The Fragments That Remain

by Tim Ellis

  She shook her head. ‘It’s not that. It’s one of the first things I checked, and if you’d bothered looking it’s recorded in the post mortem reports. Patrick Carroll was A-Positive, and Penny Sanderson was O-Negative.’

  ‘Pity.’

  ‘So you think the victims are being punished, Paul?’ Richards asked.

  ‘It was merely a suggestion, that’s all.’

  ‘Punished for what, Toadstone?’ Parish said.

  ‘I don’t know. I’m just saying that there might be a theme to the murders.’

  ‘No idea who the victim is?’

  Toadstone shook his head. ‘And I would say that in his present condition he’s probably unrecognisable as well.’

  ‘And the scaffold tower is on its way?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Nothing else to tell me?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What about you, Doc?’

  ‘Ditto.’

  ‘I’d appreciate being informed about what the message is as soon as you find out.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Come on, Richards. Let’s go and talk to . . . What are you looking at?’

  Richards had craned her neck backwards and was staring at the ceiling.

  ‘CCTV.’ She pointed to large smoked-glass domes attached to the roof panels in the ceiling. ‘If I’m not mistaken, under those domes are CCTV cameras.’

  Parish glanced at Toadstone. ‘You know what to do, Toadstone?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘Well spotted, Richards.’

  ‘Thanks, Sir.’

  ‘Let’s go and talk to the five supermarket staff.’

  They walked to the cafeteria and introduced themselves.

  ‘Who’s in charge?’ Parish asked.

  A thin woman with lank shoulder-length black hair, a tiny mouth, and eyebrows that were too high and made her look like a surprised clown stood up. ‘I am.’

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Kate Rhodes.’

  ‘Miss?’

  ‘Until after Christmas.’

  ‘Congratulations.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Did you find the body?’

  ‘No . . .’ She turned and pointed to a boy. ‘Bobby did.’

  Bobby was a weird looking kid with big ears and thick glasses. ‘Hello, Bobby.’

  ‘Hello, Sir.’

  ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Seventeen.’

  ‘Just left school?’

  ‘In July.’

  ‘Other than the body, did you see anything or anyone else?’

  ‘No, Sir.’

  ‘Hear anything?’

  ‘No, Sir.’

  ‘Smell anything?’

  ‘You mean like perfume?’

  ‘Did you smell perfume?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘There’s no smell of perfume there now.’

  ‘It doesn’t last long in the air, Sir. It has to be in contact with skin.’

  ‘You’re not an expert on perfume, are you?’

  Bobby laughed. ‘Not really, Sir.’

  ‘Not really . . . ?’

  ‘You know how some people can tell the make of a car from the headlight, the grill or the wheel hub?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, I can tell you what perfume it is from the smell. Of course, I have to know what the perfume is first, but once I’ve smelled it and put a name to it, I can remember it every time.’

  ‘And you know what perfume you smelled when you saw the body?’

  ‘Yes – it was 24 Faubourg by Hermés. It’s one of the most expensive perfumes in the world. Only a thousand bottles are produced each year.’

  ‘You’re not making this up are you, Bobby?’

  ‘You ask anyone, Sir.’

  The other four staff were women and they all nodded their agreement.

  ‘Suzie is wearing Beyonce Heat; Maureen has on Stories of Flower Red Ladies by Fine Perfumery; Kate is using Cerruti 1881 by Cerruti; and Tilly has on One Direction That Moment. I know them all, Sir.’

  Tilly giggled.

  ‘Okay, what about my partner here – what’s she sprayed on herself?’

  Richards’ brow furrowed. ‘Sir?’

  ‘Stop moaning, and let Bobby smiff you.’

  Bobby stood up and sniffed Richards’ neck. ‘It’s very faint, but that’s Nina by Nina Ricci.’

  Parish stared at her. ‘Is this true, Richards?’

  ‘A girl has to wear something.’

  ‘A girl maybe, but you know the rules on police officers wearing perfume unless they’re working undercover. Are you working undercover?’

  ‘For the Court of Human Rights.’

  ‘Of course, I forgot.’ He turned to Bobby. ‘Thanks for your input, Bobby. You have a rare gift that you should exploit for financial gain.’

  ‘You really think so, Sir?’

  ‘Definitely. Perfume houses would pay good money for your nose.’ He addressed Kate Rhodes. ‘You have CCTV here?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Does it operate throughout the night?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Do you have access to it?’

  ‘No. You need to speak to the manager – Edward Mullins.’

  ‘Can you call him, tell him what’s happened and ask him to come in without telling anyone else?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Will the supermarket be open today?’

  ‘No. As far as we’re concerned it’s a crime scene. Possibly tomorrow, but it depends on how quickly forensics will finish up.’

  ‘Can I send the staff home?’

  ‘Yes.’ He glanced at Richards. ‘Take a list of their names and addresses, and then they can go.’

  He wandered back into the main shop and stood looking at the impaled man. A quote by the singer/songwriter Eric Burdon of Animals fame came to mind: Inside each of us, there is the seed of both good and evil. It's a constant struggle as to which one will win. And one cannot exist without the other.

  Chapter Nineteen

  ‘Why are you ringing me at this time of the morning again, Constable?’

  She glanced at the digital clock on the bedside table. It was quarter to six.’

  ‘You have another body, Ma’am.’

  ‘Are you absolutely sure the body belongs to me?’

  ‘You asked me that yesterday.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I said exactly the same thing.’

  ‘Which was?’

  ‘A body part has been taken.’

  ‘You’d better be right, otherwise you’ll be . . .’

  ‘. . . Shovelling pig shit?’

  ‘Elephant shit.’

  ‘I didn’t realise I was being fast-tracked for promotion, Ma’am. At this rate I’ll soon be the Police Commissioner.’

  ‘What’s your name, Constable?’

  He laughed and put the phone down.

  Bloody rank and file don’t know they’re born these days.

  She called Stick.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Don’t say “Hello” as if you don’t know who it is and why I’m ringing. Is Jenifer there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, climb off her and come and get me.’

  She ended the call, scrambled out of bed, stripped off her winceyette brushed cotton ankle-length nightdress and walked into the freezing cold shower.

  Jesus! She was a fucking masochist, but it woke her up in double-quick time. And afterwards, when she was drying herself and brushing her teeth, she knew she’d feel nearly alive.

  How long had it been since she’d had consensual sex? The rape didn’t count, and if she was being honest with herself, she couldn’t even remember anything about it. There was a permanent hole in her memory bank between walking into the Ming Inn and waking up in the hospital. That Tom Dougall had a lot to answer for, and thank God he hadn’t showed up feeling sorry for her. If he had, she might have killed him.

  She needed a man, someone to come home to, some
one to laugh and cry with, someone to share a life that had fallen on hard times. But where, where would she find such a man?

  After getting dressed in her usual slacks, blouse and sleeveless jumper, she walked into the kitchen and made herself toast and coffee.

  The case was baffling that was for sure. There was still time to solve it, but that time was running out. A week – that’s how long they gave an SIO to find a suspect. Sometimes though, a week just wasn’t long enough. Someone should make it clear to murderers that there were rules to the game. If the police hadn’t found them after a week, they were to hand themselves in – much like the child’s game of hide and seek – ready or not, here I come!

  The Major Crime Review Team were meant to constructively evaluate the conduct of an investigation, but it was never that simple. The reviewing officer came in with his or her own baggage and agenda. They were meant to provide assistance and support, but they liked nothing better than to rip an investigation into shreds, to point the finger, apportion blame and ruin careers.

  The doorbell chimed.

  She opened the door.

  ‘About time you got here. Do you know how long I’ve been waiting?’

  ‘Five minutes?’

  ‘Half an hour.’

  ‘You rang me twenty-five minutes ago, and I came straight here.’

  ‘In your dreams, Stickamundo. Your watch must need a new battery.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘I do say so.’

  ‘Are you ready?’

  ‘Of course I’m ready. I’ve been ready for half an hour. I’ll just finish my toast and coffee, go to the toilet, put a touch of make-up on and then you can pull your finger out of your arse.’

  ‘Can I have a coffee? I didn’t . . .’

  ‘No, you haven’t got time.’

  The roads were reasonably clear, and it took them thirty-five minutes to reach 44 Marsh Lane in Stanstead Abbotts – the home of Cathy and Bruce Lundy, and their three children: three year-old Helen, five year-old Martin and nine year-old Judy.

  After donning the paper suits and signing in with the Constable on duty at the front door, they entered the house.

  ‘Up here,’ Di Heffernan shouted.

  ‘I bet you a million pounds she’s got nothing for us,’ Xena mumbled to Stick as they plodded up the stairs.

  ‘Maybe this time will be different.’

  ‘Maybe pigs will fly.’

  Doc Paine was already examining the body and looked up when they entered the master bedroom. ‘And a bright and frosty morning to you two.’

  ‘Frosty is bloody right,’ Xena said. ‘Well, what delights have you got for us this morning, Doc?’

  ‘The only difference between this and the other murders is that a different body part has been taken.’

  Xena stared at the man’s body lying on the left side of the bed, noted the open mouth, the pool of blood reflecting the light and the red streaks running down both sides of his face. ‘The tongue?’

  ‘There’s no fooling you is there, Inspector?’

  ‘Is that it? Is that all you’ve got for us?’

  ‘That’s it. Of course, I might have more once I get the bodies back to the mortuary and carry out the post mortem, but for now that’s all I have. The killer comes into the bedroom, cuts the throats of the man first and then the woman. She then removes the man’s tongue with her collection of blunt instruments and leaves.’

  Di Heffernan continued the story. ‘As usual, on her way out of the house, she checked on the children, which is evidenced by the bloody handprints on the door handles. This time, however, she made a mistake . . .’

  Xena’s eyes narrowed to slits. ‘Oh?’

  ‘The eldest daughter was awake and saw her.’

  ‘And she’s . . . ?’

  ‘Nine years old.’

  ‘Sit her down with a male E-fit specialist before the memory begins to fade.’

  ‘Anticipating your desire to move things along, I’ve already organised that.’

  ‘What did you say about a million dollars?’ Stick whispered.

  She stared at him. ‘Who pulled your chain?’

  ‘No one.’

  ‘Keep it that way.’ She turned back to Di Heffernan. ‘Same method of entry and exit?’

  ‘Yes. Forced entry through a back window, and she left through the front door.’

  ‘Is that it?’

  ‘You always want more.’

  ‘More!’ Xena nearly choked to death laughing. ‘You’re trying to kill me, aren’t you?’

  ‘I’d be doing everyone a favour.’

  ‘More what? Since this case started you’ve given us nothing. In fact, I can’t remember a time when you produced anything of any note, Hefferbitch.’

  ‘What about the girl?’

  ‘Finding a witness is hardly your job or a forensic breakthrough, is it?’

  ‘I’m sure . . .’

  ‘You want to go back and examine your own records. I’ll happily apologise if you can find one thing you’ve provided for us that has been helpful in any of our cases.’

  ‘I’ll do that. Your mouth will bleed from apologising.’

  ‘As we arrived here, Stick pointed out the flying pigs sitting on the telephone wire outside. Didn’t you, Stick?’

  ‘I . . .’

  ‘See, confirmation from the horse’s mouth. And make sure you collect up every photograph, document and scrap of paper in the house and deposit them all in the incident room.’

  Di Heffernan sighed.

  ‘Are you ready, Stickleback? There doesn’t seem to be much point in hanging around here.’

  ‘I . . .’

  ‘Good. Let’s go.’

  Outside, the ranks of the press were swelling by the minute.

  ‘How many bodies is that now, Inspector?’

  ‘Do you have any suspects?’

  ‘Or any ideas?’

  She ignored them.

  ‘What have you got to say for yourself?’ she aimed at Stick when they were sitting in the car..

  ‘Me? Nothing.’

  ‘Well, it’s about time you did. Sometimes, I feel as though I’m the only person contributing anything to this investigation.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ***

  ‘You’ve got nothing?’ the Chief said, his face crumpling up like discarded wrapping paper.

  ‘Well, that’s not strictly true, Sir,’ Richards interrupted. ‘We have lots of pieces, but none of them fit together. We haven’t been able to make any sense of it at all.’

  ‘No suspect?’

  Parish shook his head.

  Richards sat forward in the easy chair. ‘Again, I think we do have a kind of suspect, but we don’t know what she really looks like.’

  ‘Motive?’

  ‘No,’ Parish said.

  ‘Maybe we do have a possible motive, Sir,’ Richards interrupted again. ‘As Dr Toadstone pointed out this morning, three of the four murders could be something to do with punishment, but we haven’t been able to make any progress on that yet.’

  ‘No effective lines of enquiry?’

  Parish stared out of the window at the slate-grey sky. ‘All followed up and fizzled out.’

  ‘Except . . .’

  ‘Stop talking, Richards,’ Parish said. ‘Stop trying to blur the edges of the unpalatable truth and make it into something that it’s not. We have nothing – that’s how it is.’

  ‘But . . .’

  The Chief continued asking searching questions. ‘The size six Rosa Amento climbing shoes?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘The CCTV footage?’

  ‘More like episodes of a soap opera. Although we’ve yet to check the footage from the supermarket, but I’m not optimistic.’

  ‘The SCAS Questionnaire?’

  ‘Useless.’

  ‘House-to-house enquiries?’

  ‘Unlike Richards and I, everybody had a good night’s sleep.’

  ‘Call for medi
a assistance?’

  ‘Fell on deaf ears.’

  ‘Forensics?’

  ‘If only. No hairs, fibres, fingerprints or bodily fluids.’

  ‘The numbers?’

  ‘No idea what that’s about.’

  ‘You must have something on the van?’

  ‘Traffic can’t trace the van.’

  ‘Pathology?’

  ‘No help.’ He didn’t tell the Chief about his DNA being found on the last victim. It would come out soon enough. The Review Team would use it like a weapon against him.

  ‘Interpol?’

  Richards smiled. ‘Tell the Chief what Interpol said, Sir.’

  ‘You can tell him, Richards.’

  ‘They said that our murders were similar to three that were carried out around Wuppertal in Germany between 1990 and 2000.’

  The Chief’s brow creased up. ‘How does that help to move the investigation forward?’

  ‘Well, it doesn’t at the moment, Sir . . . but we’re waiting for a Kommisar Erik Klein to contact us this morning from the German police.’

  ‘And you’re hoping that the information he provides will shed some light on your investigation?’

  ‘One can only hope?’ Parish interjected.

  ‘Europol?’

  Parish took a swig of coffee. ‘We haven’t heard from them yet – hopefully this morning.’

  ‘No connection between the victims?’

  ‘Not that we’ve been able to discover.’

  ‘You really have nothing?’

  ‘That’s what I said.’

  ‘You know a Review Team are due in on Monday morning.’

  ‘I look forward to seeing old friends again.’

  ‘You know I won’t be able to stop them taking the case off you if this is all you’ve got.’

  The corner of Parish’s lip creased upwards. ‘More time to contemplate the nature of the universe.’

  ‘Since when do you give up, Parish?’

  ‘No, I’m not giving up, Chief. I’ve merely resigned myself to the inevitable.’

  Richards huffed and puffed. ‘Speak for yourself, Sir.’

  ‘I am, Richards. Oh, don’t worry, they’ll find something for you to do – making coffee, or something less important.’

  ‘I don’t want to make coffee, and a Review Team taking the case off you is not inevitable. We have to finish what we started; we shouldn’t indulge ourselves in self-limiting thinking; we have to be willing to leave our comfort zone . . .’