Apart from some possible – albeit extremely unlikely – hypotheses, little headway was being made in establishing a motive for Heather’s death, or indeed in developing any substantive leads in the case, yet Supt James remained upbeat. ‘We shall solve this, however long it takes,’ he vowed, with admirable fortitude. One way or another, Heather’s killer would be caught, was the message.
Not everyone was so optimistic, though. ‘At times, I think we’re looking for a ghost or an alien who came off a spaceship, committed murder, and returned, just as mysteriously, to his planet in another galaxy,’ said one disconsolate detective. ‘This is not an uphill slog, it’s a mountain climb.’
Supt James was still pinning his hopes on the strands of hair in Heather’s hand. It wasn’t a random feature, he was certain. As the hair did not come from the deceased, meticulous pre-planning must have been involved. More importantly, there had to be a meaning to it, or perhaps it was intended as an obscure message to the police; and there was a chance that the significance of that handful of hair had been dominating the perpetrator’s life for years, plaguing him even, possibly since childhood.
But whose hair had Heather Barnett been clutching? And how had it been obtained – overtly or surreptitiously? As the theories multiplied, so did the unanswered questions.
One of the most obvious sources of locks of hair was hairdressing salons. Stylists and their customers had daily access to a wide variety of different people’s hair. Cuttings would be swept regularly, and anyone in a salon would secretly be able to stash away hair and take it home. This was yet another avenue to be explored, starting with the salon where Heather had been a regular customer for a number of years.
Hairdressers throughout the town were investigated. Profiles were constructed of all those who had the potential to be connected socially with Heather. Every man who had ever been convicted of relatively minor sexual offences in recent years was interviewed. The investigation, under Supt James, continued according to the tried and tested formula. The odds were heavily stacked in favour of the perpetrator having already committed a crime – or crimes – of a violent, sexual nature and he had now ‘progressed’ to significantly more serious, violent acts.
Members of the investigative team undertaking the background checks on computer databases worked through the names of every person living in the Bournemouth neighbourhoods of Charminster, Winton, Moordown, Queen’s Park, Boscombe and Holdenhurst – all areas within a four- or five-mile radius of Heather’s home. The tally amounted to thousands of residents. It must have seemed a thankless task to all those officers detailed for this particular chore, day after day, despite being split into round-the-clock shifts over so many months – they were all so far away from the front line and the limelight. They worked away tirelessly and methodically, always hoping – but rarely actually believing – that the next click of the mouse would bring Heather Barnett’s sadistic killer into view.
One name that did not appear on any of the UK police’s offenders databases suddenly popped up when the search was widened internationally, resulting in a response from Interpol. And the name that appeared on the desktop monitor was not unknown to them.
It wasn’t long before detectives from Dorset were booking seats on a flight to Italy.
The destination for the élite Dorset Police ‘Flying Squad’ was Potenza, a city in southern Italy, squatting among the spectacular Apennine mountains, not far from Naples.
As the capital of Basilicata, east of Salerno, Potenza overlooks a valley through which the Basento River threads steadily, rarely in any great hurry, reflecting the laid-back temperament of this generally hot and dusty region. Like so many towns and cities of Italy, Potenza has a roller-coaster history – conquered by the Romans and made a military colony, it later existed quietly under feudal rule, only to riot later against Spanish domination and then be completely obliterated by a massive earthquake.
After the declaration of a Neapolitan Republic, Potenza was one of the first cities to mutiny against the king. More upheaval followed when it was taken by the French and made the capital of Basilicata. Rocked by yet another mighty earthquake, it was a city seething with resentment. Its people, always rebellious by instinct, launched yet another uprising, just before Garibaldi’s revolutionary army brought about the unification of Italy.
Never a place for the quiet life, Potenza was blitzed by Allied air-raids in 1943, with another earthquake exacerbating the devastation from the bombs. Its city wall has survived and at 2,684 feet (819 metres) above sea-level, it enjoys a borderline Mediterranean/Oceanic climate, with a population, at the last official census, of about 90,000.
Another feature of Potenza’s culture is probably more important than any of the facts outlined above: because of its long-running conflict with authority for generations and its proximity with Naples, it has always been fertile ground for the growth of ‘Camorra’, the Mafia of southern Italy. For years, the Camorra had dominated politics, the police and even the Roman Catholic Church. Politicians, law-enforcement agencies and priests have consistently been on the Mafia’s payroll for generations in the entire region.
For the rural peasants and the poor folk, the Mafia has long been seen as their instrument of justice, as the only way of getting a fair deal for those who cannot afford fat-cat lawyers.
But when the Dorset Police detachment took off for Italy, they were interested in just one man – and a woman. The woman was Elisa Claps, an unknown quantity to the British police. The man, however, was already very strongly on their radar. His name – Danilo Restivo.
Elisa had been a bubbly 16-year-old. She had long, dark hair, brown, melancholy eyes, teeth fit for a toothpaste advert, a beguiling smile and an impish sense of humour. This girl really loved living. She wore thin-rimmed, designer glasses and sensible-sized, pierced earrings. Like most teenage girls, she did not appear to have a care in the world, except what she should wear. Boys fought over her, though not too seriously. But they did literally queue to date her. One could even go as far as saying that she had a fan club. But beneath her extrovert, public persona, she was very much a family girl.
Elisa had been brought up Italian-style, first and foremost as a devout Christian with all the values that it entailed. Since a baby, she had attended Mass regularly with her parents. At 16, she still recited her prayers when going to bed and when waking in the morning. Her parents were proud of her and considered themselves fortunate to have such a ‘kind, considerate, hard-working and very special, darling daughter’.
The Claps family was a very happy one; not rich materially, but buoyed by a wealth of love. What her parents did not know, however, was that their daughter was having clandestine meetings with an older man.
On Saturday, 11 September 1993, Danilo Restivo, who was then living in Potenza, telephoned Elisa sometime between 6.00 – 7.00 in the evening, pressing her for a date. Restivo was ‘in love’ with the teenager, despite being five years older than her, having apparently revealed his feelings to her two months previously. But it was unrequited love and Elisa rejected Restivo’s advances with the bombshell that she was already engaged to another man, whom she planned to marry as soon as possible.
Restivo had not given up, saying he hoped they could remain friends and meet from time to time. Elisa, always thoughtful and never deliberately setting out to hurt people’s feelings, had gone along with this proposition. Restivo was to contend later that when he asked to see Elisa on Saturday, 11 September, it had been to give her a present for having done so well in her exams. Elisa agreed to rendezvous with him the following morning at the rear of the Church of the Most Holy Trinity at 11.30am, but she did not confide in her parents.
The Claps family attended the 11.00am Mass on the Sunday, all returning home immediately except for Elisa, who said she was meeting someone briefly, but would be back for lunch, with her friend Eliana De Cillis. After that, the family would all be going on a picnic.
It was a gloriously warm and sunny day, ideal for a lazy afternoon in the spectacular Basilicata countryside. Elisa’s parents and older brother Gildo were determined that they should make the most of the good weather before the unsettled days of autumn kicked in.
At around 11.35am, after the service, Eliana spotted another friend, Angelica Abbruzzese, outside the church and they began chatting. Eliana explained to Angelica that she was waiting for Elisa, who had slipped back into the church to have a brief word with Restivo. ‘She’ll only be about five minutes,’ said Eliana.
Eliana waited and waited. Elisa did not come out of the church. Neither did Restivo. Less than three-quarters-of-an-hour later, worshippers began arriving for the next Mass, to be conducted by Father Sabia, who had also presided over the earlier service.
At home, Elisa’s mother, Filomena, sighed and shook her head in maternal frustration, muttering to herself in her own dialect about teenagers and their ability to talk, no matter what the time. All this was said lovingly, of course, but with a keen eye on the clock. Everything was packed and prepared for the day in the countryside and they were eager to hit the road.
When an hour had passed and still Elisa had not returned, Filomena lost patience and despatched Gildo to bring her back ‘by her hair’!
Gildo hurried to the church, which was empty. The 12.30pm Mass had finished and only a few lingering, elderly couples were about, talking with Father Sabia. He managed to prise Father Sabia away from his depleted flock and quizzed him about Elisa. No, he had not seen Elisa after the earlier Mass. No, she had not been in church for the service that had just ended. No, he had no idea where she might be.
The priest was not the least alarmed. He assumed, like Gildo, that she must have gone off with a friend, losing track of time, forgetting all about their schedule. But the more he thought about this, the more it did not fit. How did she leave the church without seeing Eliana? And why would she leave Eliana, such a close friend, waiting on the church’s doorstep for her, especially as Eliana was to have lunch with the family and then go out with them in the afternoon? It was all wrong and totally out of character for Elisa.
In the grip of contrasting emotions, swinging like a pendulum between anger and worry, Gildo asked the priest if it was all right for him to look around the church. ‘But of course,’ said Father Sabia. ‘But I can assure you that she isn’t in there.’
Thanking the priest, Gildo hurried into the church and walked up and down the aisles, looking along the rows of pews. He called Elisa’s name, his voice echoing. On the way out, he spoke again with Father Sabia, who tried to console Gildo with, ‘Your sister must have stopped somewhere on the way home. She is probably there by now. If there is a problem, please don’t hesitate to come back. God bless.’
As Gildo jogged home, his faith urged him to believe in the priest. Of course he was worrying needlessly. Of course Elisa would be at home by the time he returned.
But she was not.
And nine years later, when Heather Barnett was murdered, Elisa Claps was still missing. The man with whom Elisa had rendezvoused secretly that Sunday morning behind the church altar was Danilo Restivo, later to live in Bournemouth within a few yards of Heather Barnett.