The discovery of the partially-clothed body of a teenage girl in the heart of Bristol’s red light district indicates a tragic yet familiar scenario. But this marks the start of a baffling murder investigation where nothing is as it first appears. Fourteen-year-old Melanie Cooke told her mother she was visiting a school friend. Who was she really going to meet?
Detective Inspector David Vogel is led towards three very different principal protagonists, each of whom grows increasingly chilling. But are they what they seem? And is any one of them capable of murder?
A darkly complex secret lies behind Melanie’s death – and its ultimate revelation will shock Vogel and his team to the core.
The discovery of the partially-clothed body of a teenage girl in the heart of Bristol’s red light district indicates a tragic yet familiar scenario. But this marks the start of a baffling murder investigation where nothing is as it first appears. Fourteen-year-old Melanie Cooke told her mother she was visiting a school friend. Who was she really going to meet?
Detective Inspector David Vogel is led towards three very different principal protagonists, each of whom grows increasingly chilling. But are they what they seem? And is any one of them capable of murder?
A darkly complex secret lies behind Melanie’s death – and its ultimate revelation will shock Vogel and his team to the core.
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Overview
The discovery of the partially-clothed body of a teenage girl in the heart of Bristol’s red light district indicates a tragic yet familiar scenario. But this marks the start of a baffling murder investigation where nothing is as it first appears. Fourteen-year-old Melanie Cooke told her mother she was visiting a school friend. Who was she really going to meet?
Detective Inspector David Vogel is led towards three very different principal protagonists, each of whom grows increasingly chilling. But are they what they seem? And is any one of them capable of murder?
A darkly complex secret lies behind Melanie’s death – and its ultimate revelation will shock Vogel and his team to the core.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781847518521 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Severn House |
| Publication date: | 10/01/2018 |
| Series: | A David Vogel Mystery , #1 |
| Edition description: | Reprint |
| Pages: | 256 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.55(w) x 8.74(h) x (d) |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
The girl had been reported missing by her mother at 2 a.m. when she'd failed to return home. Her body was found three and a half hours later, in the heart of Bristol's red light district by refuse collectors on the early shift picking up the rubbish put out by the bars and clubs and restaurants.
It was jammed into a boarded-up doorway, behind two wheelie bins towards the top end of Stone Lane, a cobbled cul-de-sac leading from West Street to a row of commercial warehouses and goods depots, all of which would have been empty of people after daytime hours.
There were CCTV cameras protecting the commercial premises and more outside a pair of incongruous, run-down, Edwardian villas set back to the left; but none covering the stretch of cobbled street where the dead girl lay and where she had almost certainly met her death.
There could be no doubt that she had been murdered. Detective Inspector Vogel wondered if the perpetrator had known where the CCTV cameras were positioned and had calculatedly avoided his violent crime being recorded.
Little attempt had been made at concealment. The wheelie bins provided only a partial screen. It was reasonable to assume that the body could not have remained unnoticed, had she lain there during daylight hours the previous day.
The girl had almost certainly been strangled. That seemed clear enough to Vogel before even a preliminary medical examination had been conducted.
The Detective Inspector stood looking down at the skinny little body lying before him. She was the same age as his own daughter. He already knew that she was fourteen.
Her tongue protruded from blackened lips showing the vestiges of vermillion lipstick. Her face was swollen and her neck bruised. Her unseeing eyes were wide open, their dead emptiness emphasised by the dark eyeliner that encircled them and the black fringe of lashes heavy with mascara.
There was dried blood on her face, spattered on her clothes, exposed flesh, on the raised step beneath her and over part of the cobbled street.
She looked only tragic now. And so very young. Vogel tried to imagine how she had been the previous evening. She would have appeared considerably older than her years, he thought, which no doubt had been her intention. She'd been wearing a sparkly black top over a denim micro-skirt, black lacy tights and silver shoes with platform soles and very high heels.
Vogel imagined her teetering off on those heels, excited, perhaps just a bit nervous, embarking on what was to be her last adventure.
Her mother had thought she was visiting a school friend for a homework-sharing evening. As time passed and her daughter did not return home, the anxious mother had telephoned the school friend, who'd confessed that she hadn't seen the girl at all.
The girl surely wasn't wearing the sort of clothes she would have chosen for an evening at home with a chum. She'd had some other plan. An arranged meeting more than likely. Perhaps with someone she had met on the internet, some pervert who had groomed her and persuaded her to meet him.
Vogel couldn't know that, of course. He was already aware that no computer had been found at her home. Neither her mother nor her husband, the girl's stepfather were computer people, apparently. That meant they might not be fully aware of the dangers vulnerable, young people faced from the internet, and the ease with which they could be tempted into high-risk and often out-of-character behaviour. The girl had a laptop, the mother had said, but she'd taken it with her, in the little, pink ruck sack that served as her schoolbag.
Now the rucksack lay on the ground a few feet away from her body. It had her name stencilled on it, at the centre of an elaborate doodle of vibrant, multicoloured butterflies. Mel Cooke. Short for Melanie. That was how the preliminary identification had been made so quickly.
Vogel glanced at his watch. It was 7.05 a.m. on an unseasonably cool, mid-May day. The second Friday of the month. He shivered in the chilly, early-morning air; though the heartbreaking sight of the dead body was probably the cause of that every bit as much as the cold.
His nose was beginning to run and he feared he might be about to have a sneezing fit; something to be avoided at a crime scene. After taking a couple of steps away from the body, he pulled down the zipper of his Tyvek suit (worn to protect the integrity of the scene) and reached into the pocket of his inadequate, corduroy jacket in search of a handkerchief. His fingers brushed against the envelope he had been carrying around with him for over a week. Even now, being reminded of its presence unsettled him. He couldn't just ignore it, but neither could he think about it at such a moment.
He turned his attention back to the dead girl. Even in the condition she was in he could see that she must have been exceptionally pretty. Her hair was only gently wavy but very black and her skin just dark enough to indicate that she was probably of mixed race.
He wondered if she would have been allowed to go out on a school night if it had not been for her homework sharing story. A lot of parents didn't insist on that sort of thing any more, of course. But as she had bothered to lie, the indication was that she might otherwise have been kept at home. Not for the first time Vogel reflected on the fine thread from which all human life was suspended.
He stepped carefully towards the pink rucksack. He thought the butterfly drawing was rather well done. Assuming that Mel Cooke herself was responsible for it, maybe she would have grown to be an artist of some kind, like Bristol's own Banksy, or another Tracey Emin. Banksy's influence was ever present in Bristol, where those seeking to emulate him plastered the city with graffiti, including on the walls of Stone Lane.
When confronted by murder victims, Vogel could rarely stop himself wondering about their lost lives. What the future may have held for them. What they may have become.
With the fingers of one gloved hand he unzipped the rucksack and peered inside. He could see no laptop, only what appeared to be a change of clothes. He called over a Crime Scene Investigator to empty the rucksack. It contained a pair of jeans, a tee-shirt and a sweater and a pair of trainers.
Vogel had half expected to find those clothes, or some that were similar. The girl's mother had given a description which indicated that when she'd left home she had not been wearing anything like the provocative outfit in which she'd been dressed when she met her death. He assumed that the skirt and the glitzy top and shoes had been in her rucksack ready for her to change into as soon as she got the chance. Her mother would have taken it for granted that the bag contained schoolbooks for her daughter's homework session. And her laptop, of course.
Would they never learn, Vogel wondered? He knew the answer, of course. At that age you didn't see danger. Only the thrill of a new experience. That was how it had always been. Vogel suspected that was how it always would be. Parents could make rules, the police and the media could issue warnings and publicise the dire consequences of rash behaviour. It made no difference, and it never would.
With a heavy heart he glanced back at the dead girl. It was such a damned waste.
Her top had been ripped open, exposing slightly paler skin and one, barely-formed breast. The little skirt had been pushed up around her waist. Her tights and panties, both black, had been torn from her. They lay in shreds alongside her body. Vogel wondered vaguely if the tights had been torn before the attack. He was an observant man. And, in any case, it was impossible not to notice the modern fashion for ripped clothing – jeans as well as tights – favoured by the young. Vogel did not find it attractive and was glad that his own daughter had not shown any tendency towards that particular fashion. Not yet anyway. But he supposed both Rosamund and this poor, dead girl would consider his attitude to be that of a boring, old fogey.
The girl had barely any pubic hair. Vogel blinked rapidly behind his thick, horn-rimmed spectacles. His hands were trembling and he was sweating now, even though the morning air was so cool. He had lost count of the number of murders he had investigated. It never got any easier. And this was a bad one.
Melanie Cooke was just a child to Vogel. He didn't want to look at that part of her. He felt like a voyeur. With the camouflage of her street-wise attire half removed, she was so very vulnerable.
Her thin legs were covered in scratches from her assailant's finger nails perhaps as he ripped at her clothing. But wouldn't he have worn gloves? Vogel wasn't sure. It would, he supposed, depend on whether or not the attack was premeditated.
Even if a meeting had been arranged with some pervert, even if Vogel was right about that, it did not mean the bastard had meant to kill. It did not even mean that he had meant to assault the girl. Men of that ilk often thought of themselves only as seducers; they believed they were capable of getting their way by persuasion. And sometimes they so captivated and confused their young victims that they were able to do just that.
Not in this case, though, that was clear.
SAUL
I wanted to get married. No, it was more than that. I needed to get married. I'd been married before. But that was when I was little more than a kid and it was just a distant hazy memory. I felt if I had a wife now, the right wife, that would solve everything.
I wanted the security of it. Somebody once wrote that marriage was the deep peace of the double bed after the hurly-burly of the chaise lounge. I'd never known peace. Not in my entire life. Surely I was entitled to some peace? Just like other people. That was all I wanted really, to be like other people.
But I couldn't quite trust myself, because I never knew when the demons were going to get hold of me. So I didn't feel able to court a woman in the normal way. Internet dating seemed to be the solution. I liked the anonymity. You can hold back as much of the truth about yourself as you like. Indeed, tell no truth at all, if you wish.
It wasn't that I was ashamed of myself, what I did, what I was. Far from it, really. But I wanted to be sure that I hadn't made some dreadful mistake, before I revealed too much about myself. There were things about me which were difficult to share. I wasn't a straightforward man. I had certain personal difficulties. I needed to protect myself.
And I wasn't just secretive. I was also shy.
I googled dating sites first, but most of them were not what I wanted at all. They were all about sex. Sex was incidental to me. I wanted a wife, one who had the same ideals and priorities that I had.
So I signed up to Marryme.com It was pretty easy. I just had to supply an email address, a picture and write something about myself. And pay a fee, of course. Photo-shop is a wonderful tool; I used a real picture of me and then doctored it. I changed my hair colour, gave myself tinted spectacles and some facial hair, altered the shape of my chin and nose – just a bit. The idea was that, if I ever got to meet a woman this way, she would be able to accept that the picture was one of me – with a different look. After all it's not just women who do different looks nowadays, is it? But if anyone who knew me happened to log onto the site and call up my details, they wouldn't recognise me at all. That was what I hoped for, anyway.
Then came the personal details and the message to prospective brides. Clearly the idea is that you should sell yourself or, at least, make an attempt to. I wasn't very good at that sort of thing. I might not be ashamed of myself, but I suppose I don't have very high self-esteem. So I'd tried to be brief and factual, whilst making it very clear how serious I was about the outcome of any internet-based liaison. After all, there was no point in not doing so, was there? I certainly wasn't seeking 'a bit of fun', as a lot of would-be internet daters seemed to call any kind of sexual encounter. Indeed, I had never been very good at 'fun'. The various sexual encounters I'd experienced over the years had, more than anything else, been stressful to me.
I suppose people might regard me as a dull sort of man. I'm certainly awkward socially, which doesn't help when you are trying to find yourself a wife. So there was no point in trying to portray myself as being a dashing, charismatic sort of chap. I could only hope that I might somehow come across a woman who was like me. She didn't have to be beautiful or clever or anything special. Just someone who wanted what I wanted.
'My name is Saul and I am a 33-year-old supply teacher,' I wrote. 'I live in a village near Swindon and I would like to meet a young woman of around my age whose intentions are as serious as mine. I can easily travel anywhere in that region or to London or the West of England. I want to share my life with someone. I want a family, so I'm looking for someone who would have a child with me. I don't care what that someone looks like, what she does or doesn't do for a living, or anything like that. I don't mind whether or not she already has a child or children. I just want someone to care for, who will care for me. I've never really had that, not as an adult. I want the same sort of marriage my parents had: long, loving and complete. But I never seem to meet anyone with the same values and ambition that I have. My interests are simple and quiet. I like to read and go to the cinema. If you are out there, please get in touch. I need you.'
It was true. I needed her. I really did. Even though I did not yet know who she was. In fact, there was a lot of truth in what I wrote for my profile on that website.
Not all of it, of course. But I was confident that, when I finally met my someone, she would understand my reluctance both to post an accurate photograph of myself and to plaster the intimate details of my personal life all over the net.
I would save that for the right person. For the one who would become my wife. Until then I would keep my secrets.
CHAPTER 2
Vogel was still standing, quietly looking at the sad scene before him, when the rest of his team began to arrive.
One high-heeled, silver shoe lay close to the body. Totally unsuitable footwear for a 14-year-old in any circumstances, Vogel thought. He knew his colleagues (and sometimes even his own wife) considered him old fashioned and behind the times, but he was too old and set in his ways to change now. In days gone by – before the age of political correctness – police, judges, and lawyers alike might well have referred to a victim, dressed up the way this one was, as having asked for it. Vogel would never even think that. He was a compassionate man. He felt deeply for the victims he encountered, sometimes rather too much. He just wished that young girls would think a little more about how they presented themselves and the effect that might have on the wrong sort of man. They shouldn't have to, of course, he didn't disagree with that. But there was no shortage of evil perverted bastards out there and this poor kid had been unlucky enough to meet up with one.
Vogel couldn't see the second shoe. The CSIs might find it. The girl could even be lying on it. It was also possible that her murderer had taken it as a souvenir, such things were not unusual.
'Morning boss.'
Vogel swung on his heels. DC Dawn Saslow, newly transferred from uniform, sounded as bright and cheery as she always did.
Vogel grunted.
Saslow's eyes dropped to the body at his feet. Her whole demeanour changed.
'Sorry boss,' she said, her voice quiet now.
Saslow, an attractive young woman, fresh-faced with shiny dark hair fashioned into a geometric bob, had already proven herself to be an officer with considerable promise.
'You've nothing to be sorry for,' said Vogel. 'Not yet anyway.'
The DC half smiled.
Not for the first time did Vogel wonder at the way they all behaved when confronted with such horrible sights. The coppers, the doctors, the CSI team. There was always banter. It was the only way they could get through it, he supposed.
Detective Sergeant John Willis was right behind Saslow, still fastening his protective polyethylene suit as he hurried towards the crime scene.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Deadly Dance"
by .
Copyright © 2017 Hilary Bonner.
Excerpted by permission of Severn House Publishers Limited.
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