Chief Cooper Cramble glared at Morrison. “My men need immediate access to that cellar, Inspector Morrison.”
“Your business is Mark Howard,” Morrison shook his head, standing at the top of the steps leading down to the cellar. He was nursing his own glare. “Mark Howard lies outside the shed up there, and there’s a team of your men and two ambulances.”
“The whereabouts of Maurice Howard also comes under my jurisdiction,” Cramble insisted.
“Go find him then,” Morrison said. “He’s runoff. Now here’s the third ambulance. This will be taking Kate Howard to hospital. I’m sure you’ll be able to question her by tomorrow morning, though not before, I expect.” Cramble stomped into the driveway outside the house, and Morrison spoke briefly to Kate. “Your husband has absconded,” he told her. “I should inform you now that your brother-in-law Mark Howard, is deceased. Murdered. We believe by Lionel Sullivan since the murder of Sullivan’s wife appears to have happened in the same place and at a similar time. But naturally, Sullivan is no longer around. Absconded. Two dead,” he was now talking softly and more to himself, “two on the run, and three in hospital. A poor result, but a result at last.”
Rita joined Morrison at the doorway. “There’s plenty of evidence inside,” she told him. “Principally regarding the elder brother and the money laundering. As for any other bodies, that will take longer to uncover.”
“The chimney?”
“Not so far. Poor little Eve Daish may have been the first one in this building. I’ve sent three of my people to the parents’ house in two cars, and they’ll escort the family to the hospital. But I doubt they’ll be able to see her. She’ll need no end of transfusions and tests. Besides, once they do see the poor little thing, they’ll be so horrified they’ll need help and some sort of treatment themselves.”
“And what do we know of Sullivan?”
“Nothing,” she said, shrugging. “Because of Joyce Sullivan’s death, and the way she was found, we’re assuming he was the killer. So did he kill Mark Howard as well? But why? We haven’t any proof of anything yet, but the hay shed has a fair bit of stuff we can test for prints and DNA. Meanwhile, the bodies are still there, and the forensic team have arrived. There are tyre marks leading away, but then they disappear.”
“The story hasn’t finished yet.”
Harry and Sylvia now sat together on a high backed sofa in the expansive living room. Sylvia’s navy woollen coat merged into the navy woollen sofa covering and its cushions. The police, a flight of dark uniforms, dark suits and flapping white plastic whirled around them, taking no notice of the two wistful pensioners, recognised or otherwise.
“I need a holiday,” Sylvia said under her breath. “Perhaps permanently.”
“Lionel’s still free,” Harry agreed. “He got poor Joyce in the end. He might try for us next.”
“Did you see Eve?”
“Only under the blanket on the hospital stretcher.”
“She was unbelievable. And we didn’t help this time. I think we only got in the way.”
Abruptly Morrison leaned over the back of the navy sofa. “Untrue,” he said, almost cheerfully. “You came up with no end of clues. You helped several times, and those made this possible.”
He had moved away. Sylvia mumbled, “He’s just being kind.”
“Nice to think someone’s capable of being kind.” Harry exhaled as though drowning. “You saw Joyce. Yes, she’d been taking risks, leaving the house. But no one deserves something like that.”
Squashed together, they stayed still, hoping not to be chucked out. They listened to the information shared, and the answers to Morrison’s questions. “Blood spatter leads to the back of this house from the shed. Car tyres in the mud take off down the hill to the main road. Who knows what car was originally parked out here?”
The clamour of detectives gathered, each having conducted his own efficient search of the building. Walsh held an iPhone, not his own, having found this on a bedside table. Crabb appeared down another staircase, shaking his head.
Napper and Tammy moved to Morrison’s side. Someone looked up, saying, “Howard’s car? Would have been luxury.”
“Scarlet Delorean with a helicopter landing pad on the roof.”
“No. Subtle. Obscure. Nothing ostentatious.”
“Dark then. Black. Navy.”
“Every second car is white or silver these days.”
“Mrs Kate Howard will surely know the make and colour of her brother-in-law’s car. That’s what Sullivan must be driving now. So what is Maurice Howard driving? A teacher’s car – nondescript?“
“Has anyone any news of the activity by the shed? Bodies still there?”
“It’s all closed off. And the public haven’t noticed what’s going on yet. No press, no media. But the pathologist has arrived and he’s busy already.”
“Osteopolist?”
“And three assistants, all in their best white plastic.”
But by the time of Mark Howard’s funeral, which was attended by none of his family nor business partners, public interest had descended into the labyrinth, and the press came. Milton remained in hospital and was as yet unaware that his eldest brother had been killed. Maurice was hunted all over England and Scotland but remained undiscovered. It was fairly soon, however, that Mark and Maurice’s joint British bank account was emptied and closed.
It was almost a full month later that a new account, in M. Howard’s name, was opened in Dubai. The man who had opened it, however, remained undercover and the local authorities did not wish to discuss the matter.
Eve Daish, surrounded day and night by her mother, father, brother, and sometimes friends, remained in hospital in a private ward, refused to see any representative of the media, but spoke regularly to Detective Inspector Morrison, Detective Inspector Rita Ellis, and on one occasion Sylvia and Harry Joyce. Apart from the severe malnutrition, Eve was found to be suffering from numerous injuries and infections. She underwent a hysterectomy, a kidney transplant, disappeared into plaster casts for several bone fractures and breakages and was booked in for future plastic surgery. She had been near death but recovered quicker than had been expected. Milton asked to see his lady and was refused. He was assured that she needed ongoing treatment but was no longer in danger. She did not, however, agree to see him under any circumstances.
“I can’t. I won’t.”
The principal doctor in the psychiatric wing where Milton was housed, had also been visiting Eve. “You seem unaware, Mr Howard,” he explained gently, “that you hurt your lady very badly and subjected her to what we would call torture. She was starved, raped, and woefully mistreated against her will.”
For a moment Milton seemed puzzled. “T’was all games. She done games too. I done games I wanted, and she gotta do wot I says, but that’s fair. I were Master. Number One told me I were Master. But I likes my lady, and I wants her back.”
“No one, in this world,” said Mr Paxivall, sitting on the side of the bed as Milton reached for a comforting hand, “belongs to any other person, Mr Howard. We must all be free to do as we wish without harming or controlling anyone else. What you did was often cruel.”
Nodding, Milton agreed. “I likes it,” he said simply. “Makes me feel like I ain’t just a little monster. I heard kids call that when I were a kid too. Number One, he says no, I’s a Master, so I does wot I likes. And that’s wot I likes.”
“Torture?”
“Yeh. Wot’s wrong wiv that?”
“Mr Howard, you are on the list for an important operation on both your legs. Metal joints will be inserted, and the end result will make you both taller, and straighter. After a period of convalescence and prolonged physiotherapy, you will find that you can walk far easier, climb stairs, and generally feel considerably better. You will also receive treatment for the distortion in your neck and jaw muscles, and the re-shaping of your nose. You will look quite different in time and you will never be called a monster by anyone ever
again. But in return, you must never, ever attempt to become a master, nor hurt another living person.”
Although having understood little of this, Milton smiled, enjoying meeting other people apart from his various weeping ladies, and his two brothers. Mr Paxivall made him feel he was deserving of attention. He also approved of his doctor’s name. “That’s a birdy, ain’t it?”
„I don’t think so,” said the psychiatrist. “You may know a Paxivall bird, but I am no expert. First, I’m afraid, there will be a trial. You will see your lady again, but you will not be permitted to touch her. She is angry with you for you badly hurting her.”
“Tell her I’s sorry. Honest. I really is. I’s sorry she done angry with me.”
“That’s not quite the same as being sorry that you hurt her, but I shall pass on your apology.”
“I ain’t sorry I done wot I done,” Milton gulped, “cos it were fantabulous. I done loved it. She were the best. And I weren’t gonna let Number One kill her off.”
“No doubt,” sighed Mr Paxivall, “that will stand in your favour when the trial commences. In the meantime, you’ll be coming to live in a large home some distance from here. The Langham Mental Facility, which I’m sure you will find comfortable. I shall arrange for someone to give you lessons in reading, writing, and speaking properly, which will continue until the trial, or until the hospital surgery is arranged, whatever comes first.”
“I doesn’t like lessons,” Milton sulked.
“You’ll like these,” decided the psychiatrist. “They come with chocolate bars. And plenty of them. Lego games are used as examples in mathematics. You will enjoy that too. And just be thankful that the death penalty no longer exists in this country.”
“Reckon I’s gonna call you Mister Birdie,“ Milton said.
Chapter Thirty-One
Harry, Sylvia, Ruby and Iris attended Joyce’s funeral, which Sylvia had paid for. Morrison and Peggy also attended, and so did Rita Ellis. Detective Inspector Cooper Cramble did not attend. He was visiting his boss at the Met, to where he had returned, with a request to be sent on full duty to Dubai for a fortnight. His boss contacted Morrison for a brief report, received in return a long and detailed description of Cramble’s work and behaviour, and immediately the request for a visit to Dubai was declined.
The sky over the cemetery grounds hung heavy in layers of deep grey but down closer to the horizon behind the trees it was silver, with a shadowy gleam that promised spring. There were snowdrops sprouting across the ancient graves, and a tiny clump of daisies were pushing up in the grassy bank around the funeral parlour.
The press, now in huge numbers, had been asked to stay away and were clustered like daisies themselves outside the fence.
The cremation service was not prolonged. A small wooden box of ashes was handed to Sylvia.
Morrison heard her. “I’d like a word, Mrs Joyce if you and Harry wouldn’t mind. I won’t keep you a moment.”
They stood outside, peering past the dark grey and into the silver. “Most of our investigations have so far turned out as I expected,” Morrison told them. “Without a doubt, Joyce Sullivan was murdered by her husband some hours before Mark Howard, who was also a victim of Lionel Sullivan, though not such a sympathetic one. We’re aware that Mr Sullivan attempted to poison her husband, but we silently and diplomatically accepted that as attempted self-defence.”
“He got her in the end.” Harry sighed.
“An additional unpleasant fact,” Morrison continued, “is that a piece of female underwear was discovered hidden on the corpse.”
Sylvia and Harry stared back at him. “You mean her knickers?”
“What? Down her throat?”
“Not exactly,” said Morrison, lowering his voice. They were on the other side of the funeral parlour and could not be overheard, but Morrison was careful. “Yes, very brief female underpants, but not her own. The mixed DNA showed they had belonged to a young woman, a young prostitute who was found murdered by an unknown hand many years ago. Her DNA was mixed with Sullivan’s dried semen. Barely discernible after nearly twenty five years, but still sufficient for testing.”
Sylvia turned away. “Someone else’s knickers, thick with your husband’s semen, stuffed down your throat at death. And showing he’d kept those trophies all that time. Hidden somewhere. He must have gone back to some old hiding place.”
“Not discovered down her throat, I’m afraid,’ Morrison said. “Forced between her legs. Found once she was on the autopsy table. And I agree, it’s clear he has some special place for keeping souvenirs. I damn well wish we could find it.”
“So he’s killed more times than we knew of. And probably Milton and Mark Howard have too. Oh, bloody hell,” muttered Harry, “two serial killers in the same place at the same time. But at least one killed the other.”
“There are other interesting indications,” Morrison added with a half smile, “all of which to be kept private for the time being. For instance, according to blood spatter leaving the crime scene, and bullet casings found nearby, we believe Sullivan was shot while struggling with Mark Howard. We don’t know where he’d now be wounded, and clearly, there wasn’t a lethal shot, but one bullet at least must have entered the body, probably more. Howard’s gun is now missing, presumed taken by Sullivan. He never used a firearm before. Now he probably has one.”
“He could be staggering into a hospital somewhere, and about to die.”
Sylvia frowned. “I doubt it. That monster could swallow a handful of bullets and still keep going. At least we know where Milton Howard is. No chance of escape.”
Morrison began to walk away but continued speaking. “Milton will go to trial, be found guilty, and returned to the psychiatric hospital where he’ll stay for the rest of his life. There are vast sums of money in his name in a trust fund, so he’ll be given private medical treatment, but that won’t drastically improve his brain. The financial gains of crime are always confiscated, but since most of that double-dealing and laundering was undertaken abroad, some of the funds cannot be proved to have come from illegal activity. It seems that Maurice Howard has now taken over Mark’s business, but a large amount of Mark Howard’s money has disappeared and we assume this was immediately stolen by Lionel Sullivan after the murder and before we were able to trace the deposits. The corpse was found without either wallet or cash, and presumably, this was open to theft. Howard’s car, a Bentley according to Maurice’s wife, is also now missing. Lionel Sullivan will be harder to find as he drives a luxury car and keeps a vast amount of money safe in a bank under some false name.”
“We have to talk to Kate.”
“She’s been talking to us,” Morrison said. “She says Maurice had a silver Audi, and he disappeared in that. She wants to go back to the cake shop she was running, sell the house where she lived with her husband, and just live above the shop with her daughter in cramped comfort. I assume she’ll be hounded by the media. You’ll find her there if you want her. Peggy and I would love to see you soon too, come over to dinner Friday evening.”
“And we have to make some sort of arrangement for Iris. An old people’s home, or Rochester Manor with us, or buy her a little apartment.”
“Generous. I can sort out a place of care.”
“I think it has to be extra nice or she’ll be back at the casino.”
“She could live with Kate. Babysit the child. Help with the cooking. Enlarge the café business.” Harry scratched his ear lobe. “After all, it was Iris, wasn’t it, that taught Kate to cook as a little girl?”
“We’ll talk Friday.” He was walking away once more, when he turned, frowning as though he had just changed his mind about saying something. “Just thought perhaps you should know that the young woman, little more than a girl really, whose DNA was on those underpants, she was Linda Driskell, daughter of a back-street prostitute, and was put to work the streets herself at age fourteen.” He sighed. “Her biological father was Lionel Sullivan. I’m not sure whe
ther he knew. I don’t know whether she knew.”
“Oh shit,” mumbled Harry.
“So now we have another avenue to check,” Morrison mumbled, partially to his shoes. “The dead girl’s mother. Secondly, are there other children by the same father?”
Sylvia gulped. “Would it matter anymore?”
Morrison raised one greying eyebrow. “A cold case, perhaps, but a relevant one. If Sullivan knows – and one thing makes me think he does – then it’s an essential investigation, not simply a cold case.”
It was afterwards that Sylvia said, “I’m booking a holiday. As far away as I can. Africa. There’s a place there, a cheetah sanctuary and you can stay, and help feed babies, and help with conservation. Touring. Wildlife of every kind. And help animals and people instead of hearing about murder and sick behaviour.”
They stood outside their own car, waiting for Iris and Ruby, both of whom were now speaking to the avid journalists at the fence.
Harry grinned. “I’m most certainly coming on that holiday. Sounds brilliant. Book it for any time they’ll let us in. Cuddling cheetahs sounds like fantastic therapy.”
“I sort of invited Ruby after her – you know, attempted suicide. But however miserable she must have been, others have had it far worse.” Sylvia leaned against the Lexus bonnet. “I can’t stop thinking about Joyce and how she felt when Lionel finally got her. I keep wondering if he did revolting things to her before he killed her. She must have practically died just seeing him as he grabbed her.”
“And then tragic little Eve.” Harry opened the driver’s door and climbed in. He leaned back but opened the window. “How long has it been? Ages. She suffered more than I can possibly imagine. And her parents too. Her family’s delightful, thank goodness. But it won’t be enough to stop her remembering.”
Ashes From Ashes Page 27
