The Scent of Death

Nineteen

Plot reminder: As Jennifer is preparing for a romantic dinner with Ben, he texts her the news that the police have made an arrest. For non British readers, the two serial killers mentioned in the first paragraph are perhaps the most notorious in late-20th century UK case history.

*

The arrested man's name was William Frankens, an unmarried 52-year-old dairy farmer from the village of Longthorpe, just south of Woodbridge. If nobody beyond what one imagined was a very limited circle of associates had heard of him before, few citizens of the county would now forget the man's name in a hurry. He was our very own Ian Brady, Wynmouthshire's Fred West.

I made sure I was punctual to tune in to the local TV bulletin that evening, needless to say. Wilkins' expression as he delivered the official press statement was for the sake of the bereaved families feigned at respectful sombreness, but with each successive word you could sense the stuggle he was having to keep the edges of his lips from rising into a self-satisfied smirk. This was his moment of glory, a swift and succesful resolution to the highest profile case of his career, and oh boy was he going to revel in it. With a level of self-awareness more fitting of some superficial media star rather than an officer of the law, he addressed himself not towards the assembled journalists before him - Ben included - but directly to the viewers at home.

Success had been based on thorough and methodical investigation, he was quick to inform everyone. Firstly, a shortlist of suspects had been drawn up based on a series of key distinguishing elements. Though he didn't go into specifics, one imagined these included posession of a white van and a private, secluded living space. CID officers from every jurisdiction across the county had subsequently been involved in initial investigations. Those handful of individuals who had not been struck from the suspects' list had then been subject to covert observation, Frankens amongst them.

Indeed, it had been a detective constable positioned on a hill overlooking the dairy farm who'd witnessed the damning scene. It had been the previous Saturday evening - shortly after the regional bulletin in which Wilkins' had made public his belief that the culprit possessed a white Ford Transit van -  that the detective had spied through his binoculars the sight of Frankens amblng back and forth from the milking shed with various objects in his hands, items which he'd then tossed into a pile and set alight. Though blurred, several of the long distance shots the DC had taken included what had looked suspiciously like items of girls' school clothing.

It had been enough to gain a search warrant and to haul Frankens into Woodbridge station for official questioning. Whilst he was in the interrogation room, forensic officers had matched trace DNA located in a corner of the milking shed to both Meghan Shaw and Rebecca Shaw. As such, Frankens had had little option other than to make a full confession.

It was Ben's own voice which could at this point be heard off-camera.

"Inspector, did the culprit also confess to any involvement in the murder of Kayleigh Harrison?"

At which point Wilkins was no longer able to resist a triumphant smirk.

"No, he did not. That is a case I have always considered closed and my conviction in this regard is now stronger than ever,"

Kayleigh. It seemed he'd won that one too.

*

Candlelight. Best plates and cutlery. Acoustic chill mix on the stereo. Dudley too occupied with the cowhide bone I'd given him to be an annoying distraction.

If you ignored the quality of food, everything was just perfect...

It was with poorly disguised trepidation that Ben cut into his Dover sole, raised his fork to mouth.