Killing by Colours

Book 5: DCI Phelps

by Wonny Lea

Genres: Police Procedurals

Synopsis

Killing by Colours, the third in the DCI Martin Phelps series, takes Martin in search of a serial killer who appears to have somewhat of a personal interest in the DCI himself. When the body of the killer?s first victim is discovered at a popular Cardiff leisure attraction, key elements of the murder link her death to a macabre colour-themed poem recently sent to DCI Phelps. As the body count rises, the killer teases the team by giving possible clues to the whereabouts of victims and the venues of potential murders, in the form of more poems. Are the killings random acts by a deranged individual, or is there something that links the victims to one another ? and even to the DCI himself? Meanwhile, Martin?s sidekick, DS Matt Pryor, is worried about the safety of his boss. Are his fears warranted? Is Martin Phelps on the colour-coded list of potential victims ? or is he just the sounding board for the killer?s bizarre poetry?

Release date: February 27, 2014

Publisher: Accent Press

Print pages: 350

Sample

 Chapter One
Another letter

Martin sat at his kitchen table surrounded by the smells of freshly brewed coffee and croissants baking, but his recent mood of complete contentment had just been wiped out and he now had a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Shelley, the reason he had woken up feeling on top of the world this morning, was half-asleep in his bed, waiting for him to return with a tray of coffee and croissants and the promise of not getting out of bed until lunchtime. Just ten minutes ago everything had seemed idyllic, and he had not even minded when he had lost the coin toss and been the one randomly chosen to leave the warm bed and rustle up the breakfast.

He did this in the kitchen of the cottage he had shared for years with his Aunt Pat – she had left everything to him when she died just a few years ago. Almost daily Martin thanked his aunt for her choice of houses and for the way in which she had transformed the end-of-terrace cottage into a comfortable home. Typically, she had retained most of the period features – but being a very practical woman she had installed all the latest mod cons, and had brought the old and the new together perfectly.

Shelley was the first woman Martin had brought to the cottage since his aunt had died and he knew beyond doubt that Aunt Pat would have been over the moon with his choice. He was sorry the two women had never had the chance to meet as he was certain that they would have become really good friends.

Aunt Pat had been a really good judge of character, and on one of the few occasions that Martin had not listened to her opinion he had made a big mistake. He had married Bethan, a woman whose sole mission in life was to be a perfect homemaker and produce beautiful babies. Nothing wrong in principle with that, but there had to be something else for Martin – and unfortunately, with Bethan, there wasn’t. Within a few short months he had been bored with the lack of decent conversation and looked to his job and work colleagues for the stimulation his mind needed, which left his attractive young wife feeling neglected. The marriage had lasted two years, but that was only because of the time needed to secure a divorce.

He now realised that he had never loved Bethan. He had been flattered by the attention of a woman almost ten years younger than him, but getting married to her had been one of the biggest mistakes of his life. It was because of this mistake that Martin, since his divorce, had been reluctant to form any serious relationships with women, and although attracted to Shelley from their first meeting it had taken almost a year before things really took off.

Shelley worked in the same building as Martin but she was not a police officer – she was an expert in all matters relating to Health and Safety. She did a really good job at actually making this potentially mind-numbing subject come to life for all the officers who attended her training sessions. Martin regretted the wasted months when the two of them could have been together, and now he was determined to make up for lost time. She was waiting for him, but instead of rushing back up the stairs as he so desperately wanted to do he was sitting at the kitchen table. The reason he now sat with his head in his hands had nothing to do with Shelley and everything to do with the A5 size orange envelope that he had picked up from his front doormat and put on the kitchen table. He hadn’t opened it and was trying desperately to ignore it.

He got to his feet and produced a mini feast of coffee, croissants, butter, and honey for the pair of them and then piled some small sweet strawberries into a bowl to add a finishing touch.

Even with all that done he still didn’t touch the envelope, and with considerable resolve he left it unopened on the table and carried the breakfast tray up the stairs.

Shelley squealed with delight when she saw him with the tray of goodies and laughingly said. ‘Hey, you know how to treat a girl – had a lot of practise have we?’

Almost before she had finished the sentence Shelley regretted teasing Martin and hopped out of bed, grabbed a robe, and poured them each a cup of coffee. ‘That was just a joke, you know.’ She started to say she hadn’t meant anything when Martin interrupted.

He kissed the top of her head as she handed him a cup of coffee and forcing a smile he quickly reassured her. ‘I know you were teasing,’ he said. ‘I promise you I didn’t take offence.’

‘Then what?’ asked Shelley. ‘You were full of the joys of spring earlier, and so was I – even more so when I saw the feast you’ve prepared. That was until I saw your face … Oh my God!’ She had changed her thinking in mid-sentence and was now staring directly into Martin’s eyes.

‘I thought I heard the postman. You’ve had another one, haven’t you?’

Martin took a large mouthful of coffee and then slowly answered. ‘Yes, I presume so, but for now it’s sitting unopened on the kitchen table. And I’m leaving it there, and it’s not going to spoil our weekend.’

For a few minutes nothing more was said as they both picked at the croissants and Shelley managed a few strawberries. Pouring them each a second cup of coffee Shelley broke the silence. ‘You know I love you, Martin, and there’s not one bit of you that I would change – not even your job. I’ve always known that any plans we make are likely to take second place when your job gets in the way and I can accept that. There is no way that you are going to spend the weekend forcing yourself to forget what you know could be in that envelope and at least we had a brilliant Friday night. So, Detective Chief Inspector Phelps, do what you have to do and I’ll do the domestic bit.’

Martin knew how much trouble Shelley had gone to so that they could have their first real weekend together in the cottage. It was just three weeks since they had returned from Edinburgh having spent five memorable days at the Fringe festival, but for that trip and for this weekend Shelley had had to make arrangements for the care of her diabetic father and that wasn’t always easy.

They both knew it was this weekend at the cottage that would mark a milestone in their relationship and they had been looking forward to it. He figured that many women would have been furious to realise that the carefully worked-out plans were likely to end so early on Saturday morning.

 ‘No wonder I love you, Shelley Edwards,’ said Martin and then after a kiss that would normally have taken them straight back to bed he pulled himself away.

The man that was Martin Phelps wanted desperately to stay in the bedroom – but the officer that was DCI Phelps knew he had to open the orange envelope that beckoned to him from the kitchen.

It had been on a Saturday morning, exactly two weeks ago when Martin had found an almost identical envelope on his doormat. The only difference between the two envelopes was that the first one had been red and this one was orange. Both were formally addressed to Detective Chief Inspector Martin Phelps and that had been the first surprise for Martin. When he had picked up the red envelope he had expected it to be for Mr Martin Phelps – he had never before had mail arriving at the cottage for DCI Phelps. He valued the fact that the cottage was his refuge from all that his title and rank could mean.

But obviously whoever had sent the letters knew where he lived as well as his full name and rank and initially he hadn’t thought that there were too many people who knew that combination. Since he had received that red envelope he and his colleagues had spent hours trying to think of anyone who did fit into that category, and there were many more than Martin had first thought.

He remembered clearly opening that first envelope, and before opening the second one he allowed his mind to take him step by step over the frustrating events of the past two weeks, starting with the opening of the red envelope.

Inside that red envelope, written on a single sheet of matching red paper, was a poem, and as poems go it wasn’t particularly good, but Martin could remember it clearly.

Think of red as it rhymes with dead

and dead she now will be.

She could have had a better fate

if she’d been kind to me.



She bullied me and made me play

the games I hated most.

But now she hasn’t much to say

for she is but a ghost.



This dragon now has met her match

no longer will she preach.

No more the teacher for this time

the lesson I will teach. 



Find her now if you think you can

but you will be too late.

If you’re so clever Martin Phelps

let’s see you take this bait.

During the time that he had been in the police force Martin had known of a couple of people who had been singled out for special attention by criminals, but there had always been some personal element involved and he struggled to find anything to connect himself to the woman whose body had been found.

Yes, as he was to discover a couple of hours later, a body had been found. At first there was no way of linking that body, discovered in the car park of the Red Dragon Centre, with the letter Martin had received as Martin’s team had not been the ones to attend that particular crime. He had not rushed into the office with the red letter as his first thoughts were that it was some sort of hoax but he had phoned a few colleagues for their opinions.

It had been just after eleven on that Saturday morning when he received a call from one of the people he had spoken to earlier, Detective Inspector Steven Hall.

‘Hi, Martin,’ said Steven. ‘We have just come back from a call-out to the Red Dragon Centre where a woman was reported slumped over the wheel of her Ford Mondeo in the car park. Apparently the man who noticed her looked into the car and saw that she was sitting in a pool of blood. He told the security staff at the centre and they did a 999 call to the police and to the ambulance service.’

‘Alex Griffiths and the SOC team arrived the same time as I did with DS Cotter, and within minutes Prof. Moore had turned up, so I departed, leaving them to do the business at the crime scene. It was on my way back to the office that I remembered our earlier conversation and seemed to recall the poem you read out had something in it about a dragon and the finding of a body. Do you think there’s any connection?’

Martin had the advantage of having the letter in front of him and scanned the lines. ‘Well, apart from the observations you’ve already made, one other thing that is mentioned is the colour red – that could be a reference to the Red Dragon Centre or the pool of blood the victim was sitting in.’

Steven interrupted. ‘Or it could be the red cord that had been tied around her hands in what according to Alex is a reef knot.’

Martin said nothing for a moment but the cogs in his brain went into overdrive. ‘Steven, I’m sure you will remember that this should have been my weekend on call, but you asked me to swap – and I can’t help thinking that the letter I received this morning is relevant and it’s me who should have discovered this body.’

‘Bloody hell!’ exclaimed Steven. ‘So what do you want to do?’

‘If it’s OK with you I would like to take on the case. The super won’t be happy with that but if I come in now I should be well into it by Monday and you can always say I pulled rank.’

‘No problem from my point of view,’ came back the reply. ‘As it happens I start two weeks leave from next Thursday so it’s likely I would have needed to hand over anyway. The only thing that worries me is that if there is a personal element to this case then perhaps you should, for your own safety, take a back seat.’

Martin responded. ‘I appreciate your concerns, but I don’t really see how I can take a back seat. This letter has been sent to me so we can assume that any further correspondence will come via the same route. I’ll see you in about half an hour and you can give me a handover.’

So two weeks ago to the day, on a glorious September morning, Martin had set aside his plans to give his garden a much needed clear-up and drove from the tranquillity of his cottage in the small coastal village of Llantwit Major and headed for Cardiff.

His destination was Goleudy, the headquarters of The South Wales Crime Investigation Services. The imposing Victorian building, with its history dating back to the days when Cardiff was the coal-exporting capital of the world, was now home to all the agencies needed for crime prevention and detection in the twenty-first century. Martin knew from past experience that the head of SOC, Alex Griffiths, would by now have a complete picture of the crime scene and Professor Dafydd Moore would be making arrangements for the body to be brought back to Goleudy for post mortem examination. Martin would have preferred to visit the scene himself but DI Hall had already been there and it would have been unprofessional for Martin not to rely on the report of a fellow officer.

The two men met in the incident room that had only recently been cleared following the protracted investigation of a spate of premature deaths at a nursing home in the area. At some point in the future Martin would be required to give evidence at the trials of a number of people either responsible for or complicit in these crimes but for now it was the business of the CPS and lawyers on both sides to untangle the detail.

The room was quiet and peaceful for the moment and Martin sat down with Steven to be briefed on what was now the latest DCI Phelps murder investigation.

‘We got a call at 09.35.’ began Steven. ‘Actually, it was almost as soon as I had put the phone down after speaking to you about your letter and by the way have you got it with you? I’d like to take a look.’

Martin nodded and as he reached into his jacket pocket he encouraged Steven to continue. ‘The local police responded to the 999 call and arrived alongside the ambulance. That vehicle and crew was certainly not needed as the woman was dead but according to the Prof had not been dead that long. Her hands had been tied behind her and she had been stabbed in the abdomen, probably more than once, and that’s why when she slumped forward onto the steering wheel she looked as if she was sitting in a pool of blood. There was no weapon as far as I could see but Alex and his team will let you know more when they get back.’

Steven paused and then concluded. ‘The only other thing I can give you is the detail of the car and a simple phone call will give you the registered owner.’ Before he left to resume writing the reports he had been doing when the call came in, Steven looked at the letter and made no comment other than, ‘Weird – really weird.’

Martin shook his head as Steven left the room and not for the first time wondered how DI Hall had made it to the level of detective inspector, and speculated on how long it would be before he took early retirement. At the moment he was lucky to have DS Cotter working with him but Cotter had applied for a transfer and his departure would leave the inadequacies of DI Hall somewhat exposed. Martin set about organising the room in his usual manner, knowing that for him the devil was always in the detail and he had learned from experience that recording and sharing every piece of knowledge was vital when solving crime.

Incident Room One was set up with a number of whiteboards and the two largest were always used by Martin in the same way. The one that was most central was the one on which he drew his renowned three columns with the headings ‘Absolute Facts’, ‘Facts to be Checked’, and ‘What If’s’. He liked to give the case a name but as yet he wasn’t sure if the things he knew from his letter and what he had heard from DI Hall about the murder had any connection. He provisionally put a bold side heading – RED DRAGON.

On one of the smaller whiteboards he wrote out the poem in full and seeing it displayed in this way made it look even more sinister. It would have been still more effective if the board had been red but to ensure everyone got the picture he wrote “(written on red paper)” underneath the verses.

By the time Alex and his team returned from the scene Martin had obtained a number of facts for his first column. He had written the date and time of the 999 call, a list of the attending officers, and had recorded the location as the Red Dragon Centre, underlining the word ‘Red’. Where he had noted that the woman’s hands were tied behind her back with red cord the word ‘red’ was again underlined. For the moment he wrote nothing about the cause of death, as although DI Hall had said it was a stabbing he was light on facts. Martin decided to wait for Alex before filling in the details.

He had discovered that the car was a black automatic 2000cc Ford Mondeo hatchback, registered to a Miss Mary Rossiter, which looked practically brand new. The address of the registered keeper was 12 Merlin Crescent, Caerphilly, and Martin had found out that there was only one occupant listed. Of course it didn’t necessarily follow that it was the owner of the car who had been killed – someone else could have been using the vehicle.

The door opened and Martin’s thoughts were interrupted by the appearance of a tall, solidly built man with a smooth hairless head. It was Alex Griffiths, and he stood in the doorway for a few moments, taking in the information on the whiteboards, before smiling broadly. ‘Never in a million years would DI Hall be responsible for this level of order, and there is only one “column man” that I know and that’s DCI Martin Phelps. What are you doing here, mate, and what’s with the macabre poetry?’

Martin returned the smile. He and Alex had known one another for years, well before either of them had joined the force, and they had in recent years worked together on a number of complex cases. When it came to SOC investigators Alex was up there with the best and not just because he was meticulous about detail but also because he had a natural instinct for knowing when things just did not add up.

‘The poem is something I rang you about earlier but your phone went straight through to your messaging service.’ Martin showed Alex the red envelope and the paper on which the poem was written and went on to explain that it had been delivered to his cottage earlier that day. Just as Martin had done, Alex immediately picked up on the fact that it was addressed to ‘DCI’ and not ‘Mr’ Martin Phelps. The separation of their professional lives and their private lives was something most of the senior officers tried desperately to achieve, and this piece of correspondence had clearly crossed the line.

It didn’t take more than a few minutes for Alex to take on board all the facts that Martin had gathered, and to reach the same conclusion. ‘The person who murdered the woman whose body I have just seen sent you that letter, and you were not meant to get it until after the act was committed. But why was it sent to you? You weren’t even on the rota to be the senior CID officer on duty this weekend; I know because I always check who I’m going to be working with when I get a call out.’

‘No, but I would have been if I hadn’t swapped weekends,’ replied Martin. ‘Maybe our killer is someone with inside knowledge but not up-to-date information.’

‘Oh, I bloody hate it when things get personal,’ said Alex. ‘Murder is bad enough anyway without the killer playing some sort of game with us. Have you got any idea who could have sent the letter and de facto could be the killer?’

‘None whatsoever,’ Martin said. ‘I’ve been racking my brains just thinking of the people who know my full name and rank together with my home address and it’s basically only the people I work with here and a few close friends and relatives. I can’t get my head around any of those people being responsible for this.’

‘Good God, no!’ interrupted Alex. ‘Even I would be on that list, as would Shelley and Charlie. That’s what I mean when I say I hate it when things get personal – we are forced into considering possibilities that would never normally enter our heads.’

Charlie was Alex’s wife. As a result of a hit-and-run incident when she was a teenager, she had received irreversible spinal injuries and was unable to walk. Amazingly she had not given up on life. In the years immediately following the accident she had been confined to bed and used the time to learn all there was to know about IT. Now in her early thirties, she had for forgotten more about computers and electronic information systems than most people would ever know, and she was frequently headhunted by the big names in the industry.

Under different circumstances one would say that Charlie kept her feet on the ground, which in her case it was the platform of her wheelchair – and that wheelchair seemed to propel her forward in life rather than hold her back. She was the Head of IT at Goleudy, and it was there that she had met Alex. Her black hair, hazel eyes, and Irish charm had been a mixture he’d found himself unable to resist. There were some who had been surprised at the match, as prior to their meeting Alex was known as a fun-loving man with an eye for the ladies, and his six-foot plus frame, good looks, and perfectly smooth, shaven scalp had attracted them like a beacon. But Alex had only had eyes for Charlie once they got together.

Martin thought about the two of them and couldn’t even contemplate having to consider them on any list of possible suspects, but he knew that his meticulous attention to detail would have to take him there at some point, though only so that they could be completely discounted.

Martin asked Alex what had happened at the crime scene and if DS Cotter was on his way back. ‘I was just going to ask you,’ countered Alex, ‘if Cotter would be staying on the case or if Matt and Helen would be working with you. I presume you’ve taken the case, but I don’t think Steven Hall has told his team and so, like me, they’ll be surprised to see you in charge.’

‘Well, I know that Matt’s away this weekend,’ said Martin. ‘I have no intention of calling him back, as apparently all four of his sisters plus his twelve nieces have taken a shine to his new girlfriend Sarah, and 16-1 odds against interruption of their mini break are more than I can handle.’

Matthew Pryor, more commonly referred to as Matt, was the detective sergeant who normally worked with DCI Phelps and the whole force regarded Martin, Matt, Alex, and Professor Dafydd Moore as the ‘A Team’ – a reputation gained from the level of success the four of them had in crime solving.

Alex grinned and Martin continued. ‘I’ll speak to David Cotter, and if he’s in agreement he can continue working with us until Monday morning and then hand over to Matt. However I did call Helen a while ago and she’s on her way in. This will be her first experience of murder from the CID angle and it’s a pity she didn’t actually see the body at the scene, but I’m sure your photography will fill us both in. I was going to say treat her gently, but I think she’s quite a tough cookie and when it comes to dealing with the Prof women seem to come off better than men.’

Alex nodded in agreement. ‘The miserable old git was at his most objectionable this morning,’ he said. ‘You know what the Red Dragon Centre is like – there’s the bowling and the cinemas and as you can imagine the area was busy with families having Saturday morning treats and such like. There was a pile up of traffic as soon as the security staff from the centre, at the request of DI Hall, closed the barriers. Prof honked his horn and did his “don’t you know who I am thing” and for a while it was chaos.’

Martin smiled as he looked at a mental picture of Professor Dafydd Moore arriving at the crime scene in his cream-coloured Lexus and in the manner of many leading academics expecting the world to be awaiting his arrival. When it came to forensic science he was a world leader, and moved and lectured in circles where his reputation went before him, so he was used to being instantly recognised.

Perhaps unusually for someone of his academic standing, he was dextrous and possessed practical skills that made him invaluable when reading the clues left on a body, but one thing he lacked was common sense. It would never have occurred to him that everyone at the Red Dragon Centre did not know who he was or how important he was likely to be to the officers involved in this crime. 

Alex continued. ‘To be fair to our uniformed colleagues, they had matters in hand quite quickly and they’ll be there for hours scrutinising everyone . . .