On the Saturday of the first week of the investigation, police officers were still busily conducting house-to-house enquiries in and around Capstone Road. The task of further questioning Danilo Restivo and Fiamma Marsango, who lived opposite the Barnetts, fell to a PC Fraser. One of the first questions focused on Restivo’s clothing that he’d been wearing on the day he had returned home in the afternoon to encounter two terrified children frantically waving him and his fiancée down.
Restivo told the constable that he had been wearing a pair of grey Nike trainers. When asked to produce them, he did so readily. As far as PC Fraser was concerned, there was nothing about them worth noting and, after a few more routine questions, he moved on to the next house, thanking the couple for their cooperation.
The following day, a Sunday, Restivo had yet another police visitor, this time DS Browning, who explained that he was collecting DNA samples from all males in the vicinity, especially those who were known to have been in Capstone Road on the day of the murder. The procedure was for elimination purposes, he further explained. The couple consented to having this done, which included providing strands of head hair and fingerprints. Mouth swabs were used to obtain saliva. DS Browning then revisited the subject of footwear. Restivo said that he had given this information to another police officer the previous day, but the Detective Sergeant insisted that he, too, needed to see the Nike trainers.
By now the trainers had been scrubbed and were soaking in bleach in the bath. When asked why the Nikes had been washed since the Saturday, Restivo said that they were dirty and needed ‘a good cleaning’. DS Browning immediately took possession of the trainers, something that didn’t seem to upset or ruffle the owner in any way.
The trainers were given to forensic scientist Claire Stangoe to examine for blood. There was nothing visible to the naked eye, a fact already recorded by the two police officers who had seen the trainers at Restivo’s address. However, it was common for blood to be present without being visible. A chemical called Leuco Crystal Violet (LCV) is often used in such circumstances to disclose any traces of blood, so that is what Ms Stangoe used.
LCV is a colourless liquid that reacts with blood to produce a purple colour. It is very sensitive and, therefore, exposes even the smallest trace of bloodstaining normally invisible to the naked eye under standard light conditions. The result of the test was positive – a purple colour was detected. However, there was a downside to the experiment. It was not possible for Ms Stangoe to exclude the possibility of some other substance having turned the chemical purple. Scientists were also aware that animal blood could also react positively to this test. Ms Stangoe had to report back with her findings that an LCV purple reaction was ‘a strong indication that blood was present, but could not be presented as confirmatory’.
The LCV purple highlights came from the inner sole of both trainers and the inside upper toe area of the right shoe, indicating that traces of blood were present in those areas. Ms Stangoe reported to detectives, ‘The distribution of the possible bloodstaining, particularly on areas of the inner sole well within the shoe (covered by the upper) and on the inside upper toe area, would suggest that an item wet with blood was placed into the shoe, rather than that, for example, blood had dripped on to the sole.’
As for how the blood might have landed on the shoes, Ms Stangoe speculated that ‘one explanation could be that a person wore the shoes with trace amounts of bloodstaining on his feet.’ Another possibility, she said, was that, ‘More blood was originally present, but the majority had been removed by washing.’
It had not been possible to obtain a DNA profile from the samples. Bleach (sodium hypochlorite solution) is known to damage DNA and dramatically reduces the chances of originating a profile from samples exposed to the potent chemical cleanser.
* * *
Restivo’s relationship with Fiamma had begun on the Internet, while he had still been in Italy and she was living at 93 Capstone Road. He first visited Bournemouth in March 2002 in order to ‘get to know Fiamma in the flesh’. He stayed at her home for two weeks, before returning to Italy, but only briefly. Apparently not happy in his homeland and pining for Fiamma, he returned to Bournemouth on 21 May 2002 to be reunited with his lover, and they started cohabiting at 93 Capstone Road.
One of Restivo’s first priorities had been to find employment. He went to the local job centre and was sent on a course at NACRO, a charity that helps young people with developing work skills. The course was designed to improve his English and also to help him master the Internet and all the intricacies of computer functions.
Naturally, like all other men in his neighbourhood, he was questioned specifically about his movements on the morning of 12 November. He told detectives that he left home between 8.10 – 8.20am. He walked into Charminster Road and caught a bus, buying a ticket at 8.44am. He arrived at the NACRO building around 9.00am, where he remained until 3.45pm. He had retained the bus ticket, which he did as a matter of course because they were necessary for him to claim travel expenses from NACRO.
Very evident at this stage was the fact that the initial confidence of a quick arrest had been grossly over-optimistic. Supt James and the entire Dorset Major Crime Investigation Team were stunned by the feedback from Forensics – not a single DNA clue appeared to have been left behind by the murderer. This killer appeared to be a super-efficient pro, which suggested yet another massive conundrum – cool-headedness and this kind of frenzy do not generally sit comfortably together.
The motive was also another tantalising issue. Nothing appeared to have been stolen. Some burglars were known to be violent and to assault occupants unfortunate enough to be on the premises at the time of a break-in, but murder, sadism and mutilation would be highly unusual activities in that kind of crime. Neither, as a breed, were ‘ordinary’ burglars quite so accomplished at covering their tracks and dealing effectively with the possibility of leaving DNA traces.
To visualise Heather in the role of a stereotypical stalker’s target stretched credulity. She was a mumsy, middle-aged brunette, who dressed smartly but modestly. Her face radiated warmth and compassion. Whatever make-up she wore was almost imperceptible. All her clothes were what magazine fashion editors would describe as ‘sensible’. She was not a flirt or overtly flamboyant in her style of behaviour. In no way denigrating her, Heather Barnett was extraordinarily ordinary. She wore her hair in a ragged fringe over her forehead and straight at the back. Her life revolved around her children and her work, most definitely in that order. She read a lot, helped the children with their homework, supported charities as much as possible, and was discerning when it came to watching TV. She was true to her country-girl background.
Sturminster Newton, although scarcely more than 30 miles northwest of Bournemouth, was certainly 30 million light years from clubland and the neon dazzle of the county’s coastal playgrounds. Traditional values were still very much part and parcel of her approach to life, yet someone had wanted her dead.
Just two weeks into the investigation, Supt James was sufficiently confident to declare publicly, ‘This was a very carefully planned killing. There was nothing spur of the moment about it. The killer knew what he was going to do and how he would cover his tracks to establish his alibi. He knew there was a window of opportunity. This was an attack personal to Heather, not the work of a random killer.’
With no apparent motive and a bewildering absence of DNA clues, the team concentrated on the modus operandi (MO). In vain, hundreds of officers searched sewers, gardens, sheds, garages, drainpipes, dustbins, gutterings, chimneys, cellars, lofts, parks and refuse-tips for the blunt-ended ‘cudgel’ and knife, both of which must have been covered with Heather’s blood. Gardens and wasteland were dug up. The inch-by-inch search of this densely-populated, urban neighbourhood continued for months, until every possibility had been explored.
Murder-hunt veterans were well versed in the psychological connection between killer and weapon of choice. Jon E Lewis, in his book Means to a Kill (Headline), graphically describes a blunt instrument as ‘the weapon of intimacy, of naked fury’. A club in a man’s hand could be his imaginary phallus, an outsized substitute for his own insubstantial penis. The wielding of the club might be viewed by the perpetrator as a form of rough sex, gushing blood symbolising ejaculation and orgasm. A hammer, for example, although snub-nosed, is a sister to the knife when deployed for murder. Inevitably, there is close contact between predator and quarry.
The killer can also ‘smell’ the fear. The killing is so very personal, very different from gunning down someone or using poison, which are known as ‘cold killings’. A poisoner does not even have to be present when striking; it is almost murder by proxy. A gun can be fired from a distance, far enough away to avoid seeing the whites of the target’s eyes.
The combination of a blunt instrument and knife was associated with sexual frenzy and testosterone release, as in a climax. Such perpetrators were frequently casually labelled by the media as ‘sex maniacs’, although only a few ever qualified in law as insane; more often than not, they were aggressive perverts who were incapable of controlling their basest urges. A remarkable feature of the case was that Heather suffered bludgeoning from a flurry of blows, and then had had her breasts amputated, an attack that bore all the hallmarks of sexual sadism, and yet she had not been raped. No semen was found, either inside her vaginal cavity, on her body, clothes, living room carpet or bathroom floor.
Despite the frenetic assault, so characteristic of sexual motivation, the killer had resisted raping Heather while she was incapacitated and also when she was dead. The combination of white-hot fury and cold, calculated premeditation did not seem compatible. Everything about this murder was a hotchpotch of incongruities and unexplained discoveries. Heather did not appear to have an enemy in the world. Relatives, neighbours, friends and virtually everyone who had come into contact with her – either on a daily basis or barely more than once or twice – gave statements to the police that amounted to eulogies. The overwhelming testimony was that she just wasn’t a woman anyone could possibly dislike, let alone hate. Nothing seemed to add up.
Heather’s sister, Denise Le Voir, said, ‘Whoever did this appears to have been very forensically aware. They knew what they were doing and didn’t leave anything behind.’ Not only friends and relatives, but also the police, were beginning to consider the possibility of a double-act, a duet of assassins. ‘It was premeditated,’ Mrs Le Voir asserted.
Supt James echoed the feelings of everyone with any knowledge of the case. ‘For these two children [Terry and Caitlin] to come home to find their mother this way is horrific. Not only have they been deprived of their mother, but the killer was so callous to allow them to see her this way. This is the sort of thing you’d only expect to see in The Godfather.’
This allusion to a Mafia-style ‘hit’ was not without significance. He reiterated that he was in no doubt that Heather knew her killer and almost certainly opened the front door to him. Detectives reasoned that if this was a hate crime, then the perpetrator would have to be someone currently very emotionally close to Heather or a person from her past who harboured a hugely significant grudge.
Naturally, the task force began focusing on the men in Heather’s life. It is purely a procedural method of elimination, no different from a doctor trying to make a diagnosis. The physician will start with the most likely ‘suspects’ and work methodically towards a denouement by ruling out each contender one by one.
The odds also play an important part in police strategy. The police start with the knowledge from worldwide statistics that most homicides are what could loosely be categorised as ‘domestic’.
Heather did not have lovers; she was not cheating on anyone; she was not a habitué of pick-up bars or sleazy pubs. She had no history of playing one man off against another, of inciting jealousy, or of neglecting her children. Her life had seemed so uncomplicated. Of the hundreds of people the police questioned, not one could name anyone who might have wished to harm her. She had never mentioned being threatened and, despite having lost her house keys and changing the locks to her doors, she was not a woman living in fear, shrinking from shadows, glancing furtively over her shoulder when walking after dark.
Professional hit men do not advertise their services openly. Inevitably, they are creatures of the murky underworld. There was apparently no one in Heather’s circle who had ever mixed with the criminal fraternity. Her brother was a teacher. Most of her networking was with professional people. There was not a scrap of evidence that anyone in her life, even on the fringe, had ever associated with those living beyond the law, especially the kind who would have had access to anyone involved in professional hits.
In most instances involving a professional killer, the prime requirement is to lead investigators to believe that an unfortunate accident has taken place, such as someone falling off a balcony or cliff, when, in fact, they have been pushed. Heather Barnett’s murder was the complete opposite in MO; it was an extrovert execution, ending in a publicly obscene display. Simultaneously, the challenge to the police was clear – catch me if you can.
When killers are hired, there is always a financial transaction. The currency is cash; never cheques, never plastic, and never transferred electronically. Money has to be withdrawn. Paper trails cannot be hidden. Experts can track money easily from A to B if managed electronically, but the evidence in this case was nonexistent.
Heather’s closest friend was Marilyn Philips. They had known one another for years and were true soul mates, kindred spirits. Marilyn made an emotional and tearful appeal for anyone with, ‘Any information, however small, however seemingly insignificant, to come forward.’ She was convinced that someone must have seen somebody behaving strangely and suspiciously in the vicinity of Heather’s home on the morning of 12 November. ‘Get in touch with the police,’ she pleaded. ‘Whoever did this is still out there, loose, and free to do something like this again.’ This was a fear for the police, too, of course.
Although Heather was most likely to have been a specific, pre-planned target, there was always the danger that her slayer would get a liking for it and develop into a serial killer. After all, every serial killer was once a novice, a first-timer. And despite all evidence to the contrary – Heather’s looks, style, behaviour and outlook – at this stage in the investigation, police came round to thinking that the most likely explanation for Heather’s fate was that, for some perverse, possibly obscure, reason, she had become a target for a stalker.
Two years earlier, in 2000, psychologists had divided stalkers into five distinctive groups. Their research had been conducted over several years and the idea was to produce a model or template in chart form that would assist the police in the early recognition of potential ‘serial’ stalkers, who might escalate to murder if not identified before they were fully entrenched in their severely destructive, antisocial behaviour.
Co-author of the research project, Professor Paul Mullen, of Monash University, Victoria, Australia, argued that the publicity in the media about ‘celebrity stalking’ had given the public a skewed concept of the phenomenon. Celebstalking was only the ‘glamorous’ tip of the iceberg and, although a disturbing trend and distressing for the target, was not the core issue.
‘Most victims are ordinary people,’ he said. Their research concluded that eight in every hundred women would be seriously stalked some time in their lives and 20 per cent of all stalkers would resort to violence. Prof Mullen and his researchers identified these five distinctive types of stalkers: ‘Intimacy Seekers’; ‘Rejects’; ‘Incompetent Suitors’; ‘The Resentful’; ‘The Predatory’.
Forensic psychologists – often portrayed in movies and TV crime series as ‘profilers’, such as Cracker – were collaborating with Supt James, all fully au fait with this latest research data. Taken at face value, Heather’s murder made less sense than the shooting dead on her doorstep of TV celebrity Jill Dando.
‘Intimacy Seekers’ fall in love with their targets, rather than hating them. An author may autograph his book ‘with love’ for one of his readers at a bookshop signing session. The purchaser, already a devout fan of the author, takes literally the ‘with love’ inscription, choosing to interpret it as an invitation to intimacy. The self-brainwashing is accumulative and inexorably progressive. As the reader works through the book, he or she imagines that the author is reaching out to that person specifically, that there are coded messages and desire for a secret, intimate rendezvous. Bedroom scenes are read as a kind of sexual foreplay between the two of them, author and reader. The stalking begins very quickly. The target is elevated to the status of an idol. No word of criticism will be tolerated against the icon. It becomes a classic, one-sided love affair, but the ‘lover’ is inflamed with unbridled passion.
Most of those who stalk the famous come into the ‘Intimacy Seeker’ category, but so too those who are obsessed with, say, a doctor or nurse. A certain smile or a word of kindness may be misconstrued and lead to years of harassment and misery. Professor Mullen warned that stalkers in this group tended to be ‘extremely persistent’ and usually suffered from major mental disorders.
Typifying ‘Intimacy Seekers’ was gay body-builder Jonathan Norman, who broke into the home of movie director Steven Spielberg. Norman had fantasised for years about raping Spielberg until he reached a point where virtual reality was no longer sufficient and he had to cross the line. He was gaoled for 25 years.
The victims of ‘Rejects’ are nearly always former lovers, partners or spouses. They refuse to accept the breakdown of a relationship or the break-up of a marriage, interpreting the situation as a mistake or ‘aberration’ on the part of their erstwhile domestic partner, and pester for a reconciliation. They will not take no for an answer and will go to unacceptable lengths to try to achieve their goal. The longer they are thwarted, the more they seek revenge, as much as attempting to rekindle the flame of affection, and it is at this point that they become a danger.
An example of a ‘Reject’ was Nigel Harris, who, in 1999, gained national notoriety as Britain’s first convicted e-mail stalker. He bombarded his former lover with as many as eight erotic e-mail messages per hour on her home PC, as well as sticking ‘Wanted’ posters on windows of her car in a vain bid to win her back. Naturally, this was one of the categories that interested the Dorset investigators, but there was not a scrap of evidence hinting that any man from a distant romantic liaison with Heather had been trying to seduce her back into his arms and bed. No threatening mail, letters, phone calls or graffiti were found – and no complaints from her about being followed or molested.
‘Rejects’ do not go from rejection to attack in one impulsive leap. They always begin with hard-sell persuasion and immature pleading; bleating, in fact. The route to revengeful aggression is usually a long and circuitous one. So a ‘Reject’ was another one for the back-burner; not a card to be discarded irrevocably, but one to be kept up the sleeve, just in case something turned up unexpectedly to transform it into an ace.
‘Incompetent Suitors’ are exactly what the tag implies. They are attracted to someone but lack the social skills and chat-up lines to have any chance of lighting that magical spark that ignites a relationship. Because of their inadequacies, they are often as bad at stalking as connecting with someone. Collectively, they derive little or no satisfaction from harassing the ‘object’ of their desire. A common trait is that they give up easily, only to fall immediately for another ‘love of their life’, usually someone they have never exchanged more than a few words with or perhaps have not even met; just a face in the crowd, perhaps. Although commonly of low intellect, they may have a very high opinion of themselves, sometimes believing themselves to be irresistible, and becoming disgruntled and resentful when they are not worshipped appropriately by the opposite sex.
Michael Dale was an example of an ‘Incompetent Suitor’ who defied the stereotype. As an anaesthetist, he had a high IQ and was an academic high-flyer, but a serial failure when it came to wooing women. He stalked a nurse, aged 23, who worked at the same hospital in Preston, Lancashire. One day he left a note, wedged behind a windscreen-wiper of the nurse’s car, to the effect that he would understand if she rated him a ‘sad, middle-aged git’. He was fined and a restraining order was imposed, banning him from going within a quarter-of-a-mile of the nurse.
‘Resentful Stalkers’ feel sorry for themselves, convinced that they have been sinned against. They are the innocent party and are hell-bent on retribution. Their victim could be someone they loathe, but not always; he or she might merely be a symbolic representative of a social class, trade, profession or political party that they happen to despise. These are frequently ‘workplace stalkers’, who are stimulated and appeased, to some extent, by the fear they generate.
Although those who resort to stalking due to extreme resentment sometimes suffer from paranoia, such as schizophrenia, the majority have ‘self-righteous personalities’, said Professor Mullen. They are convinced that they have God and virtue in their corner and are morally superior to other people.
Anthony Burstow, a veteran of the Falklands War, was the first person to be gaoled in Britain for causing psychological grievous bodily harm to a woman he had stalked for six years. Sentenced to three years in prison, he was released after fifteen months, only to immediately recommence his reign of terror against the same woman. Such was his obsession and derangement that he even changed his name to that of the woman’s last known boyfriend. This was the landmark case that paved the way for the introduction in 1997 of anti-stalking laws.
Finally, the ‘Predatory Stalkers’ – these are a heartless, malevolent breed and mean business, the equivalent of Great White sharks of the seas, unerringly homing in on their prey until ready to strike. Their stalking is a pernicious prelude to an attack. They are not looking for a relationship, just one-sided violence. To these passionless hunters, it is warfare, building day by day, hour by hour, towards an unprovoked and unanticipated ambush.
With these highly-motivated predators, the stalking is structured along military lines, where information-gathering is an integral ingredient of the preparation. The initial groundwork comprises reconnoitring; finding out as much as possible about the target’s habits and daily routine. What time does she rise in the morning … leave for work (by car or public transport) … have lunch … does she eat alone … and how late does she stay at the office, shop, hospital, and so forth? The evening ritual is pivotal: does she date, dine out – if so, where – and, finally, what time to bed? How many people live in the same house? How many silhouettes in the bedroom? In other words, is the target sleeping alone? Everything is memorised, or even written in a special log-book.
When the bedroom light of the target is switched off, this is when the ‘Predatory Stalker’ at last relaxes for the night; for him, it is equivalent to taking a Valium and quickly coming down from a dizzy ‘high’. With the quarry safely tucked up in bed for the night, it is immaterial to him whether she is sleeping alone or with someone else. Here is a fundamental difference from the other stalker groups – jealousy and the impulse for possession are absent; there is no emotional traction. This is a very different blood sport.
There will be numerous dress rehearsals for the ‘big event’. Much pleasure is derived from voyeurism and its intrusions. The fantasising over what lies ahead is almost more rewarding to these stalkers than the actual enactment. In fact, the physical assault, which is almost always sexual in nature, can be an anticlimax, tantamount to bringing down the curtain for the last time on a long-running show. Underpinning the jet-propelled single-mindedness is the lust for power and control over another person, a woman seen as helpless. It is a desire even more potent than the one fuelled by tidal waves of testosterone.
Supt James and his psychologist advisers naturally availed themselves of the latest research data from all over the world, and were especially helped by the FBI’s Behavioral Science Unit. Supt James and a number of his senior officers flew to New York and Washington for meetings with FBI specialist agents in the field of stalkers and serial killers, because there was much cross-pollination; stalkers so often gravitated into serial killers, with the former spawning the latter.
Many people – particularly senior police officers – remain sceptical about the benefits of psychological profiling in crime detection and prevention. Often it is dismissed as ‘wacky’ pseudoscience at best or just another gimmick, handy for Hollywood but not much else.
Contrary to popular belief, profiling began in London with Dr Thomas Bond, a police surgeon who performed an autopsy on Mary Kelly, Jack the Ripper’s seventh and final victim. Although, as we know, the Ripper was never caught, Dr Bond documented him as daring, physically strong, mentally unstable (rather obvious!) and a quiet loner. No one has ever been in a position to contradict that assessment, but Dr Bond’s peers and the police ‘Establishment’ of the day were impressed, and ‘offending profiling’ was born.
Modern profiling was taken over in the twentieth century by psychiatrists, who really came into their own in the 1940s and 1950s, when there were 40 bombings in New York City. A profile was provided by a Freudian psychiatrist, Dr James Brussel, suggesting that the bomber was an unmarried man, who lived with a sister or aunt in the State of Connecticut, New Hampshire or Maine, and always wore a double-breasted suit. When George Metesky was arrested in 1957 for the bombings, it was in the State of Connecticut, where he was residing with two unmarried sisters. And he was wearing a double-breasted suit. Dr Brussel had also correctly predicted the perpetrator’s religion, age and ethnicity. In today’s argot, Scotland Yard and the FBI were ‘gobsmacked’. The FBI now refers to profiling as ‘criminal investigative analysis’.
The police therefore had all sorts of viable theories, but no hard evidence, or a suspect. There was one hope, though – if he was a ‘Predatory Stalker’, it would have been difficult, virtually impossible, for him to have mounted a long-term surveillance on Heather’s home without being observed. The frontage was very exposed to everyone passing; there was no natural cover; front walls and hedges were not high. Capstone Road is no tree-lined, secluded avenue. The only means of keeping watch for long periods, without attracting undue attention, would have been from a stationary vehicle, but parking spaces were always at a premium; no slot could ever be guaranteed, it was a lottery, and that would have compromised anyone who had to be in a particular place at a specific time.
Capstone Road is a relatively quiet, residential thoroughfare, running down from Charminster Road, one of the town’s main arteries, which lies in one of the most cosmopolitan and vibrant areas of Bournemouth. There are cafés and restaurants and 24-hour delicatessens, and the student population provides round-the-clock activity. The university campus is no further than a mile away, straddling the border with Poole. Even closer is a plethora of private English language colleges for overseas students, with the diverse smells, sights and sounds of a range of cultures hanging in the air.
Capstone Road, however, is long and straight, quiet and respectable. The hum of traffic can be just heard from Charminster Road, but for the residents here the focus is on their homes, their work and their families. The style here is of middle-class suburbia – good people, caring people, to whom any form of violence or antisocial behaviour is anathema.
And it is this perfectly ‘genteel’ image that many people still have of Bournemouth and its environs. Indeed, Heather Barnett’s violent murder, underpinned by such pitiless sadism and sexual savagery, must have struck people as entirely out of kilter with the sleepy, comfortable image of present-day Bournemouth.
By the 1950s, the pretty, Dorset seaside town had become sneeringly dubbed ‘God’s waiting room’, a genteel resort to which well-heeled retirees migrated to see out the rest of their lives in purpose-built comfort.
The reality is that, by the 1980s, Bournemouth had shaken off its frumpish apparel and upped the tempo of its lifestyle. Nevertheless, reputations, just like first impressions, die hard. Since Victorian times, Bournemouth had been the prim and proper sister in the large – and frequently ugly and vulgar – family of British seaside playgrounds. The sprawling Bournemouth conurbation, embracing the towns of Poole, Christchurch, Broadstone, Highcliffe and New Milton, with a total population not far short of 500,000, was Britain’s Miami Beach, a magnet for prosperous pensioners from the north, the Midlands and London.
This picture of octogenarian gentility, however, does not ring true nowadays. In actual fact, Bournemouth had morphed from the United Kingdom’s Miami Beach into Los Angeles – a linear, coast-hugging megalopolis, spread over some 20 miles. When outsiders refer to Bournemouth, they tend to be alluding to the whole joined-up ribbon of development that urbanises south-east Dorset and spills over into Hampshire.
The social make-up of the region is also now undeniably diverse. Boscombe, within the borough of Bournemouth, was designated a deprived area. In one undercover raid, the police counted 60 brothels within a single square-mile central zone. Prostitutes touted for trade on the corners of streets in a residential red-light district, shared with the local headquarters of the Freemasons and the Salvation Army.
The Port of Poole became a gateway for the importation of smuggled luxury goods, drugs, booze and desperate people. Between the 15th and 18th centuries, the whole Dorset Jurassic coastline was a hotbed of piracy, steeped in the legends of the likes of Long John Silver and Blackbeard. By the 1990s, London gangs had been convicted of armed robbery on glitzy jewellers’ shops, making speedy getaways along the motorway corridor to the Smoke. In one week, there were four murders. A far cry, then, from the sleepiness of yesteryear.
A university and myriad language schools had turned on its head the prevailing age demographic. In this cosmopolitan melting pot, the nasal sounds of Liverpool, for example, coexisted comfortably with the more melodic dialects of Florence, Madrid and Paris. Historically cemented by wealth, the area as an entity remains super-rich, with the Sandbanks peninsula, Poole’s jewel in the crown, the heady, real-estate hot spot of Europe.
Nowadays, however, it is new money that rules the waves. The mansions of Sandbanks, blessed with their own waterfronts and private marinas, are homes to Premiership footballers, pop stars and self-made tycoons.
So while the staid gentility of a bygone era can still be seen in pockets around Bournemouth, a new, altogether more youthful, money-driven and fast-paced way of life has muscled its way in. And it’s here to stay.
* * *
Diligently, working in pairs, officers called at every house in Capstone Road. They took statements; they insisted that people ‘rack’ their brains and cast their minds back, not just to Tuesday, 12 November, but to the days and weeks leading up to it. Reports came in of people having been seen acting oddly, but not near Heather’s home; none of it carried much weight. Descriptions were vague and too sketchy for the purpose of identification. But the boxes had to be ticked, and every avenue had to be explored, in the hope that one apparently insignificant memory or description might yield a case-breaking piece of evidence.
Everyone on the sex offenders register within the county was visited and asked to account for their movements; alibis were checked and double-checked. Ex-cons, with records for violence against women, especially those linked to crimes of a sexual nature, had police officers calling at their homes. Detectives talked with probation officers. Men charged with sex crimes and still awaiting trial, while on bail, were pulled in for questioning.
Experience told Supt James that, overnight, no one became the kind of killer who had ended Heather’s life so sadistically. He felt, as every textbook on the subject would agree, that there had to be a stepping-stone progression towards something so barbaric. Accordingly, there was a consensus that the police should work on the theory that this was not the work of a first-timer.
Perhaps the killer was already ‘in the system’, someone who had been convicted of a lesser sexual offence, or maybe even a person who had been charged, stood trial, and who had been acquitted. A number of ‘cold cases’ were reviewed, particularly ones in which the alleged perpetrator was a known entity, but where the victim had declined to prosecute. All this computer cross-referencing and online searching, plus the inevitable follow-ups with house-calls, were hugely time-consuming. Weeks stretched into months and all the police had was what they had started with: a battered and disfigured body; bloody footprints made by size 9–10 Nike trainers; and strands of hairs.
Now all hope was pinned on the strands of hair in Heather’s hand, something the police had kept secret, hoping they would prove to be the key to unlocking the case. The hair had not come from Heather’s head, but from another woman. The only feasible conclusion to be drawn was that the killer had taken the hair from someone else – possibly as a trophy – and planted it on Heather as a chilling, mocking calling-card; taunting the police and turning such abomination into a game. Also, he must have known, in advance, exactly what he would be doing that November morning with the ‘souvenir hair’.
A psychological battle had been started that Supt James publicly vowed to win, however long it took and at whatever cost. In essence, he pledged that the police would never surrender and that this case would not be allowed to become ‘cold’, involving the winding down and shelving of the investigation.
The gloves were well and truly off. This was war.