by Tim Ellis
‘Alexander Graham Bell and I are sorry that we’re late, Sir.’
Richards gave a laugh. ‘He knew it again, didn’t he?’
‘He was just lucky, Richards. He picked a name that floated into his empty head and it just happened to be the right one.’
They were in the incident room. He’d given the press their morning briefing, and handed out the photographs of the male driver with a request to the public that if anyone knew who the person might be to contact the station on the confidential telephone number provided. He didn’t say anything about the possibility that the killer might be a woman. There didn’t seem to be any point in confusing matters. The press were unusually subdued, and as such the noise and the questions were limited.
Richards had collected the pool car, which was sitting in the car park waiting for them to begin their visits to the remaining suspects, and Toadstone had just arrived to give them an update on the victim.
‘Well, Toadstone,’ Parish said. ‘Have you found out who our bloodless victim is?’
‘I think so, Sir?’
‘Really?’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘See how good it feels to come through for me, Toadstone. I want you to remember that feeling, so that when I ask you to find something for me again, you work hard to get that feeling back.’
‘Stop teasing Paul, Sir.’
‘I’m not teasing him, Richards – I’m being serious. Well, who is he?’
‘Missing Persons had a man who was reported missing by his wife yesterday, but he’s been missing since last Friday evening. His name is Patrick Carroll.’ Toadstone passed a copy of the Missing Persons’ Report to each of them.
‘You’re sure it’s the same man?’
‘I faxed a photograph over to Doc Riley. She did some biometric comparisons on computer, and she’s confirmed that it’s the same man.’
‘Why did his wife wait until yesterday to report him missing?’ Richards asked.
‘I don’t know, Mary.’
‘It says here that he was a manager at Furniture World in the shopping centre at Broxbourne. Do you know . . . ?’
‘I don’t know anything. You asked me to find out who the victim was. I’ve done that. You didn’t say that I should go out and undertake independent investigations in order to ascertain . . .’
‘All right, Toadstone,’ Parish said. ‘Keep your hair on. Good work, even if it is only half a job. What about his fingerprints and DNA?’
‘There’s nothing on the databases.’
‘So forensics was no help at all?’
‘No.’
‘Maybe you should channel your energies into becoming a private investigator.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘It was just a thought. Especially as most police forces are cutting the forensic budget.’
‘Things aren’t that bad yet.’
‘Something to bear in mind for the future then.’
‘Can I go now, Sir? I have other work to do.’
‘I suppose so, but telling me you have other work to do is a story too far, Toadstone.’
After Toadstone had left Richards said, ‘He takes it all seriously, you know.’
‘And so he should. Right, I suppose we need to adjust our plans to accommodate this new information. We’ll go and see the victim’s wife first, and then take a trip to Furniture World to find out what happened last Friday.’
‘What about the female suspects we’ve still got to interview?’
‘There’s only two of us. We’ll get to them all in good time. Go and warm the car up, I’ll be down in a minute.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘Is it all right with you if I go and see a man about a dog?’
‘Does mum know you’re getting another dog?’
‘You’re not paying attention, Richards.’
‘What . . . ? Oh! You’re going to the toilet, aren’t you?’
‘Are you still here?’
Mrs Fiona Carroll lived at 7 Crabtree Walk in Broxbourne, which was a detached three-bedroom house with an integral garage and ivy growing up the brickwork that desperately needed cutting back before it covered the bedroom windows.
Richards knocked.
A woman with long dirty-blonde hair, heavy facial features and a leopard-skin patterned housecoat appeared at the door.
‘Hello.’
‘Richards showed her warrant card. ‘DC Richards and DI Parish from Hoddesdon Police Station.’
‘You’re here about Patrick?’
‘Yes.’
‘Please, come in.’ She stood to one side as they wiped their feet on the welcome mat. ‘First door on the right. Go in and sit down.’
Richards led the way, and they sat on a three-seat brown leather sofa in a room that seemed to have no overall colour scheme or theme. Each piece of furniture was different, there was a hotchpotch of paintings and mementoes hanging on the walls and the scattered ornaments on the available surfaces looked as though they were being exhibited prior to auction.
‘Would you like a tea or coffee?’ Mrs Carroll asked.
‘No, we’re fine, thank you,’ Parish said.
‘You’ve found Patrick?’
Richards took over – she was so much better at imparting life-changing news than he was – and sat on the arm of the chair Fiona Carroll was sitting in. She took the woman’s hand in hers. ‘We’re sorry to have to tell you that Patrick was murdered in the early hours of yesterday morning.’
Her face drained of blood. ‘Yesterday morning? No, that can’t be right. Patrick went missing on Friday. You must have the wrong . . .’
‘We’re not mistaken.’
‘But I’m pregnant . . .’ Tears ran down her cheeks. ‘I’m eight weeks pregnant. What will I do now?’
‘We’re sorry.’
‘Do you know who killed him?’
‘No, not yet.’
‘What happened? How did he die?’
Parish intervened. He didn’t want Richards saying anything about the way in which Fiona’s husband had been drained of blood, or that he had been arranged upside down like The Hanged Man from a pack of Tarot cards. ‘We don’t know that either. What we do know is that he was found in Wormley Village Hall yesterday morning.’
‘I don’t understand. Who would do something like that?’
‘That’s what we’re trying to find out. Is there someone who can come and stay with you?’
‘My mother, I suppose. Should I ring her?’
‘Yes, I think that would be a good idea.’
She stood, picked up the phone from its cradle on the sideboard and dialled a number. ‘Hello, mum. Can you come over? The police are here saying that Patrick was murdered yesterday.’ She burst into tears again and put the phone back in its base. ‘She’s on her way.’
Richards took over the questions again. ‘You reported your husband missing yesterday.’
‘Yes.’
‘Why did you wait so long?’
‘Because everyone knows you won’t do anything for forty-eight hours anyway, will you?’
Richards looked at Parish.
He shrugged.
‘That’s not strictly true,’ Richards said. ‘We do make initial enquiries with friends, relatives, places the missing person is known to frequent and so on, but you’ll understand that we don’t have the manpower or the resources to search for all the people who are reported missing. If we did we’d never have the time to do any other police work. If your husband had been a child, or there had been extenuating circumstances . . .’
‘So, now he’s dead. I should have reported him missing on Friday night when he didn’t come home after work, but I thought . . . I don’t really know what I thought. We’ve been having problems because of the baby. He said we weren’t ready for a baby, but I told him I would never get rid of it under any circumstances. I guess I thought he was punishing me by not coming home . . . It’s my fault he’s dead, isn’t it?’ She dabbed at her eyes with a paper tissue.
Richards put an arm around her shoulders. ‘No, it’s definitely not your fault. Even if you had reported him missing, it’s unlikely we would have found him.’
‘Why? Where was he?’
‘We still don’t know, but we think he was abducted when he left work. Can you think of anyone who might have wanted him dead?’
‘Like who? He was just a normal person. I’m quite sure there were some people who didn’t like him, but nobody we knew would have killed him.’
‘He worked at Furniture World in the town centre?’
‘That’s right. He was the manager in the sofa section.’
‘Did he usually come straight home after work?’
‘Usually, but sometimes – especially on a Friday – he’d go to the Stag Inn and have a drink with the people he worked with.’
They heard someone come in through the front door. ‘It’s only me,’ a woman’s voice called. She then appeared in the living room doorway. She had greying hair and was busy unbuttoning a yellow wool overcoat with a hood and large matching wood toggles. ‘It’s like a three-ring circus out there,’ she said. ‘Reporters, cameramen, television crews . . . I’m glad I put my make-up on and made a bit of an effort with my hair.’
Parish introduced himself and Richards and then said, ‘We were just about to leave.’
‘Not on my account, I hope?’
‘No, we have to continue with our investigation. Someone murdered your son-in-law and it’s our job to find out who. We’ll make our own way out. Again, we’re sorry for your loss, Mrs Carroll.’ He passed her a business card. ‘If you need a Victim Support Officer to come and stay with you, please call me. Someone will contact you from King George Hospital in the next few days to go and formally identify your husband.’
‘Thank you.’
They made their way out.
The press accosted them when they reached the road.
‘You didn’t tell us you knew who the victim was, Inspector.’
‘At the time of the press briefing I didn’t know.’
‘Can you give us any more information?’
‘The family are grieving. I suggest you allow them some privacy to do exactly that.’
‘We all have stories to write.’
‘Are you any closer to finding out who the murderer is yet?’
He ignored the questions.
‘Furniture World?’ Richards asked once they were sitting in the car.
‘Yes.’
***
‘Right,’ Xena said to Constable Lucky Morris. ‘I suggest you come with me. We’ll go and get the evidence you need to lock Miranda Batty up.’ She bent down and spoke to the old woman. ‘Can you tell us what number Miranda lives at, Mrs Ward?’
‘Number twenty-three.’
They walked along the road to number twenty-three and knocked on the door.
It opened. ‘Yeah?’
Miranda Batty was everything Xena imagined she would be. A fat slovenly woman with greasy black hair wearing a pair of grey jogging pants, a black food-stained t-shirt with I Only Get on my Knees to Pray printed on the front, was filling up the doorway. She had a half-smoked cigarette hanging out of her mouth, and the ash dropped onto the front of her t-shirt as she spoke.
‘Miranda Batty?’ Xena asked.
‘What do you fuckers want?’
‘Turn around. You’re under arrest for handling stolen goods.’
‘Like fuck I am.’
‘Call Social Services, Constable.’ Xena barged her way inside. ‘How many children have you got hidden away here that need to be taken into care?’
‘You can’t take my children.’
‘That’s where you’re wrong, you see. If you’re in a police cell, then the children will be taken away by the lovely Social Workers in Child Protection, and you’ll probably never see them again. You’ll certainly never get them back.’
‘You fucking bastards. You can’t prove anything.’
‘Wrong again, I’m afraid. Here’s what we know: You’ve been working for Mrs Ward at number 44 for eighteen months, and during that time you’ve been collecting her pension and Winter Fuel Payments, but keeping most – if not all – of it yourself. You’ve also been helping yourself to her documents and valuables, and selling them on. Now, listen carefully, the only chance you have of keeping your children is if you make a full statement and tell me who you sold those documents to.’
‘It wasn’t me. It was Wally. I told him it was stupid, but he wouldn’t listen.’
‘And where’s Wally now?’
‘Just gone down to the pub.’
Xena turned to Constable Morris. ‘You’d better call it in, Constable. This place needs searching for evidence by forensics, get a full statement from Miss Batty, and organise officers to arrest Wally at the pub.’
‘What about my children?’ Miranda said.
‘You provide a full statement to Constable Morris, and we’ll see what we can do to help you keep them out of the clutches of the Child Snatchers.’
Morris got off the phone and signalled her over. ‘All organised, Ma’am.’
‘Good,’ she leaned towards Morris and whispered, ‘Take the woman’s statement before she comes to her senses and screams for legal representation, and then call Social Services.’
‘Will do.’
Stick knocked and popped his head in through the front door. ‘Everything all right in here?’
‘And why wouldn’t it be?’
‘No reason.’
‘Got the groceries?’
‘Yes.’
‘Sorted the heating out?’
‘Yes.’
Xena introduced Stick to Constable Morris. ‘We’re waiting for reinforcements. Go back and keep Mrs Ward company. Make the tea, I’ll be along as soon as forensics arrive.’
‘Okay.’
Constable Morris wrote down Miranda Batty’s statement and got her to sign it. She then phoned Social Services to come and collect the five children.
Forensics arrived.
Xena told them to bag every document they could find, and to take photographs and recordings of everything and anything that looked out of place and probably didn’t belong to Miss Batty or Wally. She then wandered back along the street to number 44.
‘Is everything all right?’ Mrs Ward asked her.
She sat down.
Stick poured her a cup of tea.
‘Everything is fine, Mrs Ward. Unfortunately, you’ll need someone else to come in and look after you, but we’ll speak to Social Services before we go.’
‘What’s happened to Miranda?’
‘I’m afraid she’s been arrested. She was stealing all your money and possessions.’
‘I’ll miss her and the children. They definitely brought some joy and laughter to this old house.’
‘That might have been so, but they emptied it of your belongings.’
‘They’re only things. And I have no one to leave it all to now anyway.’
Xena took Mrs Ward’s hand. ‘The reason we’re here is that another woman who we think might have committed murder was pretending to be you – she had your documents.’
‘Well I never.’
Before they left Bushey in Watford, they found out that Wally had been advised by his solicitor to say nothing about any stolen documents. If Miranda Batty had helped herself to money, valuables and documents from Mrs Ward’s house, then it was nothing to do with him.
‘Now what?’ Stick said.
‘Seeing as we’re nearly half-way there, we may as well pay the Acorn Lodge in Surrey a visit.’
‘I knew you were going to say that. I think I’m getting a sixth sense, you know.’
‘A sixth sense?’
‘Yes. Like being able to predict the future.’
‘Extra Sensory Perception?’
‘That’s it.’
‘You don’t half talk a load of rubbish sometimes, Stickleback. You’ve got more chance of being hit by
a meteorite than acquiring ESP.’
‘Do you think so?’
‘I know so. You need a brain larger than a dry-roasted peanut for ESP to work.’
‘Ah! That could be a problem.’
‘In your case it’s a serious setback.’
‘Mmmm!’
***
‘I can’t believe George was murdered while we were sitting there talking to him,’ Joe said.
They were in The Plough, not far from the station, having some lunch that Jerry had paid for. It had taken them over an hour to extricate themselves from the hullabaloo at Poplar Care Home. The police had been called, and after playing twenty-questions and providing a signed statement, they’d been permitted to leave. The truth seemed the obvious course of action. Of course, she made no mention of Bronwyn.
‘What’s more worrying is the fact that he was.’
‘What do you mean, Mrs K?’
‘Why was he murdered while we there? Why not yesterday, or next week?’
‘Maybe . . . Christ almighty. We were being followed, weren’t we?’
‘That’s the conclusion I’ve reached.’
They both surveyed the pub. There were some regulars at the bar, a couple of fellow diners, but no one who appeared to be following them, or who had the look of an assassin.
‘What are we going to do now, Mrs K?’
‘Do you want to give up, Joe?’
‘Give up?’
‘Someone is prepared to kill to stop the truth from getting out.’
‘Well yeah, but they won’t kill us . . . will they?’
‘If we carry on, they very well might.’
‘But we don’t know what the truth is.’
‘Not yet, but we know now that whatever was in Box 253 is worth killing for.’
‘Now that George Peckham is dead, nobody will ever find out what was in that box.’
‘That’s where you’re wrong, Joe.’
‘I am?’
‘I know someone who can tell us who the owner of that box was, and probably what was inside it.’
‘Who?’
‘You don’t need to know that.’
‘Do you think it’s a good idea?’
‘That’s why I’m asking whether you want to carry on.’
