Blind Fury Read online

  The dead girl lay on her right side, half in and half out of the ditch, one arm outstretched as if she were trying to claw her way free. Her left leg was crooked over her right, again appearing as if she had tried to climb out of the ditch. She was, as Mike had suggested, very young; her long red hair, worn in a braid, was similar in color to Anna’s. The girl was wearing a pink T-shirt, a denim miniskirt, and a denim bomber jacket with a bright pink lining and an unusual embroidered motif of silver flowers on the front pocket. She wore one white sandal. There was no handbag and, from their initial search, nothing that could identify her.

  Anna returned to Mike, who by now had a cup of coffee in his hand.

  “You say you’ve had two previous cases?” she asked quietly.

  “Not me personally. I had the most recent, but the first was a couple of years ago. So then we also took on the first discovery as a possible linked double murder. If this has the same MO, that’ll make three.”

  “Were the first two girls killed in the same way?”

  “Yes. They were strangled, raped, no DNA, no weapon, no witness—and like I said, my girl remains unidentified.”

  “Both found beside motorways?”

  “Yep.”

  “And the first victim was a prostitute?”

  “Yes. She worked the service stations, picking up lorry drivers, doing the business in their cabs, and then often getting dropped off at the next service station along the M1 to find new clients before heading back to the first.”

  Anna stood watching while photographs were being taken of the victim and the area, before a tent was erected around the dead girl.

  It was two hours later before they arrived at the incident room. This had been set up at the police station closest to the crime scene, in a new building in Hendon, North London, with an entire floor given over to the murder team. Already a group of technicians were setting up the desks and computers. Anna was pleased to see she’d be joined by DCs Barbara Maddox and Joan Falkland. Mike Lewis and Paul Barolli had also worked with the women on previous cases, and it promised to be a friendly atmosphere.

  “Nice to see you again,” Barbara said to Anna as she prepared the incident-room board.

  “Long time. I’ve been on three other cases,” Anna told her.

  “Joan and I have sort of stuck with Mike and Paul.” Barbara nodded over to Joan.

  “Were you on the other murders Mike told me about?” Anna asked.

  “Yes, both of us were. I’m going to get the board set up with all the previous case details, as apparently, this one looks like it’s got the same MO.”

  Anna shrugged, since until they had the postmortem report, they wouldn’t know for sure.

  “Mike said she was very young,” Barbara commented.

  Anna nodded. She was taking her time arranging her own desk, relieved to have such new equipment at hand.

  “They’ve got a terrific canteen,” Joan informed her as she wheeled in a trolley stacked with the old case files.

  Anna had time to sample the canteen at lunch, and it was not until early afternoon that she began to select files to catch up on the two earlier cases. By now the board was filling up with photographs and details. Anna still felt they might be presuming too much without confirmation. Although the victim had been removed to the local mortuary for a postmortem, Anna was told they would have to wait twenty-four hours before they would get any further details.

  Meanwhile, Mike Lewis had set up his office, and Barolli had installed himself at the desk opposite Anna. “How’s life been treating you?” Barolli asked affably.

  “Okay—I’ve worked a few other cases. How about you?”

  “Well, we’ve been on the other two for about a year, and then I went on to something else over at Lambeth.”

  “So to all intents and purposes, the cases were shelved?”

  “Yeah. Without getting one of the victims identified, it was tough. The first one”—Barolli turned to gesture to a photograph—“was Margaret—or Maggie—Potts, aged thirty-nine, string of previous arrests for prostitution, drug addict, and known to work the service stations. We had no handbag, no witness, but got her ID’d from fingerprints. She was raped and strangled.”

  Anna looked at the mug shot posted up. Maggie Potts had been a dark-eyed, sullen-faced woman, her bleached-blond hair with an inch of black regrowth.

  When she sifted through the crime-scene photographs, she could see the similar pattern. Potts’s body had been dumped in a field not far from the M1 motorway. She had been wearing fishnet stockings, which were torn, and her shoes were found beside her body. She had on a short red jacket and a black skirt that was drawn up to her waist, and her knickers had been ripped apart. The satin blouse was stained with mud and wrenched open to reveal a black brassiere.

  Anna glanced at the thick files representing the hundreds of interviews with people questioned about the last sightings of Maggie Potts. The team had interviewed call girls, service-station employees—from the catering staff to the petrol-station attendants—lorry drivers, and others in an endless round of inquiries and statements.

  “This is the one we never identified,” Barolli said, tapping the second victim’s photograph. “We tried, but whatever we put out came back with fuck-all. We had her picture on the TV crime programs, in missing-persons magazines—you name it, we tried it to find out who she was—but with no luck. She was a pretty little thing, too.”

  Anna turned her gaze on the Jane Doe, and as Barolli had said, she was exceedingly pretty, with long dark hair down to her shoulders, bangs, a pale face with wide-apart blue eyes, and full lips. She didn’t look jaded or hard; on the contrary, she looked innocent.

  “How old was she?”

  Barolli said they couldn’t be certain but had her aged between twenty to thirty.

  “Looks younger, doesn’t she?”

  “Yeah, that’s what made it so tough to deal with, that no one came forward, no one recalled seeing her at any of the service stations. According to the postmortem, her body was very bruised, and there were signs of sexual activity suggesting she was raped. She was also strangled. She had nothing on her—no bag, no papers, nothing. If you think we made extensive inquiries on that old slag Potts, with this girl we tried every which way to find out who she was—Interpol, colleges, universities, but after six months we flatlined.”

  Anna looked over the details of the young woman’s clothes. They were good labels, stylish but not new, and she had been wearing black ballet-type shoes; she had tiny feet, a size three.

  “I hope to Christ we get this new girl identified,” Barolli said quietly.

  “You reckon the same killer did both previous cases?”

  He shrugged. “Same MO, but who knows without any DNA? Only thing we got was a few carpet fibers, but where she came from, who she was, how she came to be murdered are still unknown.”

  “Did you check out the Jane Doe’s clothes?”

  “What do you think?” Barolli glared. “Of course we did, but it didn’t help. We actually traced where the shoes came from, but they sold thousands.”

  “Yeah, they were quite fashionable a year or so ago; now it’s all stacked heels.”

  Anna continued to read the files all afternoon, but when it got to five-thirty and there still had been no word from the mortuary, she went home. It was quite a drive from the station to her flat over at Tower Bridge, and although it had not been a particularly tough day’s work, she felt tired. She meant to read up on more details about the previous cases but instead watched some TV before going to bed. There was nothing on the news about their victim. Anna sincerely hoped she would not turn out to be another murdered girl who would remain unidentified.

  The following morning the postmortem details still had not come through. Anna did not get asked to join Mike Lewis and Barolli when they went over to the mortuary, so she spent the entire morning examining the extensive files, reading the thousands of statements culminating in no arrests. She constantly
looked up at the incident board, where the two dead women’s faces had been joined by their new victim’s crime-scene pictures.

  It was after lunch when Mike Lewis called a briefing. Their victim had died from strangulation, he announced. She had been raped and had extensive bruising to her vagina and abdomen. There were no signs of drug use. Her last meal had been a hamburger and chips and Coca-Cola. She was in good health. A fingerprint search had proved negative, but it was hoped that dental work would bring a result, as she had very good teeth, with two caps that appeared to have been done recently. These were her two front teeth, so she could have been in an accident; that again might narrow the field. Her hair was in good condition, and she had no broken nails or defense wounds.

  The dead female’s T-shirt was from Miss Selfridge, and her skirt from Asda. Her white sandals, the second of which had been found under the body, were hardly worn and still had the price tag on the left sole. Again, this would mean they might get a clue to her identity. Mike Lewis said that her age was between sixteen to twenty-five, and they would be going to the press to try and get a result.

  By late afternoon the press office had sent out cleaned-up photographs of the victim and requests for anyone with information to come forward. The details were also passed on to the television news, while officers armed with the victim’s photograph were still questioning everyone at the nearest service station. They had given out a direct line for anyone with any information to call. Usually, after such press coverage, they would be inundated with callers, but though they had a small number, none gave a clue as to who the young woman was. Many were time-wasters, but the team nevertheless had to take the personal details and information of every single one.

  Two days later, and with continued requests for anyone able to identify the victim to get in touch, the team still had no clue. It was unbelievable to think that, like the second case, the third girl appeared to have no one reporting her missing, no one seeing her at the service station or perhaps thumbing a lift. As the team continued to question drivers and service-station personnel in an attempt to identify her, they felt deeply disappointed that they were getting no result.

  On the fourth day, Anna received a letter. Barbara placed it on her desk, raising her eyebrows as she did so. “Fan mail?” the DC asked.

  Anna turned over the envelope; stamped on the back was the address of Barfield Prison. She looked up at Barbara and joked, “It’s probably from someone I helped get locked up.”

  Anna slit open the envelope and took out a blue-lined thin sheet of writing paper. Typed in the right-hand corner was the prison’s address and the name CAMERON WELSH, Prisoner 6678905 Top-Security Wing.

  She knew who it was immediately: Cameron Welsh was an exceptionally evil sadistic killer given two life sentences—with no possibility of being released—for the murder of two teenage girls five years previously.

  Anna had been on the case with the then-DCI James Langton. The latter was now detective chief superintendent, and as usual, whenever his name cropped up, she felt a surge of emotion. Having been in love with him, lived for a short time with him, helped him recover from a terrible wounding, and then split up with him, she had been through a lot of hurt and painful self-analysis. His intensely strong hold on her had been almost impossible to get over for a long time—in fact, up until the last case they had worked on; however, they had at last reached a more amicable relationship, one born out of her admiration for him, even though at times the situation was still tough for her to handle. It was only during the last year that she had truthfully been able to put their past relationship behind her and to treat Jimmy Langton as a confidant. And he had, as he had promised, been supportive at all times during her recent cases.

  Barbara rocked back in her chair. “Who’s it from?” she asked.

  Anna wafted the letter in the air, saying, “As I suspected, from a real shit bag. I’ve not read what he wants yet.”

  She opened the single folded page. Written in felt-tip pen, the writing was looped and florid. It read:

  Dear Detective Travis, Anna,

  I don’t know if you remember me, but I recall you were very attractive when you were part of the murder team that arrested me. I have written to you before but you have never replied, though I do not hold that against you. I am not sure if you are attached to the present hunt for the killer of the girl found close to the M1 motorway. If you are, then I think I can be of assistance to you. I have been following the murder inquiry and I have made copious notes, as I am certain the same killer has two previous victims. I believe it would be very beneficial for you to have a meeting with me.

  Yours faithfully,

  Cameron Welsh

  Anna’s blood ran cold. Welsh had made her skin crawl when she had been present at interviews with him. He was extremely well educated, and she knew he had gained a degree in child psychology while in prison. She also knew he had been held in solitary, as he had refused to be placed on a wing. He had been moved into the prison within a prison at Barfield due to his constant antagonism of other inmates. While in prison, he had also had many altercations with officers, and even in the small secure unit, he still managed to be a loner. Anna knew because she had received three previous letters from Welsh and had even called the prison to gain further details about him. But there had been no contact for at least a year—until this letter.

  She was about to toss it into the rubbish bin beside her desk but then stopped herself. She stared at the blue-lined paper and the looped felt-tipped writing, flattening the crease out with her hand. Could this creature really have something that might be, as he said, beneficial? She doubted it. In the end, Anna decided that she would discuss the letter with Mike Lewis. On previous cases, she’d been warned by Langton that she hadn’t acted like a team player—and she had no intention of making that mistake again.

  Mike Lewis was not in his office, so Anna returned to her desk just as Barbara came past, wheeling the tea trolley with some donuts and buns.

  “You want a coffee?” the DC asked. “It’s fresh.”

  “Yeah, thanks, and I’ll have one of those,” Anna said, pointing to a bun.

  “I’ve lost four pounds,” Barbara said, turning to indicate her flat stomach. She was still a little overweight, with a round, pretty face, and she had lightened her blond hair and had it cut short.

  “You look good.”

  “Thanks. It’s been hard. I’ve got my old man working out with me as well. He’s lost half a stone, but he doesn’t have the canteen goodies where he works. It’s the donuts that do me in.”

  Anna helped herself to the pink-iced bun and placed it on a napkin on her desk as Barbara poured her coffee and passed it over.

  “What did the letter-writer want?”

  “It was, as I suspected, from someone I played a small part in putting away for the rest of his life.”

  “Gets me, you know, how they are allowed to write letters. In the old days they’d never let a prisoner have a stamp, never mind bloody phone cards. Was it something unpleasant?”

  “Thinks he can help with our inquiry. Cheeky sod wants me to visit.” Anna bit into her iced bun.

  “I wouldn’t go anywhere near him. Go on, chuck his stupid letter in the bin.” Barbara started to move off.

  Anna stopped her. “There was a lot of press about the two previous victims, wasn’t there?”

  Barbara nodded. “All we could get, to try and find out the second woman’s identity—but nothing. Beggars belief, doesn’t it, that not one person has come forward. I think she was maybe an au pair or foreign, you know, over here on some kind of work . . . Still, didn’t make sense that no one recognized her, and she was lovely looking. Not the kind you’d forget.”

  Barbara went off to give Joan her morning coffee as Anna finished her iced bun and sipped her drink. Unlike a lot of the stations she’d worked in, the canteen here was well-organized, with a good breakfast and lunch menu. While it didn’t solve cases, it certainly helped w
ith morale.

  It was over lunch with Barbara and Joan that Anna told them more about Cameron Welsh and his imprisonment at Barfield.

  “That place is all new and streamlined, isn’t it?” Joan asked.

  Barbara shook her head, saying in disgust, “It’s bloody better equipped than my son’s secondary school. They’ve got computer courses, exercise classes, gymnasiums, and it was at Barfield that one of the feckin’ prisoners almost caused a riot because he said that being forced to wear the colored shoulder band that shows who’s a prisoner and who’s a visitor was an invasion of his privacy. The world’s gone bloody mad.”

  “Cameron has gained a degree in child psychology,” Anna said thoughtfully.

  “See what I mean? Don’t tell me he murdered kids?”

  “No, they were two teenagers.”

  “Boys?”

  “No, girls—and apparently, he’s held in the secure unit inside the main prison, refused to ever go on the wing, and keeps himself to himself.”

  “So what can he tell you if he’s shut away in that unit?” Joan queried. “I mean, what can he know about the cases? If I were you, I’d contact the prison governor and say that no more letters from Welsh are to be forwarded to you. Sick buggers, all of them.”

  Anna nodded, still undecided whether she should try to bring it up with Mike Lewis.

  “What was he like, this Welsh?” Barbara asked curiously, then gave a laugh. “Apart from being a scumbag, that is.”

  Anna tried to recall what Cameron looked like physically. “I remember he was very tall, sort of gaunt almost, and his face was very pale. Well, he’d been hiding out for some time, so whether that was why he was so thin, I’m not sure. All I can really remember clearly about him was that he had very penetrating dark eyes. I hated the way he looked at me. He was well spoken, though, and he held his own throughout the interviews. I never heard him raise his voice—he had this cool manner, as if we were almost beneath him. That was until DCI Langton came on board.” Anna sighed. “Langton was heading the inquiry, and he had a really hard time cracking him. In fact, I don’t even recall that he did, but we had enough evidence against the bloke—DNA, clothes fibers, and eventually even a witness—to go to trial, and although he still maintained he was innocent, thankfully the jury found him guilty.”