Durdham Down to the east. And, for those unfamiliar with The Downs, Durdham Down is the northern part, north of Stoke Road. Clifton Down is the southern bit. About four hundred acres in total.’
‘So … the two bodies were found, what? Less than a mile apart?’
The question came from somewhere at the back of the assembled group of officers. Devon nodded.
‘About that, yes. Again, cause of death was probably head injuries but we’re waiting for the results of the post mortem – should be with us any minute; they’ve had a bit of a backlog down there, couple of nasty car accidents got in ahead of us. He also had a couple of minor injuries elsewhere but nothing significant. His head injury was again consistent with being attacked with a heavy weapon of some sort. Again though no sign of that murder weapon. Early days on this one though, as he was only found yesterday. At the scene time of death was again estimated to have been about ten hours earlier, so sometime on Wednesday evening. He was found by a local resident who was out for an early morning cycle and took a shortcut down the lane. We got an ID from the victim’s wallet, which was still in his pocket with about fifty quid in it. Ryan was thirty-one and also single, no kids, dated a bit but again no serious girlfriend as far as we know at this early stage. Worked as an accountant for a firm in Queen Square. Again, early days but so far he sounds a bit like our first victim – nice, normal guy, no record.’
He paused and turned to look at Helena.
‘No CCTV in the area he was found, I assume?’ she asked.
Devon shook his head.
‘No cameras in that area at all. It’s a lot more built up than where Mervin was found though, obviously, so we started doing house to house yesterday afternoon, but so far nobody seems to have seen or heard anything.’
Helena sighed.
‘Remind us what he was wearing? Ryan, I mean.’
Devon turned back to the board.
‘Normal clothes. As in, not running gear or anything. Jeans, trainers, a navy jumper, big black puffa coat. It was cold on Wednesday night. And no, we haven’t worked out yet what he was doing in the area. He lived at an address in …’ he frowned, eyes searching the board, ‘in Redcliffe. So two, three miles away from where he was found.’
‘Thanks, Devon.’
Helena cleared her throat and turned to the room.
‘OK, so that’s the basics. Two dead men, both with head injuries, both murdered in The Downs area within a couple of weeks of each other. Both successful and hardworking, both in their early thirties. Two men whom, as far as we know at the moment, had no involvement in any sort of criminal activity. And, two men who look …’ she turned back to the board again, tapping first the photo of Mervin and then Ryan’s image, ‘who look, quite frankly, like bloody twins. The same dark curly hair, dark eyes, thick eyebrows. Similar height and build. Might mean nothing but …’she shrugged and turned back to face the assembled officers, ‘kind of weird, eh? OK, listen. Let’s not get too hung up on their appearances for now. And of course, there may be no connection between these two murders whatsoever. But we can’t rule it out, not at this stage, considering the similarities between the two cases. Let’s keep an open mind and let the facts guide us.
‘Forensics on Ryan might help when we get them, if we’re lucky. But in the meantime, let’s talk to as many of their friends and family members as possible, and see if there are any common factors – Redcliffe and the harbour aren’t that far apart, so did these two hang out in the same bars, did they know each other, did they have any mutual friends or common interests? And why were they both on – or, in Ryan’s case, very close to – The Downs, on the nights they died? OK, so Mervin was there running, and it’s a nice place to run, I run there myself now and again. But he’s a member of a gym and, even if he preferred running outdoors, there are plenty of routes to choose from around Bristol. So why there, specifically? Was it something he did regularly? And why was Ryan in the area? Was he visiting a friend, a relative? We need to know everything about these two, and fast.’
She stopped talking, watching as her colleagues scribbled notes on their pads, many of them exchanging glances. She knew instantly what they were thinking. It was something she’d thought herself, immediately and with a sudden sick, sinking feeling in her stomach, when Ryan Jones’s photograph had been stuck on the board yesterday next to Mervin Elliott’s. If these two murders were connected, if they’d been carried out by the same person, well …
She swallowed hard. It needed to be three, though, officially. Three murders, to fit the most widely used UK definition. And so far it was only two. Please God, she thought, let it stay that way.
Two was bad enough.
But three …
Three, and she might just have a serial killer on her hands.
‘Where the hell are you, Danny? This is getting ridiculous.’
I stopped pacing up and down the kitchen for a moment to stand and stare out of the rain-streaked window into the elegant courtyard at the back of the house, willing him to suddenly appear, my fists clenched, nails digging into my palms. It was late Saturday afternoon and, despite my best efforts all day to track my husband down, I’d come up with precisely nothing. I needed to make some more phone calls, but I’d have to calm myself down first. I took a deep breath, trying to slow my racing heartbeat, and rested my forehead against the cold glass, eyes flitting across the yard. On two levels separated by a row of pleached hornbeam trees, the beautifully designed limestone-paved space had enthralled me from the moment Danny and I had first come to view the place. In the centre of the top level nearest the house, water bubbled gently from a polished metal sphere perched on top of a stone plinth, next to which sat a huge glass-topped table, six wrought iron chairs tucked underneath it. The outdoor dining area had been given an exotic, tropical feel more reminiscent of Bali than Bristol thanks to artfully planted bamboo, phormiums and tree ferns, the space illuminated at night by hundreds of tiny lights dotted among the foliage. At the front of the top terrace, steps led down to the lower level, where on either side of the back gate bay trees swayed gently in the wind in tall graphite pots, and raised herb beds lined the walls; our very own kitchen garden in the heart of the city. Even on a wet Saturday in March, and even when I was feeling so utterly miserable, a tiny shiver of pleasure ran through me.
‘A fountain! There’s a fountain, Danny!’ I’d squeaked when we’d first walked in through the back gate, and he’d laughed and squeezed my hand. We’d wondered why the letting agent had suggested meeting at the back of the house instead of at the front door, but it suddenly made perfect sense. It was stunning.
‘It’s more of a water feature, but OK. You and your fancy courtyard fetish,’ Danny had whispered as we were led indoors, both of us knowing instantly that no matter what the interior was like, this place already had me hooked. He was right; I’d always yearned for a courtyard garden. A peaceful place to entertain friends, to sit in the sun with a glass of wine on a summer evening, to lounge with a book on a Sunday afternoon, and no lawn to mow? Pretty damn perfect in my book.
We’d had a lovely home in London, but as so often in the capital, a place in a central location with any sort of decent outside space was hard to find. We’d made the small roof terrace of our apartment as beautiful as we could, but the Bristol courtyard had seemed huge in comparison.
‘There’s even a proper bicycle shed, look, down there in the corner of that lower level. I can finally stop having to chain my gorgeous bike to the front railings and you can finally quit moaning about how it lowers the tone,’ Danny had said, and I’d clapped my hands and done a little happy dance, making him laugh.
That Saturday though, as I stared out of the window, I could see that, just as it had been since I came back from my trip, the smart wooden lean-to where his beloved bike usually stood was empty.