by Ellis, Tim
It was twenty past eight when they arrived at Haystack Grove and parked up on the side of a dirt track.
The ground was still wet and muddy, so they swapped their shoes for wellies from the boot of the car, and followed the path into the wood.
They had to navigate their way through the press and a barrage of questions before they were beyond the crime scene tape and heading towards the forensic tent, which had been erected in a small clearing surrounded by small bushes and sycamore trees.
‘They listen at doors as well, you know,’ Parish said.
‘I was on my way to the toilet when I heard . . .’
‘The toilet is in the opposite direction.’
‘I turned right out of my bedroom instead of left. It was a simple mistake.’
‘You’re like one of those bungling burglars who’ve been caught on CCTV. Own up – you have no defence.’
‘I’m innocent of all charges. We should put the phone in my room, and then you’d have to listen at my door.’
‘So, you were listening at the door.’
‘I didn’t say anything of the sort.’
Outside the tent they wriggled into the paper suit, mask hat, gloves and boots.
‘Life is nothing but a competition to be the criminal rather than the victim, Toadstone.’
‘The philosopher and mathematician Bertrand Russell.’
‘I don’t know why you even bother anymore, Sir,’ Richards said. ‘Paul knows everything everybody has ever said in the history of the world.’
‘He’s fooling you, Richards. I throw a quote at him and he guesses. He’s been lucky so far and guessed right, but one of these days he’s going to guess wrong – you just wait and see. The law of probability is on my side.’
‘I don’t think so.’
Parish grunted. ‘Well, why are we standing here like petrified relics?’
‘We’ve only just found the grave, Sir.’
There was evidence that the ground had been turned over recently, but Toadstone’s people hadn’t even begun to expose what might be underneath.
‘How do you know this is a grave?’
‘Ground-penetrating radar – GPR for short.’
‘How did you get the funds . . . ?’
‘It’s on loan from the Archaeology Department at Essex University.’
‘And there’s a body down there?’
‘Yes.’
‘I don’t see any frenzied activity from your people.’
They moved outside to let the forensic officers gain access and begin the careful task of revealing what lay buried beneath the earth.
‘I could have had an extra hour or two in bed while you got yourself organised.’
Toadstone pushed his mask down and smiled. ‘Are you tired?’
‘You woke me up, Toadstone . . .’ He looked around. ‘Talking of which, where’s Doc Riley?’
‘On her way.’
‘I don’t suppose you called Doc Riley at three this morning, did you?’
‘I took your advice. I thought we’d find the body first, and then call everybody in.’
‘Except me. What possessed you to wake me up at that time of the morning?’
‘I thought it would interest you that I’d worked out what the clue meant.’
‘Well, you thought wrong. Next time you get an urge in the middle of the night, find a telephone box and call one of the numbers . . .’
‘Sir,’ Richards reprimanded him.
‘What do you know about numbers in telephone boxes, Richards?’
‘I’ve seen those cards: “Spanking fun with sexy 19 year-old”, “Erotic mistress: Come visit my pleasure dome” . . .’
They heard laughter from inside the tent.
‘Is there something funny going on in there?’ Parish asked.
There was no response, but the laughter stopped.
‘Stay out of those telephone boxes, Richards. People might get the wrong idea.’
‘You always have to twist everything . . .’
‘Let the dog see the rabbit,’ Doc Riley said, as she approached already dressed in a blue forensic jumpsuit and carrying her medical bag.
‘You’re hardly a dog,’ Parish said. ‘And we have no rabbit yet.’
‘No rabbit?’ She looked at Toadstone. ‘Why did you call me?’
Toadstone shuffled his feet in the leaves. ‘We have a rabbit . . . I mean a body. My officers are taking the top layer of earth off the grave as we speak. They’ll be about half an hour, that’s all.’
Doc Riley pulled a face. ‘Oh well, I suppose it’ll give me chance to have some breakfast.’
‘You’ve brought food and camping equipment with you?’ Parish ventured.
‘A van has just arrived. I happened to notice the menu on the side – sausage sarnies; bacon rolls; toast, ham and cheese toasties; egg and bacon muffins; crumpets; coffee and tea.’
Parish licked his lips. ‘Come on, Doc. I’ll let you buy me an egg and bacon muffin.’
She linked his arm and they headed off the way they’d come.
‘What about me?’ Richards called after him.
‘Listen outside the tent. Come and get me when a body is unearthed.’
‘I won’t forget this, you know.’
‘Good.’
Chapter Sixteen
Carrie hadn’t arrived by the time he reached his office.
After dropping off his briefcase he headed up to forensics, but Di Heffernan hadn’t arrived yet either. He thought she said eight o’clock, but maybe it was eight-thirty. He went back down to his office, made a coffee and signed the papers Carrie had put on his desk.
He decided not to torture himself any longer, and hefted the box onto his desk.
His mobile vibrated.
‘Kowalski.’
‘It’s Parish, Chief.’
‘What’s up?’
‘Keeping you in the loop. I’m in Haystack Grove off Cock Lane with Toadstone and Doc Riley. We’ve got another body.’
‘I hope Richards is there with you?’
‘She’s here.’
‘Good. That’s three bodies now . . .’
‘And I think there’ll be more. These women have been dead for some time, we’re simply following the clues and cleaning up the mess he leaves at the moment.’
‘No leads?’
‘Nothing yet. Maybe today we’ll get a break, but I’m not holding my breath. He seems to know what he’s doing.’
‘Okay, thanks for letting me know.’
‘Any closer to catching the Red Spider?’
‘I’m getting there. Unlike you, I have some leads.’
‘Well, good luck with those. Richards and I will come and brief you about three-thirty before the press briefing.’
‘See you then.’
He ended the call, put his mobile on the desk and opened the box.
Richards was right – the cardboard flaps kept closing and getting in the way. He took the roll of sticky tape out of his top drawer, folded the flaps back and taped them to the sides of the box. Now he had unrestricted access. He smiled and thought: Eat your heart out, Richards. Kowalski’s still got what it takes to solve complex problems.
Slowly, he began emptying the box and skimming the contents. He was surprised to find that Tom Elder had acquired most of what the task force had possessed. Including copies of the cards, the post mortem reports, witness statements and so on. Someone inside must have been supplying Elder with information.
It was looking bad for DCI Andrew Pearson. He didn’t really want to get into the politics of pointing the finger at a senior police officer, and the men and women under his command at the time, but it was becoming increasingly evident that the task force might have been harbouring the killer, or at least someone who was protecting the killer by manipulating evidence. He should have rung the Chief Constable to warn him, but William Orde (QPM) had been on the Red Spider task force. The case was transmogrifying into a disaster, which could escalate into a tsunami.
He wanted to finish emptying the box, but it was eight-thirty and Di Heffernan wouldn’t be too pleased if he kept her waiting after he’d asked for her help.
‘Good morning, Carrie.’
‘Good morning, Sir.’
‘I’ll be up in forensics for about an hour.’
‘Okay.’
‘Everything okay?’
‘Why wouldn’t it be?’
‘Just checking. I don’t suppose it’s much fun working for a boss who’s never here.’
‘Boss? Nobody said I had a boss. I thought I was in charge.’
‘Of course you are. My mistake. I get these delusions of grandeur sometimes. I’ve probably missed a tablet, or two.’
‘That’s all right. Don’t be gone too long now, will you?’
‘I’ll be back as soon as I can.’
He was a couple of minutes late and took the stairs two at a time. It was probably a bad idea, because when he opened the glass door into forensics he felt as though he’d just been racing Usain Bolt in the one hundred metres sprint and finished a poor second.
Di was standing at the counter tapping her fingers on the Formica top. ‘You’ve let yourself go, Chief Kowalski.’
It was true – he had. A couple of steps, and his heart was about to explode and splatter everyone and everything within a fifty metre radius in a goulash of blood and cardiac muscle.
‘I need to get back in the gym,’ he gasped.
‘Either that, or call the undertakers. If you’re interested, I have a friend who’ll make you look ten years younger when people line up to pay their respects.’
‘Very kind. Should we get on?’
She led him into her lab. All the evidence and samples were laid out on top of the work surfaces around the room. ‘Can I get you a coffee?’
‘No thanks,’ he said, sitting down on a stool before he collapsed in a heap on the floor.
‘A wise decision. Okay, you asked me to re-examine the evidence from the six Red Spider murders, which we’ve now done. Let’s talk about the DNA testing first. All these samples derive from a period prior to the establishment of the National DNA Database (NDNAD) in 1995, which is nine years after the last murder. As a consequence, we were only able to identify three matches, but don’t get too excited because they’re familial matches – relatives of the victims. There were no other matches on the database, I’m sorry to say.’
‘That’s disappointing.’
‘Well, there we have it. It’s supposed to be a national database, but out of a UK population of 63 million there are only six million profiles on that database, which is less than ten percent.’
‘Oh well, it was worth a try.’ He moved to stand up.
‘Going somewhere?’
‘Have we not finished?’
‘Not by a long chalk.’
‘Oh, all right.’ He sat back down.
‘Let’s move on to fingerprints – what a mess!’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The evidence has been compromised. I found over fifty sets of prints on the evidence and obtained twenty-seven matches on the database, but the matches are meaningless. The National Automated Fingerprint Identification System (NAFIS) was established by the Australians in 1986, but it was limited, and there weren’t many fingerprints on the database at that time. Most of the fingerprint-matching during the period of the Red Spider murders was carried out manually, which was hit and miss to say the least. What we’ve got now – IDENT1 – is a completely different system, and a million times better. Anyway, the upshot of all that is – we found no fingerprint matches that would stand up in a court of law.’
‘But . . .’
‘Don’t worry, I’ve included the list of twenty-seven matches in my report. As you would expect, they all belong to the officers who were on the task force at the time.’
‘Twenty-seven officers! Those were the good old days. You could throw people and money at a problem then. Now, of course, health and safety regulations and human rights laws prevent you from throwing people anywhere, and we haven’t got two ha’pennies to rub together – never mind throw at a problem. What a mess.’
‘Exactly. I’ve been through everything, and I can’t find one thing that might help you identify the killer.’
‘What about the photographs, card and lock of hair in the evidence bag?’
‘Do detectives ever wear gloves?’
‘It came in the post. I didn’t know it was going to be evidence in a murder inquiry when I opened the envelope, by which time . . .’
‘You’d touched everything, coughed all over it and generally destroyed anything of any value.’
‘Glad I could help.’
‘I’m sure. Anyway, the photographs – chemically-speaking – are from the 1980s, the red paint is similar to that used previously, and we found a DNA match from the hair with the last victim – Kim Jacobs.’
‘The Red Spider didn’t leave his name and address?’
‘Sorry.’
‘What about the messages?’
‘I have someone working on them.’
‘Any time frame?’
‘Of course – when they’ve finished.’
‘Thanks.’
‘No problem.’
‘I’ve got something else.’
‘I do have other work, Sir.’
He ignored her. The Red Spider case was work. It wasn’t as if he was trying to solve cold cases in his spare time and asking her for favours. This was an active investigation. If he’d had any detectives to allocate to the case, he would have done so. He passed her the post mortem reports and a copy of Sandy Paine’s email. ‘I asked Doc Paine to look over these reports. She found that Page 4 in each report wasn’t the original, and suggests that we compare the samples taken for toxicological analysis with the results report, and the list of items handed to the police with the crime scene reports, photographs, descriptions and so on.’
‘We?’
‘You. I’ll be more specific next time.’
‘Next time?’
‘There’s always a next time, Di.’
She examined the PM reports and compared the Page 4’s with the other pages. ‘Interesting. I think she might be right.’ She read Doc Paine’s email, and then peered at Kowalski. ‘You realise what she’s suggesting?’
‘Yes.’
‘And that’s why it was never solved?’
‘We don’t know that yet.’
‘What if “we” find something?’
‘I don’t know yet – it’s complicated.’
‘In what way?’
‘The Chief Constable was a member of the task force.’
She pulled a face. ‘Yes, that would make it complicated. Does he know “we’re” looking into this case again?’
‘Yes, but he doesn’t know what Sandy Paine found.’
‘So, you want me to keep my mouth shut about what might have happened back then?’
‘That goes without saying, but only if you want to keep your job. If you’re feeling particularly reckless, foolhardy and devil-may-care – well . . . there’s not a lot I can do about that.’
‘I see – a gagging clause without any of the fringe benefits?’
He slid off the stool and stood up. ‘The least I can do. I’ll wait for your call.’
‘Have a good day, Chief.’
‘And you Di.’
***
He’d gone into Shrub End Police Station early and acquired the services of Nancy Barth as soon as she came on shift.
‘You don’t mind?’ he had said to her.
‘Nah, it’ll get me out. I don’t get out much. The Sarge says I frighten the punters.’
‘Punters?’
‘Ya know, the general public.’
‘What made you join the police?’
‘What else was I gonna do with a face and a body like this? I wanted to be a wedding planner, but that was out of the question, so here I am.’
�
�And the boxing?’
‘It just came naturally. Someone saw me in the gym thumping a punch bag a couple of days after I’d joined, and one thing led to another. It’s a bit of extra money towards my mum’s care home costs. They arrange a fight every couple of months, I knock the bitches out, and they give me a thousand pounds take-home pay. What could be better?’
‘They?’
‘Well, the Sarge – he’s my manager.’
‘I see.’ The Sarge, and whoever else was in on the betting ring, must have been making money hand over fist. Shrub End was a cess pit. The sooner they closed it down the better.
He climbed out of the car, pressed the button on the intercom attached to the old brick wall on the right side of the electronic gates.
‘Yes.’
‘Detective Inspector Tom Dougall from Barking and Dagenham Police Station to see Colin Hargrave.’ He thrust his warrant card at the CCTV camera on a post beyond the wall.
The gates were unlocked electronically. He climbed back in his car and drove up the driveway to an impressive Tudor house with twin chimneys, hand-cut and uneven black-tarred external wooden beams, and limewashed wattle and daub.
‘Very nice if you can get it,’ Barth said, putting on her black fingerless leather gloves.
‘You understand why you’re here?’
‘Just ring the bell.’
He nodded.
They climbed out of the car and walked up the steps.
The right-hand door opened.
A man with a crew-cut, a neck like a side of beef, and wearing slacks and a jacket stood in the gap and ushered them inside.
The hallway was full of beams, sofas, arches, stairs and paintings with heavy gold-leaf frames. It looked more like an antique shop than a hallway.
‘This way,’ the man said.
He led them along the hallway, beneath a five-armed chandelier into a room with wooden panelling, Persian rugs on the floor, and a bookcase full of old books covering the whole right side of the room. He shut the door and then stood behind it like a doorstop.
‘Thank you, Arthur.’ Colin Hargrave was sitting at a heavy oak desk. His grey hair was combed back, he had heavy-set eyes and wore a white shirt with a black and red tie. He stood up, walked round the table and came towards them with an outstretched right hand. ‘A long way from home, Inspector.’
