Briguella

Chapter Six – Kate

Chapter Six – KateTuesday 15 December 2015

White satellite Mercedes trucks emblazoned with national television and satellite news channel logos overrun the street outside Weston Police Station. Their giant circular dishes span the vehicle roofs and dominate the grey skyline.

The spicy aroma of jerk chicken infiltrates the air, reminding me of a shack on Bavaro beach, as do palm trees outside the Bath Stone Grade II Listed Magistrates Court. The warm, honey tones and white Georgian sash windows radiate a glow, in contrast to the incongruous 1970s, five-storey block of the neighbouring police station.

A desk sergeant is poised behind the glass-protected counter. The fluorescent ceiling lights illuminates his receding hair. He has brown eyes cornered with deep crow's-feet, which draw diagonal lines away from his face and emphasise his bulging nose and thin lips, which offer a sincere smile.

I inform him that I'm attending the press conference and he instructs me to sit. I pace the reception; my heels snag in the nylon carpet. I'm too agitated to sit on the bench, where a drawn woman waits nervously, chewing her fingernails. Her sunken eyes emit dark circles onto her gaunt face.

I smile and turn away. I hate waiting, it irritates me. Taylor says I'm too impatient. He laughed at me over lunch for getting anxious over the wait. I didn't want to gulp it, given he'd taken me out as a surprise by way of an apology.

Ryan had cajoled him into a quick pint last night, which quadrupled. It does when he's involved. I don't resent Taylor spending time with friends; it helps him to move on. Equally, he doesn't mind me going out with Dawn, though our social outings have become far less frequent since the birth of her children. I don't share her world where nappies, night feeds and crying have hijacked her life.

Taylor took me to Cronwells, a trendy bar on Hill Road. It's chic, with driftwood chairs, black chaise longue sofas and opaque glass pendulum lighting. He held my hand for the first time in months and we spent much of the hour laughing. As soon as he looks at me with his vivid blue eyes, and smiles, my anger dissolves.

It resembled our earlier years, saturated in happiness, creating footsteps on powdery beaches. I'd give anything to be that perfect couple again. Before death ruined us.

The inner glass panelled door buzzes. A young female police officer emerges, ushers me inside and along the vacant corridor. Her fingers swipe an identity card through the metal reader and we climb a twisting staircase to the second floor.

Journalists rush to set up equipment. Three cameras are being fixed to heavy-duty tripods, while radio journalists adjust fleeced boom mics on the press stand. I sit on a single seat at the front. The room is impersonal and feels institutional, with intense whitewashed walls and neat oblong tables. A backdrop stands behind a table at the end of the room centered with the constabulary logo; a red dragon coat of arms upon a blue and white shield, framed inside a diamond design beneath Her Majesty's crown.

Flashes of black and white emerge; two uniformed officers take their positions. My blouse is uncomfortably tight, clinging against my perspiring skin. A suited man enters and pours water into a clear plastic cup. He's striking, around 37, with subtly gelled Ivy League hair and faint stubble on his chiselled jawline. I recognise him from the Lasmerton crime scene. He's sophisticated and well-groomed. His strong build and protective demeanour reminds me of Taylor. To his left is a male officer in his late 40s with a black crew cut.

“Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen,” says the crew cut copper. “Thank you for your attendance. I would like to introduce Detective Chief Inspector William Beckley. Will is the senior investigating officer in this enquiry. He will read out a short statement.”

He turns his attention to DCI Beckley and I follow him with my gaze.

“Good afternoon. We are treating the death of 27-year-old Cheryl Gray as part of a serial murder investigation. The autopsy has taken longer than usual, because of the frozen condition of her body. It has now been completed and the cause of death concluded as a single stab wound to the chest. As a result of the autopsy findings, we are linking Cheryl's death to that of Nicole Hall, 28, who was discovered 10 days ago in the Weston vicinity. Our heartfelt condolences are with their families, friends and all those who knew them, at this incredibly difficult time.”

He pauses and takes a drink from the plastic cup. He swallows hard, and then continues his statement.

“The last few days have seen us handling one of the most complex and fast-moving cases the force has dealt with in recent years. We are citing this case as a serial investigation, as it is our understanding that these may not be the only victims. Due to the autopsy findings, we believe there could potentially be two other women lying undiscovered. I would state that this may not be the case at all, but we are keeping an open mind. Our efforts will remain meticulous, as they have been right from the outset of this enquiry.”

My heart swells against my breastbone, adrenalin flooding my blood at the thought that the killer could have struck four times. Other journalists in the room gasp at this grim revelation. Anxious furtive glances are exchanged, all thinking the same thing; four girls? And these are just the ones the police think they know about! Who knows how many others there might be!

DCI Beckley fiddles with his suit lapels. I watch his face closely; he licks his fleshy lips and swallows before continuing.

“We have already established more than 900 lines of inquiry from information provided by the public; 167 of these are considered high priority. I can assure you that no stone will be left unturned during this investigation. We will bring Nicole and Cheryl's killer to justice.”

DCI Beckley toys with his left wrist and I catch a glimpse of his silver watch. It looks expensive, perhaps a Tag Heuer or a Breitling.

“One of our lines of enquiry concerns the night of Sunday 13th December. We are aware of Cheryl's last movements. Cheryl socialised with colleagues at the Balmoral Pub in Northville Road and left the venue alone, at around 10pm. She stopped at a Londis store in Byron Road, at 10.15pm, where she was captured on CCTV purchasing cigarettes. Cheryl is seen exiting the shop and turning right, in the direction of her home in Selworth Road, a five to ten-minute walk away. She never arrived.”

There's another pause. DCI Beckley sips from his cup again, observing the reporters feverishly scribbling notes in their pads. He wants to give us time to take down every detail accurately.

He clears his throat and continues. “The autopsy findings suggest Cheryl's body lay in the lane off Lasmerton Drive overnight before being discovered in the early hours of Monday 14th December. Her handbag was recovered in undergrowth near the railway line. It contained personal effects and the cigarettes. I am keen to hear from anyone who witnessed or heard anything suspicious in the area, particularly between the hours of 10pm and 6am. No matter how small or insignificant you think your information may be, we would urge you to come forward.”

DCI Beckley takes three more sips of water and rests the cup near the cluster of mics.

“We understand women on the estate and, equally, across the whole of Weston are extremely concerned and we have been doing all we can to reassure them and make them feel as safe as possible. Officers have distributed 2,000 personal attack alarms and we are urging women not to walk anywhere on their own, particularly in dark, unlit areas.”

I stretch my aching fingers during another pause. My eyes sting from the camera flashes; their snapping reverberations invade my ears.

“Someone knows what happened to Nicole and Cheryl and we ask you to search your conscience and come forward. We need to piece together what happened to these young women and why, so we can bring closure for their families. The huge public and media interest in this case is understandable and we thank you all for your assistance. We do, however, ask that you respect the privacy of the grieving families, both of whom have expressed a wish not to be contacted by any media.”

DCI Beckley's sapphire eyes lock on mine, and my heart flickers, the feeling akin to a trapped butterfly. I seize the opportunity.

“Why do you believe there are potentially more victims? And do you have a suspect?”

My cheeks flush, the rush of blood warming my skin. All eyes turn on me.

“It would be inappropriate to comment any further as this is an ongoing investigation,” he says calmly, as if the question had been anticipated.

“We are keeping an open mind. We believe that these are random attacks; the victims are not connected. They do, however, share a similar profile; blonde and late twenties.”

DCI Beckley fiddles with his wrist again; confidence altered. He snaps a wrist band concealed under the white margin of his shirt.

“There are many active lines of enquiry and at this stage I'm not prepared to speculate as to whether any suspects have been identified. Again, I would urge anyone with information regarding the deaths of Nicole or Cheryl, to come forward and help us with our enquiries.”

“Ladies and gentlemen that concludes the conference for today,” the man with the crew cut steps in. “Any updates regarding this investigation will be issued via the normal media channels. No further questions, thank you.”

The duo stands. DCI Beckley is tall with a muscular frame. His tailored navy suit has a slight sheen that snugly grips his toned quadriceps. My cheeks retain warmth, my heart pounding with excitement and a sense of awe. In a split second, he's gone from the panel and the reporters lower their hands in disappointment.

I don't share their dissatisfaction, I'm buzzing with adrenalin; we have a serial killer roaming the estates.