Wendy staggered into the incident room on Tuesday morning with the most horrendous hangover. She was sure she had only had four whiskys, but it felt like forty. One of the many pleasures of getting old, she concluded.
‘Christ, Knight. You look like the back end of a horse.’
Wendy admired Culverhouse's unique concept of a compliment.
‘Thanks, guv. You don't look so bad yourself,’ she replied, clearing a pile of papers from her desk and propping her backside up on it. She cradled her cup of coffee, the steam rising up her nostrils.
‘Heavy night, was it?’
‘No, I just went to see my brother.’
‘Didn't realise smack gave you a hangover.’
Wendy shot a loathsome glance towards Culverhouse, who visibly stepped backward and raised his hands, as if in mock defeat.
‘Well, it's nice of you to join us, anyway.,’ Culverhouse said. ‘We've had Steve and Frank getting to the bottom of the MOs and there are a number of matches.’
Wendy was willing to bet money that the only thing Detective Sergeants Steve Wing and Frank Vine had been getting to the bottom of were a succession of McDonald's bags.
‘Firstly, both our victims were prostitutes. It might seem a little cliché, but I think this is probably the route he's going down. There's no evidence so far that the women knew each other, at least not from what their families and friends have told us, but we're sure it's the same guy who finished them both off. Too many patterns.’
‘What patterns?’ Wendy asked.
‘Well, each of the victims was found with a length of rope tied around their necks. The rope used for each victim was different; Ella Barrington's was a manila hemp whilst Maria Preston's was a blue plastic sort of rope. The weirdest bit is the way they were tied. Now, I'm no expert, but they weren't your usual knots. Frank was in the boy scouts when he was younger, and he reckons they were — what did you say they were called, Frank?’
‘Bowline knots, guv. Pretty handy for nooses.’
A shiver ran down Wendy's spine as she quizzed DS Vine for more information.
‘But he didn’t hang them, did he? I mean, why tie a noose if you’re not going to hang them?’
‘Nah, they weren’t hanged. There's no sign of broken necks or any kind of blunt trauma from the rope. You see, the bowline knot is often used for situations where the knot will come under a lot of strain. It's not the most common one for your average serial killer to use; it's quite a specialist knot, you see, mainly used by sailors and anyone who has ever been in the boy scouts. The interesting thing is the amount of mud that had been collected in the fibres of the ropes. It would lead me to think that he'd tied the rope around the girls' necks and dragged them to their final resting places.’
‘Shit,’ Wendy said.
‘Yeah, but that’s not what happened. The bodies themselves had shown no sign of being dragged anywhere. The mud around them wasn’t disturbed in that way. You wouldn’t drag a live body, anyway. For all its strengths, the bowline knot is very easy to untie. Besides, the mud embedded in the ropes was too localised. If they'd been kicking and screaming, much more of the rope would have come into contact with the mud than we're seeing here.’
’So what are you saying? That the rope was used for something else first?’ Wendy asked.
‘Possibly. We’re getting the mud checked, but we’re pretty sure it’s the same stuff as at the common, which doesn’t help us much. The other possibility is that Ella Barrington and Maria Preston weren’t his first victims.’
‘Shit. What about the cause of death?’
‘The throat-cutting, most likely. It seems as though the whole noose idea was some sort of perverted game; they were probably already dead at this point, as there aren’t any rope fibres under the victims’ fingernails.’
Just as Frank had finished talking, Steve Wing turned up the volume on the television. It was a local news report on the murders.
‘ – but the Police have not said whether they believe the two girls were connected in any way. What they have said, however, is that they believe the killer may strike again and urge women in the area of Mildenheath to take extra care when leaving their homes.’
As the camera cut back to the studio, Culverhouse was distinctly unimpressed.
‘Nice one, Steve. Next time maybe you can let us see the other ninety-five percent of it.’
The tense atmosphere was cut short with a rap at the door of the incident room.
‘DCI Culverhouse? I'm Patrick Sharp,’ the man said as he entered clutching a manilla folder full of papers.
‘Sorry?’
‘The psychological profiler. I presume Chief Constable Hawes told you I was coming?’
‘I’m afraid our esteemed Chief Constable has a habit of telling me fuck all, Mr Sharp. Do come in.’
As Culverhouse took a seat next to Wendy, Patrick Sharp perched himself on the edge of Culverhouse's desk and proceeded to address the team.
‘Well, it seems as though we've got precious little time to waste, so I'll get straight into it. Despite immediate appearances, the personality of the man we're looking for is quite common amongst serial killers. The fact that he seems to leave his victims in rather findable places signals that he is trying to initiate a sort of game with the police. He's very methodical, too. The cuts to the throat and the tying of the knots were remarkably neat, and the similarities between the two murders are striking. He strikes me as a very orderly man — obsessive, some might say. The peculiar knots point to some military training, perhaps.’
Culverhouse had the look of a grandmother being taught to suck eggs.
‘However, the information I have at this time is very brief. I believe SOCO intend to provide me with some more information shortly, so I'll have more for you then.’
And with that, Mr Sharp stood up and left the room.
‘Well that was fucking useful,’ Culverhouse said. ‘I could have told you that myself.’
As the officers returned to their respective desks, many heads shaking, Wendy's phone rang.
‘DS Knight?’ she said as she held the phone between her head and shoulder.
‘Ah, Wendy. Hello – it's Robert, Robert Ludford.’
Wendy paused whilst she tried to match a face to the name through whisky-clouded thoughts.
‘From last night? Surely you remember, Wendy.’
‘Oh yes, sorry. I'm still rather tired. How did you get my work number?’
‘You gave me your card.’
“Did I? Sorry, it's all a bit of a blur. What can I do for you?’
‘Well, it's more of a case of what I can do for you, actually. I was wondering if you might like to come out for dinner one night. I know a fantastic restaurant in Walverston.’
Whisky-clouded thoughts of the impending murder investigation and her argument with Michael were not helping Wendy's mood.
‘No, I don't think that would be very appropriate. Sorry, Robert. Goodbye.’
No sooner than Wendy had hung up the phone, it rang again.
‘What?’ she barked, now getting rather annoyed at Robert Ludford’s odd behaviour.
‘Oh, hello. Is that the incident room for the Mildenheath murders?’
‘Yes, sorry,’ Wendy said, straightening herself up. ‘Who am I speaking to?’
‘My name's Mrs Connors. Alma Connors. I think I know who committed these terrible killings. I think it was my son.’