by Ellis, Tim
Silent in the Grave
(Parish & Richards 12)
Tim Ellis
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Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2014 Timothy Stephen Ellis
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Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
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All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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Books written by Tim Ellis can be obtained either through the author’s official website: http://timellis.weebly.com/ at Smashwords.com or through online book retailers.
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To Pam, with love as always
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A big thank you to proofreader James Godber
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Let me not be ashamed, O LORD; for I have called upon thee: let the wicked be ashamed, and let them be silent in the grave.
Psalms 31:17
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Chapter One
Tuesday, May 24
Parish stared at the young woman’s bloated and discoloured body in the boot of the blue two year-old Volkswagon Polo.
‘You’re sure it’s her?’ he asked Doc Riley.
She nodded. ‘I’m sure.’
‘Jesus!’
He was well aware of how bodies decomposed through the combined processes of autolysis and putrefaction to produce the unmistakeable stench of decaying tissue. It was bad enough in the open air of the car park, but in an enclosed space such as a house – it could poleaxe an elephant.
Richards’ face turned a whiter shade of pale. Taking deep breaths, she moved away from the car.
‘Are you all right, Mary?’ Toadstone asked.
‘Yes . . . I’ll be okay in a minute, Paul. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to that smell.’
After the long weekend that had included Good Friday and Easter Monday, today was the beginning of a new day and a new life in which the past played no part. As far as he was concerned he was Jed Parish, had always been Jed Parish and would remain Jed Parish for the foreseeable future – everything else was pure fiction. The search for his past was at an end. Only the future existed now – a future with a family he loved and a job that gave him a million reasons to get up in the morning.
His arm – after being peppered with lead shot by the psychopathic Owen Daniels in Tilbury – was still a bit sore, but manageable with the odd painkiller here and there. He was also thankful that PCSO Michaela Mundy was off the critical list, that her inverted nipples had been corrected on the National Health Service, and that her dad was in a nursing home being looked after by professionals.
The hospital had removed the plastic boot from Richard’s ankle and given her the all-clear, so she wasn’t hobbling about like a liability anymore. Also, she was due to hand in her workbook on Monday, May 5, which showed clearly how she had achieved the National Occupational Standards (NOS) for investigators, and she was already bordering on crazy.
This morning had looked promising until the Chief ambled into the squad room with a face like a wet weekend. Of course, he wasn’t in the best of places at the moment anyway – Jerry was still on Foxglove Ward in King George’s Hospital in a drug-induced coma. The doctors were optimistic that her body would make a full recovery, but when it came to a prognosis of her mind they merely shrugged like pedlars of snake oil. Bert and Matilda had taken over the reins at the Kowalski household and were looking after him and the children at night, and keeping a vigil by Jerry’s bedside during the day.
‘Two uniformed officers have found Jade Williams in the boot of a car at the Marin supermarket on Conduit Lane,’ the Chief said. ‘Get over there.’
‘Us?’ Richards had asked.
Kowalski looked around the room as if some of his officers might be playing hide and seek with him. ‘Do you see any other detectives in here, Richards?’
‘Can’t the Chief Constable . . . ?’
‘You’d like him to transfer in a couple of officers from another police station that’s running on empty as well, so you can sit at your desk and watch the pigs fly by?’
‘Do you think he would?’
‘No.’
The case had belonged to Missing Persons, but now it belonged to him and Richards.
Seventeen year-old Jade Williams was a sixth-form student at the local secondary school. She had been reported missing three months ago – on the evening of Friday, January 24 – by her mother. There had been the usual frenzied searches with well-meaning volunteers and sniffer dogs, television appeals by the family and police, reconstructions of her journey home and so forth, but no clues had been unearthed – she had simply vanished on her way home from studying with a friend, and nobody had seen or heard a thing.
A fifty foot perimeter had been established around the Volkswagon Polo by uniformed officers wrapping yellow and black striped crime scene tape around lampposts. After checking and recording identities, they were letting in the car owners one at a time to collect their cars. The usual suspects were already in attendance – press by the cartload, rubberneckers hoping to get a glimpse of the rotting corpse, an ice cream van, a hot dog stand, a trailer selling jacket potatoes with a selection of fillings, and a bald-headed man in a short-sleeved shirt and tie who kept waving to get some attention.
Parish strolled over to where the man was hopping from one foot to the other. ‘Yes?’
‘Frank Fotheringale – I’m the manager.’
‘And?’
‘Can you tell me how long . . . ?’
‘I hope you’re not suggesting that we hurry things up so that you can have your car park back?’
‘This is a profit-making business, and I’m judged on . . .’
‘You’d better go back to your office and lock the door, Mr Fotheringale. Otherwise, the press might accidently discover what you’ve just asked me. How do you think that would affect your profits?’
He returned to the car.
Under the direction of Toadstone, forensic officers were erecting a tent, so that they could work unhindered from telescopic lenses and the news helicopter circling overhead. Bluebottles buzzed around the open boot, and maggots squirmed over the girl’s face banqueting on the decaying flesh.
‘How long has she been dead, Doc?’
‘Based on the decay, I’d say not long after she was abducted.’
‘Cause of death?’
‘You’ll have to wait until after the post mortem.’
The problem was the corpse had been wrapped from toes to neck with several layers of cling film like an Egyptian mummy. The body of the woman wasn’t visible. Doc Riley could have cut the film up the middle and examined the cadaver properly where it lay, but vital evidence might have been lost if she had.
‘I need to get her back to the mortuary. Come in tomorrow morning about ten o’clock, I should have more for you then.’
‘Is she like that under the cling film?’
‘The flesh and blow flies will have begun devouring the body from the inside out beneath the cling film. The outer layers of skin should still be intact.’
‘Thanks, Doc. You’re quiet, Richards.’
‘You know I hate child murders.’
‘She’s seventeen.’
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‘Still a child until the age of eighteen.’
‘Maybe you should hand in your resignation.’
‘Why would I do that?’
‘You’re twenty-two. Women of your age now have to work until they’re sixty-eight. That means, you still have forty-six years to work. What do you think the chances are of you not getting another child murder during those forty-six years?’
‘I could transfer to traffic.’
‘I’ll expect to see your transfer request on my desk in the morning. In the meantime, let’s go and annoy Toadstone.’
‘You have a concrete block where your heart should be.’
‘Have you been looking at my medical files again?’
‘Are you all right now, Mary?’ Toadstone asked.
‘Yes, I’m fine.’
‘I don’t know the key to success, but the key to failure is trying to please everybody.’
Toadstone’s eyes creased up above the paper mask that he was wearing. ‘Bill Cosby.’
Richards gave half a laugh. ‘You’re never going to beat him.’
‘Never is a long time, Richards. So, what have you got for us, Toadstone?’
‘The supermarket only retain CCTV recordings for one month, so at great personal expense I’ve been able to acquire them.’
‘Have you any idea how long the car has been here, Paul?’ Richards asked.
‘No, but the general consensus of my officers and Doctor Riley is that the girl’s body has been in the boot of the car for the three months she’s been missing.’
Richards screwed up her face. ‘No wonder the body smells the way it does.’
‘Registered owner?’ Parish asked.
‘It was reported missing by a Michael Fishlock two days before Jade Williams was abducted. He lives at 17 St Michael’s Road, Broxbourne.’
Richards wrote the details in her notebook.
‘Clothes, handbag, mobile phone?’
’We’ve found nothing. We’re still collecting evidence inside and outside the vehicle, so before you ask – the answer is no. I might have something for you tomorrow, maybe the next day or the day after that.’
‘Tomorrow morning at the latest, Toadstone. The family need answers – In fact, the whole world needs answers. If I don’t get those answers, guess who I’m going to point the finger at?’
‘You always blame me anyway, so I’m used to being the fall guy.’
‘On TV?’
‘You wouldn’t.’
‘Naming and shaming is the name of the game now, Toadstone. The public – and other interested parties – want to know who’s to blame, and I might have to sacrifice you to save myself and my family.’
‘Stop teasing him, Sir.’
‘Many a true word has been said in jest. You’ll be next after Toadstone, Richards.’
‘I’m used to you blaming me as well.’
‘Come on, let’s go and talk to the staff in the store, and then we’ll break the news to the family.’
She pulled a face. ‘That’s not going to be pleasant, is it?’
‘The worst part of our job, I’m afraid. Ring Inspector Threadneedle, and ask her to send a Victim Support Officer to meet us there in an hour.’
‘I’m sure you do it on purpose.’
‘Paranoia is a terrible affliction, Richards.’
***
‘It’s me.’
Holding the phone to her ear, Xena grimaced as she pushed herself up the bed with the other hand. ‘Hello, Sme. I thought you were flying to the Maldives yesterday morning.’
‘Ah!’
She wiped the dribble from the corner of her mouth with the top of the bed sheet – she’d dozed off again. ‘You’re not lying on the beach in the Maldives?’
‘I’m in prison.’
‘I didn’t know they offered prisons as holiday destinations. I suppose if anybody was going to choose to spend a couple of weeks in a prison for their holidays it would be you, bonehead. How does Jennifer like being in a prison?’
‘Jen’s not here.’
‘You’ve gone on holiday without the love of your life?’
‘I’m in prison.’
‘I think we’ve already established that. What’s the food like?’
‘Awful.’
‘What’s a prison in the Maldives like?’
‘I’m in England.’
‘Really?’
‘HMP Chelmsford.’
‘I knew Her Majesty was down to her last hundred million, but I didn’t realise things were that bad. They say that austerity is the mother of invention.’
‘Chief Inspector Ezra Pine and his three cronies were released from here on Sunday morning. Somebody shot them.’
‘And it was you?’
‘No it wasn’t me.’
‘Then why are you in prison?’
‘They found the murder weapon and other incriminating evidence in my house.’
‘Hang on, Stickamundo – let’s backtrack a few days, shall we? Didn’t you say you were resigning from your position in the police force?’
‘Well, yes . . .’
‘Have you actually handed in your resignation?’
‘Well, yes . . .’
‘So you’re not actually a police officer anymore?’
‘Well . . .’
‘In fact, you’re no longer my partner either, are you?’
‘Well . . .’
‘I recall you making it quite clear that you wanted nothing more to do with me.’
‘It wasn’t like . . .’
‘So, I’m under no obligation to help you?’
‘But . . .’
‘But what, Stick?’
‘But we’re friends.’
‘We were work colleagues – that’s all. You never invited me round for a meal, we never went fishing together, we . . .’
‘So, you’re not going to help me?’
‘I didn’t say that, but trying to prove someone is innocent goes against the grain. I’ll have to bring all of my significant expertise and experience to bear – it’s going to cost you.’
‘You’re going to charge me?’
‘I’m going to take you to the cleaners, Stickleback. If you want the best, you have to pay for her. Also . . .’
‘What?’
‘You have to withdraw your resignation.’
‘But . . .’
‘I’m not going to bring all my significant expertise and experience to bear if I’m not going to keep my partner.’
There was a long silence.
‘Well?’
‘All right.’
‘All right what?’
‘All right I’ll withdraw my resignation.’
‘Three hundred pounds a day plus expenses.’
‘What expenses?’
‘Unreasonable ones. You could get someone else if you’re not happy with my schedule of charges. I’m sure they have a copy of the Yellow Pages in Her Majesty’s Prisons.’
‘I can’t believe . . .’
‘I can’t believe you resigned after all I did for you.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘So you should be, but I’ll expect to hear that apology many more times, and with a lot more feeling, if I’m to believe you actually mean it.’
‘What now?’
‘Have you got yourself a solicitor?’
‘Yes – Charlie Baxter.’
‘Never heard of him. Now is not the time to be a cheapskate.’
‘He came to see me on Sunday afternoon. He said he helped the Chief and his wife to get their children back.’
‘I remember.’
‘And the Chief’s wife also works for him.’
‘When she’s not fighting for her life in the psychiatric ward here.’
‘Of course.’
‘Get him to come and see me this afternoon with all the details.’
‘It looks bad, doesn’t it?’
‘Who’s in charge of the case?’
�
��DI Nathan Banister from Southend.’
‘Southend?’
‘They’re a unitary authority and not part of Essex, which means they should be independent.’
‘Okay, and just to put my mind at rest – you haven’t confessed to anything yet, have you?’
‘I’m glad you’re feeling better.’
‘I’ll begin feeling better when I see the money flowing from your bank account into mine.’
‘Also . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘There’s a man in here who says he’s innocent.’
She laughed. ‘Everybody in prison is innocent. They should lock you up . . . Oh! They already have.’
***
After putting a pair of disposable vinyl gloves on Kowalski examined the three photographs, the photocopy of a student identity card and the lock of blonde hair spread out on his desk, and phoned Chief Constable William Orde, Queen’s Police Medal (QPM).
‘Good morning, Sir.’
‘Hello, Ray. I was glad to hear about Jerry – I hope she comes out of the coma soon, and I’m pleased you’re back at work.’
‘Thanks, Sir. Although, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.’
He heard the Chief Constable sigh. ‘You want more time off?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘Go on.’
‘I have one operational murder team – Parish and Richards. DI Blake is in hospital and DS Gilbert has gone on holiday. Jerry’s lying in a coma in the hospital, and I can’t concentrate on pushing paper round my desk. I need to be active, to do something to take my mind off Jerry.’
‘You’re paid to push paper round a desk now, Ray.’
‘I know, but I’d like to take on a case.’
