by Tim Ellis
***
1037 hours
The snow was becoming heavier.
He jinked through the lights at the Griffin pub on his left as he turned right into Finney Lane, and drove through Heald Green onto Simonsway. As far as he could hear or see, there were no planes landing or taking off from Manchester Airport, and he wondered if there were thousands of passengers circling in holding patterns above him, or if the planes had been diverted to Liverpool John Lennon, Blackpool or Birmingham.
Colin and Mary Crumpsall lived at 97 Merridew Road in Wythenshawe with their three children – Tammy, Pansy and Billy.
Tamsin Oakley was waiting for him at the crime scene tape. She looked as though she’d just had a hot toddy and a Christmas Day fry-up with all the festive trimmings while she’d been waiting for him to arrive.
He could only imagine that scientists must have perfected the teleportation method of travel while he wasn’t looking, and that she had an advance copy of the hardware. How had she got here before him? He hadn’t stopped, taken a long-cut, a detour or been diverted – it was spooky.
‘I thought you weren’t coming, Inspector.’
‘You need to be careful, Oakley. You don’t want to use up all your thought allocation before the end of the day – what would you do then?’
‘I’d use yours. You rarely use your allocation.’
She had an answer for everything.
After struggling into a paper suit he was directed into the lounge.
‘And you are?’ he said to the forensic officer waiting for him.
‘Natasha Denby, Sir.’
‘Have we met?’
‘I’m new. I wasn’t due to start until after the holidays.’
‘Welcome to the inhospitable wastelands of Manchester, Denby.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Well?’
The evidence bags were lined up on the sofa.
‘A male torso and right thigh, and a female right ear, upper right arm and lower right leg.’
‘Is anybody keeping count?’
‘We all are, Sir.’ She passed him a drawing of two partially constructed human bodies.
‘Mmmm! We’re not there yet, are we?’
‘No. We think probably another two or three families.’
‘Two or three? That’s depressing. Do the tags have names on them?’
‘Yes.’
‘Any distinguishing marks?’
‘Yes.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘Yes?’
She moved the male torso, so that he could see a very colourful tattoo, which covered most of the back. ‘Tlaloc – the Aztec god of rain, fertility and water.’
‘It’s interesting how you and Wong both know the names of the Aztec gods.’
‘I sent her a picture and she told me who it was.’
‘Does it have . . . ?’
She produced two Polaroid photographs. ‘The tattoo, and the same artist’s signature as the other tattoo.’
‘You’ve done this before, haven’t you, Denby?’
‘Lisa Wong told me what you’d expect.’
‘I see.’ He examined the signature. ‘Do you think the tattoos were done here in England?’
‘I don’t know anything about tattoos, Sir. Lisa Wong seems to think they might have been done in Hong Kong.’
‘Why?’
She shrugged. ‘You’d have to ask her.’
‘Okay, good. Access?’
‘He entered through the back door into the kitchen using a key.’
‘Anything else?’
‘A half-eaten mince pie, and the sherry has been drunk.’
‘I’m surprised he wasn’t stopped for drunk-driving in the night. The family?’
‘Back room, Sir.’
‘Thanks, Denby.’
He wandered through into the back room.
‘Detective Inspector Dark,’ he said, and handed a card to Mr Crumpsall – a man in his late thirties with short brown hair and a stubbly beard.
He took the card and said, ‘Can you tell us when we can have our house back?’
Dark pulled a sympathetic face. ‘Forensics will be here most of the day, I’m afraid. Have you got somewhere else you can go?’
His wife began crying.
Even without make-up she was pretty with bobbed blonde hair and her appearance gave him the impression that she regularly went running, or worked out in the gym.
‘It’s all right, mummy,’ the youngest of the two girls said, and then began crying herself.
A baby, wedged in at the end of the sofa, that he hadn’t noticed before also began crying.
‘Now see what you’ve done,’ Mary Crumpsall aimed at him.
He was used to being unpopular, but it was hardly his fault the baby was crying.
‘Look after Billy,’ she said to the young girl. ‘I’ll have to warm his bottle up now.’
Dark was surprised at how slim Mrs Crumpsall looked when she stood up. She was wearing tight faded jeans, slippers and a short-sleeved white angora top that revealed her flat midriff. There was no evidence that she’d recently had a baby.
He didn’t see any point in asking the same questions that Lake would ask when she arrived. ‘My assistant – Detective Constable Lake – will be here shortly to ask you some questions,’ he said through the noise of the crying baby. ‘I don’t know if you know, but another three families have had similar unwanted Christmas presents.’
‘No, we didn’t know that.’
‘We’re trying to find a connection between the four families. What work do you do?’
‘I’m an x-ray technician at Withington Community Hospital.’
‘And your wife?’
‘She’s a nurse. She works part-time at the local GP Surgery.’
‘That must be difficult with a new baby.’
‘At the moment she’s on adoption leave.’
‘I didn’t know there was such a thing.’
‘Yes. We adopted Billy three months ago. Mary is entitled to 52 weeks leave, of which 39 are paid leave.’
‘Whatever next?’
‘We had two girls, but we wanted a boy. Unfortunately, Mary had to have a hysterectomy after she had Pansy, so we decided to adopt.’
All very interesting, but it wasn’t getting him any closer to solving the mystery. ‘He gained access to your house through the back door using a key. I’d like you to give some thought to how someone could have obtained a copy of that key.’
Mary came back shaking a baby’s bottle. ‘He had a key?’
He nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘How is that possible?’
‘That’s what we need to find out.’
She rounded on her husband. ‘Have you given that slut you’ve been shagging a key to our house?’
‘Mary! Not in front of the children. And I’ve told you . . . it’s over – you know that.’
‘So you say, but I don’t know anything anymore. Get out, I don’t want to look at you.’
His phone vibrated.
Saved by the bell, he thought. He accepted the call. ‘One moment.’ To the Crumpsall’s he said, ‘I have to leave now, but DC Lake will be here soon.’
He wandered outside and stood in the freezing cold.
‘Dark.’
‘How’s it going, Inspector?’
‘Hello, Chief. I suppose you know we’ve now got body parts at four houses?’
‘Yes. Any suspects?’
‘Not yet.’ He told the Chief what they’d found out so far.
‘And your new partnership with DC Lake?’
‘Has she rung you?’ He didn’t want to get caught in the act of lying through his teeth if she’d complained about him to the Chief.
‘No. Why? Should I expect a call?’
‘Who knows? You know what new detectives are like. It’s probably the first time she’s had to work for a living.’
‘So, you’re making her life impossible?’
‘I would say difficult.�
�
‘I’ll leave it with you then, Dark. But you should know that if she goes, you go.’
‘Me? With my years of experience? My clear-up rate? My ability to . . . ?’
‘You’ve probably failed to notice, but I’m the person who’s in charge now. I’m new, I have to stamp my authority on the Division. I’ve made a decision by allocating you a partner – a Christmas present if you will. Now, if you were to make life so difficult for that partner that she begged me to re-assign her . . . Well, you can imagine how that would look – not just to me, but to other people as well. It would be like you were sticking two fingers up at me. I would be forced to act. And as they say: No good deed goes unpunished. So, as much as I’d hate to lose such a valuable member of the team . . . Are we clear, Dark?’
‘Crystal, Sir.’
‘I look forward to getting your report, Inspector.’
The call ended.
Shit!
He was deep in thought as he trudged through the swirling snow back to his car, and didn’t hear someone creep up behind him and tap him on the shoulder.
‘Hello.’
He jumped. ‘Are you trying to kill me?’
A pretty young woman with glitter and tinsel in her hair said, ‘No.’
‘What do you want?’
‘We saw him, you know.’
‘Saw who?’
‘Santa.’
‘I’m very pleased for you.’
‘No, last night. He was coming out of number 97.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘And you saw him?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can you describe him?’
‘Well, he had a red suit on . . .’
‘Other than the obvious.’
‘Not really. We were a bit . . . you know . . .’
‘. . . Worse for wear?’
‘Yes.’
‘You say “We”, who was with you?’
‘Harry . . . Harry Pointer – he’s my boyfriend. I’m Diane Morris. I live at number 119.’
‘Do you think Harry . . . ?’
‘No, he was in a worse condition than me. He’s still in bed snoring away.’
‘Okay, thanks . . .’
‘But I remember his car.’
‘Santa’s?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re sure it wasn’t a sleigh with a couple o reindeers?’
Diane giggled. ‘No, it was definitely a car.’
‘What do you remember about it?’
‘I remember that it was red. It was parked under that street light.’ She pointed to a lamppost not far along the road from the Crumpsall’s house. ‘I also remember that the first four characters of the number plate were MK69.’
‘You don’t remember the last three characters, do you?’
‘Isn’t four better than three?’
‘Sadly – no. “M” means that it was registered in Manchester. “K” does help a little – it means that the local registration office was Knutsford. “69” means that the car was registered in the second half of 2009. So, we’re looking for a red four year-old car with a Knutsford number plate.’
‘There’s no helping some people.’
‘The last three characters identify the car.’
‘Sorry.’
‘No apology necessary. Thank you for coming forward with the information. We’re always extremely grateful when the public assist us with our enquiries.’
‘Do I get a reward?’
‘No.’ He signalled for one of the male uniformed officers – who was guarding the crime scene tape – to come over.
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Can you take this lady’s statement, please. There’s also a man asleep at number 119 who needs to provide a statement as well. Apparently, they saw Santa and his car.’
‘Will do, Sir.’
Diane Morris stroked the Constable’s arm. ‘Mmmm! You’re a big policeman.’
The officer winked at Dark. ‘We aim to please, Madam. Would you like to sit in the back of my police car while I take your statement?’
‘Okay, officer.’
***
1209 hours
‘Lake.’
‘Where are you?’
‘At the Crumpsall house in Wythenshawe.’
‘Meet me in the White Hart on the High Street in Cheadle.’
‘Why?’
‘I need to talk to you.’
‘About?’
‘About the case.’
‘What about the case?’
‘I’m beginning to wish I hadn’t bothered ringing. Are you coming, or not?’
‘I’m not buying you lunch.’
‘I’ll pay for lunch.’
‘I’m not having sex with you either.’
‘You have a warped mind. Are you this suspicious with everybody?’
‘Only you.’
‘How long are you going to be?’
‘Twenty minutes.’
‘Don’t be late.’
He ended the call and took a swallow of his lager. What choice did he have? He’d already lost a wife, two children and a partner. Losing his job was not really an option. He’d be completely bereft without his job. He hated change. Everyone knew he worked alone. The Chief was flexing his muscles, seeing how far he could push him. He guessed the Chief could push him as far as Land’s End and back again. What could he do about it? Nothing! Maybe it was time to move on with his life, time to forget about what had happened to Cavendish, time to forget about his wife and children.
‘It’s noisy in here,’ he said to the barman
‘Something to do with it being Christmas, I guess,’ the barman replied. He was at least a hundred years younger than Dark, had a stretched thin face, and wore his hair long at the front so that it obscured his eyes and he was continually fingering it to the side. ‘Would you like another drink, Sir?’
‘Where’s the menu?’
‘It’s a Christmas menu.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Turkey and all the trimmings, Christmas pudding with brandy sauce, maybe some mince pies if the staff haven’t eaten them all. We even throw in a party hat and a cracker.’
‘Is that it?’
‘It’s a bargain at fourteen ninety-five per person.’
‘I don’t want Christmas dinner.’
‘What can I say, Sir? It’s Christmas Day.’
Someone was shaking his leg.
He looked down to see a boy with long blond curls dressed in a festive jumper and trousers. ‘Yes?’
‘Are you Santa?’
‘No. I’m looking for Santa myself.’
‘If you find him . . .’
‘. . . . I’ll be sure to point him in your direction.’
A woman arrived and took hold of the boy’s hand. ‘Stop wandering off, Tommy.’ She glanced at Dark. ‘Sorry.’
He shrugged. ‘He thought I was Santa.’
‘Santa is dressed in red and white, Tommy – not black.’ She began dragging him away. ‘And what have I told you about talking to strangers . . . ?’
When he looked up he saw Oakley sitting in a booth with two men.
She smiled and waved at him.
He’d have to get a restraining order. How the hell had she found out he was here?
‘Would you like another drink, Sir?’ the barman asked again.
He swallowed the dregs and pushed the half-pint glass across the bar. ‘Make it half-lemonade.’
‘That’s a bit adventurous of you, Sir.’
‘Don’t think I’m paying extra for the sarcasm.’
‘It’s free at Christmas.’
Lake arrived.
‘It’s a bit noisy in here,’ she said, screwing up her face.
‘The barman reckons it’s something to do with Christmas.’
‘Yeah, could be.’
‘Do you want a drink?’
‘A diet coke.’
He turned round to order.
The barman said, ‘I heard, Sir. Someone
else living on the edge.’
‘Have you got a menu?’ Lake directed at the barman.
‘As I said to your grandfather . . .’
Lake glanced at Dark and smiled. ‘What’s he talking about?’
‘Ignore him. He thinks he’s funny. We have a choice of Christmas dinner with all the trimmings.’
‘Is that it?’
The barman passed their drinks over. ‘Seeing as it’s Christmas, I suppose the chef could rustle up a plate of sandwiches.’
‘Turkey and stuffing?’ Dark asked.
‘Of course, Sir.’
‘With cranberry jelly,’ Lake said.
‘I’ll see if we stock exotic fruits, madam.’
‘Do you want to sit here or get a table?’ he asked her.
She looked around. ‘Isn’t there somewhere quieter?’
‘We could sit in the beer garden.’
‘In the snow?’
‘We’ll just stay here then, shall we?’
‘Okay.’ She took her jacket off and put it on the barstool next to her. ‘Well, why am I here?’
‘Tell me what you’ve found out.’
‘I haven’t found out anything. None of the families know each other and their lives don’t converge.’ She leaned over and pulled a notebook from her jacket pocket. ‘I covered everything – work, finances, bank, savings, doctors, dentists, therapists, hospital departments, illnesses, childhood, shopping, schools, universities, dry-cleaners, where their children went to school, where they got married, holidays . . . everything. I didn’t find one area where any of the families overlapped.’
‘Then we’re missing something.’
‘You’re blaming me?’
‘I’m not blaming anybody.’
‘Why not?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘This morning I was the devil’s mistress. Now, here we are having lunch together. What’s changed?’
The barman put two plates of turkey and stuffing sandwiches in front of them with a few cocktail sausages on the side, together with a small pot of cranberry jelly and a teaspoon. ‘Merry Christmas,’ he said.
Dark’s brow furrowed. ‘I hope you haven’t charged us extra for the malnourished sausages.’
‘Our gift to you at this joyous time of the year, Sir.’
He moved along the bar to annoy another customer.
‘I could go back to being Scrooge if you want me to, Lake?’
