be looking at recent unsolveds to see if there’s a similar signature.’
‘Then you don’t think this has anything to do with witchcraft?’
Carrigan stared hard at Karlson, not sure if he was taking the piss or not. As usual, the sergeant was immaculately dressed and groomed as if he’d just stepped out of a glossy men’s magazine. ‘Why do you say that?’
Karlson had been waiting for this, Carrigan could tell. ‘The mutilations, the missing heart, the fact she’s African—’
‘This isn’t witchcraft.’
The voice had come from somewhere at the back. Carrigan scanned the room until he spotted Miller, hunched down into her table, taking notes, a can of Coke obscuring her face. He hadn’t even noticed her come in, impressed at how well she’d been able to conceal herself. ‘Enlighten us, DS Miller.’
Karlson and one of the constables shared a joke, the kind of joke which has no words, only facial expressions and common prejudices. Geneva sat up in her chair, ignoring them, scanned her notes and took a sip of Coke, aware that everyone was watching her.
‘First of all, there’s almost no proven cases of African witchcraft in England. Not on this scale. Amulets, herbs and potions on sale in markets, yes. Murder, no. It’s too far-fetched, too small a possibility. Also, this is too messy.’
‘Too messy, DS Miller?’ Carrigan tried to keep his voice neutral but it wasn’t working; he could still remember his embarrassment in front of her at the morgue, his conversation with Branch that morning.
‘Yes,’ she answered. ‘In African ritual murder the perpetrator kills so he can use body parts or blood for his magic. He wouldn’t go for all this overkill. Certainly wouldn’t have raped her, which I’m sure diminishes whatever power they think the body parts hold.’
Carrigan nodded to himself, having come to the same conclusion. Witchcraft and ritual were a fool’s last hand hold when everything else fell through. He knew that people mostly killed for petty reasons: to protect their position, to avenge an imagined slight, for money or for sex.
‘What we should be concentrating on,’ Miller continued, finding her voice now, ‘is why he did the things he didn’t have to do.’
‘He didn’t have to kill her at all.’ Jennings tried to make a joke of it but no one laughed.
Miller sighed. ‘True, but not very useful.’ She checked to see if Carrigan was about to stop her but he seemed lost in thought, staring out of the window into the green sky. ‘He raped her and killed her. If we accept that this is a sex killing then we have to ask why the overkill? Why not just rape her and strangle her? The things he didn’t need to do but did – the bites, the physical assault, the missing heart – we have to ask why did he do those things specifically? What does it tell us about what kind of man this is? Did they have some symbolic value for him? Did something about Grace so enrage him that he felt he needed to kill her twice, three times?’
‘Very well put,’ Carrigan interrupted. ‘It bothers me too. Why beat her, bite her and then extract her heart?’ A hush descended over the gathered detectives. Outside the builders were laughing, joking, playing the radio. The music made Carrigan wince even though it was only a faint flutter of notes, barely audible. He thanked DS Miller, then pointed to the photos tacked up around the room. He waited until everyone had turned their heads and was staring at Grace Okello.
‘Whoever did this we need to catch quickly. This is the sort of thing you don’t do on impulse. This kind of slow and deliberate murder, the perpetrator’s been building up to it. Rape. Assault. He’ll probably have form. And even if this is his first time, he’ll do it again. That’s beyond doubt. This kind of thing doesn’t happen in isolation. You don’t rape, torture and kill a girl then go back to your wife and kids and ordinary life. There is no life after this but
‘Then you don’t think this has anything to do with witchcraft?’
Carrigan stared hard at Karlson, not sure if he was taking the piss or not. As usual, the sergeant was immaculately dressed and groomed as if he’d just stepped out of a glossy men’s magazine. ‘Why do you say that?’
Karlson had been waiting for this, Carrigan could tell. ‘The mutilations, the missing heart, the fact she’s African—’
‘This isn’t witchcraft.’
The voice had come from somewhere at the back. Carrigan scanned the room until he spotted Miller, hunched down into her table, taking notes, a can of Coke obscuring her face. He hadn’t even noticed her come in, impressed at how well she’d been able to conceal herself. ‘Enlighten us, DS Miller.’
Karlson and one of the constables shared a joke, the kind of joke which has no words, only facial expressions and common prejudices. Geneva sat up in her chair, ignoring them, scanned her notes and took a sip of Coke, aware that everyone was watching her.
‘First of all, there’s almost no proven cases of African witchcraft in England. Not on this scale. Amulets, herbs and potions on sale in markets, yes. Murder, no. It’s too far-fetched, too small a possibility. Also, this is too messy.’
‘Too messy, DS Miller?’ Carrigan tried to keep his voice neutral but it wasn’t working; he could still remember his embarrassment in front of her at the morgue, his conversation with Branch that morning.
‘Yes,’ she answered. ‘In African ritual murder the perpetrator kills so he can use body parts or blood for his magic. He wouldn’t go for all this overkill. Certainly wouldn’t have raped her, which I’m sure diminishes whatever power they think the body parts hold.’
Carrigan nodded to himself, having come to the same conclusion. Witchcraft and ritual were a fool’s last hand hold when everything else fell through. He knew that people mostly killed for petty reasons: to protect their position, to avenge an imagined slight, for money or for sex.
‘What we should be concentrating on,’ Miller continued, finding her voice now, ‘is why he did the things he didn’t have to do.’
‘He didn’t have to kill her at all.’ Jennings tried to make a joke of it but no one laughed.
Miller sighed. ‘True, but not very useful.’ She checked to see if Carrigan was about to stop her but he seemed lost in thought, staring out of the window into the green sky. ‘He raped her and killed her. If we accept that this is a sex killing then we have to ask why the overkill? Why not just rape her and strangle her? The things he didn’t need to do but did – the bites, the physical assault, the missing heart – we have to ask why did he do those things specifically? What does it tell us about what kind of man this is? Did they have some symbolic value for him? Did something about Grace so enrage him that he felt he needed to kill her twice, three times?’
‘Very well put,’ Carrigan interrupted. ‘It bothers me too. Why beat her, bite her and then extract her heart?’ A hush descended over the gathered detectives. Outside the builders were laughing, joking, playing the radio. The music made Carrigan wince even though it was only a faint flutter of notes, barely audible. He thanked DS Miller, then pointed to the photos tacked up around the room. He waited until everyone had turned their heads and was staring at Grace Okello.
‘Whoever did this we need to catch quickly. This is the sort of thing you don’t do on impulse. This kind of slow and deliberate murder, the perpetrator’s been building up to it. Rape. Assault. He’ll probably have form. And even if this is his first time, he’ll do it again. That’s beyond doubt. This kind of thing doesn’t happen in isolation. You don’t rape, torture and kill a girl then go back to your wife and kids and ordinary life. There is no life after this but
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