Not that anyone was bothering to explore any of these possibilities …
I stumbled across this stash of ‘dead’ files while reviewing unsolved female murders in the capital over the past decade. It felt like uncovering an unmarked mass grave. I couldn’t understand how this could happen – until I met the victims.
They were all young women estranged from their families and communities, often just out of care or prison or a mental institution. Most had been hooked on smack or crack, lost souls with nothing but their bodies to sell. Desperate skanks. Nobody noticed they were gone until their bodies turned up; rent asunder like the carcasses of Christmas turkeys. No witnesses, no murder weapon, no DNA, no media interest, no relatives making noise.
No motive.
I also discovered scant will to catch their killers. The murder of a tom somehow didn’t count, especially a crackhead street cat. They knew the risks. As if somehow their grim demise had been inevitable. Deserved. Without the other standard pressures – raucous relatives, meddling media, panicking public – these investigations had been expediently binned at the earliest opportunity.
After all, resources were stretched and Scotland Yard could divert much-needed detective brainpower elsewhere, to serve more pressing political agendas. Like the highly publicised murders of middle-class, ‘respectable’ women.
However, when I analysed these ‘dead’ case files, I made a series of alarming discoveries. For starters, the sick tableau of depravity endured by ‘The Others’ proved that a number of woman-hating killers were on the loose in London right now, who would kill again soon.
I raised the alarm with my boss, DS Barrett. He didn’t listen.
I drew up a list of men who frequently used streetwalkers and had convictions for violence against women, explaining that any one of these cretins could escalate to become tomorrow’s notorious serial killer.
He didn’t listen.
Then, a few months back, a notorious crime that had grown into a national media event changed everything. Michael Sams had been convicted of the kidnap of estate agent Stephanie Slater, who police managed to free after a sensational, high-profile manhunt.
Sams confessed that, a year earlier, he’d carried out ‘a dry run’ by abducting 18-year-old Leeds prostitute Julie Dart and forcing her to write a ransom note to her boyfriend. Sams knew Dart’s family couldn’t afford to cough up the 150k demand, so he killed her anyway. But the case proved my ‘canary in a coalmine’ theory – that dangerous men were willing to ‘practise’ their most carnal desires on easy-meat prostitutes first.
DS Barrett suddenly realised that the men we’d failed to catch for these prostitute murders may strike again – and they might not restrict their depravity to crack-addled streetwalkers next time.
Now he listened.
He set me a task: comb through every one of these ‘dead’ files, highlighting all potential suspects and links to other cases.
He then set me another: if a breaking female murder appears to share any link or connection to an unsolved case, attend the crime scene.
It hadn’t happened, until today.
Now I felt convinced that whoever tortured and killed this poor woman had struck before. He’d escalated to this. That blade of dread twisted in my guts. What if I’d failed to spot him in the old files, leaving him free to kill her?
What if I’d missed the chance to stop him?
It felt a strong possibility. After all, I’d spent months poring over those old case files yet failed to level a criminal charge against a single suspect.
I must have missed him …
My angst turned to agitation at the sight before me; Fintan at the polythene perimeter, chatting animatedly to the crime scene officer I’d fallen head-over-heels for earlier. Even from this distance, I could tell he’d turned on the old charm cannons full blast.
‘Here he comes, Dick Fosbury,’ he called towards me, and she cackled mercilessly, shrivelling my insides. I knew I had to hit back, so faked a serene smile while scrabbling about desperately for a witty riposte.
‘I think you’ll find I’m no flop,’ I heard myself declaring to the suddenly silent planet. That wiped the smile from her pretty face. Fintan glared at me aghast.
‘Donal, this is Zoe from the Forensic Science Service. I’ve been telling her all about the important work you do, for the Cold Case Unit.’
I checked to see if he was taking the piss. Had the flirting couple decided to gang up on me again, for another cheap laugh? I wouldn’t be falling into their trap this time.
‘I’m doing my best to get the hell out of there, to be honest,’ I mumbled, clearly wrong-footing both of them.
Fintan ploughed on, undeterred. ‘Zoe’s been telling me what happened to that poor girl in there. We’ve just been saying, whoever did this isn’t a first-time offender. As this is a red-light zone, he’s probably targeted working girls in the past.’
‘That’s speculation,’ I protested.
‘So, I’ve been explaining to Zoe how you’ve spent the past few months analysing unsolved prostitute murders, and that you may well have a head start in tracking down the person responsible.’
I would’ve disputed this too, had I managed to get a word in edgeways.
‘I’ve asked Zoe here to page you as soon as she gets a confirmed ID for the victim and to keep you abreast of any forensic developments. That way, you can crack on right away linking the MO here with these other unsolved cases you’ve studied, which could save a lot of time. And let’s face it, we’re in a race against the clock here to find this maniac before he strikes again. I hope that’s okay with you both?’
I thought about asking him outright, there and then: ‘What angle are you playing here, Fintan, because this murder still doesn’t seem newsworthy to me?’ But Zoe had my pager number now, her smile toasting me like a marshmallow. So I defied my gut and rolled with it. Whatever ‘it’ might turn out to be …
When Zoe’s smile turned quizzical, I realised I’d been frowning all this time. That’s what trying to keep up with a Machiavellian brother does to you; like playing speed chess against Gary Kasparov. So I released all my anxieties in one multi-coloured party balloon by declaring: ‘I think that’s a great idea.’
Zoe turned serious then, almost solemn. ‘Fintan tells me you’ve come down here of your own accord, just to see if you can find any connections.’
‘Well … not exactly,’ I reddened again. ‘I got paged and …’
Fintan interjected: ‘I told you he’d be mortified.’
Zoe put her hand on my arm, stopping my heart stone dead: ‘Well, I think that’s so admirable, and on your first weekend off in months … amazing.’
‘Er … thanks, Zoe,’ I flustered, the feel of her name tingling my tongue.
Fintan hoisted up the police tape: ‘It’s the low road for you this time, Dickie.’
Before I had time to utter another word, he bundled me under the tape and away in a virtual headlock.
‘Don’t forget to stay in touch,’ he called back over an impressively executed mobile half-nelson.
‘What the fuck was that all about?’ I muttered.
‘Can