A Time to Kill (P&R14)

by Tim Ellis

  ‘Do you both live at the same address?’

  Howard shook his head. ‘No, we’re not quite there yet,’ he said, and revealed the address he did live at.

  Ronnie did the same.

  Stick finished writing and said, ‘Okay, can you tell me what happened?’

  They both began talking at the same time.

  He stared at them. ‘Just one version of events will do.’

  Ronnie smiled. ‘Sorry. We’d been for a walk to see the crop circles . . .’

  ‘Sorry?’

  He pointed to the field behind Stick. ‘There are three crop circles over there. Nobody knows how they got there.’

  ‘And you were there . . . looking at the crop circles?’

  Howard interrupted. ‘We dallied for a time as well.’

  Stick raised an eyebrow. ‘Dallied?’

  ‘You don’t want to know the details of our dalliance, do you?’

  It gradually dawned on him what they were talking about. ‘I do not.’

  ‘I didn’t think so,’ Howard said. ‘You don’t look like a man who does much dallying.’

  He wasn’t going to get into a discussion with two gay men about his personal life. ‘Let’s go back to the beginning, shall we?’ He looked around. Beyond the circle of generator-powered spotlights it was still dark. ‘You came by car, presumably?’

  Ronnie seemed to be the dominant partner. ‘Yes.’ He pointed along the narrow road, which went on for at least five miles and emptied out into Hoe Lane. ’We parked in a little place under a tree along the road, and then walked back.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘We like our privacy. Sometimes, it can get a bit crowded here.’

  ‘Okay, so you walked back . . . ?’

  ‘They were here then.’

  ‘Who were?’

  ‘The man . . .’ He pointed at the dead man. ‘. . . and the woman.’

  ‘You saw them?’

  ‘It was dark, but we caught a fleeting glimpse.’

  ‘You’re sure it was a woman?’

  The corner of his mouth creased upwards. ‘I haven’t forgotten what the female of our species looks like yet.’

  ‘Was there anyone else here?’

  ‘No, just them. In fact, they arrived after us. There was no one here when we drove past, but when we walked back to go and look at the crop circles, they were here.’

  Stick nodded. ‘Okay, carry on.’

  ‘We did our sight-seeing tour of the crop circles, dallied for a while, and then began to make our way back.’ He pointed to the hedge at the back of the lay-by. ‘We were on the other side of the hedge when we saw them . . .’

  ‘Saw them? How? Without any light . . .’

  ‘The rear car door had been left open, and the courtesy light was on in the car.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘We saw what happened . . .’ He glanced at Howard.

  Howard bit his bottom lip and nodded.

  ‘. . . There was a man with a hood over his head, the eye and mouth holes had been cut out . . . He looked like something from a young boy’s nightmare. Anyway, the man . . .’ He pointed to the victim. ‘ . . . was kneeling on the ground. The woman was standing behind him crying, and she seemed to be strangling him . . . Well, she must have been, because he fell forward onto the ground. It was then we noticed that the man with the bag over his head had a knife in his hand. The woman ran off down the road in the direction of where we’d parked our car . . . my car actually – a vintage . . .’

  Stick looked at him.

  ‘Sorry . . . Then Howard must have . . .’

  ‘No,’ Howard said. ‘It was you.’

  ‘Well anyway, one of us must have made a noise because the hooded man looked right in our direction . . . I thought I was going to wet myself. We froze, and then we saw him squat down and do something to the man. It was only after he’d gone that we found out what he’d done.’ They both put their hands down to their genitals. ‘Thank God it was after he was dead, that’s all I’ll say.’

  ‘You say that man with the bag on his head went – went where?’

  ‘Yes. Well, he walked off down the road, in the opposite direction to the woman, but shortly afterwards we heard a motorbike start up and drive off.’

  ‘And you think it belonged to the bag man?’

  ‘Yes. There was no one else about.’

  ‘Did the man remove the bag from his head at any point?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Was there anything else that you noticed about him?’

  ‘You know, I wouldn’t be able to swear to it in court, but I think he had a bit of a limp.’

  Stick looked at Howard. ‘Was that your impression as well?’

  ‘Sorry. I wasn’t even watching.’

  Ronnie put his arm around Howard’s waist and hugged him. ‘When people are scared some like to watch while others like to hide. I’m a watcher, Howard screws up his eyes, curls up in a ball and hopes the bogeyman won’t notice him.’

  ‘I’d like you come to Hoddesdon Police Station in the morning . . .’

  ‘It already is the morning, Sergeant.’

  He glanced at his watch. It was now five to four. ‘So it is. Well, maybe sometime this afternoon.’

  ‘After work?’

  ‘That’ll be fine.’

  ‘Can we go now?’

  ‘Yes.’ Stick passed Ronnie a business card. ‘If there’s anything else relating to the incident that comes to mind, please call me.’ He thought he’d make it clear that he wasn’t giving Ronnie his card with any ulterior motive in mind.

  He wandered back to where Di and Doc Paine were talking. ‘Anything new?’

  ‘No,’ Di said.

  Doc Paine shook her head as the body was being carried away in a body bag.

  ‘One of those two men thinks that the killer had a limp. Can you confirm that from the marks on the ground, Di?’

  Di nodded her head slowly. ‘Interesting. I had the feeling there was something not quite right about the footprints around the last victim . . .’

  Stick pointed along the road that they’d all come. ‘He walked off from here down the road . . .’

  ‘He’s on foot?’ Doc Paine asked.

  ‘Motorbike,’ Stick clarified. ‘They heard a motorbike start up and leave shortly afterwards.’ He looked at Di. ‘Can you see if you can find any evidence of that?’

  ‘When it gets light, of course. We’ll try and find some evidence of a limp as well. I shouldn’t think it’ll be evidence you can use in court, but you’ll be able to use it as a lead.’

  ‘Anything would be better than what we’ve got now, which is precisely nothing.’

  His phone jangled.

  ‘Gilbert.’

  ‘Rowley, it’s Jen.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘They’ve taken her to the operating theatre.’

  ‘Oh no! I’m on my way.’

  He ended the call. ‘I have to go. It looks as though Xena has gone from bad to worse.’

  ‘I didn’t realise it was that bad,’ Di said.

  ‘I know . . . Listen, I’ll be up later to see what you’ve found.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘And Vines’ post mortem is still at two o’clock, Doc?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can I have a quiet word?’

  ‘Of course.’ Doc Paine bent down to close her bag.

  Di held up her hands. ‘No, you two stay there – I’ll move. I have things to do anyway.’

  Once they were on their own he said to Doc Paine, ‘As well as being attacked, there’s the strong possibility that DI Blake was raped last night.’

  ‘My God.’

  ‘I asked the nurses in A&E to carry out a rape kit. Can you analyse the evidence and run any DNA you find through the database?’

  ‘Off the record?’

  ‘No – on the record, but keep it to yourself. I don’t know what Xena will want to do about it.’

  ‘I can do that.’ />
  ‘Thanks very much, Doc.’

  He walked back to the car. Out of habit he turned his head sideways expecting Xena to be here beside him, but she wasn’t there.

  ***

  They were on their way to 75 Standstead Road in Pinehurst to interview Catrina Golding’s second boyfriend – Donald Dewsbury.

  ‘Do you think I’m the worst partner ever?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No you don’t?’

  ‘There’s a gunman, he’s aiming his gun at me, you have the opportunity to step between that gun and me . . .’

  ‘You wouldn’t want me to.’

  ‘That’s beside the point.’

  ‘No it’s not. I see the man pointing the gun at you, and I think about what you would want me to do.’

  ‘I’d want you to step into the line of fire and take the bullet for me.’

  ‘You’re a liar. If you were shot . . . Yeah, there might be a bit of internal damage, but you don’t have to worry about having babies because you’ve had more babies than . . . than . . .’

  ‘Charlie Chaplin?’

  ‘Did he have a lot of babies?’

  ‘Eleven.’

  ‘Yeah – Charlie Chaplin.’

  ‘It’s not about what damage the bullet does . . .’

  ‘Not for you, obviously.’

  ‘There won’t be time for a question and answer session. I can just imagine the conversation:

  You wave at the man holding the gun. ‘Yoo-hoo?’

  ‘Yes?’ he says.

  ‘Are you going to shoot the inspector?’

  ‘That’s the plan.’

  ‘I’d like to take the bullet for him.’

  ‘Very generous.’

  ‘But don’t shoot me in the abdomen because I’d like to have an unknown quantity of babies at some point in the future.’

  ‘Okay. What about the chest?’

  ‘Not my breasts. I’d like to be able to breastfeed the babies, and I also wear bikinis.’

  ‘Bikinis?’

  ‘The very skimpy ones, and I wouldn’t want any scarring to show because that would compromise my ability to attract a man who would give me those babies.’

  ‘That doesn’t leave much room for a bullet.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Maybe I’ll just shoot the inspector.’

  ‘I’ll just stand over here out of the way, shall I?’

  ‘You think I’m that shallow?’

  ‘You’re the one that started talking about babies.’

  ‘Somebody has to.’

  ‘Of course they do.’

  It was quarter to nine when they arrived at Donald Dewsbury’s address. The house belonged to his mother. His father had died three years previously. He had a younger brother and sister. The brother was unemployed and the sister was away at university.

  Richards knocked.

  A woman wearing a full-length pink dressing gown, pink fluffy slippers and a hairnet opened the door. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Detective Constable Richards,’ she said, showing her warrant card. ‘And this is Detective Inspector Parish. We’re from Hoddesdon Police Station, and we’d like to speak to your son Donald.’

  ‘He’s just about to leave for work.’

  ‘It won’t take long.’

  ‘You’d better come in then.’

  They stepped inside.

  Parish closed the door behind him.

  ‘Donald,’ she called through into the kitchen. ‘Two police officers here to see you.’ She pointed into the living room. ‘You can speak to him in there.’

  A good-looking muscular man in a blue tracksuit appeared in the hallway. ‘I guessed you’d get to me sooner or later.’

  They sat down in the living room.

  ‘You were expecting us?’ Richards said.

  ‘Yes. As soon as I heard that Catrina had been murdered, I knew you’d find out about me and her before too long.’

  ‘Can you tell us about the nature of your relationship with Miss Golding?’

  ‘She called me her guilty pleasure.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’m a personal trainer at Hobart’s Gym on Ware Road. She came to the gym about four months ago wanting to get herself into shape . . .’ He smiled. ‘I helped her.’

  ‘Do you offer sex to all your clients?’ Parish aimed at him.

  ‘Of course not. This was an out-of-hours service just for her, and she initiated it. You’ve seen her. I was hardly likely to refuse, was I?’

  Richards continued. ‘Aren’t there rules about relationships with clients?’

  ‘It’s a gym, not a bank. The only rule is: Not on the premises. We did it other places, but never at the gym.’

  ‘Okay. Where were you on Saturday?’

  ‘At the gym – the weekends are our busiest days.’

  ‘All day on both days?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Which can be verified?’

  ‘Of course. Apart from the other staff and the clients, there’s also CCTV which they keep for a month.’

  ‘Did you know about her boyfriend?’

  ‘Jimmy? Yes. She told me she was seeing someone right up front. I was okay with that. It wasn’t as if I was in love with her, or anything like that. She wanted sex, and I was happy to oblige.’

  ‘Did she ever suggest that Jimmy might know about your relationship?’

  ‘No. I went to her apartment a couple of times, but mostly she came here, or we did it in other places.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘The women’s changing rooms at the big department store on Ware High Street, in the men’s toilets at the bus station, on a packed tube train during rush hour, in the Library . . .’

  ‘I think we get the idea.’

  ‘She was insatiable, which was okay with me. But I did explain to her that sex was not a substitute for proper exercise. Everybody thinks that a sex session is equivalent to running a marathon – it’s not. A study by the University of Quebec found that women burn sixty-nine calories during a twenty-five minute sex session, but two hundred and thirteen calories are burnt on the treadmill. Sex should be thought of as snacks between the main courses. That’s why she called me her guilty pleasure. I was the snacks between the main gym sessions. Catrina just liked to have more snacks than other women I’ve known.’ His lip curled up as he looked Richards up and down. ‘You should come and see me.’

  ‘Are you suggesting I’m fat?’

  ‘Absolutely not. But I do know that police officers need to keep themselves fit. I could help you stay in shape.’

  ‘I’m sure,’ she said. ‘One last question: Did you know that Catrina was sixteen weeks pregnant?’

  ‘Yes. She said it was Jimmy’s.’

  ‘You didn’t mind having sex with a woman who was pregnant with another man’s baby?’

  ‘Why would I?’

  Richards stood up. ‘Don’t leave the country.’

  ‘I’ve already had my holidays, but thanks for asking. My offer still stands, you know. Although, I suggest you make it sooner rather than later.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Well, I can see a few unnecessary pounds clinging to your waist, and then there’s the cellulite around your backside . . .’

  ‘I think you should keep your disgusting opinions to yourself, Mr Dewsbury.’

  He put his hand in the pocket of his tracksuit top, pulled out a business card and passed it to her. ‘You know it makes sense.’

  Outside, Parish said, ‘You should take him up on his offer.’

  ‘You think I’m fat as well?’

  ‘He could give you the babies you want, and keep you in shape at the same time.’

  ‘Very funny.’

  ‘I try.’

  Chapter Nine

  When he’d called and told the press officer – Jenny Weber – what had happened, she postponed the briefing until three o’clock – an hour before Parish and Richards were scheduled to give their press brief
ing. It was the press officer’s suggestion that one briefing should follow another, which seemed logical to him, and he wondered why they didn’t do that all the time. He’d have much preferred to go second though, but maybe it was better going first. Why were his hands shaking already?

  He’d sent Jen home by taxi to get some sleep. She would come back later in her own car, and keep Xena company. The Duty Sergeant at Southend had been no trouble at all, and had given her the rest of the week off. Unlike Hoddesdon, Southend was a sea of summer tranquillity.

  Xena had been bleeding internally. Nothing too serious the doctor had assured Jen, unless it was left. So they’d taken her to theatre and repaired the damage. Also, while she’d been in there, the surgeon had flipped her over and stitched up a small tear in her anal sphincter that could have turned into something much worse if he hadn’t.

  Anger made his eyes water. It was as if someone was pulling a belt tighter and tighter around his waist. He was struggling to breathe and had to get up and walk around the small room. He never got angry, but the thought of not being there when she’d been attacked made his blood boil, and he didn’t know whether he was angry at the attackers, or at Xena for not calling him sooner to get her home in one piece.

  ‘Frankie called you then, did he?’

  He turned to find Xena barely awake.

  The anger that he’d been keeping inside gushed out like a lava flow. ‘You stupid fucking woman . . .’ he shouted at her, but she had already drifted off back to asleep again.

  The Chief came into the room.

  ‘Hello, Sir.’

  ‘How is she?’

  ‘The doctor says she’ll pull through.’

  ‘I’m not happy, Gilbert. Not happy at all.’

  ‘I can understand that, Sir. I’m not happy either.’

  ‘I’ve lost a DI for God knows how long.’

  ‘And I’ve lost a partner.’

  ‘I’ve got a DS running a complex murder investigation . . .’

  ‘That would be me, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Will you shut up, Gilbert?’

  ‘Sorry, Sir.’

  ‘I’ve a good mind to . . .’

  ‘She was raped, Chief.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘So, if you’re thinking about punishing her . . .’