by James Andrew
‘Musgrave will have a better story to write now that hand has turned up.’
‘That’s a point,’ Blades said. ‘I’ll have to give thought to the press release.’
But his mind was not on it yet. He reached for his Woodbines. It might take a whole packet to work out everything his mind was working on. He muttered. ‘After that conversation with the Roots,’ he said, ‘I was convinced Thomas did it.’
‘You think?’ Peacock asked.
‘Or not.’
Blades was aware of the disconsolate look there must be on his face but he did nothing to dismiss it, just lit the cigarette.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
When Blades came out of the police station, he was surrounded by a flash of camera bulbs, a flurry of reporters with notebooks and pencils raised, and a storm of discordant voices.
‘What can you tell us about the latest developments?’
‘How close are you to announcing an arrest?’
‘Do you have a confession?’
‘Have you proved it’s murder yet?’
‘Is it true Emma’s been found alive?’
Blades took a step back as he tried to take all of this in. He was surrounded by the faces of journalists of differing ages and body types. There were some who would never see fifty again, and others who looked as if they might not have started shaving yet. Some looked anything but physically fit, being rotund in body shape and sounding short in breath. Blades had often wondered at the lifestyle of reporters. He supposed they found themselves at desks a lot, and, at other times, in search of stories in the unhealthy environments of pubs, and places of entertainment from the dubious to the edifying. They must spend a lot of time hanging around waiting for stories outside police stations, in hospitals, at mortuaries, and sniffing round various scenes of mayhem and accident. What came across most clearly to him from this lot was the contradictory nature of the questions. These reporters didn’t even know whether it was murder, a missing persons case, or if Emma had returned. So, why the snap surge? As he scanned the crowd, he made out the face of Musgrave, and was glad to see him for the first time. He was familiar.
As Blades opened his mouth to speak, another camera bulb exploded next to his face and blinded him. He shook his head and waited for vision to return. Struggling to come to terms with all of this, he gave an automatic reaction. ‘There have been no developments,’ he said.
A voice shouted out, ‘We’ve been told different. What’s the breakthrough?’
‘Breakthrough?’ Blades said. ‘You tell me. I wish we’d had one.’
‘We know different,’ shouted out another voice. ‘Give.’
‘Why the total silence?’ another voice said. ‘Readers are entitled to know.’
‘Is it Root?’ shouted another. ‘We know you’ve been interviewing him.’
‘And we know Duggan’s been in the frame.’
‘And Russell Parkes.’
‘You’ve found the body? Is that it?’ came another voice.
‘Was it Emma Simpson’s?’ said another.
Blades supposed the only way to respond was to make use of the opportunity to bring them up to date. Though what was there to tell them? He and his men were still out there asking questions and wondering why they could not find answers. He was beating his head against a brick wall over and over again and the only thing he was discovering was that it hurt.
‘I’ll make a statement,’ he said.
‘About time,’ was shouted out.
‘Get started,’ another voice blurted out.
Blades was not accustomed to this. The reporters they usually saw in Birtleby were not quite this demanding.
‘We continue our search for a body,’ he said. ‘There’s enough evidence in the Roots’ house for us to assume death by foul play. We have interviewed everyone connected with Emma but have found no grounds to charge anyone as yet.’
‘Why have you dropped any investigation into Russell Parkes?’ a voice sang out.
‘What?’ Blades said. It was not the first time in this case that he had been surprised at the amount of knowledge held by a reporter, and this was particularly mystifying. There was no way Moffat had announced that publicly, he hadn’t, and he did not believe Peacock would have done. So, where had that information come from?’
Another question was shot at Blades. ‘Russell Parkes knew the victim and gave a false alibi for the time of her disappearance. Why isn’t he still an official suspect?’
Blades glowered in the direction of the questioner but knew better than to speak in anger.
‘No one has been officially pronounced a suspect or officially dismissed as one,’ he said in as neutral a tone as he could summon. ‘You mention Russell Parkes and I can confirm that he has been questioned, and, if further reasons to question him occur, he will be asked to co-operate with our inquiries again. But I wish to cast no slur upon anyone against whom we have no proof. When there are grounds to charge someone, that will be done.’ Blades hoped that was a clever answer. With any luck it would appease both the journalist and Russell Parkes’ uncle, and keep him on the right side of professionalism.
‘Why are we being warned against asking Russell Parkes questions but not Alfred Duggan or Thomas Root?’ the voice went on.
Why indeed, Blades thought, and who was doing the warning?
‘I doubt if that’s true.’ He was sure it sounded lame as he said it.
‘What’s the latest development we’ve been told of?’ another voice sounded out.
‘I don’t know who gave that information, but it wasn’t on my instructions,’ Blades said. ‘But I can tell you that bodily remains have turned up in the search area, namely, a human hand – and that of a young woman of about Emma’s age, but we’ve no evidence it belongs to Emma, though circumstances obviously suggest it.’
‘That’s what you’ve been keeping quiet about?’ said a voice.
‘That’s a major development,’ said another.
More camera bulbs flashed as questions rang out about the hand, not all of which Blades could decipher. In any case, what more details were there to give the press about that?
‘We would like to appeal as usual for witnesses to help the investigation move further forward. If anyone saw Emma recently in the company of someone else, in particular someone male, could they please get in touch? And, if anyone heard or saw anything unusual in the Root household or in its vicinity on or around Saturday the fifteenth, we would very much like to hear from them.’
Then Blades turned to leave. He hoped he had appeased them. They had a headline and a story, and perhaps Blades could get back to his job in peace. Peacock had the Ford pulled up outside the police station and Blades opened the door and stepped into it. At least no one was shouting anything at him anymore and they had not followed him. Then a head appeared beside the car window. It was Musgrave. Blades thought he had been unusually quiet during the reporters’ ruckus. What did Musgrave want?
‘You know, don’t you?’ Musgrave said, and his voice was low, almost a whisper.
‘Know what?’ Blades said.
‘A hundred yards away from where your search stopped, that’s all.’
‘What?’
‘You had to finish somewhere, I know, but it wasn’t that far from where you found the hand.’
Blades gave him a puzzled stare.
‘The rest of her. She’s all there.’
Blades opened his mouth, but no words came out. Even if that were true, how would Musgrave know about it?
‘The copse by the railway bridge. She’s in there.’
Then Musgrave turned and walked quickly away, leaving Blades staring after him. His investigation was being directed by someone else yet again, and if Musgrave was right, this was crucial.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
It looked as much of a fly-tip as a copse to Blades, who was looking at a couple of discarded prams, half a bike, several indeterminate heaps of scrap metal, and countless tins, f
ilthy rags, and scraps of newspaper, all tangled up with the long grass and bramble between the bedraggled birch trees. He and Peacock had gone straight to the area Musgrave had pointed them to. Musgrave had been right before, so Blades had brought constables with him, and he soon had them spread out, walking in as straight a line as they could manage, prodding with sticks.
It might not be raining but it was a grey day again, and Blades was in yet another depressed mood. What he was looking at was bad enough but what he hoped to find would be worse. He reflected again that it was the nature of his job that his triumphs were always tinged by the tragedy of the crime. Then a breeze blew up, sending a piece of newspaper flying. The air was cold to the skin, the light dull to the eye, and the ground squelched underfoot, evidence of the recent days of rain. Their investigation, like the weather, had penetrated the soul, and there was nothing to be done about that but trudge on and poke with his stick.
Their first find was an old case hidden under the brambles, which was difficult to haul out; it turned out to be empty, but Blades told Peacock to photograph it, and ordered a constable to carry it to the boot of the Ford. It might not yield anything but it ought to be examined. Had that been the find Musgrave had said with such certainty was waiting for them? If it was, Blades would have something to say to him. Blades and Peacock and the six constables trudged on, pulling at vegetation, and poking underneath. They worked in silence, each face a picture of concentration, as they made their progress forward. The undergrowth was thicker than Blades had realised, the copse larger, and the search was slow, but that did not deter them.
There was a shout from one of the constables, and Blades looked across at him. He was not a man Blades had much to do with before. He was a large-framed, cumbersome man with a saturnine face and Blades had no idea how reliable he was. The constable had overturned one of the prams which seemed to have been hiding something. Blades walked over to him, but saw nothing, just a heap of rags. He poked right through them with his stick but there was no sign of any flesh or bones, so there was no reason to suppose these rags had anything to do with the disappearance of Emma.
‘No,’ he said to the constable. ‘Well spotted, though. Keep it up.’
Blades returned to where he had been searching. The slow tramp forward continued for some time. Occasionally, something was turned up requiring further study by one of the others, but these objects also proved to be nothing and were tossed to the side as the search continued. Blades was coming to the conclusion this was another wild goose chase, and was silently cursing, when his eyes did alight on something as he pulled back an old, torn tarpaulin. That he was the one to find this was luck, but it still felt like a personal triumph. His eyes were gazing greedily on not one but two large, leather suitcases, both of which matched a description given by a witness. One case was half open and Blades could already see what it contained. He held up his arm and yelled. ‘Here. Over here.’ Then Peacock was beside him and without needing to be told, was taking careful photographs from a myriad of different angles.
Wrapped in different, bloodstained paper parcels, like so much butcher’s meat, was the flesh and bone of something, and, in the context, it was obvious these would be confirmed as human parts and, Blades was sure, the paltry remains of Emma Simpson. He poked at the grisly find, slowly, and with care. This would be etched in his memory, but that did not deter him. He hoped there would be clothing that could help identify the victim – or anything else that might do that. But he found nothing but blood, and flesh, and bone, and more blood.
He pushed that case to the side then had Peacock photograph the second case and dust it for prints as well, before he opened it, not that there would be any, he expected, after the rain there had been. Then Blades slipped back the catches and lifted up the lid. More body parts wrapped in bloody brown paper. Why had the murderer bothered to cover them like this? Possibly he had wanted to stop blood seeping out, which would have been awkward when he was carrying the case about. It did give Blades the revolting chore of separating paper from body part. Then he found it, what he had not expected to find though it had been what he had hoped for. This was it. The other hand. And on it. There. Yes. Just there. An unbelievable piece of carelessness from their careful murderer: shining clearly, even in this half-light, a silver ring. Perhaps the murderer had been far more upset by chopping up a body than he had expected. He must have been, to miss that. And this could tell them if this was Emma or not. Despite the blood and gore, despite the mud and the sting from where brambles had pulled at his skin, there was a smile on Blades’ face.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Blades was seated in front of Moffat’s desk again but this time he was repressing a grin. He wasn’t even struggling with the hard seat or the upright back but was seated in a relaxed position, leaning back, with his legs crossed and hands relaxed in his lap. Moffat was not at ease.
‘Russell Parkes?’ Moffat said. ‘I told you to stay away from him.’
‘I did, but proof turned up elsewhere. We found the body and we’ve found links to him. Why are we supposed to ignore that?’
Moffat gave Blades a sour stare but looked at a loss for words. Then he spoke as if the statement was being dragged from him physically and causing great pain. ‘Obviously, no one gets away with murder. But you have to be absolutely sure of your proof after the conversation that we had.’
‘Pressure was being put on you, sir, but, as you’ve just said, no one is above the law.’
‘And no one is above competent supervision.’ Moffat spoke quietly but with meaning.
‘As you say, sir.’
Blades waited for a lead from Moffat that would allow him to present his case, but Moffat looked as if he did not want to listen to anything. Moffat’s thumb was twisting itself into a hole in the desk in front of him, and Blades wondered if Moffat realised this.
‘Go on,’ Moffat said. ‘The conclusive proof.’
‘We were searching for the missing body parts.’
‘A search you were told to close down.’
‘We had, sir, but we had a tip off. They turned up a hundred yards away from where we’d finished searching in a copse by the railway bridge.’
‘And?’
‘There were two suitcases hidden there, with parts of a body wrapped in brown paper. One of the cases was half open, which was why some animal was able to drag out the first hand that we found. It only dragged it a few hundred yards away, as I say. If that.’
‘So, why hadn’t you found it before?’
Blades ignored that remark. ‘We’ve found it now,’ he replied. ‘The other hand had a ring on the index finger, a silver ring with a love-heart motif, which Emma’s parents have identified as belonging to Emma.’
For the first time, Moffat looked half-pleased.
‘So, we have proof of who the murder victim is. And the cause of death?’
‘The murderer hasn’t allowed us to establish that. Not all of the body’s there. Time of death does fit in with the day that Emma disappeared – as far as it can be established. In other words, there’s no reason to suppose it doesn’t.’
‘Can they even be as definite as that? The body’s dismembered.’
‘They say so.’
‘And the argument for it being murder?’
‘The fact the body was chopped up and disposed of suggests it.’
‘Everything else being equal, but all right, you can establish corpus delicti. But what makes you think the murderer was Russell Parkes?’
‘One of the suitcases is identical with one that we know he bought. We have a witness to that from a local store. Russell Parkes’ alibi for the time of Emma’s disappearance was a lie, and Russell initially lied about having any relationship with Emma, though we now know he had one.’
‘You have means? Opportunity? Motive?’
‘Means have not been established as we do not know exactly how Emma died, but he is physically capable of murdering Emma. There was a big difference
between them in terms of height and strength.’
‘Opportunity?’
‘He saw her regularly. She would certainly allow him entrance if he called, and he has no alibi.’
‘Motive?’
‘Perhaps if we ask him, he’ll tell us. He was in debt. She was about to come into money. There may have been arguments around that.’
‘Do you think your case is conclusive?’
‘The fact the suitcase was his clinches it.’
Moffat drummed his fingers. ‘This will make us unpopular in certain quarters,’ he said.
‘And even more unpopular in the press if we don’t act on it, sir.’
There was an indecisiveness on Moffat’s face that Blades had not seen before.
‘We have a witness who saw a man carrying those suitcases out of the Roots’ house,’ Blades insisted.
‘Wasn’t that the man with “funny eyes”?’ Moffat said. ‘Has Russell Parkes got those?’
‘You were right, sir, when you said he saw the man from too far away to make reliable comments about his eyes. Otherwise, his description does fit Russell Parkes. Perhaps if we did an identity parade with Russell Parkes in it instead of Duggan, he would be picked out. We haven’t done one of those.’
Moffat walked over to the window and looked out. It was a dull, uninteresting view of the street outside, and Blades wondered how that could be helpful at all, though probably Moffat wasn’t taking it in. Blades noticed that when Moffat next turned to Blades, his face had found its decisiveness.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘Get that parade done. And question him.’
CHAPTER FORTY
Blades and Peacock stood in Birtleby Police Station, awaiting another identity parade. Blades was happier about this one. The six ‘suspects’ were all of similar height, build, and age, and eyes were not a factor. The man seen with the suitcases from a distance had not been described as having a gold tooth, but Blades supposed Russell Parkes’ mouth might not have been open. The men stood looking bored if mildly apprehensive, except Parkes, who had adopted a careless attitude that to Blades made him look guilty. The apprentice butcher, Alan Atkinson, was led in and stared around him like a rabbit caught in headlights. Blades supposed this was a big occasion for him and wondered what his father had said prior to his turning up that day. Blades walked over to him and spoke. ‘Just relax,’ he said, ‘and be sure of what you’re doing. If you’re not sure, don’t make a positive identification. If you are, put your hand on the right shoulder of the man you’re identifying. Remember. It’s not you who’s on trial here. It’s them.’
