Second Bite

By Don Donovan

Based on an unsolved true crime,'Second Bite' explores the warped sexual fantasies of the prime suspect and the extreme stresses on the murder team which nearly result in the death of leader DCI Paul Perry; the early use of DNA profiling; police entrapment; romance and a continuous search through a labyrinth of luck and dogged detection that takes us from England to Australia to New Zealand.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Don Donovan
• Release date: Nov 8, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452342825

Book preview

Second Bite

DON DONOVAN

© 2010 Don Donovan

Smashwords Edition

PO Box 300-136, Albany 0752, New Zealand. Telephone [phone]

[e-mail].

The story suggested itself to me by the tragic murder of a young woman in England. Apart from that, and some minor aspects of the subsequent enquiry to which I have applied uninformed imagination, this is entirely a work of fiction. Any resemblance of the characters in it to any person, living or dead, is coincidental.

Part One

It begins on Monday 11 November 1985

1.

He came at her suddenly from the bushes, moaning and blathering, eyes wild and staring, their irises isolated in whiteness like a terrified horse. He grabbed at her coat with a filthy, blood-stained hand, plucking at her sleeve with long, thin fingers. His clothing, a light, cream, woollen track suit mired in mud, clay, grass streaks and monstrous gobs of blood was in disarray, flecked with small leaves and grass and torn in small nicks as if it had been caught momentarily on barbed wire or thorns.

Shocked and apprehensive she sought to pull away, staggering backwards and almost losing her balance as her dog, a whimpering spaniel, circled, loosely winding its lead around her ankles.

The man tottered away, shuffling sideways across the gravel path; as he did so he pointed towards the light screen of bushes and he croaked, in a half demented voice, ‘In there, in there, I slipped, an accident, I didn’t mean... oh she’s so disgusting...’

Maureen Caswell, still stunned by this shattering turn of events on what, just moments before, had been a leisurely late afternoon stroll on Thames Glebe with Charlie, her spaniel, watched the man as he stumbled down the green bank towards the river where, crossing a low-tide beach of mud and shingle he immersed himself fully, to reappear with a howl of despair while spastically dousing his head with handfuls of river water and scraping at his clothing, face and hair to rid himself as quickly as possible of the awful mess that mottled his body.

The dog had freed Maureen and now sat beside her, whining softly, as she took stock, the automatic disciplines of analysis and preparation for action already working in her mind. Maureen was no ordinary middle-aged, city-dwelling, office-working woman; she was a nursing sister of many years experience in the big London hospitals, accustomed to making triage decisions in response to the butchery of accident and emergency. She’d seen it all: faces in shreds from drunken attacks with broken bottles at closing time; fractured bones of car collisions poking raggedly through skin; eyes gouged, ears ripped, knife wounds ... no, it was not what she’d just seen that stopped Maureen Caswell in her tracks, it was the suddenness of an event completely out of context.

Now he had moved from the water and sat on the Thames bank, his head in his hands, swaying backwards and forwards like a lonely child and spasmodically shivering in the cool breeze of late autumn - she suspected it was more from trauma than from cold despite his sodden track suit which clung heavily to his humped shoulders. She half moved towards him but stopped, reflecting.

‘She’s so disgusting...’ he’d raved.

She turned away and stepping off the path, gingerly pushed her way through the shrubbery to the grassy bank which lay away from the river and ran quite steeply for a few metres until it met a dense screen of thorn bushes and mature trees beyond which a natural darkness was already deepening as early evening advanced.

Something gleamed whitely at the base of the bushes.

2.

Paul Perry sat on a green park bench in the cemetery, a lonely figure, huddled a little against the temperature which, never high on this day when a weakish sun had only slightly warmed the sheltered surfaces of marble and limestone, was dropping fast as the light died. A few dried, russet sycamore leaves rattled past his feet, borne on the breeze, the last of the season’s fall; and somewhere behind him in the gathering gloom an early owl called, plaintively. In the distance the sounds of a twenty-four hour city, that international urban rumbling backdrop of vehicle exhaust, tyres on macadam, train wheels on tracks, jet aircraft sinking on flight paths, whispered, almost unnoticed apart from the odd intrusive burp of a Thames tug or a police siren

Perry contemplated the icing sparkle of his wife’s headstone beside the bench. The incised characters were losing their legibility. But he did not need to read them, they were engraved on his mind, unavoidable attestations to the unthinkable loss with which he had yet to come to a full reconciliation.

In Loving Memory of

LUCY EILEEN PERRY

(née Tapper)

*

Born 20 July 1936

Died 8 August 1982

Aged 47

*

‘We’ll meet again..’ Paul

He hadn’t found it necessary to explain, on her epitaph, who he was or the date of their marriage. There was nobody to come after, no children. She’d never known her mother, and her father, Bill ‘Tenement’ Tapper, had died in 1959; apart from Lucy, the last of the Tappers.

Perry smiled to himself as he recalled the old man. A bluff, hearty rascal who, when Lucy had told him that she and Perry were to marry, merrily cautioned her to be good to ‘the boy’ and not to give him the hard time she’d given her father!

The old man had made a fortune out of property - typically buying up old, run-down Victorian warehouses and tenements and then re-fitting them with all mod. cons. to turn them into luxury dwellings for those who considered inner city life fashionable. With great prescience he had foreseen the rise of the corporate achievers (those who ultimately became the archetypal BMW-plus-cellphone executive, career driven, childless by design, the male and female of the species virtually interchangeable).

Paul Perry, unlike most other men who might have found themselves in his position, did not unreservedly relish the wealth which, after Tapper’s death, had made the life of a policeman uncommonly comfortable. Lucy’s approach to their marriage was one of complete sharing and they could have had whatever they wanted, his police pay was almost irrelevant. But in effect, they lived modestly, their fortune inconspicuous, carefully invested in a ‘balanced portfolio’ which Lucy managed until the day she died and the net proceeds of which he had inherited in his turn.

This had allowed Paul to continue the work he loved most and, being an intelligent and diligent man - although not formally educated beyond school certificate - he made steady progress, rank by rank, until he reached today’s level - a Detective Chief Inspector of the Murder Squad of the London Metropolitan Police.

He would cheerfully have given it all away and been reduced to a bobby on the beat with no fortune and a whopping mortgage only to have Lucy back. For twenty-seven glorious years they’d been inseparable, loving, devoted. Much as they had desired children they had never succeeded; perhaps for that reason, in their shared denial, they’d grown closer than an average couple. With another chuckle he recalled how Lucy would boast to their friends that, ‘We haven’t had any kids but we’ve had a lot of fun trying.’

As always on these regular visits to Lucy’s grave he talked to her spirit, shared his cares, recalled their happiness. But he was not maudlin, rather he was matter-of-fact, like a priest talking things over with a favoured saint of tangible presence. And with some satisfaction Perry once again congratulated Lucy on going out without pain - if she’d had to go at such a young age it was so much preferable that a brain aneurism and instantaneous cerebral haemorrhage should be the way than some lingering, wasting disease.

He shrugged deeper into his top coat, its thick collar pushing the cashmere scarf up to his ears. Hands thrust into his pockets he pushed himself away from the bench with his elbows and stood up. His fine, thinning blond hair ruffled as he set his lined, dependable face to a freshening gust. The ice-blue eyes watered a little as he whispered good night to Lucy and strode on lanky legs into the thickening light.

***

The November easterly had reddened his ears and nose tip but the apartment was pleasantly warm when he arrived home having walked the three kilometres from the cemetery. For all that, he ignited the fake gas-fed coals in the stone fireplace and switched on three or four table- and standard lamps to give an atmosphere of intimacy and cosiness to the sitting room. From a corner cabinet he selected a bottle of Glenfiddich and poured himself a liberal tumbler, took one sip, turned on the television set and walked into the main bedroom to divest himself of coat and scarf.

As he returned, a floodlit O.B. reporter was speaking to camera. Behind her was a scene difficult to define, lights, trees, greensward, police moving in and out of shot. The reporter was in mid-sentence; ‘... was found late this afternoon by a woman walking her dog after she had escaped attack by a man who had appeared from the undergrowth. However, details are sketchy at the moment as police have been on the scene for only a short time and, even now, are only just securing the area...’, at which point the picture cut to the anchor-woman in studio who promised to update viewers as news came to hand.

Paul Perry took another sip of his straight malt and strode to the kitchen where he quickly fixed himself a plate of cold meats and salad from the refrigerator, hacked a thick slice off a wholemeal loaf, buttered it unwisely and ate all mechanically, with little relish, but in the light of past experience knowing that he couldn’t be sure when the next meal would be available.

The telephone would ring any time now, as it had so often before.

3.

A red light had flashed in Maureen’s mind. Something very, very wrong. Her sudden encounter with a madman would have been enough for anybody, let alone an untrained person, but this obscenity that lay in the twilight was something entirely different. Charlie mewed like a kitten. She reached down and picked him up, tucking him under her arm like a lumpy handbag. Something warned her to move carefully. She took a couple of considered steps down the steep, soft, grassy bank then stopped, senses alert, to contemplate the ill-defined sight. She swallowed heavily then stepped back the few paces to the gravel path; glancing away to her left, seeing that the man was still sitting by the river, she rapidly walked away, then trotted, then ran along the path that would take her to the park gates and the public telephone kiosk in the cul de sac beyond.

The phone had been vandalized.

Frustrated, angry, she tucked Charlie even tighter under her arm and ran to the nearest house, a Victorian terraced villa the bay windows of which spilled light from narrow chinks in a heavy curtain. She banged several times on the heavy door at the top of the white stone steps. Nothing. She banged again, working the heavy, squeaking brass knocker furiously until the door was opened by an elderly man, in carpet slippers, baggy corduroys and a shapeless cardigan. Before he could express any irritation at Maureen’s intrusion she, spotting a telephone on the hall table behind him, pushed past saying, ‘I must use your phone - it’s urgent, sorry.’

No more than ten minutes had elapsed since Maureen’s first encounter with the madman. Now she was on to the police through her 999 call; ‘Dead person... woman... Thames Glebe - the park above Chelsea Bridge... yes... Maureen Caswell... he’s still there... the killer... he ran into me... quickly, he’s still there...’

A quietly professional voice asked her to hang on while instructions were passed down the line for a rapid response. Maureen put her hand over the mouthpiece and turned to the old man who stood, agape, his Daily Telegraph cuddled to his chest as if to give him comfort.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘are you all right?’

He nodded.

‘Did you hear that?’

He nodded again. Then he pointed towards the back of the house, ‘I’ll go and...’

‘No - don’t do anything, just... hullo... yes, I’m still here.’

She listened intently then turned to the old man again, ‘Where am I? What’s this address?’

‘4 Glebe Place, Chelsea.’

She relayed it to the operator.

‘Yes... I’ll stay here.’

She returned the phone to its rest. Charlie wriggled. She’d been squeezing him without realizing it. She put him down, still on his leash, on the tiled floor. She relaxed; the matter was beyond her now.

‘Were you going to suggest a cup of tea?’

He, too, fully apprised, had relaxed. He put out his hand.

‘Bill Oakes.’

‘Maureen Caswell.’

‘Would you like something stronger? Whisky, gin, brandy?’

She followed him into the warm front sitting room and stood with her back to the coals as he handed her a stiff scotch. She hardly had time to start to tell him of her experience when they heard the distant siren.

4.

They caught the ‘madman’ as he was stumble-jogging out of the park entrance, he was a physical and mental cot case by the time they’d restrained him and sent him tripping up the metal steps and into the ambulance. Shivering uncontrollably, occasionally racked by huge shuddering spasms, he could barely walk, his legs spastic, rubbery. They’d covered his bloodstained track suit with an all-engulfing crimson blanket from which his head emerged, unfocussed, nose dribbling, lips like blubber and hair plastered wetly down his gravel-pitted forehead. His hands, long and bony, red and raw, clutched convulsively at the blanket. He moaned, swaying his head back and forth as if to evade some haunting of his mind.

Paramedics handled him with detachment. Two police constables, a man and a woman, joined him in the brightly lit ambulance where he was laid on the plastic-sheeted cot. Then the driver backed the vehicle along the narrow track to where the wrought iron park gates had been fully opened, turned and sped away into the evening, no lights flashing, no siren sounding.

Rapid response had started with two incident cars from Chelsea arriving almost simultaneously at Glebe Place, where they sat with their lights dancing silent reflections off the brick façades of the terraced houses while their four officers assessed the scene.

Two of them had interviewed Maureen Caswell who had led them into Thames Glebe and along the riverside footpath. By now the park was in darkness, inadequate pools of weakly yellow light came from widely spaced standards - enough, perhaps, to reassure park walkers but by no means illuminating the grassed areas off the path. To the left, long reflections from the river’s south bank streaked the oily water, slightly diffused as mist started to rise. The only other light, apart from London’s ever-present glow, came from the stabbing flashlights of the police.

Nothing had changed since that short-long time ago. Maureen directed their torch beams on to the gleaming bundle in the thorn bushes. Then there was a sudden movement ahead, a crunch of feet on small stones. A shadowed form broke the distant reflections as a torch beam picked up a dirty-creamy figure.

‘That’s him!’ Maureen had exclaimed as two policemen ran ahead.

They had no trouble catching the man who they brought back, docile, still wild-eyed, in shock, sodden, trembling and begrimed.

She had looked carefully into the tortured face. ‘That’s him.’

***

Only one policeman tiptoed down the bank to the thorn clump. He was there just a few moments before returning, in his own footsteps, to the path. His face was deathly white as he called for back up.

‘One woman... very dead... mutilated. Murder. No doubt...’

5.

Detective Chief Inspector Paul Perry arrived at Thames Glebe at about 7.30 pm.

He’d been picked up from home by Detective Sergeant Philip Knight, his long time associate on the Metropolitan Police Murder Squad.

‘You drew the short straw again, sir.’ were the first words Knight used as Perry opened his apartment door.

‘Yes - well you’re not unexpected, Phil - you’d better come in and brief me.’

‘We don’t know a lot so far. The bodies were found...’

‘Bodies? I thought only one was mentioned on the telly.’

‘No - there are two, a woman and a child, they were found by a woman out walking her dog. She was attacked and then left alone by the killer before she saw the victims. Then she shot off to phone our lot. The uniforms were on the scene pretty promptly, called for backup and got the guy as he was having it away on his toes; then the site was secured and we and SOCO moved in. Then the chief asked for you and once I was happy that the basics were under way I came straight over.’

‘Tell me about the victims, Phil.’

Knight passed a hand over his intelligent, olive-complexioned face as if to compose himself. ‘Guv, it was one of the worst I’ve ever seen. The woman has been horribly mutilated - you’ll see. I think she’s about mid-twenties; it’s hard to tell. The little boy looks almost unmarked; he was lying out of immediate sight, beyond the woman. I guess it’s mother and child.’

‘Any idea who they are?’

‘No, nothing yet.’

Perry looked at his watch. Scene of crime officers would have done a substantial amount of work by now and the site would have been secured. It was time for him to go.

As Phil Knight drove the Granada over Lambeth Bridge then along Millbank towards Chelsea Embankment they discussed the man now in custody.

‘No idea who he is,’ said Knight, his strong profile with its prominent nose and chin delineated in slow strobe as they passed the embankment’s lights, and repeatedly thrown into full illumination as oncoming headlights flooded the car’s interior. ‘He’s a nutter, that’s for sure. Practically incoherent, could hardly stand up through exposure and shock. They’ve taken him off to St.George’s...’

‘Covered?’

‘Yes - two PCs with strict instructions, and DS Morris is evidence-bagging clothing and stuff’

‘What about the woman he attacked?’

Knight dropped two gears to negotiate the junction with Vauxhall Bridge then smoothly shifted up to rumble along Grosvenor Road. ‘She’s good. Nursing woman, middle-aged. Cool, calm and collected. Says he didn’t actually attack her but rushed straight down to the river...’

‘What the hell was he doing?’

‘Well, she says he seemed to want to wash it all off - he was covered in gore.’

‘You’ve got her statement?’

‘Yeah - and Bill Oakes, too, the guy whose house she made the 999 call from.’

‘She was walking her dog?’

‘Yes - Charlie - a King Charles spaniel - nice little chap. She goes there regularly...’

‘Thames Glebe?’

‘That’s it. It’s a little park - well about five acres - it’s outside the embankment, funnily enough. Raised ground between the low-tide beach and the embankment wall. I don’t know why it’s called Glebe. Funny word.’

The car swung into Glebe Place, the short cul de sac at the end of which wrought iron gates marked the entry to the park. Phil Knight parked between two incident cars. Blue plastic tape marked the start of the sealed area. Knight took Perry’s elbow. ‘Guv, we’ve sealed the whole park - all five acres. both gates are manned - there’s this one and another at the west end. The only other access is either directly from the river or over two-metre railings around the embankment side. We’ve run tape all round.’

A police constable approached and saluted Perry, cursorily glancing at the IDs of both men who were well-known among the uniformed members of Chelsea station. ‘ ‘Evening, sir, detective sergeant. I’m PC Clitheroe. The doctor’s still in the park,’ he nodded into the darkness, ‘with Inspector Forbes. They’ve been expecting you.’ He saluted again and stepped back into the shadows, tapping his gloved fists together to generate some warmth.

A narrow strip of plasticized canvas led from the path to the murder scene where lights had been set up. A uniformed police inspector stood, hands on hips, watching intently as a white-coated, white-haired, portly man knelt studying intently a shapeless form. A photographic flash, then another as a woman in boiler suit took instructions from the doctor.

‘Forbes. It’s DCI Perry here, with DS Knight - may I come down?’

The inspector turned and shading his eyes from the floodlight started up the canvas strip. ‘Hullo, Paul. Not a pretty sight, I’m afraid. Doc Wallace will fill you in. ’

Perry and Knight walked into the pool of light. Thirty years of policing were not enough experience to stop Perry’s heart from thumping in his chest as he gazed at the sight that greeted him. The woman lay on her back, virtually naked except for some torn fragments of clothing above her head and holding her upper arms together; her ankles were similarly confined by jeans and panties, her knees were apart and the whole of her chest and abdominal cavity were a sea of butchery, bone and viscera. She was a horrifying sight, disgusting; more meat than humanity.

‘My God,’ muttered Perry, ‘This is monstrous.’

Police Doctor Bernard ‘Doc’ Wallace, on his knees beside the corpse, straightened his back with a groan. ‘Hullo, Perry,’ he said, his exhalation of breath a huge sigh, ‘I’ve seen some things in my time, but this...’ his eyes glittered in the floodlight and he looked into Perry’s eyes and shook his snowy head.

‘What can you tell me?’

‘Well - she’s been dead for about four hours, I’d say. I can’t tell much while she’s here. Multiple stabbing to the chest - over and over, deep stabs with something pretty solid - then the abdomen’s been deeply ripped from sternum to pubis with the vagina mutilated, too. I haven’t looked too far - light’s not good enough and in any case, these damned thorn bushes are in the way. I want the pathologist on to it as soon as poss. The little fellow’s over there.’ He pointed to where, through the bushes, a small bundle huddled. ‘I’ve had a look at him but I didn’t want to disturb the ground. He’s dead; one blow, I’m sure. Died before she did, I’d say.’

Perry and Knight tiptoed as far as they could without disturbing the bushes. The child was face downwards, head turned towards them. He looked as if peacefully asleep.

Perry crouched alongside the doctor. ‘I don’t want them moved.’

‘But, but pathology...’

‘They’ll have to stay until daylight. I can’t see enough in this light. It’s not just them, it’s the surrounding area. I must see it in context.’

Doc Wallace stood up, his knees cracked audibly and he staggered slightly, clutching Knight for balance. ‘I’m not happy, Paul,’ he protested, ‘Time is important.’

‘I know, Doc, it’s a judgment call, but it’s all a bit procedural,’ he emphasized the second syllable, ‘after all, if we have the killer there’s no