesting information for use in current or future books, (hence the search for a body dump). So, thanks to Dot, too.

On top of all that, Debbie has become a great friend and the Mersey Mysteries owe much to her help, her guidance and her critical eye on the words I write. I couldn't do it without her.

Of course, I have to thank Miika, my publisher at Next Chapter, for his vision in having first seen the potential in a series based on my original Mersey Mystery, A Mersey Killing, which set the whole ball rolling.

And of course, my dear wife Juliet always rates a big thank you for her patience as I take over the dining table, constantly fail to hear her talking to me, such is my level of concentration while writing, and for always supporting me in my efforts to produce the next book in the series.

As always, my thanks go to the people of Liverpool, and Merseyside in general, without whom, the Mersey Mysteries couldn't exist.

Finally, I have to say a big thank you to all my readers around the world who have helped the Mersey Mysteries on their way to success. I appreciate you all.

Introduction

Welcome to the fifth book in the Mersey Mystery series. Those who have already read the earlier books in the series will already be familiar with Detective Inspector Andy Ross, Detective Sergeant Izzie Drake and the rest of the team that make up the fictional Merseyside Police Specialist Murder Investigation Team. For new readers I hope you will enjoy meeting the chief protagonists in this, their latest investigation, which begins before most of the team were born, on the day the England football team won football's world cup in July 1966.

A young woman is brutally raped and murdered, her body left close to the old disused lighthouse at the local beauty spot of Hale, near Liverpool, her killing being followed by two more in the coming weeks. With no arrests being made the case is consigned to the cold case list and over time, virtually forgotten about. When a similar case occurs thirty-nine years later, with two identical killings taking place, it takes an intervention by the retired, former detective who investigated the original 'Lighthouse Murders' to inform the police that they may have a copycat killer at large. Worse still, there is a chance that the original killer may have resurfaced after all these years have passed.

With the prospect of a third murder strongly suggested, the case is passed to the Specialist Investigation Team, who under the overall leadership of Detective Chief Inspector Oscar Agostini, find themselves with one week to find the killer. Why a week? Because if the current murders follow the same pattern as the original killings, in one week's time the third murder will take place, and, following the pattern of the '66 murders, the next victim will be a female police officer!

With no clues, and not a suspect in sight, Andy Ross and his team face a race against time to try to identify and apprehend the vicious killer of young women. With a fresh-faced new detective joining the team, and with one of their number still on sick leave as a result of gunshot wounds suffered in a previous case, the team find themselves being assisted by a couple of unlikely citizens, and, for previous readers of the series, there is a fond return for criminal profiler and forensic anthropologist, Doctor Christine Bland.

Glossary

Author's note: Some of the dialogue used in this book includes certain regional accents that might be unfamiliar to readers in the USA and other nations around the world. For those who may be confused by some of the idiosyncratic speech found in the following pages, I have provided a short glossary of terms to help to explain some of these odd sounding words and phrases.

Tanner, popular term for a sixpenny piece, a small silver coin, used in pre-decimal times, equivalent to 5 pence in today's money.

La' a contraction of the word, 'lad' popularly used in the local Liverpool dialect.

Babycham and Cherry B two popular drinks in the UK in the 1960s, the first a perry, resembling champagne, but made with pears, the second a form of cherry brandy, both popular with female drinkers of the time.

Lead – Leash

999 – UK equivalent to 911

S.I.O. – Senior Investigating Officer

D.C.I. – Detective Chief Inspector

D.I. - Detective Inspector.

D.S. - Detective Sergeant

D.C. - Detective Constable

Tights – Pantyhose

Knickers - Panties

Scally: Local Liverpudlian description (from the word scallywag), used to describe a ne'er-do-well, a mischief maker or small-time thief or hoodlum.

On the 'never-never' – On credit.

Up the duff – pregnant (slang)

There may be a few words I've failed to mention, but I think you'll get the hang of the 'Scouse' accent after a while. Speaking of the word 'Scouse'

Scouse/Scouser, a common term to refer to the natives of Liverpool, derived from the once popular dish 'scouse,' served in Liverpool households for many years, though not so much nowadays.

In the case of Albert Cretingham senior, he is from the neighbouring county of West Yorkshire and does not have a Liverpool accent. Instead he speaks with a broad Yorkshire accent and has a habit of dropping the letter 'H' from the beginning of his words, e.g. 'is instead of his, 'er instead of her etc. I'm sure you'll soon catch on. The phraseology and grammar are also different and though not correct English, I have written it as it spoken by the people of that part of the country.

Prologue

Hale, Liverpool, 30th July 1966

The 30th July 1966 had proved to be a landmark day for English football, a day that began with hope and expectation among the fans of 'the beautiful game' and ended with joyous celebrations all over the country. Not only did England triumph in the World Cup Final, in a thrilling 4 -2 encounter with West Germany in a game that needed extra-time to separate the two evenly matched teams, but England's Geoff Hurst became the first player in the history of the game to score a hat-trick in a World Cup Final, the final goal scored and accompanied by the now famous words of commentator Kenneth Wolstenholme, as Hurst's shot rocketed into the net, “And here comes Hurst. He's got…some people are on the pitch, they think it's all over. It is now! It's four!”

Celebrations began all over the country as those who'd watched the game on television, listened to the radio commentary indulged in impromptu parties and revelry. Victory over the Germans had been the perfect excuse for unprecedented scenes of delirium and togetherness among fans and non-fans of the game as it became a matter of national pride that England for the first time, had been crowned kings of the game that, after all, they had invented.

Nowhere were the celebrations more pronounced, more fervent, than in and around the city of Liverpool, a hot bed of football fanaticism and home to two veritable giants of the English First Division, in the forms of Liverpool and Everton Football Clubs. That year, Liverpool had won the First Division Championship and Everton had won the F.A. Cup with a thrilling comeback victory over Sheffield Wednesday at Wembley, after being two-nil behind, eventually winning 3 goals to 2. For that day, and especially in the evening, all thoughts of partisan rivalry were forgotten as fans of all teams joined together to celebrate England's triumph. The people of Liverpool could feel extra pride as two of the England team that day played for the city's teams, Inside Forward Roger Hunt of Liverpool and Ramon (Ray) Wilson, the Everton full back.

As the night drew towards a close, the customers in the Traveller's Rest public house on the outskirts of the village of Hale, some six miles from the city of Liverpool were enjoying themselves, a spirit of bonhomie and good humour being the order of the day, or night, to be more precise.

Closing time was drawing closer as 19-year-old barmaid Stella Cox made her way through the loud, happy throng of drinkers, tray in hand, attempting to clear the tables of empty glasses. In the packed, crowded bar, more than one stray hand would reach out, trying to grab a cheeky feel of Stella's shapely rear as she tried to navigate the obstacle course of happy, mostly slightly inebriated drinkers.

“Get off, you lecherous old bugger,” Stella laughed as she good naturedly fought off the semi-drunken attentions of more than a few of the bar's regular punters.

“Oh, come on, Stella. You look good enough to eat, girl,” old Billy Riley said with a grin as he 'accidentally' allowed his hand to encounter the fabric of her softly pleated skirt. “Give us a feel for England, eh?”

“The only feel you'll cop, Billy Riley, is the feel of my fist as it connects with your chin, you old dog,” shouted Micky Drummond, the landlord of 'The Travellers' as it was known to the locals. “Leave my sodding staff alone, you bloody pervert. Stella's young enough to be your bloody daughter.”

“Aye well, I s'pose I did go to school with yer old man, Stella, so I guess old Micky's right,” Riley hiccupped as the effects of the locally brewed Higson's Bitter induced a distinct slurring of his words. “Sorry love.”

“I think you ought to be getting off home, Billy,” Stella laughed, unperturbed by Billy's fumbling. “Sheila won't be best pleased if you roll in drunk as a lord, now, will she?”

The thought of his wife standing in the hall, rolling pin in hand seemed to have a sobering effect on Billy Riley, who quickly downed the last of his eighth pint of the night, placed his glass on Stella's tray, almost missing entirely as his eyes failed to focus properly, and made a lurch towards the door, calling out a hearty “Goodnight all,” as he set off on his drunken walk to his home a few hundred yards away.

“The way he's weaving around, I reckon it'll take him half a bloody hour to get home,” Micky Drummond laughed as the door swung shut behind Billy Riley. A wave of laughter accompanied Micky's words and Stella completed her penultimate collection of empty glasses just as Drummond called 'Last orders. please,” ringing the bell over the bar to back up his announcement. She'd clear the final lot after the final customers had left the premises. His wife, Dora, took the bell as her signal to leave her place behind the bar and she quickly walked across the room to turn off the jukebox in the corner, that was currently playing the new number one in the charts, Wild Thing, by The Troggs, for what was probably the twentieth time that night.

“Oy, Dora, love. I paid a tanner to play that song,” Bobby Evans protested as the music died and the lights of the juke box faded away to nothing.

At twenty-two, just under six feet tall, with a shock of unruly blonde hair, Bobby was one of the younger regulars at The Travellers, and was the pub's star darts player, captaining the darts team in the Liverpool and District Licensed Victuallers Darts League. By day he worked as a postman and was only in the pub till closing time because it was Saturday, and there was no delivery service on Sundays.

“For Christ sakes, Bobby Evans, you must have played it a dozen times at least this evening. You tryin' to wear the grooves out lad?” Dora cajoled him.

“Right, I'm off then. Youse lot don't know good music when you hear it. Place is like a bloody morgue without the jukebox,” Bobby replied, draining the last of his pint, and banging the glass down on the bar in protest.

“Hey, la' break that and you'll be paying for it,” Micky said, sternly as Bobby held a hand up in apology and made his way to the door, followed closely by the last of the die-hards who'd stayed till closing time, England's World Cup win being the perfect excuse for a good night out and maybe a drink or two more than usual.

“Thank God for that,” Dora exclaimed as a momentary silence followed the exit of the last of night's patrons.

“Don't knock it girl,” Micky responded. “That World Cup win has boosted our takings by about fifty percent tonight. He quickly poured himself a large scotch from a bottle of Johnnie Walker Red Label he kept under the bar, for his personal consumption, as well as a gin and tonic for Dora and a Babycham for Stella. As they were joined by Ann Rolls and Pete Donovan, who'd staffed the small lounge bar that evening, he added a pint of Higson's bitter for Pete and a Cherry B for Ann.

For the next ten minutes, landlord and staff enjoyed a convivial drink together before calling it a night. Before the staff left to make their way to their homes, Dora pulled Stella to one side.

“Just wanted to tell you how nice you looked tonight, Stella. That skirt new, is it?”

“Yes, it is,” Stella replied, running her hands down the fabric of the navy blue, pencil pleated skirt, that was beautifully complimented by her white satin effect blouse with ruffles at the neck. With her flowing auburn hair, Stella Cox could easily be mistaken for a model, though she would be the first to tell anyone who asked that such a job just wasn't for her. In fact, Stella had ambitions to succeed in a less lucrative but more stable business and had recently gained an interview for a position as a clerk in the Littlewoods Football Pools offices on Walton Hall Avenue, where she hoped to one day become an office manager or something similar. She'd promised Micky that she'd continue to work at the pub at weekends if she got the job, a decision that greatly please the landlord of the Travellers, who knew that Stella's good looks and permanently cheerful disposition helped trade enormously. Everyone loved a pretty barmaid, and they didn't come much prettier than Stella Cox.

“I bought it this afternoon at C & A,” Stella continued her conversation with Dora, who, at forty-eight, had retained her own youthful figure, much to the delight of her husband, a former Liverpool City police sergeant, who'd taken early retirement in order to fulfil his lifetime ambition to run his own pub one day. He and Dora had now run the Traveller's Rest successfully for three years.

“You're a very pretty girl, Stella,” Dora went on. “Still no lad in your life yet?”

“No, not yet, Dora. You know me, still young and fancy free. My Mam says I've plenty of time ahead of me to get tangled up with boys, as she puts it.”

“She's got a sound head on her shoulders, that Mam of yours,” Dora smiled in agreement with Lucy Cox, her friend, Stella's mother, who she'd known for as long as she could remember.

“Yeah, well, me Dad agrees with her,” Stella replied. “And it could put any lad wanting to be my boyfriend off if I tell 'em me Dad says he'll kill any scally that so much as lays a finger on me, never mind tried to kiss me or anything.”

Dora laughed, as did Stella, and a few minutes later Stella, Pete and Ann all made their way to the door, which Micky unlocked to allow them out of the pub, ready for home, and bed.

Pete and Ann both lived on Church Road, about a ten-minute walk from the pub, and Pete, as was customary, would walk Ann home before heading to his own house, a few doors away, not far from St. Mary's church. Stella lived in the opposite direction, her family residing in a neat detached cottage not far from the disused Hale Lighthouse, from where her father, Terry, ran his own small business, making items of bespoke hand-made furniture, much sought after by many of the local city retailers, as well as making individual commissions for discerning customers.

“You going to be alright walking home alone, Stella?” Micky asked the same question he posed every night that Stella worked in the pub.

“Stop fussing, Micky,” Stella laughed as she replied. “You're like an old mother hen. What's gonna happen round here? This is Hale, not flippin' London or Manchester, or even the city centre. Besides, everyone round here knows me and my Mam and Dad. We're all one big happy family in the village, right?”

“Aye lass, I suppose you're right at that. Just be careful, okay?”

“I'm always careful, Micky, you know that. Now get yourself in there with Dora and get a good night's sleep. I'll see you tomorrow night as usual.”

“Right you are, Stella,” Micky replied, bending his six feet three-inch frame enough to allow him to plant a fatherly kiss on Stella's right cheek. “Good night, girl. Take care.”

Micky Drummond didn't know it, but those would be the last words he, or any of her workmates at the Traveller's rest would ever speak to Stella Cox.

* * *

Stella was almost home. Turning off the main footpath onto the narrow unpaved track that led to her parent's cottage, she sensed, rather than heard, the soft footfalls approaching from the darkness behind her. A tiny frisson of fear ran the length of her spine, but, seeing the lights of the cottage ahead, she tried to dispel any thoughts of impending trouble. After all, she'd be home in a minute. The sound of someone breathing close by eventually forced her to quicken her pace a little, not easy in her three-inch heels on the unpaved, rough surface of the track to the cottage. Stella whirled round, ready to confront the apparition in the dark.

“Oh, it's you,” she gasped, as a familiar face came into view.

“Who were you expecting, Stella?” the voice asked.

“Nobody of course. I'm going home and I'm going to bed. What are you doing down here anyway?”

“I wanted to see you, of course.”

“Me? Why?”

“You looked so nice tonight in the pub, so pretty.”

“Thank you, but why follow me home?”

“Because I wanted to see you. I already told you.”

A ripple of fear made Stella turn towards home again. Something wasn't right here, and she knew it.”

“Look, I'm very tired and I want to get to bed. You can see me in the pub again tomorrow, okay?”

She walked two paces in the direction of home when she felt strong arms around her waist, strong enough to lift her off her feet, and throw her to the ground. Before she could scream a hand pressed down across her mouth, silencing her, as the weight of her attacker held her pinned to the ground.

“Scream, and you die,” the once friendly voice commanded, and Stella nodded, as he removed his hand and stuffed an old piece of rag in her mouth, choking and gagging her at the same time. She felt herself being flipped over onto her front, and in mere seconds, her hands were pulled behind her back and tied together with a rough length of rope.

Rough hands pulled at her beautiful new skirt, exposing her legs to the attacker.

“Now, I can see you,” the voice said, as tears stung Stella's eyes. She felt herself being lifted and was soon hoisted over the shoulder of the man, who, she now noticed, was dressed in black from head to foot. No wonder she hadn't seen anyone behind her as she'd walked along the dark path towards home.

A few minutes later, Stella felt herself being tossed like a sack of garbage onto the rough ground. Rough hands pulled at the buttons of her blouse as the man spoke again.

“I only want to see you, Stella.”

Despite the foul-tasting rag that effectively gagged her, Stella Cox did her best to struggle, and behind the gag, she screamed into the night, but her screams went unheard.

* * *

Postman Bobby Evans discovered the body of Stella Cox at three a.m. the following morning. Bobby walked his dog Max, a young Bedlington terrier, along the old farm tracks near the disused Hale Lighthouse, early every morning before heading off to work. He had to be at the local sorting office by four a.m. so made sure Max had a good run before having to leave him at home with his widowed Mum, Edith for most of the day. Despite the fact he wasn't working the following day, he stuck to the usual routine, as Max had no concept of days off and his built-in body clock demanded he be walked at the same time every early morning. Bobby never minded his early morning walks with Max. The village and its surrounding area always exuded a feeling of peace and tranquillity late at night and first thing in the morning, just before dawn, and now, it gave Bobby, after just a couple of hours sleep, an opportunity to walk off some of his slightly drunken feelings, after celebrating England's victory with his mates in the pub. He planned to get his head down for an afternoon nap after one his Mother's gargantuan Sunday roast beef dinners.

He'd let Max off his lead, allowing him to run free and as usual, Max was running well ahead of Bobby, until he seemed to pull up with a start. From thirty yards away, Bobby saw his dog, standing still, whimpering as if he'd hurt himself.

“Hey Max, what's the matter boy? Have you found something?”

In the darkness, Bobby could just about make out a form on the ground in front of where Max stood. Hoping his dog hadn't come across the rotting corpse of a dead animal, he increased his pace until he was almost upon the spot where Max still stood, stock still and whimpering incessantly.

“Oh my God, no, please no!” Bobby Evans gasped in shock as he finally saw what Max had found. Futile as it was, he fell to his knees, trying to find some sign of life in the inert body that lay before him. When he realised who he was looking at, and the enormity of his discovery hit home, Bobby turned away from the body of Stella Cox just before depositing the contents of his stomach on the ground at the side of the path where she lay. Bobby ran over a mile, with Max at his side until he came to the nearest public telephone box, from where he dialled 999 and summoned the police.

* * *

Despite a massive police inquiry at the time, no charges were ever brought in the case of the murder of Stella Cox. As one of the last people to see her alive and also being the one to report the finding of her body, Bobby Evans at first came under close scrutiny as a possible suspect, but he was eventually cleared of any involvement. The investigation was hampered by the fact that between her death and the finding of her body, there'd been a light rain shower, which had potentially destroyed any trace evidence that may have been present at the scene or on Stella's body.

Every man in Hale was interviewed, and many from the surrounding areas. Sadly, in 1966, there was no such thing as DNA testing, so the semen found at the scene of the murder and during the autopsy couldn't be tied to any one man.

Although the case remained on the 'open' file for many years, it would eventually find itself into the archive of 'cold cases,' those for whom a resolution seemed as likely as a snowfall in hell, the longer the passage of time since they were committed.

Chapter 1

Liverpool, August 2005

The squad room of Merseyside Police Force's Specialist Murder Investigation Team was unusually quiet for once. The team of detectives led by Detective Inspector Andy Ross had enjoyed a successful year so far. Their latest case, the so-called 'Frozen Lamb Murders' had recently been solved and the killer, Byron Cummings was now behind bars, awaiting trial. His use of joints of frozen lamb as his weapon of choice in dispatching his victims had been ingeniously simple and at first, the police had found it impossible to identify exactly what the murder weapon had been in the cases of four almost identical, apparently motiveless murders. Who would have suspected the mild-mannered family man of being guilty of such heinous crimes? Using frozen leg of lamb joints, Cummings had bludgeoned his victims to death, cleverly disposing of the murder weapons each time by simply defrosting and cooking them in the oven, then serving them up as a tasty meal to his wife and two children.

Ross and his team had finally latched on to the killer by establishing a link between him and the four victims, all of whom had been customers at the barber shop Cummings owned in Speke. Precisely why he'd selected them was still a grey area, but it was thought they were all vegetarians who had somehow managed to offend their barber while sitting in his chair. That would be one for the psychiatrists to argue about, but for Andy Ross, it was another case closed.

The aftermath of the case involving multiple murders and kidnapping that revolved around the cargo liner Alexandra Rose had left its marks on Ross's team. Although Detective Constable Derek McLennan had recovered from his gunshot wounds and returned to work, D.C. Keith Burton hadn't been so lucky. His shoulder muscles had been badly damaged by the bullets that had ripped into him aboard the ship, and he was still undergoing a protracted period of physiotherapy. Whether he would eventually be declared fit enough to return to work was a matter for the doctors, though Ross wasn't too hopeful.

On a positive note, Acting Detective Constable Gary, (Ginger) Devenish who had originally been seconded to the team from the Liverpool Port Police, had been confirmed as a full-time member, much to his and Ross's delight. His position as a full D.C. was now pending and he would soon be able to drop the 'Acting' from his rank.

“When are we going to get a new case?” asked Detective Constable Sam Gable, as she and the others gathered in the squad room on a sultry August morning.

“Good question, Sam,” D.C. Lenny (Tony) Curtis replied. Nobody ever referred to Curtis by his given name any more. He would be forever Tony, a result of his remarkable likeness to the old movie idol of the same name.

“Yeah, I hate bloody office work,” D.C. Nick Dodds joined in.

“We should perhaps be careful what we are wishing for,” said Sofie Meyer. The German detective sergeant, on loan from the police force in Hamburg for two years had assimilated well into Ross's team and now felt perfectly at home with her new, British colleagues.

As the conversation began, so it was brought to an abrupt end by the entrance of Detective Inspector Andy Ross, closely followed by Detective Sergeant Clarissa (Izzie) Drake, his trusted right hand and long-time crime busting partner.

“Morning all, “Ross began. “Did I hear some mumblings of discontent in the ranks as we walked into the room?”

The smile on his face gave away the levity of his comment.

“We were wondering when we might be gainfully employed in our primary role again, Boss,” Curtis responded.

“Funny you should say that, Tony. As it happens, D.C.I. Agostini just handed us a nice juicy new case. Anyone know where D.S. Ferris is?”

“I'm here, sir,” Paul Ferris replied, as he and D.C. Devenish entered the squad room, loaded down with files that they proceeded to deposit on Ferris's desk. “Still bringing the system up to date, adding some of these older files to the computer records.”

“Ah yes, good man, Paul. Now, all we need is Derek and we can get on with this briefing.”

D.C. Derek McLennan, who'd now been with Ross's team for five years, had grown in that time, from a young, naïve newcomer to a seasoned trusted part of the team, and only recently had been honoured with a Chief Constable's Commendation for his bravery in attempting to foil a jewellery store robbery during his off-duty hours. A bullet wound to the chest had landed him in hospital where he met and fell in love with his fiancée, Debbie Tate, who'd been one of the team of dedicated nurses who had helped him in his recovery and wedding plans were already underway.

“He was here a few minutes ago sir,” Sam Gable commented, “I never saw him leave.”

The door to Ross's office at the far side of the room opened, and the man in question appeared with a smile on his face.

“I was under the impression that was my office, Derek,” Ross said, wondering why McLennan would have been in his office first thing in the morning. McLennan held his hands up in a gesture of surrender.

“Ah, you've got me, sir. I confess. I was trying to steal your supply of paperclips…no, really, I've left something on your desk. It's a surprise, so I hope you'll forgive me creeping around, all furtive, like.”

“I'm intrigued,” Ross replied. “I'll check out your surprise shortly. For now, I have some news for you all. It's time we got back to doing some work folks. Pull up a chair and listen.”

The team members all complied, each taking a seat and waiting expectantly for Ross to begin. As he prepared to outline the latest case the squad room door opened to admit Kat Bellamy, the team's civilian administration assistant.

“Come in and sit down, Kat,” Ross urged her and waited a few seconds as Kat, looking flustered, sat at her desk and nodded to him that she was ready to take notes of what he had to say.

“Okay people,” Ross began. “The boss seemingly got a call from D.C.I. Mountfield in C.I.D. Three weeks ago, the body of a young woman was found not far from the old ruined lighthouse at Hale.”

As he spoke, Izzie Drake moved behind him and began attaching a series of photographs to the whiteboard on the wall.

“I'll let D.S. Drake tell you the basics. Please, Izzie, tell 'em.”

“Right, everyone. This is Cathy Billings, aged twenty,” she indicated the photo of a pretty blonde with long, wavy hair, positioned at the top left of the whiteboard. “Cathy left her job as a barmaid at The Travellers Rest in Hale at closing time and was never seen alive again. Her body, as the boss said, was found not far from the old closed down lighthouse the next morning. She'd been beaten and raped. The local lads handed the case to C.I.D. who weren't getting far, when, last week, there was a second murder, an almost identical crime scene to the first, the body being found on the beach, close to the car park, again, near the lighthouse.”

“That's tragic, sir,” Tony Curtis spoke from the back of the room, “but it doesn't really sound like one of our cases does it?”

Ross provided him, and the others, with the answer to his question.

“Under normal circumstances, I'd agree Tony, but then, most cases don't have the strange connections this one has.”

“What kind of connections, sir?” Curtis continued probing.

“I'm coming to that, in a minute. Now, as I just said, under normal circumstances this would be handled by C.I.D. It's not a case for us, or so you'd think. Sergeant Drake, carry on, please.”

Izzie pointed to the second photo on the board, another young woman whose life had been tragically cut short by violent death.

“Victim number two,” she began, “was twenty-two-year-old Hannah Lucas, a trainee veterinarian nurse. Again, she'd been beaten and raped, but here's where things began to go a little screwy.”

As she paused for breath, a hush fell over the assembled detectives in the room. A sense of anticipation spread through the team. Drake continued.

“As luck would have it, or maybe bad luck, I don't know, when the second murder took place, and was reported in the press, a retired detective inspector who handled an unsolved case back in the 1960s got in touch with the S.I.O. a D.I. Morris.

Apparently former D.I. Stan Coleman had investigated a series of murders in 1966. The first victim was a barmaid at The Traveller's Rest, and the second one was a student at Liverpool University. Anyone want to hazard a guess at what she was studying?”

“Veterinary medicine?” Ginger Devenish piped up.

“Quite right, Ginger,” Drake confirmed. “Stan Coleman was able to tell Morris so much about the old case that Morris felt something must connect them somehow. Without telling Coleman a single fact about the new murders, Coleman was able to give Morris chapter and verse on the original killings that exactly match the current ones. D.I. Morris is no fool. She took Coleman's information to her boss and well, to cut a long story short, as nobody was ever convicted for the 1966 killings, the case has ended up in our lap, and, this is important, everyone. Remember that the original killer stopped his spree of killing after three murders. So far, we've only had two.”

Sam Gable wasn't the only member of the team to feel a tingle running through her body as she took Izzie Drake's words on board. She spoke in response to the information received so far.

“You said the original murders took place in 1966, Sarge? Surely nobody suspects that the same killer could have suddenly started up again after thirty-nine years?”

It was Ross who supplied her with the answer.

“We just don't know, Sam. It seems highly unlikely and yet the current murders are perfect carbon copies of the earlier killings, according to D.I. Morris. She was upstairs with D.C.I. Agostini when we were handed the case a few minutes ago and she seemed genuinely unnerved by the similarity between the current murders and the original ones. According to her, ex-D.I. Coleman has carried the case around in his head for all those years. It was his one big failure, in a career spanning thirty years. He hasn't forgotten a single detail.”

It was Sofie Meyer's turn to speak up, and she was her usual direct self in her words to Ross.

“Sir, I can see why we have been handed this case but there is one thing you have yet not told us.”

“Go on, Sofie.”

“Sergeant Drake has told us there were three murders in 1966. so far there have been two in the most recent ones. As we know the identities and occupations of the original victims, I think we should be made aware of the age and occupation of the third victim in 1966 and how long you think we have before the third killing will take place, assuming the killer is following the identical timetable as the original killer.”

“I was about to come to that,” Ross replied. “If the killer of Cathy and Hannah is indeed following the exact timetable of the 1966 murders, we can expect another murder one week from today and that, people, gives us a very precise time frame in which to identify and apprehend this bastard.”

“Sir?” Tony Curtis said, questioningly. “What was the occupation of the third victim in the original set of murders?”

Ross looked at Izzie Drake and nodded and she now took a third photo from the folder in her hands and attached it to the now rapidly developing murder board. As she did so and stepped back so they could all see victim number three clearly, there was an audible gasp from the assembled team members. Smiling at them, in the stark black and white photograph was a young and extremely attractive woman police constable.

“Oh, bloody hell,” Nick Dodds exclaimed.

“Shit,” Curtis added.

“Sick bastard,” said Sam Gable.

“This is not good,” Sofie Meyer added.

“Who was she?” Derek McLennan asked.

“This, ladies and gents,” Ross replied, tapping the photograph added by Drake, “was W.P.C. Elizabeth Warren, known to everyone as Liz. She was just twenty-one years old when the killer beat and raped her before killing her. Like the others, she was dumped near the old lighthouse at Hale. In her case, the original investigating officers were able to positively determine her movements up until a few minutes before she disappeared. She had been at a party in a friend's house in Hale, but she lived in Huyton. Her car was found a few hundred yards from the friend's house, and D.I Coleman concluded she must have stopped, possibly to offer help to someone, maybe her killer, who had possibly set up some sort of trap to lure her into his clutches. I don't have to tell you, we need to move fast on this one. D.C.I. Agostini is adamant there isn't going to be a dead woman police officer on his conscience so it's up to us to make sure we catch this bastard quickly.”

Murmurs of agreement rippled through the room as Ross fell silent. Nick Dodds finally broke that silence as he asked the question that was on most minds at that time.

“Sir, you've told us these women were raped and beaten but what was the actual cause of death?”

“Good question, Nick. D.I. Coleman's original investigation in 1966 showed that all three women had been strangled with their own tights. The killer either made them remove them or stripped them off the women himself before using them as the murder weapon.”

“That's gross,” Sam Gable commented.

“Women's tights are very stretchy,” Sofie Meyer commented. “He would have needed a high degree of strength to pull them tight enough to produce a killing ligature, I think.”

“You're right, Sofie,” Ross agreed. “D.I. Coleman and his people on the first investigation came to the same conclusion. The problem is, you can't arrest or interrogate every man in the city of Liverpool or beyond simply based on their strength. Their biggest problem was a total lack of forensic evidence at the crime scenes. There was no such thing as regular DNA testing back then, so even the presence of semen wasn't of any great help to the investigators.”

“When did DNA testing first become used here in the UK?” Meyer asked.

Paul Ferris, who had been silent until now, for reasons all too clear to Ross, provided her with the answer. The team's computer specialist said, “The first recorded use of DNA being used in the apprehension of a criminal was back in the 1980s, Sofie. It led to the arrest and conviction of a man called Colin Pitchfork, who killed two girls, three years apart, in 1983 and 1986. They had the ability to extract and store DNA in the earlier murder but not until the second murder was the system perfected to the extent that, following mass profiling of men in Leicestershire, Pitchfork was identified and eventually convicted.”

“Great history lesson, Sarge,” Derek McLennan said with a smile on his face.

“Just answering Sofie's question,” Ferris replied. The team had been requested, at Meyer's behest, to use her first name as she wasn't comfortable being addressed as sergeant and appearing to be senior in rank to the more experienced members of Ross's team, who she saw as being more experienced locally than herself.

“Thank you, Paul. That is indeed interesting to know,” Meyer replied.

“And what have you been up to on that computer of yours while I've been talking, Paul?” Ross inquired, having noticed Ferris battering the keyboard at his desk as he and Drake had been presenting the case. He had a good idea what Ferris was doing, and now the sergeant, his resident computer expert, replied.

“Thought I'd look up that old case as you were talking, sir.”

“I thought that's what you were doing, and…?”

“It's pretty much as you and Izzie laid out, sir. D.I. Stanley James Coleman was the senior investigating officer at the time. He was backed up mostly by a Sergeant Dennis Megson. From what I can see, it was a good investigation. D.I. Coleman did all he could under the constraints of the day, regarding lack of forensics, no DNA testing etc. They must have questioned around a thousand men in the six months following the first murder, and though they were focussed on a local man, Bobby Evans for a while, there was no evidence against him whatsoever and his alibi held up, so they hit a brick wall quite quickly with that line of inquiry.”

“What was his alibi, sarge?” Nick Dodds asked.

“Well, it seems he'd been in the pub that night, talked to Stella, but left early while she stayed behind with the other staff for a drink with the landlord and his wife after closing. Evans and Stella were friendly with each other but lived at opposite ends of the village, and nobody ever provided any kind of evidence that placed them together after Stella left work that night.

Now, although there were no witnesses to the crime, there was a rain shower that night, and it was a fairly simple task for the investigators to narrow the murder time down to before it rained, because of the state of the ground below the body. The pathologist was clear on the point that the girl had been murdered on the spot she was found so there was no question of the body being dumped after being killed elsewhere.”

“I wonder why D.I. Coleman never advanced beyond Detective Inspector,” Sam Gable wondered aloud.

“Probably an 'old school' bobby,” Ross conjectured. “Back then, there weren't the same opportunities for promotion as there are today, and maybe he preferred staying at the sharp end of policing, not fancying being promoted to a desk job.”

Izzie Drake looked long and hard at Andy Ross as he spoke. He could, she knew, be quite easily describing himself with those words. Certainly not lacking in ambition, Ross had nevertheless turned down a promotion when D.C.I. Harry Porteous had retired due to him wanting to remain as head of the team on a day to day basis. His refusal to accept the promotion had led to D.C.I. Oscar Agostini becoming their new D.C.I.

“According to his record,” Paul Ferris continued, “Stan Coleman carried his failure to solve that case like a millstone round his neck for years. It haunted him, and he retired from the force ten years later at the age of forty.”

“So that puts him in his sixties or seventies now then,” Tony Curtis said. “Can we be sure his memory is accurate about the original investigation?”

“We'll know soon enough, D.C. Curtis,” said a voice from behind him, as D.C.I. Oscar Agostini walked into the squad room, accompanied by a white-haired, six feet tall, very fit looking elderly gentlemen who walked with an upright copper's bearing and who barely needed any introduction as Agostini said, “Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to introduce you to former Detective Inspector Stan Coleman.”