A Time to Kill (P&R14)

by Tim Ellis

  ‘It’s called a saltire – or St Andrews – cross, my dear. St Andrew was martyred on such a cross. Of course, human ingenuity knows no bounds, and it has been adapted as an implement of torture. You’re lucky . . . oh, I know it doesn’t seem that way at the moment, but believe me – you are. With all the other women, and there have been quite a few, I’ve used nails to secure their hands and feet. Nails are so . . . I don’t know – final. Once I hammer a nail through the palm of a woman’s hand, or the top of their foot, they know they’re not leaving. It’s uplifting to see the defiance disappear from their eyes.’

  ‘You’re a monster.’

  ‘Yes, I am, aren’t I? It’s so much more fulfilling than being a philanthropist. And I don’t want you to feel left out. Oh no! I have plenty of nails, and I’m saving four just for you. First though, I have to deal with the police, possibly your husband and the press. I expect they’ll be here shortly, so I must go and prepare.’

  ‘They’ll find me.’

  Voss laughed as if they were almost anywhere having an ordinary conversation about anything. ‘No one will find you, my dear. You are in a place that does not exist.’

  ‘I don’t understand. Why are you doing this?’

  ‘Because I can. Oh, and don’t worry, your virginity is safe with me. I obtain sexual satisfaction from torturing young women. I tried torturing a man once, but it just wasn’t the same.’ He stood up, took a pace towards her and squeezed her breast. ‘Your quite a bit older than my usual victims, but I think you’ll do. You’re still pretty and you’ve kept your body in good shape.’ He squashed her cheeks between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand and kissed her lips. ‘Yes, I think you’ll do just fine.’

  ‘Please . . .’

  ‘Please what?’

  ‘Please don’t do this.’

  ‘I hope you’re not going to blame me for your current situation? I know Mr Tomasic gave you every opportunity to walk away, but you didn’t.’ He shrugged. ‘And now here you are. As my father used to say: “We reap what we sow”. He was wrong about a lot of things, but he was right about that. As soon as I am able, I shall return.’

  She didn’t see where he went, but she thought she heard lift doors opening and closing.

  What had she got herself into?

  Voss had left the lights on. She was in a large room. It looked as though she was in the cellar. It was cold, and there was an awful smell. She guessed the stench from his activities was what had started all this. As well as the saltire cross she was tied to, there were a number of other contraptions that looked particularly gruesome. Her heart began racing as she thought of what he might do to her. She could see dark pools on the floor that she guessed were blood, and splashes of red up the walls. She’d been right – she would never leave this place alive. And Israel Voss was right as well – she should never have come back to Butterfield Spire.

  What had she ever done to deserve this? She’d been a good daughter, a good wife and a good mother. All she could do now was hope and pray that Ray, or somebody else, would find her before Israel Voss came back to have his fun.

  ***

  He wandered down the ward to Xena’s side room.

  ‘Hey, Stickamundo?’ he heard somebody call.

  They’d obviously moved her into the main ward with the other patients.

  ‘They’ve moved you,’ he said, shuffling up to a bed between a grey-haired toothless old woman with a tube up her nose, and an obese woman with the largest breasts he’d ever seen.

  She began crying. ‘This is where they put all the victims. I’ve become a victim, haven’t I?’

  ‘I thought you never cried.’

  ‘That’s what victims are meant to do, isn’t it?’

  ‘Are you feeling sorry for yourself?’

  ‘Somebody has to feel sorry for me.’

  ‘You’re looking better.’

  She dried her eyes with the edge of the sheet. ‘Better than what?’

  ‘Better than the woman in the next bed.’

  ‘You’ve got your sense of humour back?’

  ‘A bit.’

  ‘Did you bring the file?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You said that as if it was true.’

  ‘It is true.’

  ‘What am I supposed to do with my time?’

  ‘Get well and come back to work.’

  ‘Do you want me to come back to work?’

  He pulled up a chair and sat down. ‘How will you feed yourself and pay the bills if you don’t work?’

  ‘Ha, ha! Tell me what’s been happening with the case?’

  ‘At the same time that we were rushing you to hospital, there was a second murder, and the woman – Alice Wheatley – committed suicide in the toilets on ITU earlier.’

  ‘I heard the nurses talking about a suicide, but I didn’t realise . . . what else?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Nothing?’

  ‘No. The second murder was the same as the first. No suspects, no evidence, no leads. There were two witnesses, but all they could tell us was that he might have walked with a limp, and he might drive a motorbike. Di has confirmed that he has a limp, but she couldn’t say whether it was a long- or short-term condition. Oh, and he wore a black and white checked shirt and black gloves.’

  ‘We have nothing of any use then.’

  ‘Except . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Alice Wheatley – the woman who committed suicide this afternoon – said that the hooded man knew their names . . .’

  ‘Which could suggest that he knows one or more of the victims. Mmmm! He might know the women. That’s why he’s letting them go. He’s punishing them by forcing them to kill their boyfriends, and then he doles out the final humiliation on the men by cutting off their genitals. Maybe he’s a previous boyfriend. But if it was about revenge, or even humiliation, then why the masturbation? Why take the woman’s panties? No, it’s too elaborate . . .’

  ‘That’s my opinion as well, but DI Tubman thinks the murders are personal. We’re going to focus on the victims tomorrow.’

  ‘I can certainly understand why he might think that. How did the hooded man know their names?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Well, if you’ve got no other leads, you may as well fill up your time by focussing on the victims. It’ll make everybody think you know what you’re doing.’

  ‘I do know what I’m doing.’

  ‘I mean Tubman, of course. What’s a DI from robbery doing investigating a murder?’

  ‘The Chief said he was the only detective available.’

  She sighed and closed her eyes. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘You’ve said that already.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Tubman also thinks that the man who found Giselle Hamill on the A10 and brought her to the hospital might be the killer.’

  ‘He’s an idiot.’

  ‘I know, but there’s something not quite right about that.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’ve found out who he is and where he lives, and we’ll go and interview him tomorrow. We’re calling him the good Samaritan. We missed it, but Tubman wondered why the man didn’t call for an ambulance and the police. Instead, he put Giselle in his car and drove for thirty-five minutes to bring her here to the hospital, and then presumably he drove another thirty-five minutes back to where he’d found her to continue his journey.’

  ‘Why did we miss that?’

  ‘I think the business with the sedative, then we were called to the murder scene . . . It was a while before we interviewed Giselle.’

  ‘Still . . . You were a bit sloppy.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Would you like a sick woman to take the blame?’

  ‘I suppose not. Also, I’ve got something else.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Alice Wheatley said that the hooded man took the garrotte from around his neck before giving it to her . . .’


  ‘ . . . And you’re thinking that he might have transferred some of his DNA in the process, and you’ve asked Doc Paine to take swabs and run a DNA test . . . ?’

  ‘Has she been up to see you?’

  ‘See . . . that’s why you need me back, Stickleback – we think the same things. We’re like two peas in a pod, yin and yang, Kermit the frog and Miss Piggy, Simon and Garfunkel . . .’

  ‘I get the idea. I certainly don’t like working with Tubman. There’ll have to be changes though.’

  ‘This is where I agree to all your ridiculous demands, isn’t it?’

  ‘I think so – yes.’

  ‘All right, give me the list.’

  ‘I haven’t written it yet.’

  She made a clicking sound with her tongue. ‘What else have you had to do?’

  ‘Nothing really.’

  ‘I thought not. The sooner I get back to work, the better.’

  ***

  ‘I hope you don’t think you’re going out looking like that, Mary Richards?’

  ‘Looking like what?’ she said, twirling round like a ballerina.

  ‘Tell her, Jed.’

  He pulled himself away from the report he was reading on underage drinking and the associated behavioural problems it caused, cranked his head upwards and immediately covered his eyes with his forearm. ‘God in Heaven!’ he said. ‘You’re trying to turn me blind, aren’t you?’

  ‘It’s not that bad.’

  ‘You’re right – it’s worse, and you should stay away from the Dunton underpass.’

  ‘Are you suggesting that I look like a prostitute?’

  ‘I’m doing more than suggest. Your mother is the expert on fashion faux pas, but silver hot pants and a cleavage that plummets to your navel is hardly suitable for a meal in a family restaurant.’

  ‘You don’t think I look sexy?’

  ‘Very, but a bra would have been good.’

  ‘I don’t need to wear a bra.’

  ‘You do if you want to have an adult conversation over a meal with a man.’

  She flopped down at the kitchen table and put her chin in her hands. ‘I’ve tried everything on in my wardrobe. It’s either too big, too small, out-of-date, frumpy . . . He’ll be here in fifteen minutes.’

  ‘And he’ll wait.’

  ‘What am I going to wear?’

  ‘Well, I’m certainly not going to come up to your bedroom to advise you.’ He turned his head to look at Angie. ‘I think this is your department, darling.’

  ‘You’ll have to do the ironing then.’

  ‘I can do that. Being single wasn’t a complete waste of time.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it.’

  Digby thought it was time for walkies when he stood up.

  ‘No, not yet, old fella. You know that a man’s work is never done. When mummy comes back down, and that strange person who thinks it’s okay to go out for a meal semi-naked comes back down and leaves for her date with Mr Vegemite, I’ll take you for the best walk you’ve had all day. After that, we’ll snuggle up on the sofa and watch the international match between Brazil and Argentina. What do you say to that?’

  Digby wagged his tail and barked.

  ‘I thought that might appeal to your sense of fair play.’

  Richards came down ten minutes later wearing figure-hugging jeans and a sleeveless blue and white top tied at the waist with the first two buttons at the neck undone. Her hair had been twisted on her head like a work of art for display at the National Gallery.

  He whistled. ‘Now you look beautiful and sexy, instead of desperate. A man’s imagination is a powerful weapon.’

  ‘You’re not just saying that just to keep me happy?’

  ‘You know me better than that, Richards.’

  There was a knock at the door.

  ‘Oh God!’

  ‘Go and answer it then,’ Angie said.

  ‘Me?’

  ‘He’s your date.’

  ‘What if . . . ?’

  Parish shoved her towards the door. ‘Go.’

  ‘But . . .’

  He gave her another shove. ‘Open it.’

  ‘Do you think . . . ?’

  ‘Well?’

  She opened the door.

  Josh Marmite was standing on the doorstep with a big smile clutching an even bigger bunch of flowers. ‘You look a million dollars,’ he said to her.

  ‘For me?’ Richards said, reaching out to take the flowers. ‘How lovely.’

  ‘Absolutely not,’ he said brushing past her. ‘You’ve got me and a three-course meal. These are for the beautiful Mrs Parish.’

  ‘Oh!’

  He handed Angie the flowers. ‘Thank you for allowing me to take your daughter out.’

  ‘You can come again, Mr Marmite,’ she said, sniffing the flowers.

  ‘Josh.’

  ‘Of course, Josh.’

  ‘Haven’t you forgotten why you’re here?’ Richards said.

  ‘Hello, Inspector.’

  ‘Josh.’

  ‘Should we go, Mary?’

  ‘I thought you’d never ask.’

  ‘Have a lovely time,’ Parish said.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll have her back as good as new by midnight, Mr and Mrs Parish.’

  Richards turned to Parish. ‘Have you had words with him?’ She turned back to Josh. ‘Has he had words with you? I am over eighteen, you know. You don’t have to listen . . .’

  He shut the front door as Josh guided her to his car.

  ‘Did you have words with him?’ Angie said.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I’m glad. You can’t be too careful these days.’

  Right, Digby,’ he said to the dog. ‘Let’s get organised. It’ll be a quick sprint round the block, and then back to . . .’

  ‘We have the house to ourselves,’ Angie said. ‘And I have plans for you, Jed Parish.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Do you know how long it’s been?’

  ‘Too long?’

  ‘Exactly. So, while you’re walking Digby I’ll be soaking in the bath.’

  He unhooked the dog’s lead and clipped it on his collar. ‘Sorry, Digby. You’ll have to watch the football on your own. It’ll probably be a draw, but you can whisper the score to me when you come up to bed.’

  Outside, it wasn’t even close to getting dark. Digby set off at a rate of knots, determined to beat his all-time record of fourteen minutes and thirty-three seconds, but Parish held him back. ‘Not today, old fella.’

  ‘Yoo-hoo!’ the crazy old lady – Liz Wood – from up the road called to him with a wave. Her three shih-tzus – Frodo, Daisy and Buddy – were shuffling along behind her, and to his continued amusement, Truffles – the brown and white cat – brought up the rear. Apparently, it had been reared with a litter of dogs, and now thought it was a dog – a good advert for nurture being the dominant factor in who a person turned out to be.

  ‘Hi, Mrs Wood – all the animals okay?’

  ‘Fit as fiddles. What about Digby?’

  ‘He can’t wait to get back for the football on television.’

  ‘You’d better hurry up then.’

  He was well known among the dog-walkers and animal-lovers in the local area, and as he was a police officer he had to make sure that he didn’t forget to carry a bag or two with him. The last thing he needed was to be prosecuted for allowing Digby to foul the local environs.

  Predictably, his mind shifted to the case. What at first had appeared to be a simple murder investigation had turned into something a lot more complicated. After what they’d discovered about Beasley’s DNA this afternoon, he was beginning to suspect that Richards was right about a serial killer being responsible for Catrina Golding’s death. Admittedly, they hadn’t followed all the leads yet, but a killer who framed another person by obtaining, and then transplanting sperm, into the vagina of his victim was someone a lot more sinister than the average murderer. And was Richards also right about the missing earri
ng – was the killer a trophy-taker?

  Well, they’d no doubt find out in the morning if the profile Richards had input into CrimInt produced any viable matches. And if it didn’t – where did they go from there?

  None of that, however, explained who the father of Catrina’s baby was. The one place they hadn’t visited yet was the Bunny Hop Playgroup because it was closed for the summer. But the plan for tomorrow was to interview Mrs Dawn Marples – the manager of the playgroup – at her home on the way to work.

  After that, they’d assess where they were.

  Angie was standing in the hallway when he opened the door.

  Digby ran into the kitchen to slate his thirst.

  ‘You don’t look as though you’ve been soaking yourself in a scented bath.’

  ‘You didn’t take your phone with you.’

  He patted the pocket of his trousers. ‘I obviously forgot it.’

  ‘Ray called.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Jerry’s missing.’

  ‘Again?’

  ‘He wants your help.’

  After shutting the front door he phoned the Chief.

  ‘What’s going on, Ray?’

  ‘Meet me at Butterfield Spire – it’s a high-rise in Hart Crescent, Hainault. I’m on my way there now. Jerry should have been home three hours ago, but no one’s seen her at the office since she left for an appointment with the building supervisor at two o’clock.’

  He looked at his watch – it was just coming up to eight o’clock. ‘So she could have been missing for six hours?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I don’t need to tell you that Hainault isn’t part of Essex, do I?’

  ‘No, you don’t need to tell me that. It’s complicated, because it comes under the Met. Hainault has a local policing team, and I’ve spoken to the Inspector there – Archie Freeman. He’s sending a Sergeant and a Constable to help out.’

  ‘And what if you can’t find her?’

  ‘I’ll need to let the Chief Constable know what’s happening, but let’s cross that bridge when we come to it.’

  ‘Richards and I are on our way, Ray.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  He ended the call and phoned Richards.

  ‘Are you checking up on me?’

  ‘Jerry’s gone missing.’