Less than an hour later, following a brief discussion with Warburton, Bishop, Bliss and Chandler – all of whom had watched the interview from another room – the DCI herself made the call to the CPS, who declared themselves delighted with the result. The only debate was whether to charge murder or voluntary manslaughter. The latter was the easier option, and possibly one Young’s solicitor could tempt him with for a guilty plea.
‘I want murder,’ Warburton said bluntly. ‘“With intent to kill or cause grievous bodily harm” is your weapon for that charge, I suggest. Youngs wrapped his hands around our victim’s throat, pressed down with his thumbs, and choked the life out of her. I’m sure he’ll claim a loss of control during the sexual act, and I don’t doubt he had no intention of killing her from the outset. So no premeditation. But when you strangle somebody, your intention is to cause GBH at a minimum, and you know there is always the possibility of taking it too far.’
The CPS argued the defence was liable to push for involuntary manslaughter due to that loss of control – a considerable step down from murder.
DCI Warburton remained defiant. ‘I think you have enough to prove intent on the GBH. If you do, given that intent ultimately led to the victim dying, I believe that gives us our murder. And yes, I know you know that, but I’m letting you know that I do, too. It’s what we want. It’s the least this man deserves.’
Moments later, she ended the call with a sour look on her face. She was barely able to keep it straight for more than a few seconds, before she punched the air and the room erupted in cheers. With Des Knowles being under guard and on suicide watch in his hospital room overnight, the team hit the Woodman with every intention of not going home until they were all too drunk to walk straight. Hangovers and headaches would take care of themselves the following day.
After cabbing it home, Bliss spent the next few hours sitting in his recliner. No music. No lights in the garden, illuminating its careful design for him to admire. No phone. Not even another drink. Instead he stared up at the ceiling, trying to work out if more could have been done to turn the case around sooner.
In the wider scheme of things, Bliss believed the team might need more than his own sworn statement in order to charge Knowles with every crime they suspected him of having committed. Thankfully, evidence was steadily mounting. He had groomed young women; not for himself, it seemed, but to make money out of their abduction, misery and even murder by turning them out to men whose repugnant desires knew no boundaries. The numerous items of clothing found in containers beneath his home might prove to be enough physical evidence of his connection to them, but Bliss was convinced his team would find whatever was necessary to make a solid case. Knowles did not come across as the type to confess in the way Youngs had, but neither was he a man capable of carrying out his sordid plans without making mistakes along the way. His ownership of the kennels and the wealth of forensic materials discovered there, together with the statement made by Abbi Turner’s killer, added all the weight they needed to secure a conviction.
His thoughts drifted back to the clothes. Bliss remained intrigued by the unidentified items, those which did not belong to any of the known victims. It occurred to him that Knowles might well have been in a relationship at one time, the clothes perhaps a legacy of that. Finding out who the woman was and what had become of her might make for another strand of Phoenix.
But what of the other men – those whose hands had stolen the breath of four women, including their chalk pits victim? If any records of communication between these killers and Knowles had ever existed, it seemed unlikely that they still did. Forensic and DNA evidence gathered by the Met had not led them to identify the men responsible. But if Knowles could be persuaded to give up names – assuming he knew them – progress could well be made. Some form of leniency in terms of prosecution might have to be offered to induce him to provide suitable information. After all, the killers had learned of his young captives via a chat room he had set up. Finding these men without Knowles’s help would be a tough ask. It was a dispiriting thought, but Bliss believed in the team. If any group of people was capable of pulling this case together, they were.
As usual, the hard work began here. Banging up the people responsible in a holding cell was one thing; sending them to prison with a heavy sentence, quite another. He slowly drew his hands down the length of his face. Feeling old and tired was par for the course these days, but the alcohol swirling around in his bloodstream might keep him pickled for a good while yet.
His thoughts turned to Sandra Bannister. Unsure of what precise details he felt comfortable seeing on the home page of the Telegraph’s website, he’d already skipped three calls from her. Tomorrow would do. It’d have to. In any case, he was in no condition to discuss Phoenix with any reliability or without emotion.
Thinking about websites sent his mind in the direction of Dark Desires. Glen Ashton had been noticeably absent all afternoon, and Bliss wondered if they’d see the ERSOU man again. If the investigator regarded what he’d done as a minor victory, good luck to him. Tougher times lay ahead.
Yet still Bliss was intrigued. Though their job was
