A Time to Kill (P&R14)

by Tim Ellis

  ‘Something’s not right.’

  He gave a deep sigh. ‘She’s like this all the time, Doc. Murder to live with, and murder to work with. You’re not looking for a crash-test dummy to practise on, are you?’

  Richards slapped his arm. ‘If anyone’s a crash-test dummy, it’s you.’

  ‘Striking a superior officer and insubordination are just two of her many crimes. If people only knew what I had to put up with.’ He turned to Richards. ‘Make a phone call to the duty Sergeant. Ask whoever it is if they’d be so kind as to pick up our friend Mr Beasley.’

  ‘If he murders women and then has sex with them, he’s no friend of mine. If it was up to me . . .’

  ‘I don’t think we need to know any of the gory details of what you’d do – it will never be up to you. Also, ask Toadstone to get over to Beasley’s home address and find me some forensic evidence. If he’s having trouble with the concept of “forensic evidence” tell him to give me a call and I’ll refresh his memory.’

  ‘You treat Digby better than you treat Paul.’

  ‘Digby is a lot more intelligent. Make the calls.’

  Richards pulled out her phone.

  He turned back to the Doc. ‘So, is Jimmy Landers the father of the baby?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Donald Dewesbury?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘NO! It can’t be Edgar Beasley?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then who?’

  ‘Someone who hasn’t got a name yet.’

  ‘Well, I wasn’t expecting that.’

  ‘Phone calls made,’ Richards said, putting her mobile on the table.

  ‘Good. The Doc says that neither Landers nor Dewesbury is the father of the baby.’

  Richards pulled a face. ‘Who is then?’

  ‘The very same question that I asked.’

  ‘Do you think it could have been one of the three men she met on that dating site?’

  ‘According to Marmite she’d only been having sex with them over the previous month. Give him a call, make sure we understood him correctly.’

  She rang Josh Marmite.

  ‘Hi, Josh. Can you confirm that Catrina Golding wasn’t in contact with any of those three men four months ago?’

  ‘Uh huh . . .’ She giggled. ‘Yes, I’m looking forward to it as well . . . Really . . . ?’

  Parish kicked her leg under the table.

  ‘Ow! I have to go now, but I’ll see you tonight.’ She ended the call. ‘You didn’t need to kick me.’

  ‘We’re trying to solve a murder here, and you’re cooing and clucking during working hours like a teenager on her first date. Keep your mind on the job. What did he say about Catrina and the three men?’

  ‘We understood him correctly,’ she said, bending down and rubbing her shin. ‘She only joined the SEX GODDESS site six weeks ago, so none of those three men is the father of her baby.’

  ‘Mmmm!’ He took a swallow of coffee, and then started on his triple chocolate brownie and ice cream.

  Richards said, ‘If Edgar Beasley is the killer, we don’t need to know who the father of the baby is, do we?’

  ‘It’s a loose end, and you know I don’t like loose ends.’

  ‘The father could be anybody. It wasn’t as if she was a one-man woman, was it?’

  ‘You say that as if you didn’t approve of her lifestyle.’

  ‘It’s not my place to approve or disapprove.’

  ‘But?’

  Doc Reilly interrupted. ‘If it was a man we wouldn’t be having this conversation.’

  ‘My point exactly,’ Richards said.

  Parish blew a raspberry. ‘You didn’t make any point.’

  ‘I would have done if you’d let me get a word in edgeways.’

  ‘Are we done, Doc?’

  ‘One last thing – the forensic entomologist has said that the death occurred between the hours of six to midnight on Friday, August 1, and not Saturday, August 2.’

  ‘Definitely?’ Parish said.

  ‘Insect life cycles – like DNA – do not lie.’

  ‘What does that mean, Richards?’

  ‘Mmmm!’ She rifled through her notebook. ‘It means that we can discount the person the nosey neighbour saw on Saturday afternoon, and we can also ask Beasley to provide an alibi between those times on Friday.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘One other last thing,’ the Doc said. ‘I’d like Detective Richards to record in her notebook that it’s your turn to pay next time.’

  Richards flipped through the pages of her notebook. ‘It will be my pleasure, Doc. In fact, it’ll be his turn to pay for the next twelve times.’ She made a note on the relevant page.

  ‘That suits me just fine.’

  He let out a laugh. ‘Don’t you worry, I’ll remember whose turn it is to pay. Right, come on, Richards. You have a killer to interview. And don’t forget to pick up the PM report. Thanks for your help, Doc.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  They made their way out.

  ‘Me? Are you sure you want me to interview Beasley?’

  ‘Should I ask someone else to do it?’

  ‘Like who? There isn’t anybody else.’

  ‘There are lots of armchair detectives out there who’d give a month’s pay to interview a killer.’

  ‘As if.’

  Chapter Eleven

  After helping himself to a Greek salad and half a French stick from the display counter, he ordered a pot of tea when he reached the drinks area, paid at the till and found a table that still had dirty plates on it. He moved them to the opposite side of the round table and sat down.

  Just as he was about to start eating, a woman with a withered arm arrived, scooped the dirty crockery and cutlery onto a trolley, and wiped the table with a sopping wet cloth.

  He lifted his tray as she wiped underneath. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘All part of the service, friend,’ she said, taking his plastic tray away.

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw Parish and Richards arrive. He wasn’t in the mood for inane chit-chat and pretended that he hadn’t seen Parish wave at him.

  Once he’d sprinkled salt and pepper on his salad, cut the French stick into inch-thick slices and buttered them, he pulled out his notebook and opened it so that he could read and make notes while he ate.

  But before the fork – loaded with feta cheese, tomato and salad – reached his mouth, a bald-headed man with a greying straggly beard and thick-rimmed glasses sat down opposite him and said, ‘You must be DS Gilbert?’

  He put the fork down on his plate. ‘Must I?’

  The man offered his hand. ‘DI Ralph Tubman.’

  Stick shook the hand, which in comparison to the inspector’s head, seemed unusually hairy. ‘Hello, Sir. Why were you interviewing my witness?’

  ‘Our witness. In fact, she’s hardly a witness, is she? I would say she was a killer, and should be treated accordingly.’

  ‘What do you mean: “Our witness”?’

  ‘I take it you haven’t heard?’

  ‘Heard what?’

  I’m on loan from Bishop’s Stortford. Your Chief had a pow wow with my Chief, and here I am to sort out the mess you’ve made of everything.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘That’s okay. Things were a bit quiet anyway. Seems like all the robbers have gone on holiday.’

  ‘You’re not a murder detective?’

  ‘Robbery, but don’t let that worry you. A crime is a crime, after all. A low-life commits a crime, we find enough evidence to lock the bastard up, run him to ground and get a commendation for our efforts – police work is pretty simple when you apply scientific principles.’

  ‘Is that right?’

  ‘Sure. So, when you’re ready, Sergeant.’

  ‘I’m having my lunch.’

  ‘There’s a criminal out there thinking he’s got one over on us.’

  ‘I’ve been working since midnight last night.’

&n
bsp; ‘I’ll let it go this time, but in future we eat together.’

  ‘Very kind.’

  ‘But let’s not waste the time. While you’re eating you can bring me up to speed on the case.’

  Stick told Tubman what had happened to Giselle Hamill and Robert Vines, and Brandon Yagin and Alice Wheatley . . .

  ‘As you know, I spoke to the Wheatley woman. They should lock her up and throw away the key. That’s what I’ll be recommending to the CPS anyway.’

  ‘She’s as much a victim as her boyfriend.’

  ‘Ah, you’re one of those left-wing anarchists, are you?’

  ‘No, but Hamill and Wheatley aren’t killers. I’d like to see what you’d do under similar circumstances.’

  ‘I’d tell him to swivel, that’s what I’d do, Sergeant.’

  ‘We’ll agree to differ, shall we?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. Here’s how it works: I’m a DI, you’re a DS. I say how it is, how things are going to go, who we interview, where we go, what leads we follow and those we don’t, what clues are important and those that aren’t . . . are you getting the picture yet, Sergeant?’

  ‘I think so. You’re in charge, and I do what you say?’

  ‘I knew you weren’t as thick as you looked.’ He helped himself to a piece of Stick’s garlic bread. ‘I can see that we’re going to get along just fine.’

  He had to work very hard to stop himself from leaping over the table to strangle Tubman. What was the Chief thinking of giving him this idiot? He could imagine that Bishop’s Stortford were glad to get rid of him. Xena had a lot to answer for. He’d be lucky if he survived DI Ralph Tubman.

  ‘So, let me get this right. This hooded man has forced two women to murder their boyfriends, and then mutilated the man’s genitals?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And all you’ve got is that he could possibly have a limp, he wore a blue and white checked shirt one time, and he might ride a motorbike.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘All I can say is that it’s a good job I arrived when I did. You wouldn’t survive five minutes in robbery. Does your Chief put up with this lack of progress?’

  ‘Lack of progress?’

  ‘Yes – lack of progress, Sergeant. If we were in Robbery, we’d have your hooded man in custody already and he’d be confessing to a string of other crimes to improve the clear-up rate.’

  ‘In which case, I’ll defer to your rank and superior police work, Sir.’

  ‘Be prepared to be bewildered and bedazzled, Sergeant. So, we go to the mortuary and hassle the pathologist to give us answers, then we travel back to the station to annoy this Diane Heffalump in forensics, and I’ll do the press briefing at three o’clock?’

  ‘Sounds like you have a plan, Sir.’

  ‘Well, finish up your lunch, Sergeant. Let’s see if we can’t have this hooded man in custody by five o’clock.’

  He finished his nearly-cold tea off, stood up and said, ‘Lead the way, Sir.’

  ***

  Edgar Beasley had dark hair with slivers of grey. He was unshaven, his skin was scarred and pitted from teenage acne and he wore thin oblong glasses that made him look vaguely intelligent.

  ‘It is twenty-five past two on Thursday, August 7,’ Richards said, loud enough for the microphone to record her voice. ‘Present in the room are DI Parish and DC Richards from Hoddesdon Police Station, Mr Edgar Beasley and Mr Colin Sims – the duty solicitor. Please state your name and address for the record, Mr Beasley.’

  ‘My name is Edgar William Beasley, and I live at 49 Lilac Road in Rye Park, Hoddesdon.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Beasley. Now, you do not have to say anything. However, it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand your rights?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’d like to remind you that this interview is being visually-recorded. I am Detective Constable Richards, and you have been brought here under caution to answer questions in relation to the murder of Catrina Golding, who lived in Apartment 8, 34 Plomer Avenue in Hailey.’

  ‘I had nothing to do with any murder.’

  Richards put a series of photographs in front of Beasley. ‘I’m now showing Mr Beasley five photographs of Catrina Golding and the crime scene. Do you recognise the victim, Mr Beasley?’

  ‘Only from the television and newspaper reports.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes, I’m positive. And I don’t understand why you think I killed this woman. I don’t even like women.’

  ‘Can you tell me where you were on Friday, August 1 between the hours of four pm and midnight?’

  ‘Is that when it happened?’

  ‘Just answer the question, Mr Beasley.’

  He smiled. ‘That’s easy. I was in the A&E at King George Hospital. An ambulance collected me from my home at about four-thirty, took me to the hospital where I was seen by a doctor, and then had a minor operation . . . Yeah, I didn’t leave the hospital until ten o’clock the following morning.’

  ‘That can easily be checked, Mr Beasley.’

  ‘Check away. I know it comes as a bit of a shock – not just to you, but to me as well – that I actually have a watertight alibi, and that I didn’t commit the crime.’

  ‘Interview suspended at twelve minutes to three on Thursday, August 7.’

  Parish and Richards left the interview room, and made their way upstairs.

  ‘He can’t have been at the hospital, can he?’ Richards said.

  Parish raised an eyebrow. ‘Not if he was depositing his DNA at the crime scene. But my suggestion is that you contact the hospital and ask them.’

  ‘Very helpful. How am I doing so far?’

  ‘How do you think you’re doing?’

  ‘I think I’m doing good.’

  ‘That’s all that matters then.’

  Richards sat at her desk and rang the hospital.

  ‘I need to know if a Mr Edgar Beasley was in A&E from about four-thirty in the afternoon of Friday August 1 undergoing a minor operation and when he was discharged . . . Thank you.’ She slid the earpiece behind her ear. ‘They’re checking. You could be making a coffee while we’re waiting.’

  He smiled. ‘Certainly, Madam.’ He wandered off to the kitchen. Yes, she was doing good. One day, in the not-too-distant future, she’d be ready to take charge of a murder investigation without him looking over her shoulder all the time.

  Richards came into the kitchen. ‘He was there – at the hospital – just as he said he was.’

  ‘How can that be?’

  ‘I don’t know, but he was admitted to A&E with a pepper-pot lodged in his anal passage.’

  Parish grimaced. ‘A what, where?’

  ‘According to his notes: He slipped in the shower, and fell on a pepper-pot, which shot up his backside.’

  His lip curled up. ‘What was a pepper-pot doing in his shower?’

  ‘I don’t think we need to know the history of the pepper-pot,’ Richards said. ‘All we need to know is that he was put under general anaesthetic to remove the pepper-pot, kept in overnight for observation and then discharged the following morning at five-past ten.’

  ‘Was there pepper in the pot?’

  Richards laughed. ‘So, not only was he under general anaesthetic having a pepper-pot removed from his rear passage, but he was also in Hailey killing Catrina Golding and having sex with her corpse.’

  ‘Which – unless he has a clone – we know is not possible.’

  ‘I told you something wasn’t right about Beasley having sex with a dead woman – he only likes men and boys.’

  ‘So you did.’

  ***

  Stick followed DI Tubman down to the mortuary.

  He’d already concluded that the man was an idiot, but there was nothing he could do about it. Sometimes, for no logical reason that humans could fathom – except maybe as a cruel joke �
� the gods conspired against a person. Today, that person was him, and he was wedged between a rock and a hard place. If he complained it would look like sour grapes, and what could he say anyway? He couldn’t tell the Chief that a DI he’d borrowed from Bishop’s Stortford was an idiot – it wasn’t his place to make a judgement call like that – even if it was true. Tubman was obviously unwanted at Bishop’s Stortford, otherwise they wouldn’t have loaned him out. He simply had to suck it up, and allow Tubman the opportunity to demonstrate to the people that mattered what an idiot he was.

  ‘Hello, Sergeant, brought a friend with you?’

  ‘Hello, Doc. This is DI Ralph Tubman from Robbery at Bishop’s Stortford. He’s taken over from DI Blake while she’s in hospital recovering from her relapse.’

  ‘I see. Nice to meet you, DI Tubman.’ She held up her gloved hands that were dripping a dirty-brown fluid back into the cracked open chest of Robert Vines. ‘I’d shake your hand, but I don’t think you’d welcome the gesture.’

  Tubman pulled a face. ‘Enough of the pleasantries, Doctor . . . ?’

  ‘. . . Paine.’

  ‘I suppose that doesn’t apply in your case – you can cause as much pain as you want to, because nobody’s going to complain, are they?’

  Her eyes narrowed. ‘I don’t think anybody has ever said that to me before.’

  Tubman smirked. ‘I’m quick to notice things like that. We’re in a bit of hurry. So, have you got anything for us?’

  ‘Not a lot really. You know the time of death was between twelve and two on Wednesday morning; you know the cause of death was strangulation; you know that Mr Vine’s penis and testicles were severed . . .’

  ‘I’m grateful to you for telling me what I already know, but it’s not really why I came down here. Did you find any DNA evidence? What about a fingerprint? Maybe the type of knife that was used? Anything that could help us catch the hooded man?’

  ‘No - sorry.’

  Tubman turned on his heel and headed for the door. ‘Come on, Sergeant. I’m not a great believer in forensic science. In my experience catching criminals is down to good old-fashioned police work – not mumbo-jumbo practised by witchdoctors and quacks.’