by Tim Ellis
Why had he chosen Catrina Golding? She was pregnant, different from his other victims. Not that it had stopped him from murdering her and sexually assaulting her corpse.
Richards barged through the door carrying the map and the files. ‘I think sometimes you think I’m a packhorse.’
‘You certainly moan like one. Give me the files and put the map up.’
‘You treat Digby better than you treat me.’
‘That’s because Digby does as he’s told without a single complaint. I walk him, I feed him, I play with him and he’s happy as a pig in muck. But you . . . I walk you, I feed you, I let you play detective with me, and what do I get?’
‘You’ve got an answer for everything, haven’t you? You think you’re so smart, but . . .’
‘Map!’
She pinned the map to the board. ‘Right.’
‘Put a small circle round the locations.’ He read them out one at a time until they had all four crime scenes marked on the map. ‘Well?’
‘Well what?’
‘Aren’t you meant to be a detective?’
‘I thought I was a packhorse.’
‘I’m keeping my own counsel. What do the locations tell us?’
‘Nothing.’
He stared at them, tilted his head left and right, and opened and closed his eyes rapidly. She was right – there was no pattern associated with the murder locations. No circle, square, cross or anything else that might be considered a representation of some obscure religious symbol or sect.
He opened the four files and laid them out in a square – two above, two below – and passed her the photographs of the victims when they were alive.
Richards stuck them on the new whiteboard next to their names and addresses. ‘They’re very similar – attractive, dark hair, good skin, thin . . .’
‘In fact, they’re all similar to you, Richards.’
‘You think I’m attractive?’
‘Like a packhorse, you mean?’
‘You . . .’
‘So, we have a victim profile. How does it help us?’
‘Do you think that August 1 is an anniversary?’
‘Could very well be, but if the murders began in 2011 – and there’s no guarantee of that – we’d have to go back to 2010. Where would we begin?’
‘The hospitals?’
‘Be realistic.’
‘I thought I was.’
‘You’re not. The other problem, of course, is the necrophilia.’
‘You say it’s a problem, but it could be a clue?’
‘Go on?’
‘Well, I wonder how many cases there are of people having sex with corpses each year.’
‘You think they keep a record?’
‘Don’t they?’
‘No.’
‘Maybe if we asked the press . . .’
‘The Chief Constable and the paying public would love that: “Necrophiliac sought in serial killings . . .” And anyway, it would probably come under medical confidentiality. Doctors aren’t going to come forward and say, “Oh yes, I have five necrophiliacs on my books”.’
‘I don’t see why not. Maybe there should be a national register of necrophiliacs.’
‘You’re not being very helpful, Richards.’
‘We’ve run out of ideas, haven’t we?’
‘I would say so. How many unsolved cases have you got to your name so far?’
‘None, and I don’t want this one to be the first either.’
‘You’d better put your thinking cap on then.’
‘I thought you were doing the thinking.’
‘I was, but then I decided not to rob you of the experience.’
Chapter Twenty
‘Hello, Jen,’ Rowley said when he answered his phone. ‘How are things going?’
She told him about Bobby Catalano meeting the woman at the Kingsmead Country Hotel, how the two of them had eaten lunch together and how he’d transferred three black plastic sacks from the boot of her car into his.
‘And he’s at work now with the black plastic sacks sitting in the boot of his car?’
‘Yes.’
‘Mmmm!’
‘What should I do, Rowley?’
‘I suppose you need to find out what’s in those black plastic sacks.’
‘To do that I’d need a search warrant to look in his boot.’
‘I was thinking that you could ring Sergeant Catalano. She could drive to her husband’s work and probably open the boot to see what’s in the sacks.’
‘That’s a good idea, Rowley.’
‘Yes, but it could get messy if there’s only garden rubbish, or something just as innocuous in the sacks, and her husband catches her searching the boot of his car, you’re there shuffling your feet pretending to be an innocent bystander, and she’s forced to explain what’s going on . . .’
‘Yes, I don’t want to get in the middle of that.’
‘Exactly.’
‘So, what should I do?’
‘I get the idea that he’s planning to do something with those sacks after work.’
‘What?’
‘Well, I don’t know. But if he buries them, or throws them in a skip, then you can justifiably reclaim them and look inside.’
‘Me?’
‘Or, I’ll come along and take a look.’
‘Yes, please.’
‘And we could probably get Rosanne there as a witness.’
‘Even better. So, I should wait until he leaves work and follow him?’
’That would be the thing to do. Have you got your camera with you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Make sure you get lots of pictures as evidence – just in case.’
‘In case of what?’
‘In case we find something we shouldn’t inside those sacks.’
‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘Sergeant Catalano isn’t going to be very happy, is she?’
‘No, but that’s what happens when you open a can of worms – some of them get out.’
‘What are you doing?’
‘I’m on the way to the Evidence Storage Warehouse at Rye to find out how a murder weapon, which should be locked in a box, is being used to kill again.’
‘Be careful.’
‘I will. You be careful as well.’
She blew him a kiss down the phone. ‘Love you.’
‘Not as much as I love you.’
She ended the call, and stared at the red VW Polo. It was quarter to three – still a long time to wait for Bobby Catalano to finish work. She got out of the car, locked it and walked up the road to stretch her legs. It was hard work sitting in a car all day.
***
The Rye Evidence Storage Warehouse (ESW) located next to the railway sidings on Salisbury Road had come into existence as a dire necessity. Essex police stations were gradually filling up – not with criminals, police officers or technology, but with files and evidence boxes. The more paper-oriented, efficient and streamlined the police became, the more files and boxes of evidence were produced. Until, with more and more space in police stations being identified as “Property Rooms” it became obvious that something had to be done before police officers were encouraged to start working from home, and asked to keep suspects in their spare rooms.
A working party was set up to examine the issue and make recommendations. Due to the constraints of the criminal justice system, however, it quickly became apparent that securing case evidence was simply another task to be undertaken to ensure criminals were put behind bars and remained there. The warehouse at Rye was purchased, police and civilian staff under an inspector were identified to undertake the task of document and evidence management, a ready-made storage system was brought in, everything was moved from A to B and the bureaucracy breathed a sigh of relief.
The chain of evidence is essentially a chronological paper trail showing the seizure, custody, control, transfe
r, analysis and disposition of physical or electronic evidence. It has to be provable in a court of law that nobody who has not been documented in the paper trail could have accessed that evidence.
Stick could hear the trains pulling in and out of Rye House station as he parked his car in the staff car park and walked to the bullet-proof metal and glass door with its CCTV, keypad-controlled lock and intercom system. He pressed the doorbell.
‘Yes? A female voice asked.
‘Detective Sergeant Rowley Gilbert from Hoddesdon Police Station.’
‘Who’s your appointment with?’
He hadn’t made an appointment, didn’t realise he needed one – he was an idiot, should have rung up and spoken to somebody before travelling down here. ‘You?’ he ventured.
‘Me? Ah! You don’t have an appointment, do you?’
‘No.’
‘I’m sorry . . .’
‘Please?’ He tried to sound desperate, which was difficult over an intercom system.
‘I suppose I could listen to your tale of woe.’
‘I’d be very grateful.’
‘You’re not trying to bribe me, are you?’
‘I . . .’
The door clicked open.
Sergeant Wendy Jenkins was one of a number of people in charge of the terminal stages of the paper trail for Essex and the surrounding police forces, but before any evidence was accepted for storage at the warehouse the chain had to be verified and she – or one of the other officers – would then sign for the evidence as the last person in the chain, and allocate it to a storage space within the warehouse.
He made his way to the long Formica-topped counter. Behind it stood a squat woman with ginger hair, freckles and a neck like a weightlifter.
His hand shot out. ‘Hello, Rowley Gilbert.’
She took his hand, crushed the bones into a fine mulch and passed it back to him with a smirk. ‘Wendy Jenkins. So, what brings you to the ESW?’
‘Isaac Scully’s garrotte.’
‘Sorry?’
Stick told her that he was the detective working on the Lovers’ Lane murders, and that forensics had discovered the murder weapon used in all three murders was a garrotte, which was once owned and used by the gangland executioner – Isaac Scully.
‘Been following it on the news and in the papers. Not getting very far, are you?’
‘No, not really. I’m hoping that’s going to change now, though.’
‘What, by coming in here and making accusations? I wish I hadn’t let you in now.’
‘The easiest way to check if I’m an idiot is to open the box.’
‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’
‘Are you scared about what you’ll find?’
‘I’m not scared of anyone or anything.’
‘Unless, of course, it was you who put the garrotte back on the street.’
‘You want to watch your mouth, Gilbert.’
‘Sorry, but this is the only lead I have left.’
She moved to the computer. ‘If there’s a garrotte in the box, I’m going to physically propel you out of the building with my size five service-issue boot.’
‘I’ll look forward to that.’
Her eyes narrowed to slits. ‘Yes, you strike me as the type of person who would.’ She carried out a database query and found the location of the evidence boxes for the Isaac Scully trial. ‘I suppose you’ll want to come with me?’
‘Not that I don’t trust you, but I think it would be for the best.’
‘Of course I understand. Just so long as you understand the consequences of a me finding a garrotte in that box.’
‘I think we both understand each other, Sergeant Jenkins.’
She led him along a tortuous route to a stack of shelves, and as luck would have it, the evidence boxes for the Scully trial were on the top shelf.
‘Do you want me to scramble up there and . . . ?’
‘This is a state-of-the-art warehouse, Gilbert. We have ladders on wheels. She found a set of ladders a couple of rows away and wheeled them round. ‘Go on then, you can do the honours.’
He climbed up, grabbed the clear plastic box with the correct reference number written on it and hefted it down.
Jenkins put a pair of plastic gloves on, snapped the lid off and peered inside. She checked the contents list on the top of the lid, and then took another look inside the box. ‘Crap!’
‘No garrotte?’ Stick enquired.
‘You needn’t look so fucking smug about it, Gilbert.’
‘Sorry.’
‘And you think one of my people helped themselves to Isaac Scully’s garrotte and . . . what?’
‘I don’t know. I suppose there are a couple of possibilities. The obvious possibility is that the person who took the garrotte is the killer I’m looking for.’
‘Jesus.’
‘Or, they know who the killer is.’
‘Maybe they sold it?’ Jenkins suggested.
‘Maybe they did, but regardless of what did happen to the garrotte after it was taken from the box, I need to talk to the person who took it.’ He stared at her. ‘With the state-of-the-art warehouse you have here, you should be able to tell me who that person is, shouldn’t you?’
‘I should boot your arse out of my warehouse anyway, Gilbert.’
He grinned like an extra in a zombie movie. ‘Yes, but you won’t, will you?’
‘Crap! Crap! Crap!’ she said, snapping the lid back on the box. ‘Okay. You carry the box. We’ll go and speak to the Inspector . . .’
‘Who is it?’
‘Kevin McLarty. You won’t know him. In fact, nobody I talk to has ever heard of him. He tells me that he used to work in Special Operations and can’t say anything about it – as if I’m going to believe that crap. I think he’s just trying to get into my knickers.’
‘I know him.’
‘No shit?’
‘He was briefly in Special Ops when I arrived there.’
‘Tell me more?’
‘Are you prepared to die, Jenkins?’
‘Grab the box, asshole.’ She retraced her steps back to the main reception. ‘Wait here,’ she said, and disappeared along a cavernous corridor.
Five minutes later, a mountain of a man appeared that Stick recognised as Kevin McLarty. They’d both been promoted since their time in Special Ops.
McLarty offered his hand.
Stick tried to shake the hand quickly, but McLarty held onto it as if he had something to prove.
‘Gilbert? No, I don’t recognise you from Special Ops.’
He reclaimed his hand. ‘There was only a week’s overlap, Sir. I think we both had other things on our minds. You were leaving, I was arriving.’
‘True. So you’re not in Special Ops now?’
‘No, I left a year ago. I’m a Sergeant in the Murder Team at Hoddesdon.’
‘And you think we’ve lost an item of evidence?’
‘I don’t just think, Sir. Sergeant Jenkins has shown me the box where it should be, and it’s not there.’
‘Well, you’ll have to leave us to investigate, and . . .’
‘I’m sorry, Sir. I can’t do that.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘There’s a murderer out there who’s forcing young women to kill their boyfriends, and he’s going to strike again tonight unless I can stop him.’
‘We’ll need time . . .’
‘There is no time, Sir. I know this is a blot on your copybook, but that’s not my problem. You’re not going to be able to cover this up. I need to know who took the garrotte out of the box, and if you don’t find out now I’ll just have to call the Chief Constable and tell him what’s happening.’
‘Are you trying to blackmail me, Gilbert?’
‘It’s a bit late for that, Sir. My suggestion would be to give me the name of the person who took the garrotte, and then call the Chief Constable yourself and tell him what’s happened. Trying to cover it up, or investigate it yo
urself, will end your career. At least if you own up to it now, you might still have a career afterwards.’
McLarty looked as though he’d aged fifty years in the past five minutes. ‘Sergeant Jenkins.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Find out who took that garrotte and let Sergeant Gilbert know.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘I’ll be in my office.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘How’re you coping with the nightmares, Gilbert?’
‘I get by, Sir.’
‘Yes – getting by. That’s not really a life, is it?’ He wandered off, back along the cavernous corridor to his office.
‘I should never have let you in, Gilbert,’ Jenkins said.
‘Would it have changed anything?’
‘Let’s see what we can find on the database.’
She found nothing on the database, but the CCTV system in that row had been activated on Tuesday, July 15 at three forty-two.
‘Who’s that?’ he asked Jenkins when he saw the man taking the garrotte out of the box.
‘David Menon. He’s a civilian employee.’
‘Not here today?’
‘No. In fact, he called in sick three days ago, and we haven’t seen him since.’ She wrote down Menon’s name and address on a piece of paper and passed it to him. ‘I hope he’s not the killer,’ she said. ‘I’d hate to think I’ve been working with a murderer all this time.’
Stick stood up. ‘It just goes to prove – if it needed any proof – that you can never really know anyone. Thanks for your help, and sorry about . . .’
They both heard a loud bang from along the corridor and looked at each other.
‘Please, God . . .’ Jenkins said, running down the corridor.
Stick followed her.
McLarty was sprawled in a leather chair behind a mahogany desk. He’d put the business end of a Glock into his mouth and pulled the trigger. Blood, bone and brains were splattered all over a map of Essex pinned to a notice board behind him.
‘I’ll call for an ambulance,’ Jenkins said.
Stick pulled out his phone to call the Chief Constable. ‘Tell them there’s no rush.’
