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  “Yes, it is. Not as young as the first but, well, seventeen or so and they think it may be connected.” He leaned forward to take the usual kiss, then turned and left.

  The drive down to the murder scene, in the locality of the beautiful village of Penn, took nearly an hour. Most delays were due to a heavy build up of traffic in London but once on the A40, better progress was made. Graham moved onto the M40 motorway where, although busy, he was able to maintain a steady seventy miles per hour, leaving at the junction that lead to Beaconsfield and on to Penn.

  He had visited this area with Bethany on a few previous occasions, always enjoying the ancient beauty of the place and the unbelievable view of eight surrounding counties from the high position on which it stands.

  Strange to think that this quiet, sprawling village spawned the famous William Penn who founded Pennsylvania in the USA and was, curiously for a man of the Quaker faith, a slave trader and owner.

  Graham drove carefully along Springhill Lane, through the village, past the church of St. Mary and out into the approaching countryside. As soon as he left the site of the church, he spotted a group of police cars and vans up ahead, with officers standing inside the blue-striped tape used to protect the murder scene.

  Bringing the car to a halt close to the group of officers, he got out and introduced himself to the nearest policeman. “Good afternoon, sir,” the man responded. “Sergeant Flint is here and he feels you should have a look at this.” He turned into the wooded area. “I’ll take you to him, sir. Follow me, please.”

  They broke through a flimsy thicket and entered a small area of grassed land moving towards another thicket some twenty yards further on. The constable turned his head to the following Detective, explaining: “There is a main path further along, which is probably the one taken by the victim, but this provides a shortcut to where she ended up.”

  Reaching the thicker brush, the two struggled through to come upon a clearing. In the middle of this, Graham spotted the body, surrounded by people in white, polypropylene overalls; these would be forensics and, possibly, the pathologist. A man dressed in a summer police uniform stood nearby, watching the proceedings. This must be Sergeant Flint, thought Graham.

  His guess was proved right as the man turned to one side revealing the three chevrons on his arm. The police officer approached Flint and introduced Graham to him. “Ah, good afternoon, detective, ” he said, smiling and holding out his hand. “Thank you for coming so quickly. Sorry to have spoiled your Sunday.”

  Sergeant George Bernard Flint was a big, rugged man with eighteen years police experience, having joined the force at the age of twenty-two. His gruff exterior hid a caring and compassionate nature. He carried out his work with a determined efficiency, often using a persuasive manner rather than aggression with the various criminals who crossed his path.

  Villagers, whether law-abiding or criminal, respected Flint and crime was generally low. This was the first murder to occur in these parts for six years, the last being an elderly man who strangled his equally elderly wife following a dispute over a television programme.

  “Good afternoon, Sergeant,” Graham returned. “What’s the story?”

  Flint looked thoughtful. “Well, first of all, we got called out here by a local who had been walking his dog. The man was very shaken but he managed to get his story out. The body is as it was found. As you know, forensics and pathology will not spoil anything on the scene but they do want to remove the body as soon as possible. Come. I’ll introduce you.”

  First to meet Graham were the three men from forensics who merely nodded and grunted their greeting. Then came the pathologist. A woman of around 30 years of age, five-feet, seven inches tall, dark brown, short-cut hair and no make-up. Her complexion was clear and slightly tanned. A woman who did not need to use cosmetics to improve herself, she had large, brown, intelligent eyes with a neat, straight nose over full lips. Graham noticed a wedding ring on her finger. Small wonder she was spoken for.

  “Hello, Detective Inspector,” she said before Flint had a chance to speak. “I’m Doctor Sallie Dunning, the pathologist. “Pleased to meet you,” she smiled. “As usual, not the best of circumstances.”

  “No, quite. What have you got here?”

  Dunning adopted her cool, working voice as she explained the facts as found so far. “Well. The victim is a female of around seventeen years of age. There appears to have been sexual activity…”

  “Penetration?”

  “Yes. Penetration. However, it does not at this stage indicate force. I will know more when I get her back, where I can carry out a proper inspection. There appears to be some bruising around the vaginal area but that is normal following intercourse. There also appears to be a deposit of semen inside and on the upper thighs, so DNA should be no problem.”

  “What killed her?”

  Dunning’s brow creased and she placed a fist thoughtfully under her chin. “At this time, I cannot tell you. I’ve turned the body over and given it as thorough an inspection as possible without risking the destruction of evidence and I can find nothing particular except that, from the condition of the body, I would say that she has suffered a fit of some kind. It may be an unlawful death but the autopsy should give a clearer picture.”

  Graham uttered a short sigh. “Thank you. I know it’s difficult out here but I would appreciate the results of the post-mortem as quickly as possible. There is no evidence present to link this with any other enquiry but I have a feeling that it is linked with a current investigation into a child murder.”

  Sallie turned her attention back to the work in hand as Graham studied the still figure. “What time did she die?” he asked Sallie.

  She answered from her crouched position, without turning her head. “I can only estimate that, but I would say around eighteen to twenty-four hours ago.”

  Graham walked carefully around the body, noting the absence of signs of struggle and the clothing being in no disarray. This was too much like the scene of Kylie’s murder not to be linked. Together with Sergeant Flint, he carefully inspected the surrounding area, seeking any possible clues but, after half an hour, nothing had been found. Even if the murder had been committed the previous evening, there could still have been footprints due to the fine weather with little breeze. However, the killer had been clever enough to erase any such clues.

  Deciding that there was nothing more to be gleaned, Graham asked Flint to organise a thorough search of the lane leading to the clearing and to contact him when the pathology results were in. He said his goodbyes to Sallie and the crew and made his way back to the motorway.

  On arriving back home, Graham let himself in and went into the kitchen where Bethany was preparing an evening meal. They kissed in greeting and Graham set about organising the drinks of tea and buttering of bread.

  Over the meal, Bethany asked about the trip and if it had resolved anything.

  “No, not really,” Graham said. “I am certain that it’s connected to the Kylie murder but there‘s no evidence available yet. The area was clean, just as with Kylie and there were no signs of a struggle. Another mystery, it seems.”

  Three days later, Graham was in his office at Scotland Yard, trying to link the two recent killings, with the sparse information of the latest one hampering his attempts. All that there was to show, was the similar killing ground, the lack of struggle, the incidence of sexual activity, the relative neatness of the victims clothing, the suspicion of poison being administered and the failure to find out how. In the last case, even poisoning had not been immediately evident but Graham knew it would be so.

  He opened the post on his desk and was pleased to find among it, the pathology report, together with the forensic report. There was also a memorandum from Sergeant Flint to say that the path to the scene had revealed nothing at all and that house to house inquiries had been carried out but had been fruitless.

  One good thing to appear was the DNA result taken from the semen found inside t
he girl’s body and on her thighs. This could now be compared. Calling a WPC into the office, Graham instructed her to take the DNA report to the lab for comparison with the DNA record attached to the Kylie Johnson murder. He wanted the comparison to be done immediately and he told the constable to wait in the lab until it was ready. She was then to bring it straight back to him.

  Graham turned his attention to the reports in front of him. Forensics had recovered hair samples from Debbie’s body; body hair and pubic hair that had tested to be from a male person. It had been possible to check these with the hair taken from Kylie’s dress and they had come up with patterns matching those of ‘Unknown assailant in the murder of Kylie Johnson.’

  So, the same person had carried out the crime. It was pleasing to Graham that his hunch was right but he was still no nearer to solving the crimes. Pebbles and samples of earth had proved only that Debbie had taken the footpath, as suspected, and that she had veered from that to the clearing where she was found. Again, as with Kylie, there were no other traces of her killer.

  The motive, too, was elusive. Clearly, there had been a sexual element but it could never be described as rape, in the true sense of the meaning. The victim here had appeared to be willing. Of course, in the Johnson case, the crime of sex with a minor had been ruled out. Robbery was simply not a factor.

  Graham then turned to the pathologist’s report, knowing that it would yield little, if anything. Sure enough, the cause of death was diagnosed but not the method. A small amount of strychnine had been found in the blood stream — so it was murder — but even a small amount would be enough to generate a quick and agonising death. Again, there was no visible point of entry, as of a syringe. The tiny punctures that had been found were diagnosed as being from a flu jab and they were beginning to heal and fade.

  Just then, there was a knock on the office door and the WPC entered, carrying a thin, buff coloured folder clutched to her chest. She handed it to Graham. “Is that all, sir?”

  “Yes, WPC, and thank you,” said Graham, offering a weak smile, before opening the folder. As the officer left, he looked at the brief notes, which were largely couched in technical terms. However, pictures of the two sets of strands, set side by side, were shown on the last page, with a third picture showing one sample placed on top of the other. He didn’t need to read the result to know that they matched perfectly. The one on the left was taken from the hair strand found in the first murder while the one on the right was taken from the foreign hairs on Debbie’s body.

  Graham leaned far back in his comfortable, padded chair, hands held behind his head as he studied the ceiling for inspiration. He had an unaccountably nervous feeling in his stomach. In both killings, no anger had been shown, nor was any force used. The girls were left fully clothed, even though sex had taken place with Debbie, but otherwise untouched. There seemed nowhere to start; nothing to get to grips with. He knew that more murders would be committed before the killer made the fatal error that nearly all do. The thought worried and sickened him.

  Rising and going to the metal cabinet in a corner of the office, Graham rifled through the files until he found the Johnson and the Singleton documents. Taking them to his desk, he inserted the new documentation in, placing them in proper, neat order. He then began to sift through the information feeling there must be something; some small matter that he had overlooked. The clever bastard must have been too clever for his own good — mustn’t he? The thoughts were more in hope than certainty.

  He decided to study the locations in which the murders had taken place. Could there be a link there? The first discovery was in Watford, in a meadowed area on the outskirts of the main town. What did it have in common with Penn? Both have a proud, historic past, but then so do many other towns and villages in Britain. Both have attractive surrounding countryside, again as do many others. Then, there are the churches. The splendid Holy Rood in Watford and St. Mary’s in Penn. What? What? The clue is there, but what is it? thought Graham. He racked his brains, reading and re-reading the files, desperately seeking a way into the cases.

  An hour of deep concentration passed before Graham gave up. He rose from his seat and went to the door, peering at the team outside through the glass surround that framed his office.

  Spotting Clive Miller leaning against a wall sipping a cup of hot coffee, he beckoned to him. Clive eased himself from the wall and hauled his big frame over. He was unmarried, even at the age of thirty-two, but had no shortage of female companions. They seemed to find his rather pugilistic features attractive and it also helped that he was a regular team member of the Met’s rugby union squad. He was a tough, dependable assistant to Sampler and at six feet, four inches in height, was handy to have around in dangerous situations.

  “Yes, guv?” he enquired as he entered the office and was told to take a seat. He sat facing his chief across the desk, fully relaxed.

  “Clive. As you know, I am involved in two murder cases at the moment. Cases that I have suspected to be linked.”

  “Yes. Any progress?”

  “Not much,” said Sampler, frowning. “The only satisfaction so far is that the latest DNA and pathology reports support my theory.”

  Miller smiled. “Well. That’s good isn’t it? What you wanted?”

  Graham’s frown deepened. “It’s good to be proved right, but that is all there is to it. I have racked my brain and read the files over and again but I’m blowed if I can find a tenable link, apart from the obvious.”

  “Oh.”

  Graham patted the two folders on his desk. “These are the files, Clive. I want you to have a go. See if you can see something I’m missing. This bastard will kill again, you can be sure of that,” he said with resignation.

  Again, Sampler would be proved right, but not in the way expected.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The church of St. Mary’s, Penn, was full to bursting for the funeral of the tragic Debbie Singleton. Flowers decked the coffin and covered the church exterior, all bearing sweet, poetic messages of condolence. The girl had been popular and the crime had shocked the village. The tears shed could have created a small river, such was the emotion engendered by the words of the parish priest, Father McGiven. Men, women and children wept as one.

  The priest spoke words of compassion and forgiveness for the killer as well as extolling the virtues of the dead child. It was God’s responsibility alone to punish the sinner, which, at the day of reckoning, he would do. Any anger felt by the community must be curtailed. And there was anger — much of it. Prayer was the answer now.

  On reaching the end of the deeply sad internment, the crowds dispersed to their homes, heavy at heart. The parents, however, remained at the graveside, unwilling to leave their beloved daughter. Thomas Singleton had arrived the day before from his home in Brentford, Essex, and booked into the local public house for the night. He had had the good grace to come alone, leaving Gwyneth, the former best friend of Elizabeth, at home with their year-old child.

  Father McGiven allowed a good ten minutes before walking to the bereaved couple and placing an arm around each in a gesture of comfort. “Come Mr. And Mrs. Singleton. It’s time to leave Debbie to God now,” he said softly, guiding them away from the open grave. “I know you will not feel like visitors just at this time but I would like you to receive a priest. A Jesuit. He is a much travelled and experienced man and he feels he can help you through this tragedy. I must say, he emits an astounding, what shall I say? Karma. He is a most holy man, as you will find if you meet him.”

  The couple walked along in a semi-numbed state, only half listening to the priest. However, Mrs. Singleton agreed to allow the Jesuit into her home and an appointment was made for three that afternoon. Thomas was to travel back to Brentford immediately following the funeral.

  Brother Saviour guided his motor home along the macadam road, and parked it outside the address he had been given by the parish priest, number 11, Griston Avenue, a cul-de-sac of pleasant houses, built in the
seventeenth century and now faced with modern brick, the old having showns signs of distress.

  Leaving the vehicle, he ambled up the path to the house, admiring the profusion of pretty flowers covering the small garden area at each side and taking in the wonderful mixture of scents.

  He knocked firmly on the door, choosing to ignore the doorbell situated at head height in the centre. On the second knock, he heard sounds of approaching footsteps from within the house. The door opened to reveal a healthy looking young woman, around thirty-four years of age, plain featured, with small, blue eyes set in dark circles. The face, at this time, was unusually lined, undoubtedly due to the strain of the recent weeks. The woman’s hair was of a light brown shade and was brushed neatly back from her forehead and down to her shoulders. She wore make-up, now fading since its application for the morning funeral.

  “Hello?” she said, not recognising her visitor and cocking an eyebrow in a questioning way. “What do you want?”

  “I’m Brother Ignatious Saviour, Mrs. Singleton,” he said. “You agreed to see me, I believe.” Ignatious smiled disarmingly and he saw the woman melt to his charm. He was fully aware of the effect he had on men and women. They looked on him in awe; saw him as something of a God — and he enjoyed the misplaced adulation.

  “Oh, yes, Father, — er- Brother. Please come in.” She had not expected to see a priest, especially a Jesuit, to be dressed in modern clothing. She sought no identification; no stranger would know of the arrangement and, besides, this man exuded the power of a distinctly holy man. He was irresistible.

  Ignatious followed Elizabeth into the cosy lounge, noting the days-old dust covering the wooden furnishings and the untidy sprawl of newspapers and magazines lying about the room. It was evident that, beneath the present dirt and untidiness, there was a woman of pride and cleanliness. The death of her daughter had punched the spirit and enthusiasm from her.