“Her car was found in a ditch and the SOCOs found evidence that she’d been driven off the road.”
“Tire tracks?”
“Nothing we could use.”
“Where did the assault take place?”
“There was a wooded area nearby.”
“And nobody reported seeing the cars?”
“No. Either nobody passed them or someone just didn’t want to get involved. It wasn’t till the next morning when a chap driving a local delivery van got curious and reported the car in the ditch. When our blokes did a quick search of the area they found her.” DC Browne paused and sipped some water. “I was there. It was bad. One of the worst.”
“What did he do to her?”
Templeton noticed that DC Browne didn’t look him in the eye as she talked. “Everything. Clothes ripped off. Rape, both vaginal and anal. He also used some sort of sharp object for penetration. We found a bloody stick nearby. Then he stabbed her and she bled to death. Fifteen stab wounds. Breast, abdomen, pubic area. I’ve never seen such anger.”
“DNA?”
“No. Either he used a condom or he didn’t ejaculate.”
“Did the lab find any traces of lubricant?”
“No.”
“I take it they examined the earth around her.”
“Of course. No seminal fluid. No DNA. He’d also subdued her with chloroform so she couldn’t struggle or scratch.”
“No hair or skin, then?”
“No. He was very careful, this one, and it looks as if he cleaned up after himself.”
“They usually miss something.”
“Not this time. There was a stream nearby. He even washed the body and laid it out properly. Her torn clothes were found beside her. He’d covered her face with her own underwear.”
“For Christ’s sake. The knife?”
“Ordinary sheath knife. The kind you can buy just about anywhere.”
“Claire was last seen at Trowell services, right?”
“Right. She stopped for a coffee and a Penguin biscuit. The woman behind the counter at the cafe remembered her.”
“But nobody was taking any undue interest?”
“That’s the way it seems. And she didn’t need petrol, the tank was more than half full, so she didn’t stop at the pumps.”
“Any marks on the car? Paint scrapings, broken headlights, that sort of thing?”
“No. It was untouched. Whoever did it must have just pulled in front of her and she swerved into the ditch to avoid a collision.”
Their meals arrived and the day’s warmth had made them both thirsty, so Templeton went and got another fizzy water for Susan and another Coke for himself. “This case you’re working on,” Susan said when he got back, already halfway through her cheeseburger, “do you seriously think there’s any connection?”
“I don’t know. It’s a strange one. Look, this might seem like an odd question, but do you think there’s any chance that there were two of them killed Claire Potter?”
“It wasn’t a scenario we considered seriously. I mean, usually these things, the degree of rage, the location of the wounds, it all indicates a sexual predator, and they usually act alone.”
“What about Fred and Rose West?”
“I said usually. We’ve considered other possibilities but we’re pretty sure it was just one man. It must have happened quickly, like yours did, only Claire wasn’t shot. She suffered much more and for much longer.” Susan sipped some fizzy water. “It’s hard to say whether the differences outnumber the similarities,” she said. “Probably, if you look at it realistically, they do. I mean, even if you can account for the difference between weapons, our killer went for overkill, showed a remarkable degree of anger. Your killer just coldly shot the victim and drove away. It sounds more like an execution than a botched sex crime to me.”
“You’re probably right,” said Templeton, “but we had to follow up on it. Don’t these sorts of killers usually strike more than once, though?”
“Sexual predators? Yes, sometimes. I mean, you can’t really predict, but it’s doubtful he’ll be satisfied for long. We’ve had the profilers in and run some pretty sharp computer programs and they all seem to indicate a strong likelihood of his striking again. After all, it’s been nearly two months since Claire Potter.” She paused. “There’s something that never made it to the papers.”
“What’s that?”
“He took a souvenir.”
“What?”
“A nipple. The left one, to be precise.”
“Jesus Christ,” said Templeton. He looked at his prawn sandwich and felt sick. He sipped some Coke.
“Sorry,” said Susan. “Just thought we should get it all out in the open. I don’t suppose that happened with Jennifer Clewes, did it?”
“No,” said Templeton.
Susan had finished her meal. She pushed her plate aside. “Is there anything else you want to tell me?”
Templeton thought of Sunday’s interview. “We did have a bloke looked likely. For Jennifer Clewes, that is.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. Chap by the name of Cropley. Roger Cropley. Apparently he was paying her quite a bit of attention in the motorway cafe and at the petrol pumps, and he followed her back onto the motorway. Trouble is, he’s got an alibi.”
“Does it hold up?”
“Watertight. He was on the hard shoulder with a broken fan belt. Called the AA. They confirm the time. He couldn’t possibly have killed Jennifer Clewes.”
“Pity.”
“But it doesn’t mean he didn’t want to, does it? Thing is,” Templeton went on, “he’s a funny sort of chap. Thought it was all a bit of a game when we questioned him, then got really stroppy. Seems he works in London and commutes every week. Every Friday, as a matter of fact. And he usually stops for a break. Probably wears a dark suit. Drives a dark green Honda. Married. Wears a ring. Like I said, he’s on the M1 most Fridays. Not always that late, he told us, but sometimes. I was just thinking… you know.”
“Well, it wouldn’t do any harm to have another little chat with him, would it?” Susan said. “And if your suspicions continue, perhaps I could come up and have a word, too? I trust your SIO would okay it?”
“I should think so. It’s not a lot to go on, I admit,” said Templeton, “but there was something about him.”
“A hunch?”
“Call it that if you like. I happen to believe that hunches are made up of hundreds of little observations we’re not directly aware of. Body language. Tone of voice. Little things. They all add up to a hunch.”
“Maybe you’re right,” said Susan, smiling. “In my case they usually call it women’s intuition.” She looked at her watch. Nice gold band, Templeton noticed. Her husband must have a bob or two. Probably not a policeman, then. “I’d better be off,” she said. “Thanks for the tip. You’ll keep me posted about Cropley?”
“Absolutely,” said Templeton.
“And do give my best to everyone at the station, and my condolences to Alan Banks.”
“Of course.”
Templeton watched her walk away. Her legs weren’t bad at all. If only she could trim down that waistline a bit she might be worth a crack, husband or no. He swatted a fly away from his half-eaten prawn sandwich and it buzzed him a few times before zigzagging off into the trees. Time to head back to Eastvale, he thought, and see if anything new had turned up.
