I recently wrote to the police with this information, and they duly reviewed the case file and updated Caitlyn’s details on their missing persons website, but they say it’s not enough information for them to re-open the case.
I write to you and ask if you would consider looking into this?
We both now believe that Caitlyn is dead. We just want to find our little girl. I hate to think that her remains lie forgotten somewhere in a ditch or a drain. Our wish now is to give her a proper Christian burial.
We would, of course, pay you. My mobile number is written below. You can also email me back.
With best wishes, in hope,
Malcolm Murray
Kate sat back in her chair. Her heart was thumping loudly in her chest, and she looked over at Tristan, certain he must hear it too, but he was on the phone leaving a message for Alan, asking him to call back to confirm his lecture appearance.
She drained the last of her coffee, wishing more than ever for a dash of Jack. There had been rumours, and stories in the press, that Peter Conway might have killed other women. And over the years the police had pursued lines of investigation, but come up with nothing. This was the first she had heard of the name Caitlyn Murray.
She looked out of the window and across the sea. Would it ever be over? Would she ever be able to escape from the shadow of Peter Conway and the terrible things he did? She read the email again, and she knew she couldn’t ignore it. There was a part of her that would always be a police officer. Kate pulled her chair closer to her desk and started to write a reply.
CHAPTER 3
Thirty miles away from Kate’s office, the rain was lashing down as forensic pathologist Alan Hexham hurtled along a winding country road in his car, the hills and vast craggy landscape appearing in flashes through the dense trees. His mobile rang as it slid around on the passenger seat, next to a Sausage & Egg McMuffin. He grabbed the phone with his free hand, but seeing it was an Ashdean number he cancelled the call and threw the phone back on the seat. He picked up the McMuffin, unwrapped it with his free hand and took a bite.
Alan hadn’t expected to be on duty today, and his mind was still foggy after a late night at the morgue. Now that he was in his late fifties, he couldn’t burn the midnight oil like he used to.
The rain fell harder, reducing his view to a blur, and he switched the wipers to full power. His phone rang again, and seeing it was one of his team he picked up, speaking through another mouthful,
‘I’m there in five minutes . . . Where are you? . . . Jesus, put your fucking foot down. This rain is pissing away forensic evidence.’ He ended the call and chucked the phone down as the road narrowed to a single lane and wove between two high rock faces where the hills converged. He switched on his headlights in the gloom, praying that he wouldn’t meet another car coming in the other direction. He sped up as the rocky face on either side dropped away and the road widened out to two lanes.
Alan saw a squad car parked next to an opened gate in a low drystone wall. He parked behind it and a buffeting gust of air slammed the car door into him as he got out, whipping his shoulder-length grey hair across his face. For a brief second, he heard his mother’s scolding voice: You won’t get far with that hair, you need a haircut, Alan, a short back and sides! He took one of the elastic bands he kept around his wrist and tied it back, still feeling defiant even though she was long dead.
He could see two police officers waiting inside the squad car. They got out and joined him at the gate. They both looked to be in shock. The woman, PC Tanya Barton, he had worked with before, but the young man with pale, almost translucent skin was new to him.
Alan towered over the two young officers. He had always been tall, but he had filled out over the years and was now a broad, imposing bear of a man, with a weather-beaten face and thick beard showing as much grey as his hair.
‘Morning, sir. This is PC Tom Barclay,’ said Tanya, having to yell to be heard over the wind and rain. Tom held out his hand.
‘I need to see the scene,’ shouted Alan. ‘Rain and forensic evidence don’t mix!’
Tanya led the way through the gate into a field. They hurried across a mix of thick gorse and grass, in places littered with the bones of sheep, keeping their heads down as the wind roared around their ears and the grey cloud seemed to press down on them. The land banked sharply towards a river which had been swelled by the storm. Brown water surged over rocks, taking with it large branches and floating rubbish.
The body lay amongst rocks and gorse on the riverbank, and Alan could see it was already in an advanced state of decay. There was severe bloating and the skin was marbled with patches of yellow and black. The body lay on its front with a long mane of filthy, straggly hair. There were six open wounds over the back and thighs, and in two places, flesh had been bitten away, exposing the spine.
Something about the way the body was lying set off alarm bells for Alan. He moved around to the head to see if it was male or female, and he felt the food in his stomach shift. The face was missing. He was used to blood and guts, but sometimes the violence of an act seemed to linger in the air. It looked as if it had been torn away, leaving just a part of the bottom jaw and the jawbone with a row of teeth.
He moved closer, pulling on latex gloves.
‘Did you touch the body?’ he shouted. The wind changed direction, blowing the smell of putrid flesh at their faces. The two young officers winced and took a step back.
‘No, sir,’ said Tom with his hand over his mouth.
Alan gently lifted the torso and saw that the body was female. She lay on her left side with her head on her shoulder, one arm reaching out. He could see something bunched around the bloated neck. With his free hand he lifted the head, resting the heel of his other hand on her hip so that she wouldn’t roll down the riverbank into the murky torrent. A piece of thin rope was tied tightly around her neck, encased in the remains of what had been a plastic drawstring bag. As he lifted her head higher, the rest of the rope was pulled up out of the mud, and he saw the knot at the end. A small ball of intersecting turns.
‘Oh, fuck,’ he said, but it was carried away by the wind. He turned back to Tanya. She looked the less likely of the two to puke her guts up. ‘I need my phone. It’s in my left coat pocket!’ he shouted, keeping hold of the young woman’s head and indicating the pocket. Tanya hesitated and then reached over and rummaged gingerly in the folds of Alan’s long coat. ‘Quickly!’ She found the phone and held it out to him. ‘No. I need you to take a photo of this rope round her neck and the knot,’ he said, keeping hold of the head. ‘PIN number is two, one, three, two, four, three.’ With trembling hands, she unlocked the phone, stepped back and held it up. ‘Closer, this isn’t a holiday photo. I need a close-up of the rope around her neck and then the knot!’
As Tanya took photos, Alan noticed that there was also a Chinese symbol tattoo on the victim’s lower back. A corner of it had been bitten away. The remainder of the tattoo had bloomed out and distorted with the bloating of the skin. Alan gently let go of the young woman’s head, and got up. He was relieved to see the forensics van pulling into the field at the top by the gate. He removed the gloves and took his phone from Tanya. He scrolled through the photos, finishing on a close-up shot of the rope and the muddy knot. He pinched the screen and zoomed in on the knot. He wouldn’t have recognised it as a monkey’s fist if all the other pieces of the crime hadn’t been in place – the bites, how she was posed, the torn-off face.