Frank was waiting for us when we arrived. The area was still cordoned off with the traditional yellow tape of a crime scene. But there was something different about the site: something I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Then it occurred to me – the silence was missing from when we were last here. On that morning there had been an eerie stillness about the place; not a sound could be heard, not even the chatter of an occasional bird. Now, it was as if nature had reasserted itself and everything had returned to normal.
We reopened the five-barred gate and entered the field, careful to avoid any contact with the area marked out by forensics. There was nothing special about it – at least, nothing I could identify with anyway. It was merely a corner of a field, quite dry – almost dusty, in fact – due to the lack of rain over the last couple of days. There were no discernible footprints, as far as I could see; it puzzled me what, if anything, Paul was hoping to discover.
“Can you show me where the clothes were placed?” he asked, scanning the photographs.
Frank drew a line in the dusty soil, and then made an oblong shape. “More or less here,” he said.
“Can you remember what order they placed in? ...The photos don’t show that.”
“Yes. I made a note.” He took out his notebook and searched for the page. “Here we are,” he continued. “Cardigan, pink, on the top; dress, also pink, underneath that; child’s slip, white, next; finally child’s underpants, white, with small, pink handkerchief, tucked in a pocket.”
“What about the shoes – and the socks?”
“The shoes, with the socks inside, were placed at the side of the clothes.”
“Was everything arranged neatly? You describe the order of the clothes, Frank, but it’s important to know how they were laid-out.”
“Very neatly,” he confirmed. “Almost as if her mother had undressed her; or, at least, her mother had taught her to be neat and tidy when she undressed.”
“And where the clothes clean?”
“Yes. Remarkably so. In fact, I had the impression they’d recently been washed. The only stain of any kind was the blood found on the shoes.” He frowned, as if he were questioning what he had just said. “No. hang on, that isn’t true, Paul. Evidently there are traces of DNA on the child’s underpants – we’re still waiting for results on that.”
“Hmm,” he said thoughtfully. “That’s interesting. Would you know if forensics checked whether or not the clothes had recently been washed?”
The question was directed towards me and I felt myself blushing. “No. I don’t think anyone thought to ask them. Is it important, Paul?”
“It could be – if only to confirm my supposition.”
“Which is what?”
“That we’re dealing here with an ‘organised offender’. Everything he does has a particular meaning. It’s almost a compulsion with him. Everything must be clean and tidy. And I do mean everything. He will be fastidious in the way he dresses, the choice of his clothes – even the specific designer and where he buys them from; he’s quite the snob, is our killer. You’ll also find his car will be meticulously clean and shiny; he wouldn’t be able to cope with untidiness or dirt. And undoubtedly it will be one of the more upmarket brands.”
“So you’re saying he’s loaded?”
He nodded.
“How come he missed the bloodspots?” Frank asked.
“He didn’t, Frank. They were put there deliberately, to furnish us with the forensic evidence that she was dead. He wanted us to know that without having to leave the body on show.”
“Jesus!” Frank exclaimed. “He is a calculating bastard!”
“He has to have left us another clue, though,” Paul said, frustratingly. “The bloodstains will only give us so much information.”
“Do you think he left the saliva stains deliberately too?” I asked.
“Yes. Without question. As I said, everything he does has a purpose. In that instance, I have to confess I don’t understand his intention, except that – clearly – he’s trying to tell you something. I think we’ll have a better idea when the DNA results are in; but whatever it is, he wants you to know about it.”
He bent down and shuffled some of the soil between his fingers. “Frank, have you got a sample bag with you?”
“Sure. In the car. I’ll get it.”
“What have you found, Paul?”
“Somebody’s pissed here. We’ll take a sample back with us, but don’t be surprised if it matches the saliva test. This is his way of demonstrating his complete sociopathology.”
He took the bag from Frank and partly filled it with soil. Then he got to his feet, rubbing his back and groaning.
“Old age, Paul?” I joked.
“You should never mock the afflicted, young lady. One day, if you’re lucky…” He didn’t have to complete the sentence. Instead, he moved back to the entrance to the field and scanned the surrounding area carefully.
“I don’t suppose there were any tyre tracks, were there?”
“No; nothing,” Frank confirmed. “We went over the area very carefully.”
“I didn’t think so. So, there must be another entrance to the field.”
“How do you work that out?” I asked, puzzled.
“Well, if you think about what I said earlier, about his fastidiousness, then it stands to reason he isn’t going to park his vehicle here. And it isn’t because he’d leave tracks; it’s because he’d get his precious car dirty.”
Frank and I followed him further up the lane, probable for about a quarter of a mile, until we came to a slight gap in the hedgerow with a strip of hard standing on the lane opposite.
“Here,” Paul said, pointing. “This is where he entered the field.”
Frank and I examined the strip of asphalt for tyre marks, but there was nothing. Paul ignored us; he was busily inspecting the point of entry to the field.
“Here!” he exclaimed eventually. “Frank, bring me another sample bag, will you?” He then took a small pair of tweezers from his medical bag and proceeded to remove from one of the branches a single strand of material.
“His first mistake. And he’s certain to notice it later and worry about it. Come on – we’ll check the field for footprints.”
We followed him as he squeezed through the narrow entrance and headed back slowly towards the site of the clothing, closely inspecting the ground. Part of the way there we spotted what was obviously cow dung, and there, to our surprise, was a partial footprint embedded at the side.
“He’d clean his shoe,” Paul informed us, “but nothing would persuade him to go near the cow pat.”
Frank was already on his mobile alerting forensics. “I’ll wait for them,” he said. “If you’ve finished, doctor, I suggest you and Angie head on back.”
I nodded, whilst Paul handed over the sample bags to Frank with instructions for forensics. Other than the single footprint the rest of the field was clear, so we returned to the car and headed towards the station. It had been a very productive afternoon’s work, thanks to Paul.
We spoke very little during the journey. Paul was busy making copious notes in his folder, muttering the occasional comment to himself. Once or twice I asked him a question; either he hadn’t heard me or he chose to ignore me.
I pulled up in front of the station, and before he got out I said, “Have you found out any more about this monster, Paul?”
He shrugged, non-committal. “Have you ever come across the term ‘Mysoped’ in your studies?”
I shook my head. “I don’t think so. Why? Is it relevant?”
“Yes. Very much so. It’s a word the FBI adopted some years back to describe the very worst kind of paedophile: the ‘sadistic offender’. This type of paedophile is unique amongst all of the rest. He not only sexually brutalises children, his ultimate objective is to kill them. It’s an uncompromising part of his ritual, and it’s that as much as the sexual degradation he inflicts on the victim that gives him the most pleasure. And, in the light of our discoveries, I would have to conclude this is a ‘mysoped’ who we are dealing with.
“Be under no illusions, Angie; this man will bring your worst nightmares to a chilling reality. He is vicious – brutally vicious. He is also unpredictable, insofar as both timing and location are concerned. And, more importantly, he enjoys killing. You must also bear in mind, as I pointed out before, this will not be the first time he has killed; his compulsion will have evolved over quite a period of time. That tends to be the pattern.”
“So, how do we catch him, Paul?”
“With professional, investigative police work – something you’re good at – and a hell of a lot of luck.” He opened the car door. “The good news, though, is that he’s already made a couple of mistakes that will help us. Let’s hope he keeps being as generous.”