Although the killings bore the same identity — poisons mysteriously administered to the victim, there was no other obvious connection. Even DNA would only be able to show that a person had been at the scene and even, possibly, that the person had had sex with the victim; none of these proved murder. Sampler had pored over the reports of each and looked endlessly at the photographs, but nothing had sprung out at him. The report on the death of Lawrence Maddigan was expected from Doctor Wray this morning, so maybe that would shed some light.
Expecting nothing, Graham moved to the far wall of his office, where blown-up photographs of the victims, taken at the scene, were arranged. Each time he had looked, he had felt that there was something similar; something he should spot.
He looked hard at the bizarre pictures of the naked Maddigan. This was the only male — so far — and it was the only body that showed marks of violence. Even the violence appeared to have been consensual. His eyes slowly roved down the body, from the hanging head to the feet. He studied the surrounding area, taking in the unremarkable ground, with its grass shoots, wild flowers, weeds and sprinklings of moss.
He began to walk to the next set of pictures, the ten-year old Kylie, when he suddenly halted, a small opening of his mind. He had noticed something! Slowly, he returned to Maddigan and looked at the dead man’s feet. For several minutes, he studied, silently, a hand stroking the smoothness of his chin, absently noting the pleasant smell of the after-shave on his fingers.
Going back to the desk, he opened a drawer and withdrew a powerful magnifying glass. Yes, detectives really do use them. Focusing it at a point on the outside of Maddigan’s right foot, he examined the area carefully. Something was protruding from beneath the foot but, even with the glass, it was difficult to identify.
Keeping the picture in mind, he moved to Kylie, very slowly sweeping down with the magnifying glass over the sweet figure in the bright summer dress. Just by the girl’s left thigh, he spotted it. No wonder he hadn’t noticed it before; the busy pattern on the dress deflected the attention from such a tiny object. Trying to keep his excitement down, he went to the pictures of Debbie Singleton. Again employing the glass, he carefully examined the area next to the body. First, down the right side where he failed to find what he was seeking, and then slowly up the left hand side. By the thigh, he found the item in plain view — a small bunch of coloured bird feathers. Now, here was a clue — a clue of some kind; small but a clue, none-the-less. That all three entertained a bunch of feathers next to their bodies, and the same iridescent hue at that, was too much to be coincidence. His policeman’s nose told him that this was significant. In what way, Graham was not yet sure but significant it was.
As he turned, intending to call his detective Sergeant in, Miller entered the office. “Sir,” he began, “There’s been another murder. A woman again and in Watford.”
Graham stopped in his tracks, his elation dwindling. “Oh, God!” he gasped. “Not another, and so soon. Do we know it’s the same killer?”
“Well, no, sir. The local police have asked us to go down there and take a look. They can’t see a means of death.”
Sampler’s heart sank. This again fitted the modus operendi. How many more before we get the vital break-through? he wondered. “Christ!” he spat, “Is this guy on a spree, or what?”
“We need to catch him soon, sir,” said Clive, unnecessarily.
Graham looked at his colleague. “We will catch him, Clive, I’ve no doubt of that. It’s a question of how soon — or how long!” Remembering his discovery, he caught Clive’s arm.” “Ah. Take a look at this, will you?” He guided Clive to the photographs. “I have just spotted something that may be of help. I don’t know how as yet, but I feel that it’s a small light in the tunnel.”
Handing the glass to Miller, Graham pointed out the tiny bunches of feathers next to the bodies. His friend studied for some moments before he spoke. “Yes. I see what you are saying. It is more than coincidence to find little bunches of feathers near to the victims in each of the cases, I would agree with that. What it tells us, I am not sure. However, I feel pretty certain it will become part of the evidence and, who knows? It may lead us to the killer. I suppose we should give it some thought when we get back.”
“Right, Clive. Come on. Let’s go.” The two moved off to leave the building and motor over to Watford.
Once again, the siren needed to be used whilst in the Metropolis but, once away, the progress went unhindered. Arriving at the local police station, the detectives were led to the scene. The similarities began to build: within the London outskirts, a mile or so from the main town, along a rough dirt path, through bushes, past trees and into a small clearing.
The body lay in the open, directly at the foot of a mini-cliff, which Graham estimated to be about seventy feet in height. From several areas on the cliff side, jutted stringy bushes of some kind. In a rough line from near the top, branches of these were broken, their fresh, white limbs bright in the sunlight. Clearly, the path of the body, which must have fallen, or been dumped, over the edge after being murdered.
Sampler and his assistant moved over to the body as it lay on its back, arms spread wide, one at a crazy angle, broken in three places. One leg was out of sight, under the woman’s back, again severely fractured, with the other bent at the knee, the foot turned inward and also at an abnormal angle. She would be around thirty-seven years of age and, beneath the cuts and lacerations to the face, it could be seen that she wore no make-up.
As the men from the Met. had been travelling down, a forensics team had arrived from the local police station, together with a pathologist, a Doctor Bernard Bracewell. It was he who had been examining the body and now he gently eased it onto its right side to feel and prod at the rear part, expertly diagnosing the multiple fractures to the spine.
Completing his task, the doctor straightened then turned to the new arrivals. “Good morning, gentlemen,” he began. “I am Doctor Bernard Bracewell, the pathologist.” The detectives returned the greeting. Bracewell continued: “Well, I’m afraid you have had a wasted journey here. Why you were called before I had had a chance to see the body, I can’t imagine. This unfortunate young lady has not been murdered, she has suffered a massive heart attack.”
“Heart attack?” thundered Sampler. “Heart attack?” Then dumbly: “Are you sure?”
The pathologist put on a tolerant expression and said, calmly. “Yes, detective. I’m quite sure.” Looking up the rise of the cliff, he spoke his thoughts. “I imagine she has simply come out here to enjoy the summer’s air and the captivating view from up there. Maybe even on a picnic. She may have stepped near to the edge and that’s when the attack came. She would know very little of it. The bodily damage, I would say, was all caused by the fall.”
Graham and Clive were astounded. “Has anyone checked the top?” asked Clive, knowing the answer.
“No. Not yet. But a constable should just about be there now.” As he spoke, a uniformed policeman appeared at the edge of the drop, holding in his outstretched arm so that all could see, what was plainly a wicker picnic basket. “A cloth and some food laid out here, sir,” he called. “And none appears to have been eaten.”
A false alarm. Graham did not know whether to be angry or pleased. At least his killer had not struck again. A voice broke into his thoughts: “Sorry about your wild goose chase, gentlemen.” It was the pathologist. “I think the officer at the scene panicked a little, being aware of the recent murders, and so he called you in.”