by Tim Ellis
She walked slowly round the dangling corpse and said, ‘The Hanged Man.’
‘Of course,’ Toadstone said. ‘I didn’t recognise him without his clothes on. Also, the hands are dangling instead of bound, but the right leg does form an inverted four.’
Richards’ eyes creased up. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘The twelfth Tarot card,’ Parish said. ‘It depicts a traitor being punished, and symbolises life, death and enlightenment.’
‘The twelfth card? Why isn’t it number one?’
‘You’re thinking that this is the first murder in a series of Tarot murders, aren’t you?’
‘Unless there are eleven murders we’ve missed.’
‘I doubt that. Maybe the killer is working backwards.’
‘How many cards are there in a Tarot pack?’
‘Seventy-four: Four suits with fourteen in each suit, a twenty-one card trump suit and a single card known as the Fool.’
‘You didn’t say you were in it.’
‘Very amusing.’
‘Thank you. So, the fact that it’s the twelfth card is not relevant then, because we’re not expecting seventy-four murders, are we?’
‘I would say that was extremely unlikely.’
‘How did the killer get up there?’ Richards asked, craning her neck backwards like a contortionist to stare at the rope, which had been hooked around the apex of the metal beam.
Parish looked around the room. ‘Have you found any ladders, Toadstone?’
‘Stepladders only. Nothing that would reach up there.’
‘Interesting,’ Doc Riley said. ‘Oh well, let the dog see the rabbit.’ She began her initial examination of the corpse and spoke into her Dictaphone. ‘Male, aged between 35 and 45 . . .’ She turned to look at Toadstone. ‘Have you found his clothes, wallet or any identity documents?’
Toadstone shook his head. ‘Nothing.’
‘Mmmm!’ Doc Riley continued her examination while her assistant took a series of photographs. ‘. . . There are puncture wounds above the carotid artery in the neck, above both brachial arteries in the crook of the elbows, and above both femoral arteries at the top of the thighs. I’d say he bled out, and that was the cause of death. It looks as though the killer used blood-drawing kits connected to blood bags. It wouldn’t have taken long at all – maybe thirty to forty-five minutes. It was a professional job. I take it you haven’t found the blood, Dr Toadstone?’
Again, Toadstone shook his head. ‘It makes you wonder what they want with all that blood.’
Parish shook his head. ‘I think we both know the answer to that, Toadstone. A horde of vampires has moved into the area. They’re stocking up with food for the winter.’
‘You’re crazy,’ Richards said.
‘I am, am I? Give me another explanation that makes any sense of this.’
‘Well . . .’
‘I thought not. What about you, Doc?’
‘Nothing from me.’
‘There we are then,’ Parish concluded. ‘We’re looking for a group of pale-looking new residents who have bought a large sprawling house with a cellar. They have red eyes, sharp teeth, sleep in coffins and only venture out at night.’
Doc Riley continued. ‘. . . I estimate that time of death occurred between one and three this morning. Again, I’ll be able to narrow it down during the PM. There’s also a smaller puncture wound in the right thigh, which is possibly an injection site. The victim was alive, and his heart pumping when the blood was being drained from his body, but he must have been unconscious. I see no physical injury to account for his loss of consciousness, so I’m assuming he was drugged. Obviously, I’ll know more after the PM, which will be tomorrow at ten . . . I hesitate to suggest this, but we could meet for lunch in the cafeteria, so that I can give you the results.’
‘Richards – whose turn is it to pay?’
‘Yours, Sir.’
‘That can’t be right. I thought you were keeping a record in your notebook?’
‘I am.’
‘Show me.’
Richards passed him her notebook. ‘See – you’re turn.’ She pointed to the list.
He passed the notebook back. ‘I’m sure you two are doing a number on me.’
‘Lunch it is then,’ Doc Riley said. ‘Mmmm! There’s another puncture wound here . . .’ She examined the hole with a magnifying glass and then inserted a large-bore needle that she found at the bottom of her bag. ‘Unusual . . .’
‘What is?’ Parish asked, leaning closer to look at the tiny hole.
‘This looks as though it was made post mortem by something similar to a meat skewer – the type one might use for kebabs at a barbecue, and the direction of travel is from just beneath the ribs and up towards the heart. Whether it pierced the heart is unclear until I open him up.’
‘If he was already dead – why puncture his heart?’ Richards asked.
‘A good question, which – if the heart was punctured – I will only discover the answer to during the PM. There are also scratch marks on the victim’s back around the shoulder area, which suggests he was dragged along the ground either here or somewhere else.’ She spent the next twenty minutes taking swabs and samples; and recording temperatures and measurements.
‘What about you, Toadstone?’
‘Me?’
‘Did you think I’d forgotten about you?’
‘No.’
‘Is there any evidence of forced entry?’
‘There was meant to be a ballroom dancing class in here this morning – the paso doble apparently. Anyway, the dance teacher – a Miss Louise Gillespie – opened the door with the key as usual . . .’
‘But you’ve got your people inspecting the lock?’
‘Of course.’
‘So, she discovered the body?’
‘Yes.’
‘How many keys are there to the front door?’
‘The Caretaker – Barnaby Noone – thinks there are twelve.’
‘Thinks?’
‘He’s only ever accounted for twelve, but he can’t swear to it that there weren’t any more copies made prior to his arrival.’
‘How long has he been here?’
‘Eighteen months.’
‘And before him?’
‘A succession of five people who were mostly unsuitable for the post, so there was a bit of confusion accounting for the keys, as well as everything else.’
‘Okay – we’ll interview him. What about the other doors?’
‘There are two fire exits in this room . . .’ He pointed to them. ‘And a rear door in the kitchen, which doesn’t appear to have been opened, but we’re checking it all the same.’
‘And the fire doors were closed?’
‘Yes.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Thousands of hairs and fibres on the floor, which we’ll analyse and run through the database, but I’m not optimistic.’
‘You never are, Toadstone. How do you think that makes us feel? We arrive at the scene of a murder, we’re full of the joys of Spring; we have a bounce in our step; a gleam in our eyes; a tune on our lips; and then we come face-to-face with you and your lack of optimism. Our hearts sink lower than the Titanic.’
‘Stop teasing him, Sir. Paul always does the best he can.’
‘Maybe it’s time to say that his best isn’t good enough, Richards. I need forensic evidence not lame excuses to solve murders. It would make my heart burst with the warmth of summer to receive one tiny piece of forensic evidence from Toadstone. That’s not too much to ask is it, Richards?’
‘And you call me a drama queen?’
‘What about bodily fluids? Fingerprints? Footprints?’
‘Nothing,’ Toadstone said.
Parish craned his neck. ‘Have you worked out how the killer got up there yet?’
‘I can only imagine that they used climbing equipment such as rope, carabiners, ascenders and so forth. The rope used to suspend the body from the r
oof is a Mammut ten millimetre climbing rope costing £75, and the knots are standard climbing knots – a clove-hitch around the ankle, and a bowline around the beam apex.’
‘Okay, let’s say I agree that the killer climbed up there – it means that you need to dust the metal beam and ceiling for fingerprints.’
‘I am aware of that. I’m having a scaffold tower brought here and erected, so that we can get up there.’
‘And you’ll run tests on the rope and knots as well?’
‘Of course.’
‘Where’s the dance teacher Louise Gillespie?’
‘In the office.’
They walked to the office and opened the door.
‘Miss Gillespie?’ Parish asked the slim dark-haired woman sitting in a chair.
‘Yes.’ She was in her mid-thirties, with red eyes, streaked mascara and had obviously been crying.
Richards sat down next to her and took her hand.
‘Were you the first to arrive at the Village Hall this morning?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you hear or see anything unusual?’
‘No. Everything was the same as it always is. The car park was empty, the door was locked and . . . then I walked in to find that obscenity hanging from the beam.’
Richards squeezed the woman’s hand. ‘Yes, it’s not very nice, is it?’
‘A young woman like you. I don’t know how you can face things like that on a daily basis. I know I couldn’t.’
‘Thank you for your time, Miss Gillespie,’ Parish said.
She looked up at him. ‘I don’t suppose I can still run my dance class?’
Parish shook his head. ‘No. I’m afraid the Village Hall is a crime scene until further notice. Show Miss Gillespie out, DC Richards.’
When Richards returned he said, ‘Find Barnaby Noone – the Caretaker. Ask him for a list of people who have a key to the front door, anyone who might have a key to the back door, the names of the previous caretakers as far back as he can remember, and the names of anyone else who he thinks might have gained access to the Village Hall last night. Also, organise a house-to-house and a search for any CCTV footage in the local area.’
‘We haven’t got much to go on, have we?’
‘Same old. Working with slim pickings is what we’re renowned for, Richards.’
‘I suppose so. In fact, each case in the police force should be given a “degree of difficulty”. You know, like in the diving.’
‘What do you know about diving?’
‘I like to watch the men’s diving competition.’
‘I think we know what you like to watch.’
‘Don’t be disgusting.’
‘Does Toadstone know what you’ve been watching?’
‘It wouldn’t matter if he did.’
‘Okay, name me one dive that the men do.’
‘The forward dive.’
‘Rubbish. You’ve got a mind like a sewer.’
‘I have not.’
‘We’ll call Toadstone in here and ask him what he thinks about your grubby little hobby.’
‘You wouldn’t?’
‘I think we both know that I would.’
‘And I think we should concentrate on solving this murder.’
‘I’m sure you do. Well, now that you’re the resident expert on the SCAS questionnaire, you can complete that when we return to the station.’
She smiled. ‘I am the expert, aren’t I?’
‘I thought you were going to interview the caretaker.’
‘Oh yes!’
In the main room, Doc Riley stood back while her assistant and two forensic officers wrapped the corpse in a body bag, untied the nylon climbing rope securing the man’s ankles, and lowered him onto the floor before sealing the body bag.
‘Right, I think I’m done here. I’ll see you and Richards tomorrow for lunch.’
‘Okay, Doc,’ Parish said with a wave. ‘See you then.’
Chapter Three
‘If we’re working on the basis that the killer is someone Peter Lloyd metaphorically gave his heart to – an old flame maybe, then we need to know who Peter Lloyd was.’
‘Agreed.’
‘You don’t have to say it every time I say something, you know.’
‘I’m practising. It’s a lot easier saying I agree with you when I do agree with you.’
‘You mean you don’t agree with me all the time?’
‘I’m sure I didn’t say anything like that.’
‘I’m watching you, Stickymouth.’
‘I’ll go and find out as much as I can about Mr Lloyd, shall I?’
‘Good idea.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘I think I might perform the duties of a DI while you’re pretending to be a DS – is that all right with you?’
‘Suits me just fine. Should I start upstairs?’
‘That would be a good place to start. I suppose I could make an effort downstairs.’
They returned to the house.
Stick took the stairs two at a time.
She wandered into the kitchen and began rifling through cupboards, drawers and boxes. At first, she had no idea what she was looking for, but gradually she began to wrap her mind around the type of items that might provide a comprehensive picture of who Peter Lloyd was. She emptied a cardboard box full of junk, and started to fill it up with opened letters, telephone and utility bills, photographs attached to the fridge by magnets, a camera and post-it notes. When she’d finished in the kitchen, she took the box into the open-plan living and dining room and searched for more things to put in the box: An address book, a birthday date book, more bills and opened letters, a file of invoices, a plastic bag stuffed with receipts and other papers, and a photograph album.
She found Peter Lloyd’s briefcase by a chair. It contained files, blueprints and wiring plans for a number of different locations that confirmed he worked for a company called Minster Electronics in Ware. Inside the briefcase she also found his most recent payslip, and wondered how an electrician could earn more than she did; another address book, but with mostly business addresses in it; a credit card statement indicating that he owed £7,500; and a Curriculum Vitae that he’d obviously been working on.
Stick came down with a shoebox full of old photographs; Peter Lloyd’s wallet; a pigskin folder stuffed with documents such as passports, premium bond notification letters, a marriage certificate, birth certificates and other documents; and a loose-leaf folder with Lloyd’s educational and training certificates in plastic sleeves.
‘You think we’ve got everything?’ Stick asked.
‘Do you think the world will end if we haven’t?’
‘Probably not.’
They took off the forensic garb, left the house loaded up with boxes and headed for the car.
The press ambushed them again.
‘You’ve been into the house now, Inspector. What can you tell us?’
‘I can tell you that there’ll be a press briefing in the station at four o’clock this afternoon.’
‘Come on, Inspector Blake.’
‘No comment.’
‘You enjoyed that, didn’t you?’ Stick said to her once they were sitting in the car with the boxes stacked in the boot.
‘Immensely.’
Xena checked the digital clock on the dashboard – it was eleven fifteen. ‘It’s too early for lunch and too early to stop working. I suppose we’ll have to go back to the station and make it look as though we know what we’re doing.’
‘Agreed.’
‘You’re a numpty.
‘Agreed.’
They carried the boxes up to incident room three, piled them on the table and Stick began emptying the contents and making notes about Peter Lloyd on the incident board.
Xena’s face creased up. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Emptying the boxes and . . .’
‘I don’t have a coffee.’
‘We’ll be going to lunch
soon.’
‘And that means I can’t have a coffee, does it?’
‘Would you like a coffee?’
‘I thought you’d never ask.’
Once Stick had returned with her mug of coffee, she sat back nursing it and said, ‘You can carry on now.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Why have you written down a training course he went on in 1999?’
‘You don’t think it’s relevant?’
‘I don’t think it’s relevant at this point in time. Who were his parents? Where was he born? Does he have any siblings? . . . Do you want more?’
‘You want me to start at the beginning?’
‘Mmmm! That would be good.’
Stick wiped the board clean and began laying out the contents of the boxes in chronological order.
Xena watched him until it was twelve-thirty. ‘I’d say it was lunchtime now.’
‘I haven’t finished.’
‘All right, you stay here and finish, I’ll go to lunch.’
Stick put the marker pen down on the table. ‘Where should we go?’
‘The Fish & Eels on Dobbs Weir Road.’
‘It’s too far to walk to.’
‘Then you’ll have to take me in your Hansom carriage.’
‘Why the Fish & Eels?’ Stick asked as they reached the car park.
‘I’ve heard the food’s good.’
After a short drive, stick parked up and they found a recently vacated table overlooking Dobbs Weir at the back of the pub.
A waitress approached and ducked under the sun parasol.
‘Can I get you drinks?’
‘Orange juice for me,’ Stick said.
Xena nodded. ‘And me – with ice.’
‘There’s a thirty-minute wait for food, I’m afraid, ’ the waitress informed them.
‘Thirty minutes!’ Xena exclaimed. ‘You should employ more staff. Didn’t you know you were going to be busy today? What’s the point of having lunch on the menu if there’s no one to cook it, or serve it? Pretty soon there won’t be anybody who’ll want to eat here if they have to wait so long. I hope we’ll get a discount if we decide . . . ?’
