Chapter 4: It’s all rather sickening

The two halves of the victim lay on the pathologist's autopsy table. She was young, pretty and olive skinned. “How long has she been dead?” enquired the Inspector. I’d say no more than 24 hours. She was found where she was killed in a ruined church on the outskirts of Ardingly. Replied the police surgeon. “It’s about 3 miles north of here, Sir. The church’s nothing more than four walls – it’s been derelict for ages.” "Well, we now know what happened to the sword in the Hinkley case.” commented Dr Samuel Josephs. “It was used on her?" Asked Emily Fell. "Almost certainly" replied Samuel .”…With a single blow requiring considerable strength and skill." " So we're looking for Hinkley's killer and the murderer of Linda Parfitt?" Queried Michael Able. “I think that must be our working assumption. Like Hinkley and Parfitt our latest victim was manacled.” The pathologist added. “If so it’s worrying: an escalation in the ferocity of the attacks.” Michael Able looked over to where Emily was standing. His DC was trying to be brave, but he could see tears in her eyes. She wasn’t ready for this. “Are you alright Detective Constable? “Who could have done this Sir?” She was trembling…with anger. “What monster are we looking for. He’s got to be stopped now before he strikes again.” Her outburst, whilst unexpected was understandable, She’d simply felt and said what the other two couldn’t express openly. It wasn’t that they didn’t want to. They just couldn’t. “Yes, this is as bad as it gets.” Thought Michael. “All this gore, pain and sheer evil and it just rolls off my back.”

“What do we know about her?” he asked. “She’s Portuguese. SOCO found a clutch bag near her remains. In it was her EU passport. We also found a pay slip. She works.. worked..”The constable paused, to wipe away a tear. “I’m sorry Sir…She worked as a domestic help for an employment agency in Brighton called “Home from Home”.” ”Brave girl.” Thought the Inspector as Emily read out her notes. “Do we know anything about the company.” He asked. “I’ve looked them up on the internet. They seem to specialise in Spanish, Portuguese and South Americans. “Safira Chaves, that’s her name, worked as a domestic.” “O. K. we’ll need to follow up on the agency. Sam, what else can you tell us?" "It's in my report.” Replied Dr Josephs. “Like Hinckley and Parfitt she was manacled. I think she was tied down using them: stretched out and then sliced in two. She would have been conscious when that happened. Pretty gruesome." Both officers flinched at that. "Christ, what sort of monster are we looking for?" All three were silent: a pair of dissection scissors fell to the floor and rattled, reverberating through the room. "Shit!’ Exclaimed the DI as they leapt 6 inches off the ground.

The first thing that had to be done was to contact the Portuguese embassy to inform them of Safina death. Hopefully they would act quickly in conveying the tragic news to her parents before it was reported in the papers. After that DI Able contacted the employment agency in Brighton.

“Good morning, “Home from Home”, I’m Alda how can I help you.” The accent of the voice at the other end of the phone sounded Spanish, but the DI wouldn’t swear to it. After saying who he was and the reason for his call Alda passed him onto the owner Senora Alfaro. “Alda’s from Lisbon, she Portuguese not Spanish, but it’s difficult sometime to distinguish especially over the phone. How can I help you Detective Inspector Able?” “You have a Safira Chaves on your books?” “That’s right, I don’t need to check our database, she was in the office a couple of days ago.” I’m investigating her murder and I was hoping you could fill in some details about Safira.” “¡Válgame Dios! That’s impossible. We were talking just the other day she was telling me about her plans to visit her family in Sao Paulo.” She’s not Portuguese?” queried the Inspector. “No, she holds both Brazilian and Portuguese passports. It helps in getting work in Europe.” This news had given DI Able pause for thought. Two people murdered with connections to Sao Paulo – that was too much of a coincidence surely?

Senora Alfaro was very forthcoming. Safira had worked for her company for about 4 years: one of her best, hardworking, intelligent and a lovely nature. That’s why she was so popular with families in Brighton and Hove. She was going to work with a family in Hove for a month or two and then would take a break to visit her family in Jardim São Luiz. “That’s a district in Sao Paulo?” checked the DI. “That’s correct. It’s a rough place I understand. Safira was glad to get away from it. Gangs, drugs and corruption: whenever she mentioned the place those things came up. But that’s no surprise. Six years ago her elder brother and a couple of his friends were murdered: they were – decapitados.” Decapitated? Her brother was decapitated?” DI Able could not believe what he was hearing. “She wouldn’t talk about it much. She came here, partly to get away from the place but also to work to earn enough money so that her parents could move away. They had an apartment which they were planning to sell and together with the money Safira had saved move to a nicer district. That was what we talked about. She was really excited. Her parents were selling their property, and she and they were going to look for somewhere new.”

Before he rung off DI Able asked if the Senora knew of anyone who might have a grudge against Safira. She couldn’t think of anyone: although she recalled that Safira had mentioned that she’d been pestered by a young man. It was nothing serious: they’d dated a couple of times and she’d lost interest. He didn’t take no for an answer and had repeated phoned her. She’d blocked his calls and that was the last she heard of him. The Senora didn’t know his name but she thought he was either Portuguese or from Brazil.

Safira’s studio flat was a modest affair, on York Place, Brighton above a Portuguese cafe. Although the flat was on the main road out of the town it looked directly across at St Peter’s a Gothic Revival church by Charles Barry, built in the 1820s. Its size, grandeur and setting made for a stunning view from the flat’s lounge. There was little that was unusual about the flat, save for the religious iconography which covered every wall and flat surface. DC Fell wondered why, since Safira was clearly religious, no crucifix or anything like that was found at the crime scene. There were photographs of what Emily took to be friends and family in exotic venues stuck to the walls of her tiny bedroom. Safira clearly liked cooking. The gallery kitchen off the lounge was cluttered with pans and cooking utensils. The small row of cupboards above the work surface were full of spices and herbs, many of which the young DC had heard of but never tried. On the small kitchen table was a radio and a pile of unopened letters. Emily bagged them up along with a laptop computer which was half hidden under the bed.

There was a plate of half eaten cat food and a saucer of dried up milk. “She must have a cat or at least feed one”. Looking around Emily discovered further evidence of feline occupation, a couple of toys and a box of cat nip. “Who will look after the creature now?” and as that thought drifted across her mind the cat flap set into the kitchen window flapped noisily as a beautiful ginger cat announced their entrance with a loud mew. Emily rummaged around in a couple of draws under the work top and found a pouch of cat food which she presented on a plastic plate with two cat’s paws as decoration. She washed out a bowl, filled it with water and placed it next to the cat food. The cat wrapped its long white tipped tail around the constable’s legs and started purring. “What are we to do with you?” asked the DC.

In the café, one or two of the customers were drinking coffee and reading what Emily took to be Portuguese magazines and papers. “Excuse me, I hope you can help?” Emily went on to explain the purpose of her visit and Safira’s death. “We knew her very well, such a beautiful person; this is tragic. She would have her breakfast here every Sunday after she’d been to Mass. She was quite a religious young woman….But what about her beautiful ginger tom Horace? “ It turned out that the woman Emily was talking to was the café’s proprietor – she was called Ana. “We will look after him – he will miss her; she doted on him.” Emily wanted to know whether she had lots of friends. It turned out there was a small Portuguese community in Brighton and they were very close. Everyone knew everyone else and all their business. Safira was very popular, she played an active part in the life of the community and the local Catholic church. She was so looking forward to her trip back to Brazil in a month or two. “Oh her poor parents, they will be devastated. You know they were planning to move to a smarter part of Sao Paulo – that’s where she comes from – and Safira was helping them; she’d worked hard and saved so she could help her parents.”

After getting the address of the church Safira attended and the name of the priest she left York Place. The Parish Church of St Joseph’s and St Francis’s was a five minute drive from the café. Before setting off DC Fell phoned ahead and when she arrived at the imposing Victorian edifice, John Grahams, the parish priest directed her to the car park behind the church.

“We’ve a very close community here. We have a very efficient network. By now most of Safira’s friends will know of her death. I have already e-mailed her priest in Sao Paulo – her parents will need a great deal of support at this time.” Emily wondered what it was like to be wrapped in the warmth of a community. To be suffused by love and concern. She imagined gossamer threads weaving their way across the seas and oceans, as pain, love and caring spread along the inanimate cables and wires and sparked in far off places and hearts. This caring, this love, this sharing of grief contrasted so starkly with the moments of terrifying hopelessness and loneliness that Safira surely experienced as the blade came down and cut her in two.

Emily realised that the priest had been talking. “Safira is…was…no is a great source of hope. She has left us with a wonderful legacy. Her witness, her actions and her being are what our Lord has called us for.”

“Can you think of anyone who would want to kill her?” Emily thought that she’d asked a pretty dumb question. The priest’s reply therefore surprised her and set the investigation on a completely different trajectory.