The Jigsaw Man (24 page)

‘Take, for example, a young woman who tends to be sexually provocative - not deliberately so, but unwittingly. She may draw sexual attention to herself due to her appearance and mannerisms. She may enjoy the feeling and when she walks past a strange man who takes an interest, she giggles and says, “Hello”. This has very different implications than if the same young woman tends to be self-effacing and tries not to attract attention to herself or make any contact.

‘Different women present different levels of vulnerability. Was Rachel a high-level risk victim or a low-level risk victim? If I know that, then I can begin to know how particular the killer was in choosing her.’

Bassett said, ‘We haven’t got all those answers.’

‘Then please send someone to talk to her family and friends - particularly her parents and her boyfriend. Be careful of their bias; they will have filtered out any negatives. I want to know everything about her, but in fine detail - that’s what makes the difference.’

Bassett said, ‘You list the questions, I’ll get the answers.’

Outside the heat shimmered off the concrete and asphalt. Pedestrians moved in slow motion amid the exhaust fumes and broken shade of shop awnings. The murder squad had provided me with a car and driver - a young detective who explained some of the local landmarks as we edged through the sluggish early afternoon traffic.

Pulling into the carpark beside the windmill made famous by Baden Powell, founder of the Boy Scouts, I gazed across the undulating fields and leafy woodland.

Mick Wickerson took the lead and, with my jacket slung across my shoulder, I followed him along a dirt path baked dry in the heat. On the morning of the murder it had been muddy. Shuffling down a slight rise, we crossed open ground where every clump and hollow had been searched by police.

As I entered the shade of an enclosed woodland glade, I immediately noticed a deliberate misdirection. Detectives had identified a false murder location about thirty metres from the real scene, in order to keep the media and mourners at bay. Apart from the floral wreaths and cards left at the base of a nearby tree, it looked like a perfect picnic spot, dappled by sunshine and fanned by a slight breeze.

The glade had the feel of a marquee in a garden, cool and enclosed, and was far more private and secluded than I expected after having seen the photographs. It could never be exactly the same as it was on the morning of the murder - undergrowth had been cleared, along with leaf-litter and foliage during the search. This, of course, made the crime scene photographs vital because they were the abiding record of the scene.

A grassy hummock that overlooked the area was closer than I imagined. I didn’t know if it was important, but it was definitely an ideal observation point where a person could sit, waiting and watching, as someone came down the path into the glade.

Mick Wickerson pointed things out to me, indicating where Alex’s t-shirt had been found and also the shoe-print. Several times I walked down to the stream where a man had been seen washing his hands. How soon did a person become lost in the trees, I thought, as I watched detectives moving through the glade.

I was looking for the various potentials of the place; where the trees and undergrowth provided cover or vantage points. Depending on the motivation - be it the most innocent courting couple seeking privacy, or voyeurism, stalking, rape or murder - I could understand to what extent it was a suitable venue or otherwise. What I couldn’t do - not yet, anyway - was to see it through the eyes of the killer and a terrified young woman about to die.

On the drive home I listened to the Radio 4 news which was dominated by Royal stories and the High Court libel trial involving journalist Jani Allan who was suing a TV station over claims that she had an affair with South Africa’s neo-Nazi leader Eugene Terre Blanche.

Rachel didn’t get mentioned. Her murder had been shunted to the back news pages, but not forgotten. Rarely has a crime generated so much publicity. A week before her murder, another young woman, Katie Ratcliffe, was stabbed to death in Hampshire. Two women, two stabbings - yet one captured the headlines and the other had barely been mentioned.

I could understand this. Rachel’s attack had happened in daylight, in a public place used by hundreds of women and children every day. The only witness was an innocent child who would probably carry the mental scars for ever. A less obvious, but potent influence was the televising of home-videos showing Rachel laughing, smiling and playing with her baby. She came to life in people’s awareness far more vividly than if her face had only appeared as a photograph in a newspaper.

Something else had elevated the murder above other crimes. It struck me the moment I heard where Rachel had died. Wimbledon Common has a special place in the minds and hearts of mothers and children. It’s the fictional home of the Wombles - those lovable creatures of storybooks and TV - who made the Common a magical place for thousands upon thousands of people, young and old. Rachel’s killer didn’t just slaughter a young mother, he destroyed for ever the home of the Wombles; he defiled a piece of all our childhoods.

I thought about little Alex. Although barely two years old, he wouldn’t suffer from total traumatic amnesia which would cloak his pain. He would remember his mother’s screams and the sudden silence, but whether he would ever be able to retrieve this fully and put it into words was entirely another matter. The danger in drawing it out of him was that it could do further damage to his fragile mind.

That fact that he hadn’t been killed or harmed was an important indicator. It demonstrated that Rachel had been the specific object of the attack.

Other questions plagued me, however. What on earth was the significance of the folded piece of paper on Rachel’s temple? Why was it placed there and by whom? Had Rachel brought it with her, or did the killer have it? Was it left as a calling card, or a jest, or as part of some ritualistic need? It didn’t, fit.

Yet the biggest unknown was whether we were dealing with a repeat killer who would strike again. The chances were high. Even without a detailed analysis, it didn’t look like a domestic murder dressed up, or an argument gone wrong, or a one-off episode caused by a psychotic disturbance that wouldn’t happen again.

Assuming the worst case scenario, we were dealing with a violent sexual psychopath. But what time cycle did he operate on, a year, a month, a day? The clock was running and we had to get to him before he got to someone else.

Until John Bassett could answer my questions about Rachel there was little I could do but wait. In the meantime, I had to give evidence in a High Court case where a young woman claimed that she’d suffered a series of sexual assaults at a hostel in Derby.

The hostel employee had been arrested, interviewed and charged, however his principal defence argument was that Josephine, aged twenty-two, wasn’t competent to give evidence before the court because she was severely handicapped and therefore no trial should take place. Her parents and the staff at the hostel were outraged - they couldn’t accept that because a young woman was mentally handicapped she had no rights to make an allegation that she’d been raped. They argued, that if this was the case, then it was virtually an open licence for anybody to sexually abuse the mentally handicapped knowing that the law couldn’t touch them. They even contacted their local MP Edwina Currie seeking help.

Eventually the police on behalf of the Crown Prosecution Service contacted me and asked me to examine Josephine so I could advise the court as to her competence or otherwise. I had to answer three questions: Could she distinguish right from wrong? Did she understand the concept of God, because she had to be invited to give an oath? And could she follow the process of a trial and instruct counsel?

My understanding was that if any of the answers were no, there could be no trial regardless of the evidence. But it wasn’t my job to find her competent; my role was to advise the court and to be totally objective regardless of the pressure from family and friends.

It proved a difficult case. For one thing, Josephine’s parents wished to support her during my examination, but that’s not the way I work. Similarly, with so much anger and outrage evident, there was a genuine risk that people would unwittingly contaminate Josephine’s knowledge of what might, or might not, have happened.

I sat down with Josephine, using a room at the hostel because the surroundings were familiar to her. She was fretful, sitting perched on the edge of an armchair with her hands fluttering like trapped birds.

‘I want my mother,’ she said tearfully.

‘She’s not gone far. She’ll be back in a little while. I just need to talk to you. I’m not going to hurt you.’

‘I didn’t do anything. I’ve done nothing wrong.’

‘I’m not saying you have; Josephine.’

She was anxious and defensive - common responses for people with learning difficulties when something around them is wrong. They feel they’re going to be blamed or criticized.

I needed to use focused patience with Josephine and to create a place where there was no sense of time. It didn’t matter that work was piling up on my desk; or the drains at home were blocked - the only thing that counted was this young woman who, in the scheme of things, had never rated as a high priority. Let’s face it, the alleged rape of a grossly handicapped twenty-two-year-old woman doesn’t make national headlines or the TV news. If she’d been the local beauty queen it would have been different.

Josephine’s handicap was such that I had to somehow construct verbal exchanges that were accessible to her. She had to be able to understand and cope. At the same time, my questions had to be entirely neutral in tone and suggestibility. I had to find the answers without contaminating her memory of events.

But most importantly, I needed to keep an open mind. Without it, I may as well not have been there.

When Josephine had relaxed a little, I began by trying to discover if she understood the concept of God. The questions had to be carefully framed. I couldn’t ask her, ‘Who is God?’ because that would have suggested that God is some sort of person.

‘Please tell me about God,’ I asked.

Josephine said, ‘God lives in Heaven.’

(So she knew it was a place and that God was a living being.)

‘Where is Heaven?’

‘It’s where you go when you die.’

‘Does everyone go to Heaven?’

‘My gran went to Heaven. She wasn’t bad.’

(The implication being that you can’t go to Heaven if you’re bad.)

‘How does God know if you should go to Heaven?’

‘He can always see you. He knows what you’re doing.’

(She had the notion of God being aware of what individuals are doing.)

‘Now Josephine, I have to tell the judge if you know what is right and what is wrong.’

There was a silence.

‘Tell me what doing something right is.’

‘I’m not naughty.’

‘What does someone do when they’re naughty?’

‘I’m not naughty.’

The questions were too abstract for her. She wasn’t capable of giving a definition of right and wrong. Gently, I began again, using examples.

‘Have you got a handbag?’

‘Yes.’

‘If you took it would that be wrong?’

‘That’s not wrong.’

‘What would happen if someone else took your handbag?’

‘Well that’s wrong. It’s mine. It’s wrong for them to take it.’

‘What would happen if you took someone else’s handbag?’

‘That’s wrong. That’s not mine. I’m not naughty, I didn’t take anybody’s handbag.’

It was clear that Josephine had a simple but real concept of right and wrong. It was also clear that she was extremely anxious and frightened of disapproval.

In the witness box at Queen Elizabeth II Law Courts in Birmingham, I told the judge and jury that Josephine could follow the trial but only if the court was willing to make allowances for her. Counsel must recognize her vulnerability and use tones of voice that didn’t increase her anxiety. Likewise, if they talked at normal speed with ordinary vocabulary, she would be lost. They had to slow it down and use simple words.

Josephine could be cross-examined, providing she wasn’t bullied or hectored. This didn’t mean that she couldn’t be challenged but if counsel used the sort of sniping approach applied to some witnesses, she wouldn’t be able to cope and could be emotionally damaged.

She had an adequate concept of God, I told them, but it wasn’t sophisticated. And she understood the importance of telling the truth, although her comprehension of right and wrong was based on concrete examples rather than abstract definitions. If the court insisted upon some higher criteria then she wasn’t competent.

The judge ruled in favour of the Crown, despite arguments from the defence. As a result of Josephine being deemed to be competent by the court, physical evidence was allowed to be introduced which included DNA tests that identified semen found in her room as belonging to the defendant. He was found guilty of sexual assault and sentenced to a long term of imprisonment.

When John Bassett called again, he had most of the answers I needed about Rachel. I jotted down notes and afterwards spent time examining photographs taken of her during a holiday at the seaside. She was laughing and tossing back her blond hair that had been caught by the wind.

There was no doubt that Rachel had a natural poise, self-confidence and charm. The camera liked her. She had been a part-time model, who loved sport and outdoor activities such as tennis, swimming and walking. Having dropped out of university before completing her degree, she then happily focused all her attention on her baby and her relationship with Andre Hanscombe.

They met while he was working as a lifeguard at Richmond swimming pool in southwest London and within months had fallen in love and moved into a flat together. A year later Alex was born. Andre, a talented semi-professional tennis player, became a motorcycle messenger to earn more money and support his new family.

Tall and elegant, Rachel was attractive but not provocative. She didn’t flaunt her beauty. Although she knew that she was compelling, I thought that she was possibly unaware of the full effect of her visual impact on other people. I don’t think I appreciated this at first. I saw her in death when her personality had been extinguished. Later, as I looked at the holiday snaps and home-video, I began to understand why others were so captivated by her.