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.