Хилари Боннер - Deadly Dance

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.

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.