The Cutter - It started as an obsession with hacking hair from women's heads. It ended with murder. Michael Litchfield

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      For those left behind – innocent victims of fate with an unimaginable cross to bear for the rest of their lives.

       ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

      First and foremost, I owe a debt of gratitude to the unrivalled professionalism of Editor-in-Chief Michelle Signore, whose dedication to detail and eagle-eyed scrutiny underpinned this tricky and highly complex project throughout the entire production process.

      My thanks also go to the Daily Echo, Bournemouth reporting team, led by Andy Martin, who generously shared information that had been harvested remorselessly over nine years of an international police investigation.

      Finally, a big thank you to those investigators, who must remain anonymous, who cheerfully offered guidance, whenever legally and operationally possible.

       PUBLISHER’S NOTE

      In June 2011, Danilo Restivo was found guilty of the murder of Heather Barnett at Winchester Crown Court. Following the conviction, the CPS issued a statement. The following is an extract from that statement: ‘The jury also heard evidence that Danilo Restivo was responsible for the murder of Elisa Claps in Italy. There were striking similarities between the two murders. It is important to say, however, that the jury was not asked to decide whether or not Danilo Restivo murdered Elisa Claps and he awaits his trial in Italy for that.’

      CONTENTS

      Title Page

      Dedication

      Acknowledgements

      1 SHATTERED LIVES

      2 JIGSAW STARTS TO PUZZLE

      3 RULES OF ENGAGEMENT

      4 SOFTLY, SOFTLY …

      5 EVIDENCE FROM ITALY

      6 WHERE ANGELS FEAR TO TREAD

      7 FAMILY TIES

      8 THE VANISHING

      9 FAINT HOPE AND WORST FEARS

      10 THE SPARK OF AN OBSESSION

      11 CUT AND RUN

      12 STAB IN THE DARK

      13 UNDER THE MICROSCOPE

      14 ENDGAME

      15 NAIL IN THE COFFIN

      16 CLOSING THE NET

      17 OUT OF THEIR MINDS

      18 TRIED AND TESTED

      19 THE UNMASKING OF A KILLER

      Plates

      Copyright

       – 1 –

       SHATTERED LIVES

      Most people feel safe in their homes; Heather Barnett and her two children most certainly did – a fatal mistake for which there would be no second chance.

      Heather, at the age of 48, had built up a reputation as a skilled seamstress. Self-employed, there was no shortage of work. People from all over the county of Dorset came to her with sewing jobs – from repairing curtains and shortening trousers to making dresses for weddings and other special occasions. She was a consummate professional with a keen eye for detail and an artistic temperament; a perfectionist in all that she undertook, but especially as a mother.

      As you would expect, her home in Capstone Road, Bournemouth, was always tidy and cosy. She had made most of the curtains, cushions, tablecloths and furniture covers – also many of her daughter’s clothes. Her children – Terry, aged 14, and Caitlin, three years younger than her brother, though equally mature intellectually – were always smartly turned out; they were Heather’s pride and joy. Any patching of their clothes was cleverly camouflaged. The children’s friends often asked Heather to mend their frayed jackets or snagged leggings and she always obliged smilingly. Being a caring mother and a friend to her children and their companions was more important to her than anything else.

      Most days she would be fielding phone calls incessantly from regular customers and others who had just heard about her services. Increasingly important to her as a single mother, her cottage industry flourished on the most effective form of advertising – word of mouth.

      Tuesday, 12 November 2002 dawned overcast and chilly. Bleak winter was in the air, even in Bournemouth, a coastal town renowned for its relatively mild climate. The weekday morning ritual was in full swing by 8.00am in the Barnett household: territorial fights over the bathroom, squabbles over countless petty issues, the usual brother versus sister friction, and breakfast on the run. A peck on the cheek for mum and jaunty waves as Heather dropped off the children at Summerbee School in Mallard Road at just after 8.30am.

      ‘Be careful,’ said Heather, as her children scrambled from the car. How ironic that her last words to her children were a caution to them.

      Bournemouth was a busy town, with rush-hour gridlock to match any city. Commuters battling against the clock made roads hazardous, especially on a wet morning like that Tuesday. The pavements were scarcely any safer, having been turned into rat-runs by cyclists seeking refuge from aggressively-driven vehicles. A CCTV camera, attached to the Richmond Arms pub in Charminster Road, filmed Heather’s white Fiat Punto turning into Capstone Road at 8.37am.

      Heather had a daily routine. As soon as her children were at school, she would sit in the kitchen at home with a cup of tea, possibly nibbling a round of toast as she listed her schedule for the day in order of priority. There were costumes to be made for other children’s Christmas concerts and school plays; although not desperately urgent, she preferred to keep ahead of the game, if possible, rather than having to play catch-up, which was always stressful. Self-discipline was one of her business strengths.

      There was already more than enough stress in her life with the demands of bringing up two children alone on limited resources. Not that Heather was a person to complain. She was more than happy with her lifestyle and considered herself fortunate to have such well-balanced and responsible children. She was optimistic about their future. She talked with motherly pride to friends and neighbours about Terry and Caitlin, especially with reference to their progress at school and how, despite difficult times ahead for job-seekers, she was convinced her children would be trailblazers in whatever careers they chose. In many respects, she was a mum on a mission.

      Although the family did not want for anything, Heather, just like any other single parent, needed to keep a watchful eye on the budget. Any sudden, unexpected, sizeable expense was capable of knocking their economy off kilter. Nevertheless, the future looked rosy that November morning, despite the swiftly gathering clouds.

      Commissions were coming in and Heather had even begun to plan for a bumper Christmas. She had already started a provisional list of Christmas presents to buy – mainly for her children. She liked to be organised; it was good for business, demonstrating to customers that she was professional and no dilettante. It also boosted her confidence, making her feel in control of her own destiny – the kind of fool’s paradise we all cocoon ourselves in, though few of us, fortunately, pay so dearly for our one-dimensional faith in self-determination.

      After breakfast, she took a few phone calls but did not make any. The only call made that day from Heather’s landline was at 5.53am that morning. Heather had been an early riser all her adult life and was a great believer in hitting every day on the run. She was very much a morning person, so typical of people born