Briguella E-Book

Vicki Fitzgerald

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

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

After several women fall victim to a serial killer, journalist Kate Rivendale becomes embroiled in the manhunt. The authorities have no suspect, and only one forensic link that dates way back to the 1930s.

Detective Chief Inspector William Beckley wants to save his career; he has too many deaths on his conscience. Beckley entices Kate to go undercover, a decision which backfires with devastating consequences.

While DCI Beckley reaches a horrifying conclusion about the murderer, Kate enters a desperate fight for her life - while battling to keep her own secrets buried. But how far is she willing to go to get the story?

Leseprobe

Briguella

Vicki FitzGerald

Copyright (C) 2017 Vicki FitzGerald

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2019 by Next Chapter

Published 2019 by Next Chapter

Cover art by Inkubus Design

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.

Acknowledgements

Heartfelt thanks to all those who helped make my dreams finally come true.

I am enormously indebted to my exceptional publisher Miika Hanilla at Next Chapter for believing in me from the outset and bringing Briguella to life. Thank you for having faith.

Greatest thanks to Steve Green, former Home Office Forensic Scientist & Head of the Investigative Crime Team at Chepstow Forensic Science Laboratory, for invaluable insight into forensics and exceptional guidance. You truly helped shape this book.

Sincere thanks to Richard Sleeman, Scientific Director at Mass Spec Analytical Ltd and Forensic Advisor's Vicki Rowsell & Steve Robinson, for your evidence ideas and helping to bring authenticity to the book.

Enormous thanks to John Pitchers for the interesting mortuary tour and your valuable assistance with autopsy procedures.

To the wonderful registered paramedics, Sarah and Natalie, who ensured the accuracy of my medical text, huge thanks.

I owe a great thanks to Chris Weigold, former head of Local Policing Directorate, Avon & Somerset Police, Police Sergeant Jenkinson and former Crime Scene Investigator Bindy Cardy, for your expertise.

To Andrew Toogood, who allowed me to sit and imagine inside the 15th century tithe barn, thank you for providing the setting that gave such inspiration.

The life of a writer is a solitary one, therefore I am hugely grateful to all my friends for their encouragement - Deena Shelton, Victoria Kirtley, eagle-eyed copy-editors, Darren Bane, Linda Tanner, and Andrew Ramsey. Thank you, first readers, - Ben & Sally Harris, and John Thompson for his contacts.

To mum, dad, nan & gramps, and my in-laws, who have always supported my ambitions, I hope I've made you extremely proud.

My deepest appreciation goes to my husband, Kevin, for being there for me, keeping me going and being my rock. I wouldn't be here without you. You made it possible for me to chase my dreams. I love you, always.

To my wonderful, funny, children, who never complained while I 'finished another chapter'. I love you to the moon and back.

Thank you, lovely reader, for buying my book and recommending it to others. Your support means the world to me.

For Kevin, for believing in me and helping me to follow my dreams. For Matthew & Emily, who light up my life.

In loving memory of my gramps, Colin Francis who would have been proud

Chapter One – DCI Beckley

Monday 14 December 2015

Death lingers like fog weaving through frosted branches across the ashen sky.

The mangled doll-like corpse forms a stark silhouette against the estate; limbs sprawled gracelessly and bathing in blood stolen from her veins. The stench of rotting flesh blankets the air with a suffocating abattoir aroma. Crimson streaks solidify, congealing on her mottled skin, seeping beneath her and down between cracks in the pavement.

No one can save her; the deathlike pallor of her face indicates she's long been devoid of life. Her previous beauty marred by violence; nose shattered and plugged by crisp obsidian blood. It has been ten days since the last victim. This is not the end of his killing spree - it's only just begun.

Her blanched hand reaches out; four fingertips severed and taken as trophies to add to his growing collection. The calloused finger remains pointing, as if offering a clue to her murderer.

She stares at me with haunted eyes; panic and defiance locked in her pupils. This girl didn't die without a struggle. Her beaten body is partially frozen by the minus four-degree temperature. Ice shards cling to her bruised lips like sugar granules, her breath forever gone. She has been dead for several hours; left rotting proudly on display like contemporary art to be admired.

The scene projects into my mind, one I'll never be able to erase. It adds to the ghouls already lurking in my head. I don't remember the last time that I felt angst; it is clawing through my body torturing my guts in tense cramps.

I thought the first victim was an isolated incident, a one off; I was wrong. My eyes slam shut, and I see her bluish lips hung wide open, begging for mercy. Her cries echo in my ears. I want to vomit; bile is already seeping into my dry mouth thinking about the fear they encountered in their final moments.

The stunned faces rubbernecking and capturing the gore with their iPhones are as unwelcome as the blade that pierced her heart and severed her fingers. It's his signature move; mutilation for his own gratification. We are clueless as to his identity and can only surmise that a serial killer has darkened our door. A warped monster is lurking on the streets, blade clutched in his bloody hand ready to butcher his next victim. The thought instils anger and dread. I'm dealing with a ticking time bomb and the countdown to his next kill has already begun.

Press helicopter rotor blades slash the layered candyfloss clouds breaking the eerie stillness to film the morbid scene from above. Erratic camera flashes encroach the boundary as satellite trucks arrive in droves. Reporters are drawn to the police tape like maggots to flesh.

My heart contorts, panicked and afraid by the intrusion in to her privacy. I turn my back on the media glare, eyeing her snapped stilettos resting on the silvery glass blades. I imagine how the attack ensued, the killer smashing her skull from behind and catching her off guard. She crashes to her knees awaiting her execution.

Evidence triangles secure the girl's decomposing corpse and surrounding blood pool. Her clothing is disheveled; top lifted above her breasts to expose her heart and allow the knife to impale it. I picture the killer astride her, viciously choking her and coldly watching the light go out in her eyes.

A black bird swoops low, cackling raucously, distracting the vision. Crime Scene Investigators rush to secure polythene bags over the victim's head, hands and feet after copiously photographing her decomposing corpse in situ. Her statue-like body is transferred, and lays cocooned in a dark navy body bag, strapped snugly to a stretcher, as it's lifted into the black private ambulance for transportation to the mortuary.

Two forensic pathologists, Deena Shelton and Daniel Delaney, continue to document the scene. Dr Shelton is meticulous. Her acumen is razor sharp and I admire her assiduous attitude. Dr Delaney is crouched on the ground examining the blood-suffused tarmac where the victim lay dying. He's experienced but new to the unit. Paired together, they work in a harmonious fashion.

Shelton's glare is riveted, taking detailed notes with her surgical-gloved fingers. She bags the victim's coat into a large brown paper biohazard evidence bag, seals and labels it for lab analysis.

The killer is escalating fast, but his eagerness may hinder him and leave behind one vital piece of DNA, or evidence that we need to nail the son of a bitch.

CSI Investigator Amy Foster is beside the pooling bloodstain that Delaney is analysing, blood coating his sterile gloves. She packs away tools into her ribbed aluminium transit case; it's enormous against her petite frame.

Patiently, I observe Shelton, who's moved alongside the Ford CSI van. She removes blue disposable overshoes from her brown boots and secures them to avoid losing trace evidence. She's mid-thirties with brunette curls. Shelton looks at me with knowing eyes whilst unzipping the overalls over her jeans and adding them to the package.

“I'd put time of death at more than eight hours ago,” she dictates, peeling away her gloves.

“Is it the same perpetrator?”

“It's very likely. The injuries sustained are consistent with the first victim; this girl, however, is missing four fingertips rather than three. She shares a similar profile; blonde, late twenties and attractive. I'll provide more detailed findings once her body has thawed and undergone an autopsy,” Shelton answers confidently. Her tone is calm, her demeanour not perturbed by the gore.

DI Wakeman is behind her at the tape boundary deterring the press from scavenging.

Have you recovered any evidence?” I probe.

“SOCOS haven't recovered any notable hair or prints from the scene. We may find DNA or fibres when we process the body.”

She's dedicated and has a real passion for her job, you can see it in her eyes. We are similar in that sense. I need a lead in this investigation and closure, not only for the victims' families but for myself. I can't have another death on my conscience.

Chapter Two – Kate

Monday 14 December 2015

Someone once told me that I didn't have to be afraid. Fear isn't real. Like the ghosts of my childhood nightmares, it's an illusion. My father lied to comfort and protect me from the real world, so I would fall back to sleep.

I want to be little again; innocent and naïve. Today's world is cruel. Anxiety and fear are an intrinsic part of life. We fear the unknown, losing who we love, and we fear death. The only thing we ought to fear is fear itself, the feeling of unrelenting terror that paralyses your soul.

She felt it when he killed her.

I share her fear, a violent wave of adrenalin flushing through me. Two bodies have been unearthed on the Millbrook Estate in Weston-super-Mare, both stabbed in the heart within days of each other. They were young, with full lives ahead of them. Now they are just statistics among the 600-700 annual UK murder count.

Only these women are not just data to me, they were killed on my patch and now I must face the bloodshed and report the horrific details.

A child, aged six or seven, sits alone in the graffiti-covered playing area alongside a discarded syringe. I want to scoop her into my arms and take her away to safety. I stare into her gentle, watery eyes. She softens me, but I feel icy cold.

My eye line shifts to a hooded figure draped in gold chains outside Londis, dealing cocaine to a scrawny teenager. Beside him rests a homeless man clutching a frayed blanket up to his matted, bearded chin. His bloodshot eyes dart at me momentarily from beneath his worn woollen hat. Panic fills me. I don't like it here. I don't feel safe.

A swarm of police uniforms inhabit Lasmerton Drive. A tall, athletic detective stands authoritatively in the distance, tucked safely behind the police tape to elude the press. I suspect he's in charge and cannot catch his attention.

The sharp wind and its icy pellets penetrate my silk blouse and grip my pale flesh. I think of the victim lying alone in the dark, gradually freezing like an ice pop. No one deserves to suffer a brutal death, let alone be abandoned, like a chicken carcass for foxes to devour.

The forensic figures photograph the crimson and slowly darkening bloodstains. Sparse ash leaves rustle in the trees above, inhabited by a lone ill-omened magpie. It directs a malevolent gaze over its beak and our eyes interlock. In the morbid surroundings, its presence unnerves me and sets my heart racing, my mind reciting the nursery rhyme “One for Sorrow.” The incessant tune replays in my ears. I flinch and shudder it away.

“This is a crime scene, you cannot go beyond this point,” a voice orders.

I break our stare, encountering a plump police officer with vapour billowing from his mouth. His stern, russet eyes probe my presence. I offer my hand instinctively, which he ignores. His formidable stare burns holes in my face from behind his beard, which has white wisps. His sky-grey suit trousers are too short, hugging his chubby ankles and exposing off-white socks. He's pushing 50 and, despite his dumpy appearance, he has a threatening demeanour which throws me off guard.

My eyes are drawn away to the sea of white suits rummaging through the alleyway gathering forensics. Tiny yellow numbered triangles dot the pathway as evidence markers. Attentively, I peer through my new purple Michael Kors glasses, focusing on the blood-tinged ice and an article of clothing. It's dark in colour, either navy or black. The tape pulls across my waist as I hover, scrutinising the scene wondering what else has been unearthed.

Low stratus clouds loom above, sending me into a trance. A storm is impending.

I think about the killer and what motivates him to inflict pain and suffering on women. The chilling faces of Jeffrey Dahmer, Arthur Shawcross and Dennis Nilsen flash across my mind. Dahmer raped, tortured and strangled his 17 victims during his reign of terror before dismembering their bodies and reducing their remains in drums of acid.

Shawcross, AKA the Genesee River killer, murdered countless women and ate their genitalia, while Nilsen mutilated students and homeless men and flushed their body parts.

Each of them is superseded by chilling images of Fred and Rosemary West, Britain's biggest serial killers. The “ordinary” couple tortured, raped and murdered at least ten women, including their own children, in a spree that lasted over a quarter of a century. They concealed their dismembered treasures inside their “House of Horrors”.

Such acts of sadism are incomprehensible. My nerves tingle at the vivid recollections and I shake my head instinctively, forcing the imprint of their disturbing faces to the back of my mind.

Fear tremors crawl through me and ricochet up my spine. I wonder if he's lurking, watching the CSIs conduct their investigations. It's common for killers to obsess with the police investigation, revisit the scene and relive their gratification.

You envisage the appearance of a psychotic killer; how they would behave. They're more likely to be one of the anonymous faces you pass on the street or sit across from you on the train. You'll never remember them because they are the average Joe or Jane, with an ordinary appearance camouflaging their tormented minds.

I wonder whether the killer has been building up to this new deviant personality, if he's a tourist or an ex-con; theories roam my mind. Someone must know who he is or have noticed him lurking out of place.

I wonder if he's a thrill killer, sneaking up on random lone women. According to my source, that seems improbable. It appears that he has a type; blonde, young and pretty. He's meticulous and hunts his prey.

My numb fingertips twist my hair tips as I revisit the deadly stare of the magpie. I turn my back on the bloodshed and quicken my footsteps to safety. I contemplate the women and guilt detonates and discharges through my body like a lightning bolt because deep in the pit of my belly, I'm relieved I don't fit the profile.

Chapter Three – DCI Beckley

Tuesday 15 December 2015

Shrouded in dense woodland, The Riverside Centre lies within the remote village of Flax Bourton. It's the most advanced forensics mortuary centre in the South West and is tucked behind HM Coroner's Court, an impressive late Gothic-style stately home with a sweeping drive and lawns centred with feather reed grass.

Inside, it swanks technological excellence. Shelton is carrying out the autopsy. I find the process repugnant. An initial examination was performed after the body was discovered; however, the procedure was delayed due to the body being partially frozen.

Hilary Evans, the centre's receptionist, greets me with a warm smile. Her chubby cheeks plump out her facial creases, offering a more youthful appearance than that of her actual age; around sixty. She ushers me through double doors toward the CSI Suite, where the glass window and TV camera screen offer an optical viewpoint of the Forensic Autopsy Room.

Shelton and Delaney are ready to proceed, in their burgundy medical scrubs and disposable plastic visors with transparent facial guards. Anatomical pathology technologist, John Richardson, is also present.

The body, suffused with a meshwork of purple contusions, rests upon a stainless-steel autopsy table.

Shelton flashes me an acknowledging smile and begins to dictate into a hand-held recorder. She looks weary.

“The deceased is a 27-year-old female identified as Cheryl Gray. There are no distinguishing features present on the body. This victim endured a violent death. There are 32 injuries to her face, neck and torso.”

Amy Foster photographs the bruising. Her dark hair is fixed into a bun, highlighting her accentuated cheekbones. She's the youngest of the trio; late twenties. The deceased's eyes bulge and protrude on to grazed cheeks. Her strawberry-blonde wayward hair is matted with coagulated blood.

“There are defence wounds. Her nails are broken and conceal stone chippings, suggesting that she tried to crawl away from her attacker,” Shelton states, her expression pensive.

She removes the grit with a swab, places it into a clear plastic tube and seals it. Cheryl Gray is petite, the same build as the previous victim, Nicole Hall, and around 5ft 4ins in height. Shelton moves to inspect the deceased's right palm.

“The distal phalange has been severed on the index, middle, ring and little finger. Each was cut cleanly with a sharp blade. These injuries are consistent with those found on Nicole Hall's body, except that Nicole's index finger remained.”

“What's the significance?” I ask.

“A trophy. He's numbering them.”

“Based on the number of fingers that have been severed, and the chronological order in which they were discovered, these women could potentially be his third and fourth victims,” Shelton conjectures.

Every muscle in my face clenches with anxiety.

“There may be two more bodies unaccounted for?”

“This is just an assumption,” Shelton replies, resting Cheryl's palm back down. “There's bruising to the left eye, a lacerated wound on the right bottom lip, and abrasions on both cheeks. She was subjected to significant force. There are haemorrhages on her eyelids and face.”

Foster rests the digital SLR camera upon her chest while Delaney offers a theory.

“The assailant subjects his victims to a vicious attack and then pins them by their throats, long enough to cause minor strangulation.”

“Correct.”

“These petechial haemorrhages indicate a venous obstruction. There are also hairline fractures to her right and left clavicle, and a skull fracture.”

“So, he beat and strangled the victim before stabbing her and severing her fingers?” I query.

Shelton nods and crosses behind the table. She's tall, about the same height as Delaney, around 5ft 8ins.

Clutching an L-shaped forensic scale, she examines the chest wound while Foster captures images.

“There's a vertical, single-edge, linear stab wound to the chest caused by a thin, non-serrated blade.”

“Delaney passes a beige rubber body block to Shelton, who palces it under the deceased's spine, causing the head to fall backwards and the trunk to lift. She grips a scalpel and makes a Y-shaped incision from each shoulder to the lower point of the sternum.

Shelton continues opening the chest cavity with rib shears, cutting through the costal cartilages laterally. I look away; the cracking sound grates on my ears. The sternum is removed as one complete chest plate and set aside on a silver tray.

Shelton's hands are back inside the chest, the scalpel blade gnawing to remove soft tissue and expose the heart. The room remains silent, awaiting her findings. She's studying the cavity meticulously and inserts a stainless-steel probe.

“The blade penetrated the aorta and severed the left anterior descending artery. It measured 3-5 inches in length,” she continues.

“The blood spatter on her clothing started right and ended left, suggesting the assailant was right handed,” Delaney interrupts.

A flash of recognition washes over Shelton. Her green apron is tarnished with ruby red fluid. Her elbows are tucked close to her hips, directing her bloody hands upwards like an abattoir worker.

“It's the same modus operandi. Both victims' tops were lifted above their breasts to expose their underwear. Both were stabbed in the heart and both had their distal phalanges removed.”

“Was she sexually assaulted?” I ask.

“No. There are no signs of inflammation or forcible penetration.”

“So, we are looking at a violent assailant who is becoming increasingly vehement with each attack?”

“Yes,” Shelton concurs.

“Why stab them in the heart?”

“He wants revenge against women,” Delaney interjects, face impassive.

Anatomical, pathology technologist, John Richardson, assumes his role. He creates an upside-down U-shaped incision in the scalp, stretching from left to right, and opens it in two flaps. The front fold rests over the deceased's face, the lower flap falls to the nape of her neck. Delaney hands him the cutting hand-piece of a Medezine oscillating saw, and he begins sawing the skull. Its grinding vibrations produce a high-pitched mechanical resonance which mauls at my eardrum as the pitch fluctuates.

Minuscule blood specks splatter on Richardson's visor as he persists with the incision. The saw is disregarded, and the skull cap removed to expose Cheryl's brain.

Shelton and Delaney closely observe the rubbery tissue in situ before Richardson severs its connection to the cranial nerves and spinal cord. His gloved hands retrieve the organ.

He carries it to a chrome forensic scale on the dissection table and records a weight of 1120g. Shelton proceeds with the removal of the heart, weighing 260g, and other body structures.

“All are within normal limits, suggesting the deceased was a perfectly healthy female,” she recites.

Delaney and Shelton step aside, allowing Richardson to suture the victim neatly with twine.

“What about any DNA trace?” I ask.

Foster lifts her head, her eyes express profound disappointment.

“There are no surface traces of the assailant on the victim. No hair or prints. The blood traces all belong to the victim. He's forensically aware and able to avoid detection,” Foster answers.

Her words slice through me like cheese wire. We have two bodies, no motive and no suspect. There is also a possibility that two other women lay undiscovered. This, I fear, is just the beginning of my nightmare.

Chapter Four – DCI Beckley

There is not a single crime scene that I don't recall. Each photographed tableau is divided and stored in sections of my brain overriding my own soul, acting as a constant vivid reminder.

No matter how hard I try to erase them from my memory they remain etched there. Nicole and Cheryl's faces are the latest to join my corpse library, and sadly they won't be the last.

Nicole's tormented eyes reach out to me from the plasma screen with pure, unadulterated terror. Her face stripped of smiles and laughter, pupils locked with fear. The image makes me feel dead inside. My fists clench angrily, every nerve ending tinging with unease. Panic bubbles inside my chest and I break into a cold sweat, visualising other victims. A deathly silence lingers in the air, interrupted only by my uneasy breaths.

Criminal psychologist Victoria Archer shatters the stillness of the conference room.

“Is it the same MO?” She's dressed in a black suit with leather stilettos.

“The injuries are consistent. Blunt force trauma to the head, neck bruising consistent with strangulation, and a stab wound to the heart. She bled out after enduring a vicious beating,” Shelton answers.

Her blood-tarnished scrubs have been replaced with skinny jeans and a baby pink jumper.

“Four fingertips were severed. Nicole Hall was missing three. This could suggest the killer is numbering his victims and taking their fingers as trophies. The stab wound is consistent with the weapon used in Miss Hall's attack. Severs to the distal phalange also appear similar in nature,” Shelton states firmly.

“The victims were not sexually assaulted and there was no evidence of ejaculate,” Delaney interjects.

“The killer must gain sexual excitement from the experience of attacking and killing women. Rather than fantasising over a consenting partner, he wants to dominate and act out extreme aggression against strangers.”

Archer describes an offender profile; her demeanour exudes confidence.

“Your theory is highly possible. The offender is likely to suffer a sexually deviant-based personality disturbance. Creating terror and inducing pain would give the killer immense pleasure; it's a substitute for sex. He may feel sexually inadequate and lonely. Loneliness can lead offenders to develop a sadistic fantasy life, involving a violence context. By stabbing them in the heart, he experiences vengeance,” Archer states.

“The wounds indicate the assailant is physically strong. He's becoming more vicious, brutalising his victims. He's daring, too. Both victims were attacked out in the open. There was a huge risk of being caught. This suggests he was highly aroused and willing to take the chance,” Shelton conjectures.

Delaney's teeth gnaw and grate on the tip of his biro, his mind digesting the facts.

“Pre-crime factors that precipitate murderous actions include everyday pressures; job loss, relationships, money worries or bereavement. Most people cope with such stressors. The killer creates a fantasy world where his anxiety is relieved. But the pressure mounts, he dreams about committing a violent act until something triggers him to cross the line. The fantasised attack becomes real. He went on a homicidal test run, re-enacting his dreams. Once this threshold is crossed the offender reaches the point of no return. He was frightened and thrilled, experiencing a state of heightened arousal. But his relief was short lived during the cooling-off period. The urge to kill caressed his mind and he struck again. It's become a compulsion,” Archer elaborates.

Fear slithers through me like snake venom, weaving its way through the blood in my veins.

“So, this is just the beginning?” I ask. My jaw locks with anticipation.

“Once a killing cycle is triggered it's rarely broken. He will continue to act out his sexual dominance and sadistic tendencies through aggression. By numbering his victims, he's telling you there will be more bodies to come. It also suggests another two victims lie undiscovered.”

Nicole's stare plagues me. I hear her heart beat against the icy pavement she lay upon.

“Who is he?” I whisper.

“He's a sociopathic male. Not a loner though, that character would have stood out on the estate. He's mature, aged 30-50. I'm suggesting the likes of Ted Bundy; popular, attractive and deceptive. He could be in a relationship or is single, and he has intercourse. It just isn't enough to satisfy him. Each kill was planned, he's meticulous and is therefore a person with above average intelligence,” Archer states.

“The offender has developed hatred toward women and has a predilection for young, blonde, attractive girls. This detestation could stem back to his childhood. It's likely he endured a harsh upbringing or suffered emotional abuse. Revenge can manifest itself in many ways and simmer for lengthy periods until something triggers the offender to act out. He wants to dominate women as a form of punishment,” she continues.

Perpetrators are all the same in my experience; screwed up because of a warped childhood involving abuse. That doesn't warrant the excuse to torture and kill. A vivid image of my wife Jen supersedes the victim; her blonde hair framing her concave cheek bones and her mouth, which seeps blood. I blink, obliterating the morbid hallucination and return my attention to the victim before me.

“Is there any workable evidence?” I ask. Foster stares wide-eyed.

“No, we have nothing of significance. He's astute and forensically aware. It's going to be tough to apprehend him,” Foster warns.

* * *

The killer is inside my head; he's all I think about. I suspect he's been fantasising for some time, but something triggered him to graduate from an observer to a perpetrator. Nicole Hall endured the least violent attack. He rushed, got it over with quickly to relieve his impulses. But the urge remained, he craved the feeling again, which prompted him to kill Cheryl Gray.

Overhanging branches either side of the carriageway create the illusion of a tunnel. I mull over the case, wondering where the other bodies are. If the women are not connected, what made him choose them? Nicole Hall, 28, was a receptionist. Cheryl Gray, 27, a trainee nurse. Their places of employment were in different locations, miles apart, and each lived separate lives. The only connection is their similar profile and their place of death.

Their social media profiles indicate both took pride in their appearance, though their clothing could be conceived as a little provocative. Both wore short skirts and low plunged tops when they were stabbed. Perhaps he chose them because of his own preconception of the type of women they were. He's turned on or infuriated, by their revealing dress sense. Maybe he judged them to be cheap and therefore, in his twisted mind, they asked for it.

The sun is obscured by dense cloud. It's 1pm. I'm hungry and agitated. The congested traffic moves slowly nearing Hampton. I bypass the Greek restaurant where I took Jen for her birthday. A dull ache swells inside me as I recall her disappointment; I was called out to a fatal shooting. It was my job that ruined us and our four-year marriage. I regret that deeply. My life is full of regrets; losing the best thing that ever happened to me. And the lives of the Harroways.

Chapter Five – Kate

The newsroom feels custodial. Quite often I feel imprisoned, only allowed to leave when my editor, Cecilia, dictates. Today isn't one of those instances, though; I'm elated that my story is front page.

This case has become a national media frenzy. The daily reporters are hijacking as usual, thinking they're the hotshots. It fills me with rage. They traipse in, take over and leave us to pick up the pieces. It's no wonder we are all tarnished with the same brush and generally despised as a profession.

I remember observing the horror on the faces of an elderly couple, appalled having witnessed a TV crew crawl through bushes to get a clear shot of two children's dead bodies being recovered from a house fire. I felt equally repulsed. It is actions like this that make me question whether I'm cut out for this job.

There will be no praise for my efforts today; it's the norm.

I grab my coat and slip into darkness. The shadows of the trees sway forcefully in the wind, producing eerie shapes across the carpark. It's Arctic and, as I draw cold air into my lungs and exhale, a ghostly breath hovers.

I quicken my heels towards the car, clutching my jangling keys in my warm palm. Clevedon promenade is deserted, aside from two empty cars. The swaying string promenade lights frame the pier and its jetty. Its twisted metal structure stands proudly in the ocean, which glistens below the moonlight.

Normally I admire its delicate beauty but tonight it looks sinister, angry in the dark shadows. I shudder, and an anxious feeling consumes me. The crime scene replays; blood glistening in frosted shards. I step on the accelerator; the deadly nightfall follows in the rear-view mirror.

I'm overwhelmed with disappointment. The house stands in darkness, with no sign of Taylor. I long for him to fulfil his promise and make more effort. I can't remember the last time I felt his touch or the warmth of his hand in mine. I miss the way that he used to look at me; completely mesmerised as if I was his world. I cherish those memories, the ones inside our bubble before it was burst by tragedy.

Work has helped him to refocus, but the enduring sadness lingers in his eyes, it's locked inside.

I want to find a way in, to help him, but the shutters remain down, guarding his soul. It has been almost a year since Paul died. His death left a huge void and I can't fill it. They were close; all twins are. But ever since the accident, Taylor's not been the same man that I fell in love with and married.

I remember the moment as if it were yesterday. The conversation relaying the news that brings the world as you know it, crashing down. I could barely make out his words through the awful howls; an unrelenting resonance that crushed my heart. That's when it sunk in; Paul was dead, killed by a female motorcyclist who veered on the A370. Paul's car crossed the carriageway and plunged into a ditch. He died on impact from severe head trauma, at 28.

I couldn't intrude on Taylor's grief, so I locked my secret away. It still hurts and haunts me every day.

My tears resurface, my heart hollow, as I gulp Merlot. It warms my throat. I feel as though I'm driving along aimlessly with no sense of direction; my body controlling the car, my mind hovering, suspended above, paying no attention.

That summarises my life; detached and uncertain how to get a grip. I can't lose control and let my life fall apart. I smear my teardrops, bury my sadness and turn on the Sonos speaker. Adele's 'Hello' plays softly, as the glass kisses my lips. Cooking will help me to forget.

It's 8.20pm. I've been constantly checking my phone but every time I stare at the blank screen, the more rejected I feel.

The oven alarm bleeps, alerting me to the garlic bread. I reach for a tea cloth and retrieve the baking tray. Heat quickly penetrates the fabric, the hot metal surface pricking my wrist. I run my hand under the tap; the cold water offers relief and alleviates the blistering pain. If only it could take away all my agony.

My stomach emits a raucous roar, begging for food and I relent. I'm angry at him for making false promises, and I hate eating alone. Sam Smith's 'Lay me Down' plays softly. After a few mouthfuls, I push my plate away. With my chin on my wrist, I relate to the lyrics; miserable and exhausted. My manicured nails twirl the wineglass stem. My gaze drifts, watching the liquid cling to the sides as I listen to the singer divulge his emotions. My heart aches; the pain unbearable.

The uplifting piano tempo offers a distraction and I cup the glass vase and gulp the berry fluid. Tears caress my cheeks. I want my pain to evaporate, to feel happy again, but sadness overwhelms me. I don't see how I can escape my grief; it entraps me.

I drag myself toward the staircase and lean on the banister before encountering the empty chill of our room. I fall onto the bed, staring up at the windowpane watching dark clouds float aimlessly by. They are calming. I feel myself drifting, my weary eyes succumbing to the darkness.

When I wake, Taylor is next to me, asleep. His muscular arm is draped across my waist and his warm breath is tickling my neck. It's 2.15am.

My anger dissipates, and I feel happy and safe that I'm no longer alone. He promised me things would be better and I know they will, in time, I just need to be patient. My eyes surrender, falling back asleep.

We will get through this and everything will be alright. It has to be.

Chapter Six – Kate

Tuesday 15 December 2015

White satellite Mercedes trucks emblazoned with national television and satellite news channel logos overrun the street outside Weston Police Station. Their giant circular dishes span the vehicle roofs and dominate the grey skyline.

The spicy aroma of jerk chicken infiltrates the air, reminding me of a shack on Bavaro beach, as do palm trees outside the Bath Stone Grade II Listed Magistrates Court. The warm, honey tones and white Georgian sash windows radiate a glow, in contrast to the incongruous 1970s, five-storey block of the neighbouring police station.

A desk sergeant is poised behind the glass-protected counter. The fluorescent ceiling lights illuminates his receding hair. He has brown eyes cornered with deep crow's-feet, which draw diagonal lines away from his face and emphasise his bulging nose and thin lips, which offer a sincere smile.

I inform him that I'm attending the press conference and he instructs me to sit. I pace the reception; my heels snag in the nylon carpet. I'm too agitated to sit on the bench, where a drawn woman waits nervously, chewing her fingernails. Her sunken eyes emit dark circles onto her gaunt face.

I smile and turn away. I hate waiting, it irritates me. Taylor says I'm too impatient. He laughed at me over lunch for getting anxious over the wait. I didn't want to gulp it, given he'd taken me out as a surprise by way of an apology.

Ryan had cajoled him into a quick pint last night, which quadrupled. It does when he's involved. I don't resent Taylor spending time with friends; it helps him to move on. Equally, he doesn't mind me going out with Dawn, though our social outings have become far less frequent since the birth of her children. I don't share her world where nappies, night feeds and crying have hijacked her life.

Taylor took me to Cronwells, a trendy bar on Hill Road. It's chic, with driftwood chairs, black chaise longue sofas and opaque glass pendulum lighting. He held my hand for the first time in months and we spent much of the hour laughing. As soon as he looks at me with his vivid blue eyes, and smiles, my anger dissolves.

It resembled our earlier years, saturated in happiness, creating footsteps on powdery beaches. I'd give anything to be that perfect couple again. Before death ruined us.

The inner glass panelled door buzzes. A young female police officer emerges, ushers me inside and along the vacant corridor. Her fingers swipe an identity card through the metal reader and we climb a twisting staircase to the second floor.

Journalists rush to set up equipment. Three cameras are being fixed to heavy-duty tripods, while radio journalists adjust fleeced boom mics on the press stand. I sit on a single seat at the front. The room is impersonal and feels institutional, with intense whitewashed walls and neat oblong tables. A backdrop stands behind a table at the end of the room centered with the constabulary logo; a red dragon coat of arms upon a blue and white shield, framed inside a diamond design beneath Her Majesty's crown.

Flashes of black and white emerge; two uniformed officers take their positions. My blouse is uncomfortably tight, clinging against my perspiring skin. A suited man enters and pours water into a clear plastic cup. He's striking, around 37, with subtly gelled Ivy League hair and faint stubble on his chiselled jawline. I recognise him from the Lasmerton crime scene. He's sophisticated and well-groomed. His strong build and protective demeanour reminds me of Taylor. To his left is a male officer in his late 40s with a black crew cut.

“Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen,” says the crew cut copper. “Thank you for your attendance. I would like to introduce Detective Chief Inspector William Beckley. Will is the senior investigating officer in this enquiry. He will read out a short statement.”

He turns his attention to DCI Beckley and I follow him with my gaze.

“Good afternoon. We are treating the death of 27-year-old Cheryl Gray as part of a serial murder investigation. The autopsy has taken longer than usual, because of the frozen condition of her body. It has now been completed and the cause of death concluded as a single stab wound to the chest. As a result of the autopsy findings, we are linking Cheryl's death to that of Nicole Hall, 28, who was discovered 10 days ago in the Weston vicinity. Our heartfelt condolences are with their families, friends and all those who knew them, at this incredibly difficult time.”

He pauses and takes a drink from the plastic cup. He swallows hard, and then continues his statement.

“The last few days have seen us handling one of the most complex and fast-moving cases the force has dealt with in recent years. We are citing this case as a serial investigation, as it is our understanding that these may not be the only victims. Due to the autopsy findings, we believe there could potentially be two other women lying undiscovered. I would state that this may not be the case at all, but we are keeping an open mind. Our efforts will remain meticulous, as they have been right from the outset of this enquiry.”

My heart swells against my breastbone, adrenalin flooding my blood at the thought that the killer could have struck four times. Other journalists in the room gasp at this grim revelation. Anxious furtive glances are exchanged, all thinking the same thing; four girls? And these are just the ones the police think they know about! Who knows how many others there might be!

DCI Beckley fiddles with his suit lapels. I watch his face closely; he licks his fleshy lips and swallows before continuing.

“We have already established more than 900 lines of inquiry from information provided by the public; 167 of these are considered high priority. I can assure you that no stone will be left unturned during this investigation. We will bring Nicole and Cheryl's killer to justice.”

DCI Beckley toys with his left wrist and I catch a glimpse of his silver watch. It looks expensive, perhaps a Tag Heuer or a Breitling.

“One of our lines of enquiry concerns the night of Sunday 13th December. We are aware of Cheryl's last movements. Cheryl socialised with colleagues at the Balmoral Pub in Northville Road and left the venue alone, at around 10pm. She stopped at a Londis store in Byron Road, at 10.15pm, where she was captured on CCTV purchasing cigarettes. Cheryl is seen exiting the shop and turning right, in the direction of her home in Selworth Road, a five to ten-minute walk away. She never arrived.”

There's another pause. DCI Beckley sips from his cup again, observing the reporters feverishly scribbling notes in their pads. He wants to give us time to take down every detail accurately.

He clears his throat and continues. “The autopsy findings suggest Cheryl's body lay in the lane off Lasmerton Drive overnight before being discovered in the early hours of Monday 14th December. Her handbag was recovered in undergrowth near the railway line. It contained personal effects and the cigarettes. I am keen to hear from anyone who witnessed or heard anything suspicious in the area, particularly between the hours of 10pm and 6am. No matter how small or insignificant you think your information may be, we would urge you to come forward.”

DCI Beckley takes three more sips of water and rests the cup near the cluster of mics.

“We understand women on the estate and, equally, across the whole of Weston are extremely concerned and we have been doing all we can to reassure them and make them feel as safe as possible. Officers have distributed 2,000 personal attack alarms and we are urging women not to walk anywhere on their own, particularly in dark, unlit areas.”

I stretch my aching fingers during another pause. My eyes sting from the camera flashes; their snapping reverberations invade my ears.

“Someone knows what happened to Nicole and Cheryl and we ask you to search your conscience and come forward. We need to piece together what happened to these young women and why, so we can bring closure for their families. The huge public and media interest in this case is understandable and we thank you all for your assistance. We do, however, ask that you respect the privacy of the grieving families, both of whom have expressed a wish not to be contacted by any media.”

DCI Beckley's sapphire eyes lock on mine, and my heart flickers, the feeling akin to a trapped butterfly. I seize the opportunity.

“Why do you believe there are potentially more victims? And do you have a suspect?”

My cheeks flush, the rush of blood warming my skin. All eyes turn on me.

“It would be inappropriate to comment any further as this is an ongoing investigation,” he says calmly, as if the question had been anticipated.

“We are keeping an open mind. We believe that these are random attacks; the victims are not connected. They do, however, share a similar profile; blonde and late twenties.”

DCI Beckley fiddles with his wrist again; confidence altered. He snaps a wrist band concealed under the white margin of his shirt.

“There are many active lines of enquiry and at this stage I'm not prepared to speculate as to whether any suspects have been identified. Again, I would urge anyone with information regarding the deaths of Nicole or Cheryl, to come forward and help us with our enquiries.”

“Ladies and gentlemen that concludes the conference for today,” the man with the crew cut steps in. “Any updates regarding this investigation will be issued via the normal media channels. No further questions, thank you.”

The duo stands. DCI Beckley is tall with a muscular frame. His tailored navy suit has a slight sheen that snugly grips his toned quadriceps. My cheeks retain warmth, my heart pounding with excitement and a sense of awe. In a split second, he's gone from the panel and the reporters lower their hands in disappointment.

I don't share their dissatisfaction, I'm buzzing with adrenalin; we have a serial killer roaming the estates.

Chapter Seven – Kate

Cheryl Gray's pretty face stares from below the headline, 'Weston Killer Claims Second Blonde Victim'.

Her family released a statement via the Police Press Office, along with several pictures of Cheryl.

She was a trainee nurse at Weston General, just five years younger than me and lived with her best friend, Selina Martin. Judging by her Facebook profile she was well liked; countless tributes flood her wall. The impression I form is one of a party girl. She reminds me of myself partying with my Southampton university pals in Bedfords Bar.

I swallow cold tea. It leaves a sharp undesirable taste in my mouth.

I kick off my stilettos under the desk to stretch my toes after an exhausting morning.

“There's a dead kid. Get on it,” Cecilia yells abruptly in my direction. She's leaning on her office doorframe sneering, fingertips playing with the ends of her long blonde hair.

Tom, Lucy, Sara and Kieran lower their heads, avoiding contact. I thought given we were a similar age, we would become friends, but I am forming the opinion that Cecilia has a strong antagonism toward me.

The constabulary website confirms the death of an 18-month-old, scalded in the bath at her home in Pithful Drive. The toddler was taken to Weston General but died upon arrival. Her death is being treated as suspicious and the Child Protection Unit has been alerted.

The details are harrowing. A sickness crawls inside of me like an insect. Cecilia expects me to visit the scene and “door knock”. I fumble for my shoes, stuff my notebook into my Michael Kors tote bag and head out in search of the whole story.

* * *

My nerves are on edge, I'm walking alone on the roughest part of Millbrook in the fast fading daylight, with an apparent serial killer roaming freely.

I quicken my steps and turn right into Pithful Drive where I'm almost ploughed down by an obese pensioner on a mobility scooter. I'm not sure whether I am more startled by the near miss, or the fact that her mouth is drawing on a roll-up below a nasal cannula that's attached to a portable oxygen tank.

It's freezing, and the fine drizzle quickly mutates into a heavy downpour. Droplets cling to my glasses and saturate my hair, leaving my curls limp. I bunch and sweep them together around my neck in one bundle.

A woman approaches through an alleyway on my right, pushing a pram. Her childlike face suggests she's only a teenager herself. She's not had the chance to experience life as an adult, before motherhood.

“Excuse me, I'm from the Southern Chronicle. Could you help me?” I enquire.

The girl halts and steps on the muddy buggy brake with her damp, scuffed Kappa trainers.

“You here about the dead kid, yeah?” She asks, drawing on a crinkled spliff.

“Yes.”

“Everyone's talking about it.” Her attitude is blasé.

“She killed him, that's the rumour; drowned it in the bath or some sick shit like that.”

I watch her closely, inhaling the burning butt; fingers tarnished jaundice yellow with nicotine.

“Who?” I ask.

“Sam Cross.”

“Where does she live?”

“Couple doors away from me.”

“Can you show me where, please?”

“Sorry, got to see my Probation Officer. Number six,” she replies, pointing toward the top-level block of flats across the cul-de-sac.

At the end of the pathway, I wipe wet streaks from my cheeks and cautiously climb the concrete stairwell. It's littered with lager cans and empty crisp packets, and it reeks of stale urine. I hasten my footsteps, holding my breath, continuing my ascent. I step around a discarded used condom, which clings to the floor, and continue to number six.

There's a large crack in the frosted door panel and paint flaking off in shards. I tap my knuckles against the glass and step back, awaiting a reply.

Scouring over the railing I observe overgrown gardens filled with rusted junk. An old Asda shopping trolley is tipped on its side alongside a mobility aid and a broken seesaw, left discarded underneath.

Pacing up and down the walkway, I chew my thumbnail, chipping the white tip varnish. My stomach twists gripped with apprehension. I loathe 'door knocking', it's the worst part of the job, taking advantage of people at their most vulnerable.

It was something I never thought the job would entail. But it's a frequent occurrence and has led to me being threatened and followed on countless occasions. I wouldn't admit those occurrences to Taylor, he'd be furious that I've put myself in danger.

Striking up conversation with the mother will be hard and I suspect she won't take too kindly to me knocking at her door. My own pain resurfaces, as I think about her baby's death. I caress my stomach; my lip buckles and tears begin, reminiscing about my secret.

It has been devouring and rotting my insides for almost a year now. I think about it every day. I discovered I was pregnant just before Paul's death. I'd planned on presenting Taylor with a football Babygro, even pictured his face, deep curiosity morphing to joy.

But then I answered the call informing me Paul was dead. I kept our baby a secret, waiting for the right moment; I couldn't intrude. Nine days later our baby was gone.

I crouch and peek through the letterbox into the hallway. Cuddly toys lie sprawled across threadbare carpet.

A hard pebble fills my throat. I would have been a good mum, if, perhaps a little clueless at the outset. I certainly wouldn't have left my baby alone in the bath. I blink, forcing the thoughts away, and post a business card through the letterbox. I shouldn't be here. I wish I was at home snuggled on the sofa wearing my ridiculously thick pink fluffy slipper socks.

The engorged lump explodes as I stand. Hairs bristle on the nape of my neck as I encounter a disconcerting figure. He's inches from me, face concealed with a football scarf and a baseball cap. His alarming eyes are riveted on mine. He leans closer and tugs at his scarf.

“You should be careful out here,” he whispers, menacingly.

I stumble and fall backwards; spine jabbing the door pane. My throat closes over with panic. I stand wordless, staring at him. The lines around his eyes become more apparent. I force a smile to suppress my fear.