Stepping towards the second board, Amy extended her hand. ‘Sixty-year-old Martin O Toole died exactly two weeks later by throwing himself off a cliff near Brighton.’ She surveyed the ghoulish image. The victim’s face was bloated, his skin grey. Had he surrendered himself to the sea? ‘A pillar of the community, according to his sister,’ Amy added. ‘He volunteered to help the homeless in his spare time.’ Another man who would be sorely missed.
‘Makes you wonder what was going through his mind,’ Paddy said, in tune with her thoughts.
‘It’s certainly nothing like our last big case.’ Amy was referring to the Love Heart Killer, whose victims were placed in shop window displays for added shock value.
‘And the victims were women. These are all men – apart from Carla, of course.’ Paddy folded his arms. ‘It’s not as if they bear any resemblance . . .’
In the corridor, there was a jumble of voices as officers passed their door.
‘Something ties these men together.’ She surveyed the faces of her colleagues. ‘Ask yourselves, what links them? Is there an online suicide group? Or are these a series of murders which have been covered up?’ She turned back to the picture of the first victim, conscious of the time. ‘Chesney had cannabis in his system. According to his wife, he was a recreational user. It could be the real reason he went for a walk.’
‘Maybe he was meeting with a dealer, and something went wrong.’ DC Steve Moss rubbed his chin. ‘This could be drug related.’
‘But victim two was clean,’ Amy replied. ‘So we don’t have a lot to go on. If we can’t make a connection within the next couple of days, we’ll focus solely on Carla’s death.’ She turned towards the image of Martin O Toole, who was reported to have walked with a limp. He was smiling in the photo, his snowy white beard a stark contrast to his ruddy cheeks. It hadn’t surprised Amy to learn that he played the part of Santa at his local shopping centre every year.
‘Martin was visiting his sister near Brighton and offered to take her Yorkshire terrier for a walk. Alarm bells were raised when the dog came back alone.’ Amy imagined the little dog running home in the night, whining as she scratched her owner’s front door. If only dogs could talk.
‘So, they’ve got a few things in common.’ The small plastic unicorn on the end of Molly’s pen bobbed as she made notes. ‘They were both visitors to the area, both male, both went for late-night walks.’
Amy nodded. Hardly motivation for murder, but it was good to get the conversation flowing. As she discussed the case with her team, they turned over ideas as you would turn over a stone. You never knew what you would find beneath.
‘Carla was ambitious.’ An officer known as Denny spoke up from the Clacton team. ‘She talked about the future. She loved her girls.’
‘And then there’s the voicemail.’ Bicks spoke in a quiet voice. ‘But I can’t for the life of me imagine why anyone would want to hurt her. It wasn’t as if she was investigating any big cases. Her biggest complaint was that she had nothing meaty to deal with.’
A murmur spread through the group as officers aired their thoughts. Turning her attention back to the board, Amy glanced at Martin O Toole’s image. ‘Why would anyone want to hurt any of the victims? According to his sister, he was a jolly soul who enjoyed the simple things in life.’
Amy drew her hair off her face as she glanced at her team. Paddy was sitting back, arms folded. Gary was sporting his usual faraway gaze and Molly was now chewing her nails. ‘Victim three came a month later, in Blackpool. His name was Darius Jennings, and his body was found on the seashore.’ The image portrayed a selfie of a slender reed of a man taken outside the entrance to Blackpool pier. ‘He worked in a children’s nursery, and his family said he wouldn’t hurt a fly.’ Amy glanced at Donovan and saw the determination in his eyes. Like her, he was engrossed in the case. He would not switch off until headway had been made. But they had to make it soon. ‘Darius was in his thirties,’ Amy continued. ‘He was single, visiting Blackpool on holiday. But this drowning didn’t happen until four weeks after the last, so the pattern isn’t consistent.’
Up until then, each man had died two weeks apart. Amy approached the third whiteboard. Unanswered questions rebounded in her mind. Were holidaymakers being targeted? Was the timing of each death nothing more than a strange coincidence? Had Carla stumbled upon something she shouldn’t? Amy knew her team would be forming questions of their own. ‘So, if we count Carla’s death and the pattern continues, we could find another body washed up in Clacton soon.’ It’s a shame the pattern was broken, Amy thought. She didn’t mean it in a callous way; a two-week pattern gave them something to work with. If a killer was targeting his victims every two weeks, then they could still be here. Unless . . .
She turned to Molly. ‘Try hospitals and doctors’ surgeries in Blackpool. See if anyone checked themselves into A&E.’
‘Isn’t that what hospitals are for?’ Steve Moss said, a crooked grin on his face. ‘Surely everyone in there is sick.’
Amy gave him a withering look.
‘It’s OK, boss, I know what you mean,’ Molly replied. ‘I’ll ask if anything unusual came in.’
‘Thank you,’ Amy said. Molly could be trusted to use her initiative.
‘So, what do we all think?’ Donovan opened up the conversation as silence descended on the room. Amy knew he was desperate for a quick conclusion. Finding Carla’s killer was only a part of their investigation. Donovan was proud of his team. He wanted to show his old colleagues that he had made the right move by leaving Essex Police for
