by Tim Ellis
‘She’s following a husband who might be cheating on his wife.’
‘Private detective work on her day off?’
‘A favour for a colleague.’
‘Which colleague?’
‘You don’t need to know.’
‘I don’t know how you can possibly say that. You don’t know what I do, or do not, need to know. Right now, my need to know is at a critical level.’
‘You’ll want to know about the case then?’
‘Go on, but don’t think it lets you off the hook about Jenifer.’
He told her about the third mutilation and murder; the possibility that the killer knows the victims; and the phone call from Giselle and the good Samaritan – Andrew Ross.
‘And he raped her?’
‘So she says.’
‘You don’t believe her?’
‘I believe she believes he raped her. I need evidence.’
‘Men are all the same.’
‘Gender doesn’t come into it.’
‘You’re so naive. Sometimes, I think you were brought up by a herd of alpacas in the Peruvian jungle. Of course gender comes into it. Who made the rules?’
‘The rules of what?’
‘Don’t be dense – the rules of evidence about rape.’
‘The lawmakers.’
‘Feel free to stop me when the penny drops.’
‘Who were all men?’
‘There you go. These men have decided that women should be put through a demeaning and degrading procedure to overcome the significant and insurmountable obstacle of corroborating evidence, so that it is nearly impossible to prove rape has taken place and they can continue to abuse women with impunity. For instance, they blame the victim for the rape; they make up ridiculous statistics about low conviction rates to dissuade women from reporting the rape; they require proof that the sexual act was done without the victim’s consent when there was only the rapist and the victim there; they allow the defence to discredit the victim in court and force them to face their attacker; they use ridiculous case law as a means of justifying decisions to release rapists, and where the rapist is found guilty the male judges use pathetic sentencing guidelines . . . Would you like to put forward a counter-argument?’
‘I don’t think that would be advisable.’
‘A wise decision. So, you’ve come here because . . . ?’
‘To take a statement from Giselle.’
‘And you didn’t ask me to do that because . . . ?’
‘You’re a patient in a hospital, not a police officer on the duty roster.’
‘You need my help, Stickleback.’
‘You’re sick.’
‘Has that ever stopped me before?’ Xena threw the covers back. ‘Help me.’
‘Help you what?’
‘Get out of bed.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘You’d be happier if I fell arse over tit on the floor?’
‘I’d be happier if you stayed in bed.’
‘Well?’
He took the strain under her arm as she shuffled to the edge of the bed. ‘Have you put on weight?’
‘You have no idea, do you?’
‘About what?’
‘Women?’
‘I never said I did.’
In the end, he found an unused wheelchair for her to sit in and pushed her to the side of Giselle Hamill’s bed. While Xena spoke to Giselle and took her statement, he went to find Nurse Mandy Barry.
‘You brought them?’ a small round rosy-cheeked woman asked like an addict in desperate need of a fix.
He passed her a plastic bag containing the large box of Maltesers. ‘You arranged for the rape kit test?’
‘As I said I would.’
‘And the clothes?’
‘Of course.’ She passed him the details on a piece of paper. ‘Ring up in twenty-four hours they said.’
‘Thanks.’
She smiled. ‘You’re welcome.’
He returned to Giselle’s bedside.
Xena passed him the signed statement. ‘There you go, Stickamundo.’
‘Why do you call him that?’ Giselle asked.
‘Because he looks like a stick insect.’
‘He is rather thin, isn’t he?’
Stick cleared his throat. ‘Can we move on?’
‘Haven’t we finished?’ Giselle said.
‘I need to ask you a couple of questions.’
‘Okay.’
‘Did the hooded man call you or Robert by name?’
Shaking her head slowly she said, ‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘As much as I can be.’
‘Are any of these names familiar to you: Alice Wheatley, Brandon Yagin, Ronnie Russell or Natalie Webb.’
She shook her head again. ‘Sorry.’
‘Okay, thanks.’
He pushed Xena back to her bed, helped her to shuffle in and returned the wheelchair to where he’d found it.
‘Bang goes your theory about the killer knowing the victims.’
‘Possibly, but I suppose I still need to check whether there’s any connection between the victims.’
‘Are you leaving now?’
‘I have a murderer to catch.’
Xena pulled a face. ‘How are you going to do that without me?’
‘I’m sure I’ll manage. And you should have thought about that before . . .’
‘. . . Before what? Before I invited those men to rape me and leave me for dead in a fucking alley?’
‘I was going to say: Before you went out on your own and got drunk.’ He took her hand in both of his. ‘If I need your help I’ll ask for it. All I need from you now is that you get better and come back to work.’
She began to cry. ‘Don’t be nice to me. I fucking hate it when people are nice to me.’
He kissed her on the top of her head, and his nose wrinkled up. ‘Have you had a shower since you were brought in?’
‘You’ve got a fucking nerve.’
‘I’ll try and come in tonight and bring you some anti-dandruff shampoo, and a bar of soap to combat scabies and flaking skin.’
‘You’ll be investigating your own murder if you don’t get the fuck out of here and leave me alone.’
He made his way down to the mortuary with the weight of the world on his shoulders. Where was he going with this? Four victims and no suspects, no leads, no evidence - nothing. He was a drowning man taking his last breath before sinking into oblivion.
The Kipling method of solving problems wasn’t helping him much either. He knew where and when the murders had occurred, but knowing didn’t provide any clues or lead anywhere. The murders had all taken place in lovers’ lanes in different parts of Essex, which suggested that the killer was connected to these locations – specifically or generally – in some way. He could input a database query and see what came out the other end, but surely Vice would have known if there’d been anything.
The who and the why were still out of reach. Both might very well be related to the location, but in what way? The motive for the murders was muddied by the killer masturbating while the woman killed the man. That wasn’t the behaviour of someone out for revenge, or any of the other run-of-the-mill motives for murder. It was the behaviour of someone who wanted control and power over others, someone who wanted sexual self-gratification, someone who . . . Why cut off the man’s genitals post mortem? What purpose did that serve? He thought about the possibility of asking for a criminal profiler, but would it help him if he knew why the killer was doing what he was doing? The perpetrator could have been categorised as a serial killer if he’d killed the victims himself, but he hadn’t.
He knew what had happened, but it didn’t help him. Forensics hadn’t been any help. Neither had Vice, and they were the experts on sex and stuff. Up to now, Doc Paine hadn’t been much help either.
‘Good morning, Sergeant.’
‘Hi, Doc. Have you heard abou
t DI Tubman?’
‘Not only have I heard about his demise, but I have what’s left of him in the freezer. Not a pretty site, I’m afraid.’
‘I’m still struggling to believe it.’
‘I know. One minute you’re here, the next . . .’ She clicked her fingers. ‘Gone in the blink of an eye.’
‘Do you think there’s life after death?’
‘No.’
‘Oh!’
‘I’ve been a scientist and pathologist for many years, and during that time I’d have expected to have found objective evidence of an afterlife. To put it bluntly, I’ve found diddly squat.’
‘Okay.’
‘No strange smells, sounds or voices; nobody floating above the operating table; nobody walking around the mortuary wringing their hands rueing a life misspent; and nobody has ever returned and provided a detailed report of Heaven or Hell.’
‘But isn’t that the point – life and death are separate domains of reality? Never the twain shall meet.’
‘Who knows? Anyway, I have good news for you.’
‘You do?’
‘A DNA match.’
‘Really?’
‘From Robert Vine’s neck wound – as you suggested.’
‘Why wasn’t it identified during the post mortem?’
‘No swabs were taken – it’s that simple. We knew that the murder weapon was a garrotte, we knew who the killer was, we knew the cause and the time of death – there was no reason to take swabs of the wound.’
‘I just wondered, that’s all.’
‘Do you want to know who the DNA belongs to?’
‘That’s what I’ve come down here for.’
‘Isaac Scully.’
‘Can’t say I know him. Have you got an address?’
‘Yes.’
Stick took out his notebook. ‘Okay?’
‘Forest Park Cemetery, Ilford.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘That’s where he’s buried – he died in 1986.’
Stick’s eyes narrowed. ‘I thought you said there was no evidence for life after death, Doc’
***
‘You’d better hope that you don’t get murdered, Richards.’
‘It’s the first thing on my lips when I wake up in the mornings . . . That is, of course, when I do wake up in the mornings. I say that, because today I didn’t wake up after not having had any sleep at all last night. A boss who cared about the people who worked for him would have given said people the day off to catch up on their sleep.’
‘Stop whingeing.’
‘I’m too tired to whinge.’
‘When you’re murdered, your private life becomes public. Murder detectives strip off every layer of your life to reveal the dirty, grubby person you really are underneath.’
‘Speak for yourself.’
‘I was referring to Catrina Golding. The more we find out about her life, the more people we find who could easily have killed her.’
‘For a while, I thought Mrs Marples’ husband was going to be the father of Catrina’s baby.’
‘And he still might be.’
‘You heard her – he’s had a vasectomy.’
‘Sometimes vasectomies don’t work, or they can be reversed.’
‘Mrs Marples would have got pregnant again in the previous four years if his sperm was still in working order. Anyway, I think you’ve fathered enough children and should get a vasectomy as well.’
He laughed. ‘Do you actually know what a vasectomy is?’
‘No, and I don’t want to either.’
‘They cut the tubes from a man’s testicles to his penis.’
‘I think you’d enjoy that.’
‘I think you’d enjoy me enjoying that.’
She smiled. ‘You know, I think I would. I deserve some enjoyment in my life.’
‘Well, you’ll need to seek your enjoyment elsewhere, because nobody is coming near my scrotum with a scalpel.’
‘You’re a baby.’
‘That’s easy for you to say.’
Ryan Hadfield was a professional photographer on the cusp of greatness, or at least that’s how he described himself on his website. His photographic portfolio included landscapes, wildlife, aerial, sports, portrait, architectural, wedding, fashion, macro and baby photography, and some of the pictures were pretty damned good. However, he had failed to divulge the sideline of pornographic photography.
The bell dangling behind the door jangled when they walked into Hadfield’s photographic studio shop on the main Ware Road in Woollensbrook.
‘Be with you in a minute,’ a man’s voice came from behind a heavy black curtain.
A young attractive woman with her brown hair in a ponytail wearing a sleeveless powder blue dress, no bra and a collection of wood bangles on her right wrist appeared first. She stared at Richards, but smiled at Parish.
Next, a scruffy-looking unshaven man with dishevelled hair wearing a blue and white checked shirt with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, jeans and flip-flops came through the curtain. He touched the woman’s arm. ‘I’ll call you when they’re ready, Jenny.’
‘Okay, Ryan.’
The bell jangled as Jenny left.
Hadfield said, ‘A father and daughter shot?’
‘Hey, that would be good,’ Richards said.
Parish’s brow furrowed. ‘I’d have been ten years old when she was born,’ he said, brandishing his warrant card like a crucifix. ‘DI Parish and DC Richards. We’re here to talk to you about Catrina Golding.’
‘Who?’
‘The woman you took pornographic photographs of and who is now dead.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Ring Vice, Richards. I want this place and his home taking apart; his car, cameras and any computers confiscated . . .’
‘Oh, that Catrina Golding!’ He moved to the door, dropped the latch and turned the sign to CLOSED. ‘It was a favour, a one-off. I’ve never . . .’
‘Do you think we arrived here yesterday on a slow-boat from China?’
‘All right – it’s a service I offer to special clients, but I’m not a peddler of porn. The women ask me if I’ll photograph them in certain risqué poses, and that’s it.’
‘Did you have sex with Catrina Golding?’
‘Absolutely not. I make it perfectly clear to all my clients that sex is not on the menu.’
‘Get Vice here, Richards.’
‘It was just the once.’
‘And tell them to bring the sniffer dogs. I’m sure I can smell something strange in here.’
‘You don’t know what it’s like. I would never force myself on any woman. I try to be professional, but they always want sex. I’m weak, aren’t I?’
‘Are you the father of Catrina Golding’s baby?’
‘No. At first the bump didn’t show, but then she had to tell me she was pregnant when I commented on her expanding midriff. I wanted to stop. I mean, there was a baby growing inside her, but she wouldn’t let me.’
Richards pulled a face. ‘Wouldn’t let you! How did she do that?’
‘You know?’
‘No.’
‘Well, she kept coming round . . .’
‘Blackmailing you?’
‘As good as. She kept taking off her clothes.’
‘And you felt compelled to have sex with her?’
‘What could I do? I’m just weak, aren’t I?’
Richards rolled her eyes. ‘Spineless, I’d say.’
‘So you killed her to stop her coming round and taking off her clothes?’ Parish said.
He gave half a laugh. ‘That’d be a bit desperate, wouldn’t it?’
‘Have you any idea who might have murdered Catrina Golding?’
‘None at all. I know I didn’t murder her, but I won’t say I’m not relieved that she won’t be coming round anymore.’
‘I want you to report to Hoddesdon Police Station tomorrow morning to provide a DNA sample,’ Parish said.
&
nbsp; ‘Tomorrow morning! I have appointments.’
‘Give Vice a ring, Richards. And I’m sure the Inland Revenue would like to know . . .’
‘Tomorrow morning is perfect. What time would be good for you?’
‘Between nine and twelve.’
‘I’ll be there.’
‘I know you will. And don’t leave the country.’
‘I won’t. You’re not going to arrest me then?’
‘Do you want us to?’
‘No, no.’ He turned to Richards. ‘I’d be happy to take your photograph.’
‘With my clothes on?’
‘Of course, but I think you’d look fantastic with them off.’
‘Do you really think so?’
‘Definitely.’
‘Richards,’ Parish said.
Her eyes had glazed over. ‘Yes?’
‘Time to go.’
‘Couldn’t I just . . . ?’
‘No.’
Hadfield passed Richards his card. ‘Come back anytime. I’ll give you a twenty-five percent discount.’
‘Really?’
Parish grabbed her by the elbow and pushed her towards the door.
Richards leaned backwards, making it difficult for him to propel her forward. ‘Did you hear that – a twenty-five percent discount?’
Once they were outside he said, ‘Do you want to have sex with him?’
Her nose wrinkled up and she stuck her tongue out. ‘No thank you.’
‘That’s what you have to do to get the discount.’
‘He didn’t say that.’
‘No, but that’s what he meant.’
‘You just don’t want me to pose naked for photographs.’
‘It’s not me, it’s the Chief Constable. He says you’re not allowed to, and you signed a contract promising him you wouldn’t.’
‘He’d never know.’
‘I’d tell him.’
‘You wouldn’t?’
‘If I hear one button being undone, I’ll be on the phone to the Chief Constable quicker than you can say “pornographic”.’
His phone began buzzing.
‘You . . .’
‘Shush! Hi, Doc.’
‘I’ve had the results back from the Low Copy Number DNA re-test.’
‘Anything?’
‘We have a match, but it probably won’t be accepted as evidence in a court of law.’
‘I can live with that as long as we can identify the killer.’
