confirming what the CCTV showed and nothing more.
He asked her if she recalled anything further that might be of use, but she said no.
The room Peters had used for his little liaison was unoccupied, so Henry asked for the key and went to visit it, even though he realized it wouldnât be of much use to him, other than to get a sense of a victimâs final hours.
There was nothing special about it. Just a basic, reasonably comfortable motel room, clear, functional.
Henry sighed as he looked around.
The room where Peters had fucked his mistress, then left alive, and never been seen breathing again â although someone would have seen him, not just the killer, because Peters had stepped out of the motel into a bustling Christmas Eve town. But no witnesses had been found, despite a flurry of press activity following the discovery of the body.
Henry left the room, handed the key back in and exited the motel onto Talbot Road, standing outside the front doors, trying to work out which direction Peters had taken. He had spun a line to his wife that he was out having a pint with a friend that night â a friend who had been tracked down and who denied having had any contact with Peters for over three months and had made no arrangements to meet him that night.
So, having had a shag, Peters left the hotel and was probably killing time before his return home. It was likely, Henry thought, that he would have headed to a town centre pub to have the said drink and ensure his breath reeked of beer.
Henry shivered as a blast of cold wind swept in from the very grey-looking Irish Sea, and seemed to wrap him in a shroud. He wondered if it was the ghost of the dead man, the one who had probably stood in this spot a year before, imploring Henry to catch his killer.
He also wondered if what he was doing was a complete waste of time.
Still, he went through the motions. He turned right and walked slowly towards the town centre, realizing the futility of his actions. Put simply, Peters could have gone in any direction and found a pub. He could have spent hours in one, or going from one to the next, to the next. There were a lot of hours to play with and no sightings to help pinpoint Petersâ movements.
Henry walked disconsolately through the streets, shivered again, then made his way back to his car, realizing a couple of things that should have been followed up at the time. First, it was unlikely that the killer was operating alone. From what Henry had seen of Peters in the footage and from post-mortem photographs, he was a biggish guy and for one person to have lifted him from the street was stretching it. He was already convinced that two or more offenders were involved â which gave Henry a bit of heart. Lone killers were notoriously difficult to catch, but more than one equalled weakness. The other thing that Henry wondered about was the name that Peters had used at the motel. Was there any significance in it, or was it just randomly plucked out of nowhere?
His mind swirled with all these thoughts, but he was enjoying the process. Back in the car, he called Jerry Tope.
âThis is one of the best Christmas Days Iâve ever had,â Tope whinged.
âIâm having a doody, too,â Henry assured him.
âYeah, yeah . . . sorry to hear about your mum, by the way. Rik told me.â
âThanks. You got anywhere yet?â
âNo . . . so far the overnight mispers arenât likely victims. Iâm just piecing together what we know about the actual victims. Nothingâs really jumping out yet.â
Henry asked Tope to consider his thoughts about Petersâ assumed name and the âmore than one killerâ scenario, and also asked him to do a national check for similar crimes â kidnaps, followed by bodies being shot and dumped and set on fire, particularly around Christmas time.
Then Henry called Rik Dean to check on his progress on the opposite side of the county.
He asked her if she recalled anything further that might be of use, but she said no.
The room Peters had used for his little liaison was unoccupied, so Henry asked for the key and went to visit it, even though he realized it wouldnât be of much use to him, other than to get a sense of a victimâs final hours.
There was nothing special about it. Just a basic, reasonably comfortable motel room, clear, functional.
Henry sighed as he looked around.
The room where Peters had fucked his mistress, then left alive, and never been seen breathing again â although someone would have seen him, not just the killer, because Peters had stepped out of the motel into a bustling Christmas Eve town. But no witnesses had been found, despite a flurry of press activity following the discovery of the body.
Henry left the room, handed the key back in and exited the motel onto Talbot Road, standing outside the front doors, trying to work out which direction Peters had taken. He had spun a line to his wife that he was out having a pint with a friend that night â a friend who had been tracked down and who denied having had any contact with Peters for over three months and had made no arrangements to meet him that night.
So, having had a shag, Peters left the hotel and was probably killing time before his return home. It was likely, Henry thought, that he would have headed to a town centre pub to have the said drink and ensure his breath reeked of beer.
Henry shivered as a blast of cold wind swept in from the very grey-looking Irish Sea, and seemed to wrap him in a shroud. He wondered if it was the ghost of the dead man, the one who had probably stood in this spot a year before, imploring Henry to catch his killer.
He also wondered if what he was doing was a complete waste of time.
Still, he went through the motions. He turned right and walked slowly towards the town centre, realizing the futility of his actions. Put simply, Peters could have gone in any direction and found a pub. He could have spent hours in one, or going from one to the next, to the next. There were a lot of hours to play with and no sightings to help pinpoint Petersâ movements.
Henry walked disconsolately through the streets, shivered again, then made his way back to his car, realizing a couple of things that should have been followed up at the time. First, it was unlikely that the killer was operating alone. From what Henry had seen of Peters in the footage and from post-mortem photographs, he was a biggish guy and for one person to have lifted him from the street was stretching it. He was already convinced that two or more offenders were involved â which gave Henry a bit of heart. Lone killers were notoriously difficult to catch, but more than one equalled weakness. The other thing that Henry wondered about was the name that Peters had used at the motel. Was there any significance in it, or was it just randomly plucked out of nowhere?
His mind swirled with all these thoughts, but he was enjoying the process. Back in the car, he called Jerry Tope.
âThis is one of the best Christmas Days Iâve ever had,â Tope whinged.
âIâm having a doody, too,â Henry assured him.
âYeah, yeah . . . sorry to hear about your mum, by the way. Rik told me.â
âThanks. You got anywhere yet?â
âNo . . . so far the overnight mispers arenât likely victims. Iâm just piecing together what we know about the actual victims. Nothingâs really jumping out yet.â
Henry asked Tope to consider his thoughts about Petersâ assumed name and the âmore than one killerâ scenario, and also asked him to do a national check for similar crimes â kidnaps, followed by bodies being shot and dumped and set on fire, particularly around Christmas time.
Then Henry called Rik Dean to check on his progress on the opposite side of the county.
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