Fatal Promise: A totally gripping and heart-stopping serial-killer thriller Page 5

  ‘So, what can you give us, Mitch?’ she asked, not particularly enjoying the lesson.

  ‘As you know, hair can supply DNA. You won’t find nuclei in a single hair as that’s only in the root and even with PCR amplification—’

  ‘Mitch, what can you give us?’ she asked again. She didn’t need the process of cloning a DNA sequence explained to her. If it couldn’t help she needed no further detail.

  ‘I can’t give you a DNA profile,’ he admitted.

  Damn, that’s what she’d thought he was going to say.

  ‘But, if you find a suspect and you can get a strand of his hair I can tell you if it’s a match.’

  That was some good news, at least.

  ‘But…’ he added, shrugging his shoulders.

  ‘I know, any good defence lawyer would argue that the hair got on him any number of ways.’

  Mitch nodded. ‘We’re always shedding DNA, ejecting saliva containing DNA from cheek cells. It’s practically impossible to commit a crime without leaving DNA. It’s finding it that’s the problem.

  ‘Clever criminals don’t try and hide the crime. They don’t move the body or chop off the head as it increases the risk of leaving trace evidence. They avoid any connection to the crime.

  ‘A short trip to the shop and you become a walking trace evidence factory. Take you two,’ he said, looking from her to Bryant, ‘you work together for hours every day. You must be swapping so much—’

  ‘Ugh,’ she said.

  ‘Trust me, guv,’ Bryant offered, ‘that thought is just as distasteful to me as it is to you.’

  Keats chuckled.

  ‘Okay, enough,’ Kim said, pushing herself away from the counter. ‘Cheers, guys,’ she called, heading out the door at speed.

  ‘Oh joy,’ Bryant said, catching her up. ‘I love it when your legs start trying to keep up with your brain. What exactly did we learn in there?’

  ‘We learned that an experienced killer doesn’t move his victim around.’

  ‘And I’m pretty sure we already knew that,’ he observed.

  ‘We know our victim was hit with something containing glass yet there was no glass at the scene in the park, so that first assault took place somewhere else. Two sites, two opportunities to leave evidence.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Also, experienced killers leave a body where DNA is near impossible to sort out, shopping centre, train station, where the sheer volume of evidence makes it impossible to isolate one single suspect. And this guy was murdered in the middle of a park. We have a hair, fibres and a boot print,’ she said, feeling like Christmas was coming early.

  ‘So, what are you saying?’ he asked.

  ‘Rookie mistakes, Bryant. I’m saying that this was our guy’s first kill.’

  Thirteen

  The Cordell house in Hartlebury was not what Kim had been expecting.

  The two-storey farmhouse was an L-shaped building formed of chunky grey stone. A porch with trailing plants waiting to bloom draped over the wooden structure. Red ivy clung to the gable end wall.

  She had expected something showier, more ostentatious, a status symbol reflecting his wealth and standing. She’d expected marble, pillars, a portico entrance maybe, but this place overlooking the Worcestershire countryside was both peaceful and charming and jarred with the image of Cordell in her mind.

  Bryant’s wrinkled forehead reflected her thoughts.

  ‘Doesn’t fit, does it?’ he asked.

  She shook her head as she knocked on the farmhouse door. Only one vehicle was parked in the gravel driveway.

  The door was answered by what Kim would call a handsome woman. Her black hair was short and tidy and showing a generous sprinkling of grey. Her height exceeded Kim’s five nine by a couple of inches.

  What an imposing couple the two of them must have made, she thought.

  Kim held up her identification and introduced herself.

  ‘I thought the family liaison officer had been dispatched,’ Kim said as the woman stood aside and they entered. She suspected the single car on the drive belonged to Mrs Cordell.

  ‘I sent her away, Inspector,’ she said. ‘I can make my own tea, and I don’t want strangers in my home. My sons are both on their way,’ she stated in a manner that said that was all she needed.

  Kim followed her through to a lounge that although small lacked clutter. A brick fireplace was the star of the show with recessed bookshelves either side. A curtainless window looked out onto fields of different colours. Plush fabric sofas were decorated with scatter cushions. A nook led off from the space, its walls filled with shelves of books, in front of which was a reading chair, table and lamp.

  ‘What a lovely home it is, Mrs Cordell,’ Kim said, taking a seat.

  Mrs Cordell swept her hands beneath her legs when she sat as though straightening a skirt.

  The woman nodded, acknowledging her words.

  ‘May we start by saying how sorry we are for your loss,’ Bryant said, taking a seat beside Kim.

  Again, the nod but no words.

  She sat upright with her hands in her lap and her ankles crossed.

  ‘Mrs Cordell, we have a forensics team on their way if that’s okay?’

  She nodded. ‘Of course, but I’m not sure what they’ll find. My husband hasn’t been here for weeks.’

  ‘Oh,’ Kim said, unsure of the reason.

  The woman’s face changed as though she’d just realised something.

  ‘You’re that detective. The one at Heathcrest. The one who said my husband had—’

  ‘Yes, that was me,’ Kim said, still peeved they’d been unable to charge him. Not that it mattered now.

  ‘Yes, that was the day I threw him out.’

  ‘Mrs Cordell, I didn’t mean—’

  ‘Because I knew you were right. I knew he’d done it,’ she said standing. ‘And now I find myself in need of a cigarette, and as I don’t smoke inside you’ll have to follow me to continue.’

  Kim rose and followed, wondering if this woman realised that her husband was actually dead. There was no registering on the emotional Richter scale either way.

  They walked through a kitchen diner formed of light wood and flagstones.

  Mrs Cordell reached for a pack of smokes. She really wouldn’t have pegged the woman as a smoker.

  ‘Twenty-six-year abstinence, officer, but I think the occasion calls for it,’ Lilith Cordell said as though reading her mind.

  Her first admission of any feeling in any way, Kim thought, as they passed through French doors into a well-sculpted garden that was both cosy and private, with seating areas positioned to take advantage of the view.

  The woman lit the cigarette, drew on it and blew out smoke.

  Bryant looked longingly at the cigarette. His own four-year abstinence had been tested to its limit recently but he hadn’t given in.

  ‘So, you believed he did carry out illegal abortions?’ Kim asked, continuing the conversation.

  ‘Yes. I knew before I asked him outright. I always knew when he wasn’t telling the truth. He was an over-protester when he lied. I threw him out. I was sickened. Especially…’ Her words trailed away as she stared forward.

  ‘Especially?’ Kim probed.

  ‘Because I had two miscarriages, officer. Both girls. I have strong opinions on abortion in general, never mind ones that are beyond the legal limit.’

  Kim understood that the thought must have forced her to picture her own two girls that had not made it to full term.

  ‘And that ended your marriage?’ Bryant asked.

  She shook her head. ‘No, it was the final nail in the coffin of our marriage. Just not something I was prepared to see past. At first, I think he felt it would all blow over, that I’d let him back like I always did, but just two days ago he seemed to realise I meant it. He reacted as I expected and threatened to take the house.’

  Kim’s opinion of their victim had never been high but she was now getting the impression of a s
poilt, petulant child.

  ‘And could he have?’

  ‘Maybe,’ she said, ‘if he wasn’t going to listen to the boys. My youngest, Luke, was going to speak to him.’ She glanced around. ‘I could have lost everything.’

  And now she didn’t have to, Kim realised.

  ‘Mrs Cordell, you do understand that your husband’s death was brutal? Someone hated him enough to actually cut his throat. Do you have any idea who could have done that?’

  ‘Probably most people he’s ever met I shouldn’t wonder. Heck, even I wanted to for the last couple of—’

  ‘Mum… Mum…’ Kim heard from inside the house.

  Lilith Cordell discarded the cigarette and rushed inside, straight into the arms of one of her sons.

  ‘Oh Luke, it’s awful, your father was…’

  ‘Don’t think about it, Mum,’ he soothed, holding her tight. ‘I’m here now. We’ll get through this together.’

  Kim stood outside, uncomfortable witnessing this first reunion after the news of the man’s murder.

  It was the first expression of emotion Kim had seen, and yet when mother and son eventually separated both were dry-eyed.

  Luke seemed to notice their presence for the first time. Either his memory or his recall was sharper than that of his mother.

  ‘You’re investigating the death of my father?’ he asked, incredulously.

  The handsome features had turned hard.

  ‘Yes, Mr Cordell, my name—’

  ‘I know your name and I know what you tried to do to him. In fact, the whole world knows.’

  Kim met his gaze defiantly. Regardless of the fact the man now lay in the morgue she would not apologise for doing her job. Cordell had broken the law not her.

  ‘Are you the only police officer they have over there at West Mids?’ he asked, aggressively, causing Bryant to step forward and his mother to whisper his name.

  Kim didn’t need protecting from anyone as she took a step closer towards the raging hostility.

  ‘I’m the only one that matters to you, right now, because I’m going to find out who did this to your father,’ she said firmly.

  She wasn’t sure that was the response he’d been expecting but it quietened him for long enough that she turned to his mother.

  ‘Mrs Cordell, the forensic team should be here soon but if you think of anything else that might help…’

  ‘I’ll tell you what will help,’ Mrs Cordell said, reaching for her cigarettes. ‘Send your search team to his flat in Dudley, especially the bedroom. The forensic guys will have a field day in there.’

  Fourteen

  Stacey stepped out of the taxi in front of a red-brick semi-detached property that had a small box porch on the front.

  She’d lied when she’d told Penn she was heading to Sedgley to check CCTV. Although she could access and request CCTV from her own office, the Dudley Council control room was located at the rear of Sedgley station. And she was in Sedgley, almost.

  His slight nod had confirmed that he’d heard but she didn’t much care. She’d been desperate to escape his presence. He was an alien being in her familiarity. Like something out of place in her home or when a fly landed in her diet Coke. It was an annoyance staring her right in the face.

  She adjusted her satchel and approached the door feeling guilty but unsure why. She’d been given the case in the first place, so it wasn’t like she was doing anything wrong. They all worked for West Midlands Police, she reasoned, choosing to forget that she’d had to give it back and that her boss was investigating a brutal murder.

  The word that came to mind for the woman who opened the door was tidy. Her petite frame was clothed in straight leg jeans and a V-neck jumper. A thin chain rested on her breastbone and a watch was the only other jewellery she wore.

  ‘Mrs Ryan, may I come in?’ Stacey asked, showing her identification, despite the fact they’d met the previous day at Sedgley.

  ‘Have you found her?’ the woman asked, answering Stacey’s first question. Evidently, she had not yet come home.

  Stacey quickly shook her head.

  The woman deflated before her eyes.

  Stacey followed her through to a spacious kitchen diner with the overwhelming stench of bleach. Stacey just about stopped herself from coughing as the smell crept into her lungs.

  ‘She’s been gone more than twenty-four hours now. I don’t understand how you haven’t found her. How many officers do you have out there looking for her?’

  Oh, that one question prompted so many things she wasn’t in a position to explain. The first being that Jessie was the third fifteen-year-old in a week to be reported missing at Sedgley, an indicator of just how many missing persons were reported to the police. Extensive resources were not available to throw at every report, especially when both of the others had been located by their parents within forty-eight hours. The same result was expected for Jessie, and so the decision to treat Jessie Ryan as a low priority case when the girl was a few days away from her sixteenth birthday and there was no evidence of foul play was not something she could reveal to the worried mother. Neither could she reveal that Jessie’s two previous runaway incidents did nothing to escalate the priority. And best not to mention the fact she was no longer assigned to the case at all.

  ‘Mrs Ryan, could you just take me through what happened again?’

  ‘But I told you everything yesterday. I don’t understand what more I can say.’

  Stacey nodded as she took out her notebook. ‘I know it’s frustrating for you but one of the many steps we take is to revisit the information to see if there are any details you might have remembered, however small, and I promise it’ll just take a minute.’

  ‘Please, sit,’ Mrs Ryan said, pointing to a round table.

  Stacey did so, popping her satchel onto the ground.

  ‘Go ahead, Mrs Ryan,’ Stacey urged with the feeling she’d just dodged a bullet.

  ‘Jessie asked after lunch if she could go to Emma’s in the evening. I said yes, but Philip wanted her to clean her room first. She appeared at about seven with her coat on. She hadn’t cleaned her room, so there was a bit of a row before—’

  ‘Between Jessie and her father?’ Stacey asked. She didn’t recall this being mentioned the previous day.

  ‘Philip’s not her father,’ Mrs Ryan reminded her. ‘Although he may as well be. He’s been in her life since she was six.’

  Stacey’s antenna reacted to this new information.

  ‘How serious was the argument?’ she asked.

  ‘It was nothing really. Just words, things said in anger. They clash a bit but it always calms down in the end.’

  ‘Do they argue a lot, Mrs Ryan?’ Stacey asked. It could explain Jessie deciding to go to ground if she needed time to cool off.

  ‘Sometimes,’ she admitted. ‘They’re so alike even though there’s no genetic link between them. They both have the same fiery temper.’

  ‘And do these arguments ever get physical?’ Stacey felt obliged to ask.

  ‘What do you mean by physical?’ Mrs Ryan asked, colouring.

  So, the answer was yes.

  ‘You tell me,’ Stacey said.

  ‘Pushing and shoving. A slap once, but that’s been a while ago now. Jessie can be a handful at times.’

  Stacey tried to stop the disapproval showing on her face.

  ‘He’s a good man,’ the woman said, as though Stacey’s silence had judged her.

  Any man or woman laying a hand on a child of hers would have been booted out of the house with no more than the clothes on their back.

  ‘Mrs Ryan, please be honest. Was it similar incidents to the one on Sunday that prompted Jessie’s previous disappearances?’

  Mrs Ryan hesitated and then nodded.

  It appeared there was a great deal the couple had forgotten to mention when she’d taken their report.

  ‘What happened next?’ she asked.

  ‘Jessie left in a huff; Philip went out for
a beer to calm down. He came home about nine, and Jessie was due back at ten.’

  ‘Did you try and phone her?’ Stacey asked.

  ‘Voicemail every time,’ she answered.

  ‘And when you came into the station yesterday morning at ten, Jessie had been missing for approximately twelve hours,’ Stacey clarified.

  Once she’d taken the report from Mrs Ryan the previous day, she’d only had the chance to check Jessie’s social media accounts for activity before being recalled to her own team in Halesowen.

  ‘Yes, we waited because we thought she was just in a mood, that she was cooling down after her argument with her stepdad. And we were ringing around her friends the whole time,’ Mrs Ryan explained.

  ‘And what did her friend Emma say when you spoke to her?’

  ‘That Jessie had left at nine forty-five as normal. It’s only a few streets away,’ she added, defensively.

  Stacey wasn’t here to pass judgement on the woman’s parenting skills. Right now, her only concern was Jessie Ryan’s safety.

  ‘I think that girl knows more than she’s saying,’ Mrs Ryan offered.

  ‘You mean Emma Weston?’

  ‘Yes, they’ve known each other since junior school but they’ve been best friends for a few years now. Bad influence if you ask me but Jessie won’t be told.’

  ‘“Bad influence”?’ Stacey asked.

  Mrs Ryan nodded. ‘To be honest, Jessie changed after they started spending more time together. Started answering back and being cheeky, especially to Philip,’ she explained.

  ‘Is there any boyfriend in the picture?’ Stacey asked.

  Mrs Ryan shook her head. ‘No, Jessie’s too young for anything like that.’

  Maybe a hundred years ago, Stacey thought to herself. She made a note on her pad to ask Emma the same question. In Stacey’s mind there was a world of difference between just gone fifteen and almost sixteen, and if Jessie hadn’t got a boyfriend in her past or present she’d be very surprised. Although not as surprised as her mother by the looks of it.