A Time to Kill (P&R14)

by Tim Ellis

  ‘Yes, but does the bus stay there to rust and decay?’

  ‘No, it goes out on another journey.’

  ‘And that’s what I’m saying. You’re nearly at the end of one journey.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘I’d be confident in letting you out on your own.’

  Her eyes opened wide. ‘On my own?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No, I’m not ready yet.’

  ‘Nearly.’

  ‘No, don’t be ridiculous. It’ll be years before you should think about letting me out on my own.’

  ‘Six months at the most.’

  ‘I won’t go. You can’t make me.’

  ‘I thought you wanted to do things on your own.’

  ‘Only because you wouldn’t let me. But if you’re now saying that I can go out on my own, then I don’t want to go.’

  ‘What type of logic is that?’

  ‘Women’s logic.’

  ‘One day, you’ll come to me and tell me that you’re ready.’

  ‘That day is a long way off. I’m happy doing what I’m doing. And anyway, somebody has to look after you in your old age.’

  ‘Very kind.’

  ‘It’s the least I can do after all you’ve done for me.’

  ***

  The press were waiting for them outside the main door of the hospital.

  ‘Did you tell them we were here?’ Xena said.

  ‘Is that likely?’

  ‘Anything’s likely with you, Stickleback. Were they here when you came out to get the evidence bag?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How did they find out?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘Maybe we have a leak.’

  Stick’s forehead creased up. ‘Well, if it’s not me, the leak must be you.’

  ‘Inspector Blake,’ a ginger-haired woman with a plague of freckles said. ‘Can you tell us what’s happening?’

  ‘Don’t you know what’s happening?’

  ‘We know that you and DS Gilbert wouldn’t be here unless something was happening.’

  ‘So, you’re on a fishing expedition?’

  A man at the back said, ‘We’ve heard rumours about a woman that was brought into the A&E early this morning.’

  ‘Rumours! And now you expect me to flesh out those rumours for you?’

  ‘She doesn’t know anything,’ a middle-aged woman with red-rimmed glasses on said.

  ‘Ah, reverse psychology. I love it when you talk backwards to me. Yes, you’re right, I know absolutely nothing. DS Gilbert will vouch for that.’ She turned to stare at him. ‘Won’t you, DS Gilbert?’

  Stick nodded. ‘You know I never lie. Believe me – she knows nothing.’

  ‘What about you, DS Gilbert?’ someone else called.

  Xena laughed. ‘He knows even less than I do. We’re going to go now, but if you were to mosey along to the police station at around nine o-clock tomorrow morning, we’ll see what we can rustle up for you. Y’all have a nice day, now.’

  They barged through the scrimmage, and made their way to the car.

  ‘Do you think they believed me?’ Stick said.

  ‘Even I believed you.’

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘You tell me. I know nothing, remember.’

  ‘Do you think it’s someone she knows – like a relative, or an ex-boyfriend?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘We have nothing then, do we?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Should we go back to the station?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He started the engine. ‘What are you thinking?’

  ‘Who said I was thinking anything?’

  ‘Do you believe her?’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Well, she could have been in on Robert Vines’ murder and mutilation,’ he said as he pulled out of the car park onto Barley Lane and headed towards the A12.

  ‘Do you actually know anything about people?’

  ‘If you’re asking – I guess not.’

  ‘You saw her. Did she look as though she was acting?’

  ‘I’m meant to say no now, aren’t I?’

  ‘You’re a numpty.’

  When they arrived back at the station they found an empty incident room, which just happened to be the incident room that Parish and Richards usually acquired.

  ‘We should use the other room,’ Stick said.

  ‘No.’

  ‘I can’t relax when I’m in this room.’

  ‘These rooms are not allocated rooms. If one is free, it means anybody can use it.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘You’re a numbskull. Go and make the coffees while I stay here and stake our claim.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘And bring back a plateful of biscuits as well. Preferably chocolate ones with cherries on top, maybe banana-flavoured with a side-order of double-whipped cream and chopped almonds.’

  Stick wandered out.

  She began making notes on the whiteboard, but there weren’t many notes to make.

  Chief Kowalski opened the door. ‘I was at a loose end, so I thought I’d wander round the place and see who was taking money under false pretences, Blake.’

  ‘Money!’ Xena laughed like a Santa who’d had three too many glasses of sherry. ‘I couldn’t even play a game of Monopoly with what they pay me, Chief.’

  ‘Well, it’s a good job we don’t pay you to play Monopoly then, isn’t it? How’s the case going?’

  ‘Oh, hello, Sir,’ Stick said as he came in with a tray of two mugs of coffee and a plate of plain digestive biscuits.

  The Chief helped himself to a coffee and one of the biscuits from the tray. ‘Thanks, Gilbert,’

  ‘You’re welcome, Sir.’

  Xena took the other mug of coffee. ‘What happened to my special order of chocolate biscuits with double-whipped cream?’

  ‘I couldn’t get any.’

  ‘I’d like to know exactly what you’re good at, Stickynuts.’

  ‘Not a lot now you come to mention it.’

  ‘So, tell me about the case, Blake.’

  She told the Chief what Giselle Hamill had told them, and about their visit to the crime scene.

  The Chief thought for a moment and then said, ‘You’ve arrested her?’

  ‘We will as soon as the hospital releases her into our custody,’ Xena replied..

  ‘Mmmm! It sounds as though she’s a victim in much the same as Vines, but we’ll let the CPS decide whether to charge her with murder or not. What about the man in the hood?’

  ‘Nothing, Sir. Forensics are searching for the knife, the wrist restraint, the panties and the garrotte, but we’re not hopeful.’

  ‘You think he’s taken the panties with him?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘I agree. I don’t suppose the forensic analysis of the crime scene has come back yet?’

  ‘No, Sir.’

  ‘Post mortem?’

  ‘Tomorrow at two.’

  ‘Not that anything they find during the PM will help you.’

  ‘No, Sir.’

  ‘You’ve got nothing, have you?’

  ‘I was hoping you wouldn’t notice.’

  Stick cleared his throat. ‘I was going to interrogate the database, Sir.’

  ‘Only thing you can do, but I’m sure that if someone was going round cutting off a man’s . . . family jewels, so to speak – we would have heard about it long ago.’

  ‘Yes, Sir. Although, I was thinking that the crime was very organised, and maybe he’d done some practice runs.’

  ‘Worth a try, I suppose. Good thinking, Gilbert.’

  Stick smiled. ‘Thank you, Chief.’

  ‘It’s not as if he’s a murderer either – he forced the woman to kill the man for him. I expect the best the CPS could charge him with would be voluntary manslaughter. Although a causal link and intent might be established. You’ve got a strange one here, Blake.’

  ‘Which I’m sur
e you’ll take into consideration when you’re writing my annual appraisal.’

  ‘You know where my office is if you need any more help.’

  ‘Very kind, Sir.’

  The Chief finished off Stick’s coffee and left.

  ‘Good thinking, Gilbert,’ Xena mimicked. ‘Ooh! Thank you, Chief. You’re my favourite Chief. Can I lick your arse clean, Chief?’

  ‘You can be really childish sometimes.’

  Chapter Six

  Richards knocked on the Chief’s door.

  Parish gave a weak smile to the woman – Lydia O’Brien – sitting in the chair that Carrie used to sit in. He couldn’t wrap his head around the idea of Carrie not being there. Especially as it was probably his fault.

  ‘Come,’ the Chief called.

  They went in.

  The Chief stood up, grabbed the coffee mug off his desk and moved to one of the easy chairs. ‘I was wondering when you two would get here.’

  ‘Wonder no more, Chief,’ Richards said. ‘Here we are in the flesh.’

  Kowalski’s eyes narrowed. ‘Flesh, Richards? You do know I’ve got a dickey ticker, don’t you? As much as I’d like to see more of your young flesh, I’m afraid that my doctor has advised me of the consequences should I make any detours from the path of celibacy.’

  ‘You don’t know what you’re missing, Sir.’

  ‘Oh, I think I have a good idea.’

  Parish helped himself to a mug of coffee. ‘Stop teasing the Chief, Richards.’

  ‘So, what’s happening with you two?’

  Parish began. ‘We have a dead woman – Catrina Golding – who was twenty-five years old and sixteen weeks pregnant. She was strangled and possibly sexually assaulted last Saturday – August 2. There’s a nosy neighbour who says she knows nothing, but actually knows a hell of a lot for somebody who knows nothing. She’s provided us with a vague description of a person of interest leaving Golding’s apartment on Saturday afternoon. The victim also seemed to be leading a double life. Apparently, she had two boyfriends that we know of. We’ve interviewed the one her parents knew about, but we haven’t seen the secret one yet . . .’

  ‘The father of the baby?’ the Chief asked.

  ‘I’m organising paternity DNA tests, but Jimmy Landers – the official boyfriend – says he knew nothing about the second boyfriend, and he seemed quite shocked and genuine when we asked him about it. He was obviously keen to know if he was the father of the baby as well.’

  ‘I can imagine.’

  ‘Also, according to the neighbour, she was active on a variety of networking sites, so Toadstone’s people are providing us with a report on her internet and phone activities.’ He took a swallow of coffee. ‘And that’s it. Early days, but no real suspects, no concrete leads and no obvious motive.’

  ‘You’re quiet, Richards.’

  ‘Mmmm.’

  The Chief glanced at Parish. ‘She thinks it’s a serial killer, doesn’t she?’

  ‘Don’t even go there, Chief. Just ignore her. I’ve told her that there’s absolutely no evidence to suggest Catrina Golding was the victim of a serial killer.’

  Richards mumbled into her coffee. ‘The jewellery.’

  ‘What’s that, Richards?’ the Chief said, leaning forward.

  Parish answered. ‘The woman’s jewellery was laid out on the bed. Richards seems to think that the serial killer is a trophy-taker. You know what she’s like. She could fashion a serial killer from the jawbone of an ass in an empty room with her hands tied behind her back.’

  ‘Was any of the jewellery missing?’

  ‘We’re waiting for a report from Toadstone, but it’s likely we’ll never know. For all her socialising, it seems that nobody was that close to her.’

  ‘Even the official boyfriend?’

  ‘They were having a baby together, and yet they didn’t share an apartment.’

  ‘What about her mother?’

  ‘I don’t think that they were that close either. The daughter used to visit for an hour a week.’

  ‘Not much.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And you think you’ve stumbled onto another serial killer, Richards?’

  ‘It’s an unpopular view I think, Chief.’

  ‘Well, I’m sure it’ll all come out in the wash, but nobody mentions a serial killer outside this room – understood?’

  They both nodded.

  ‘You’ve both got the press briefing now, haven’t you?’

  ‘Only me,’ Parish said.

  Richards grunted. ‘He doesn’t let me attend the press briefings anymore.’

  ‘Every time she gets in front of a camera, she has the desperate urge to take her clothes off.’

  ‘I do not. I undid one button.’

  ‘If I hadn’t been there I dread to think how many buttons she would have undone.’

  ‘You’re crazy.’

  He stood up. ‘Right, come on, Richards. The Chief has work to do, you need to find out whether there’s a serial killer lurking on CrimInt who nobody’s ever spotted before and I have to tell the press that our investigation has stalled before it’s even begun.’

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want me at the press briefing,’ Richards said to him in the corridor.

  ‘It’s not that I don’t want you there, it’s that they do.’

  ‘But . . . I promise not to undo any buttons.’

  ‘You can’t control yourself in front of a camera. It’s like you’re hypnotized. They say, “Just one more button, Mary,” and you’re down to your underwear in the blink of an eye.’

  ‘I’m wearing matching underwear today.’

  ‘Because you thought I’d let you in front of the cameras?’

  ‘Don’t be silly.’

  ‘I’m doing the press briefing, and you’re searching CrimInt – go.’

  ‘Something else for the judges in Strasbourg.’

  ‘They’ll give me a medal for saving you from yourself.’ He headed towards the stairs. ‘There’ll be a massive ceremony. I’ll be the guest of honour. They’ll have trumpets, flugelhorns, chocolate cake and sauerkraut . . .’

  ‘You’re crazy,’ she called after him.

  The press were stuffed into the briefing room like participants in a Guinness World Record attempt for the most people stuffed in a briefing room.

  He sat down, took a sip of water to lubricate his voice box and held up a hand for quiet.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming today. Catrina Golding, aged twenty-five, who lived at 34 Plomer Avenue in Hailey was murdered last weekend, and I would ask that you respect the family’s privacy as they mourn the death of their only daughter.’

  ‘Steve Bamping from NBC Europe, Inspector. Can you tell us anything about the way she died?’

  ‘As far as we know she was strangled.’

  ‘Nicki Jacobs from the Chigwell Herald. Was there any sexual motive to the murder?’

  ‘That has yet to be determined. We’ll know more once the post mortem has been carried out tomorrow.’

  A ginger-haired woman waved her arm frenetically. ‘Clare Tindle from the Redbridge Camera. Is it true that the victim was pregnant?’

  He always wondered how they found out certain details that he would have preferred to keep quiet. Now, there seemed little point in lying. ‘Yes, Miss Golding was sixteen weeks pregnant.’

  The problem, of course, was that the more information he gave them, the more questions they asked him and the more speculation appeared in the media. He liked to give them just enough – no more, no less.

  ‘Mark Horton from the Mission Daily. What about the father of the baby – can you tell us who that is?’

  ‘No, not at the moment.’

  ‘Colin McPhail from the Southend Echo. Is the father considered a suspect, Inspector?’

  ‘We don’t know who the father is, so that question is slightly premature.’

  ‘Raffi Wilson from the Identity Channel. Other than the man you described to us
this morning, do you have any other suspects?’

  ‘There are a number of people that we wish to eliminate from our enquiries.’ He liked nothing better than answering questions with doublespeak.

  ‘Becky McKeever from U>Direct. Is there any possibility that Catrina Golding was the victim of a serial killer?’

  Where the hell did that come from? He had to stop that getting out of hand. ‘I’m flabbergasted that you would even think that, Miss McKeever.’

  ‘Hoddesdon seems to be a serial killer hot spot, Inspector.’

  She was certainly correct in that observation, he thought. ‘Definitely not in this case, Miss McKeever.’ He stood up. ‘There’ll be another briefing at the same time tomorrow, and I hope to have more information for you then.’

  ‘Where’s Detective Richards?’ a male voice called from the back of the room.

  He craned his neck, and thought he caught a glimpse of fisheyes, but he couldn’t be sure. ‘DC Richards has work to do. I’m sure you’d be the first to complain if you were paying two people to do what one person could easily do.’

  After making his escape through the back door, he walked up the stairs to the squad room.

  Richards was sitting at her desk waiting for him. She switched the television hanging on the wall to mute as he walked in, and swivelled round in her chair to face him. ‘You’re going to look a right fool when I’m proven right and Catrina Golding’s murder is found to be the work of a serial killer.’

  ‘I’ll take that chance. Have you found any similar crimes yet?’

  ‘No, it’s still searching, but that’s not the point.’

  ‘What is the point?’

  ‘You don’t trust my instincts.’

  ‘Women’s intuition is on a par with phrenology, reincarnation and horoscopes.’

  ‘Horoscopes are real.’

  ‘Of course they are.’

  ‘And what’s wrong with reincarnation?’

  ‘Nothing. I used to be a Greek god, you know.’

  ‘I don’t remember the History teacher telling us about any puny Greek gods.’

  ‘There were lots of us. What’s the wait-time on the query?’

  ‘Three hours and seven minutes.’

  ‘Are you going to wait there for it to finish?’

  ‘That wasn’t really how I wanted to spend my evening.’