by Tim Ellis
He put his arms around her waist and rested his chin on her shoulder. ‘There’s worrying, and then there’s obsessive compulsive disorder. Most days, Mary and I do mundane things like interviewing witnesses, talking to relatives, and chasing up leads. To be honest, you’re in more danger than we are. I’ve seen the latest statistics on assaults by the public on hospital staff. On Friday and Saturday nights it’s like a bloody war zone in the A & E at King George Hospital. I’d be quite within my rights to forbid you to work at the hospital on those two nights.’
She pressed her cheek against his. ‘It’s all right, Jed, I’m not turning neurotic. I merely have to come to terms with you going to work each day, and the type of work you do. It took me a long time to find you, I don’t want to lose you.’
‘You’re not going to lose me, Angela Richards. I’m here for the duration.’
‘You’re going to put me off my food,’ Mary said.
He began making himself a coffee. ‘I’ve been thinking that we might consider putting the parental controls on the television so that Mary can’t watch the Crime Channel in her bedroom.’
Angie played along. ‘I’m sure you’re right, Jed. Too much crime can’t be good for a young woman.’
‘You’re the meanest people I know,’ Mary said stomping up the stairs to her bedroom.
***
Tuesday 2nd March
Sitting at the breakfast table Mary said, ‘What are we doing today, Sir?’
He’d given up trying to get her to call him Jed at home. No matter how much he wanted to keep his work and private life separate, they were tangled up like a Gordian knot. ‘Have you got your notebook?’
‘Do I need it?’
‘Most definitely. I have a long list for you, and I know how much you like lists.’
Mary went to the cupboard in the hall and came back with her notebook. Digby was munching his breakfast by the back door.
‘Shoot,’ she said sitting down again.
‘Shoot? What type of language is that? Is that what the Americans say on the Crime Channel?’
‘For fear of incriminating myself and being locked out of the Crime Channel like a naughty child, I’m taking the Fifth Amendment.’
Parish laughed. ‘Okay, Agent Richards, are you ready?’
‘Shoot?’
‘I have a press briefing at nine o’clock. While I’m being asked questions that I can’t answer and made to look a fool, you need to begin work on the released prisoner list. We’re looking for a murderer who lives within fifty miles of Redbridge. The average age of a serial killer when they first kill is twenty-seven and a half. If we add seven years onto that we’re probably searching for someone around the age of thirty-four. So look for a man in the age range of twenty-five to forty years of age. Ignore anyone outside those ages, and disregard petty criminals and women.’
‘You don’t think the killer is a woman then?’
‘No, I agree with Doc Michelin. Female serial killers are rare. They generally only kill men they’ve had a relationship with, and they usually kill them for material gain. The two victims are women, nothing was stolen, and they both suffered horrific violence, and violence is a man thing.’
‘You should go on Mastermind, Sir.’
‘That would be interesting. “Jed Parish with his specialist subject of Serial Killers,”’ he mimicked.
They both laughed.
Digby barked to go out into the back garden. Parish opened the back door and watched where he went so he could dispose of it later. ‘I also want you to go down to evidence lock-up and sign out the files relating to DI John Lewin’s death,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘Sign out a pool car and collect Dr Jeffers at ten o’clock…’
‘I thought you were sending a car for him?’
‘I am, and you’re driving it.’
‘Oh… I didn’t realise I was a chauffeur as well as a trainee detective.’
‘Those are only two of the many roles you’re required to perform. Think of yourself as a mutli-talented dogsbody.’
‘We all have to do jobs we don’t like, Mary,’ Angie said. She started night duty later, and Parish was fed up he’d have to sleep alone for seven days.
‘I’m not saying I don’t like being a chauffeur, but I thought I’d be better employed catching murderers.’
‘You mean, if you weren’t carrying out mundane tasks you’d be running the hoards of murderers roaming free in Chigwell to ground… Ah, I get it… You think you’re the Sheriff of Dodge City on his trusty horse chasing the varmints out of town?’
‘Stop making fun of me, Sir.’
‘Stop romanticising the job we do, Richards. Ninety-nine percent of our work is administration, and one percent is “catching murderers”. And not only that, as a trainee detective you’re not authorised to catch murderers yet anyway, that’s my job.’
‘Anything else, Sir?’ she said pulling a face.
Parish passed her the scrap of paper Toadstone had given him with the name and telephone number of the Certified Graphologist scribbled on it. ‘Ring Ms Sprinkles and ask her if she can spare us some time tomorrow morning.’
‘Why not today, Sir?’
‘We’re both busy this morning. This afternoon you’re going with the Chief to the hospital, and I have somewhere I need to be.’
‘Where?’
‘Being my partner doesn’t mean you have to know everything about me, Richards.’
‘So, you’re not going to tell me?’
‘Didn’t I just say that?’
‘Do you know where he’s going, mum?’
Angie smiled and said, ‘Don’t drag me into your squabbling.’ She stood up, took a last swallow of her tea, and kissed Parish on the cheek. ‘I’m going for my shower now, otherwise I’ll be late meeting Clarissa in the gym. I’ll see you later, and be careful.’
‘And you.’
‘You’re taking his side. I’m an orphan. I’ve been abandoned by my own Mother.’
Parish grunted. ‘Stop being a drama queen, Richards. Should we continue?’
‘I won’t rest until I find out, Sir.’
‘I know. In the meantime, we should both be back by five o’clock. Tell Dan I’d like him to provide us with a progress report, and afterwards we’ll brief the Chief.’
‘Are you sure you shouldn’t tell me where you’re going? What if there’s an emergency and I need to find you?’
‘That’s why God invented mobile phones.’
‘What if…’
‘Stop talking, Richards.’
***
The press briefing room resembled the inside of a can of sardines. Parish sat at the raised table on his own with the Epping Forest red and yellow coat-of-arms as a backdrop. The Latin motto – non progredi est regredi – meant not going forwards was to go backwards. Sometimes he felt like that. He poured himself a cup of still water and took a drink.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he said a bit too loudly.
They stopped talking and leaned forward expectantly.
‘As you know, two similar murders have occurred seven years apart.’ There was no point trying to deny the connection, they all knew the same killer had carried out both murders. ‘The first victim was Social Worker Tanya Mathews who went missing on 1st October 2003, and was eventually found in a derelict school in Woodford Green on 10th December of that same year. DI John Lewin investigated the crime, but failed to identify any suspects before he himself died on 17th December. The case has remained open, but remains unsolved. The second victim was Estate Agent Susan Reeves who went missing on 22nd February this year, and was found two days later in an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of Redbridge. Now, I will try to answer any questions you might have?’
‘Yes?’ Parish pointed to a pretty young woman with glasses in the third row.
‘Emma Potter from the Redbridge Times. Do you have any suspects yet, Inspector?’
‘No, we are still accumulating and sifting through the evidence
from both murders.’
‘Joel Metcalfe from the Epping Guardian. Some of us have seen the photograph of Tanya Mathews taken by the boys who found her. Do you think there’s a religious aspect to the murders?’
‘It’s too early to tell at the moment, but it is an avenue of enquiry we are pursuing.’
‘Pansy Lupin from the Epping and Redbridge Independent. Do you know why there was a gap of seven years between the two murders?’
‘We’re looking into a number of possibilities, but that’s all I can say at the moment.’
A young woman with reddish hair and freckles standing on the left by the wall spoke next. ‘Catherine Cox from the Chigwell Herald, Inspector. Good to see you back.’
‘Thank you, Miss Cox, it’s good to be back. What’s your question?’
‘In the photograph of the first murder their appeared to be a folded piece of paper pinned to… the victim. Can you throw any light on this, and whether the second body had a similar piece of paper?’
It didn’t take a genius to work out that the killer had sent the police a message, so he decided to tell them the truth. ‘We now have two pieces of paper, Miss Cox, which are being analysed as we speak. And yes, on each piece of paper there appears to be a message written by the killer, but as yet we have no idea what either message says.’
Parish took a drink of water from the plastic cup in front of him and waited until the excitement had died down. He could imagine the comparisons to the Zodiac Killer in tomorrow’s newspapers. The one thing he wasn’t going to do was publish the messages and ask for the public to help in solving them.
Once they had settled down again, Parish chose another pretty young woman from the back row with a blonde bob and sparkling grey eyes.
‘Ruth Sandland from the Commuter. Do you think he’s going to kill again?’
‘I’m not a clairvoyant, Miss Sandland, but I have the feeling he hasn’t finished yet.’
‘It’s Mizz Sandland, Inspector, I’m sure I’ve told you that before.’
‘I’m sure you have, Miss Sandland,’ he threw right back at her and immediately stood up. ‘The next briefing will be at nine o’clock on Thursday morning. Thank you all for coming’
***
Parish entered the squad room at ten to ten, and besides two busy-looking clerical assistants at the far end, found it empty. Richards had left him a bright pink post-it note stuck to his computer screen stating that “the chauffeur” had gone to collect a pool car and then pick up Dan Jeffers from the Prince Regent Hotel. There was also an arrow pointing down to his keyboard, on top of which was another pink post-it note telling him that “the trainee detective” was half-way through the released prisoner list, and that a box containing the files/evidence relating to DI John Lewin’s death was under his desk.
Kowalski wasn’t in, so the station resembled the Marie Celeste. He wanted some fresh air, and wrote a note to Richards telling her he’d see her at four o’clock, to stay out of trouble, and that under no circumstances was she to go into the broom cupboard with DI Kowalski.
He needed to burrow into the killer’s mind, so he planned to visit the two locations where the victims had been found. Richards had already looked round both sites with Kowalski, so in a way he was catching up, and it wasn’t worth dragging Richards out to the places again. After that, he’d make his way to Wormwood Scrubs and grab some lunch on the way. He walked to the incident room, wrote down the addresses of both locations and put the crime scene photographs in two A4 envelopes.
Chapter Six
After driving down the A123, he took the first exit off the Fulwell roundabout, past King Solomon High School, and along Forest Road with Fairlop Waters Nature Reserve and Golf Course on his right. After a distance of approximately three miles he turned left down a road with no name, and kept going until he reached an abandoned tyre warehouse. He noticed that there were no neighbours to ask if they’d seen anything, the killer would have enjoyed complete isolation while he brutalised and murdered Susan Reeves.
Outside were stacks of old tyres. The windows had been boarded up and graffiti in a multitude of colours marked the white painted walls. There was a stepped crack stretching from the roof to the ground, and a rusty grey metal door swung open as if he was expected, but then it banged shut again.
After taking the torch and the A4 envelope of photographs from the boot of his car, he ducked under the blue and white crime scene tape and went inside. It smelled of tyres, oil, and mould. He shone the light around a large room, which had a small office to the right. There was more tape around the area where the body had been found. Holding the torch under his arm he compared the crime scene photographs with the empty warehouse and shivered. He hoped Susan Reeves had been unconscious when the killer took her life, he couldn’t imagine a worse place to die.
Maybe Richards and Kowalski were right, maybe there was nothing. As he turned to leave he noticed the graffiti all over the walls. There were tags: EPIC, ELLE, ODO, and others he couldn’t make out. In some areas there were attempts at urban art, but what caught his eye was a tag that appeared to be in another language:
Shuffling through the photographs again, he found what he was looking for. The forensic photographer had split the tag over two pictures, but he had the feeling the writing was connected to the murder, and that Dan Jeffers would know what it meant.
He drove back up the A123 and turned left onto the B173. When he reached Woodford Bridge he joined the A113, and after two miles turned right into Broadmead Road and another right into Pintail Road. The derelict secondary school was by the railway tracks, which was probably why it was no longer in use. He wondered how children could possibly learn with trains rumbling by every five minutes?
There was no crime scene tape. It had been seven years since the murder of Tanya Mathews. There was a small clock tower at the apex of the school roof without a clock. Many of the slate tiles were missing and there were large holes through which could be seen the rotting wood trusses and battens. Most of the windows were boarded up, but some of the small ones high up with vertical bars had broken glass. Weeds had taken hold at the base of the walls, and there was a pile of broken bricks by the main entrance.
Carrying the torch and the second lot of photographs he forced open the disintegrating wooden door, and carefully made his way into the darkness. There was an inch of water on the concrete floor and the place reeked of mould. He found the classroom where Tanya Mathews had been found, and immediately saw the same four-character tag on the wall to the right of the door surrounded by a plethora of other graffiti. He was sure now that it was either the killer’s signature, or another message.
Comparing the photographs to the crime scene produced nothing. Seven years was a long time. As he left the building, his mobile phone vibrated.
‘What do you want, Richards?’
‘That’s not very nice, Sir?’
‘You’re just being nosy.’
‘I am not.’
‘So, why did you ring?’
‘Well… I was wondering…’
‘…Where I’ve been, where I am, and where I’m going?’
‘I… I also wanted to know if you were all right.’
‘You’ve just thought of that.’
‘I don’t know how you could, Sir?’
‘You must think I live up a banana tree, Richards.’
‘I do not. I know exactly where you live.’
‘I’ve been to the first crime scene, I’m at the second crime scene now, and I’m just about to go to lunch.’
‘You’re not going to eat rubbish are you?’
‘Absolutely not.’
‘Where are you going after lunch, Sir?’
‘Now we’re getting to it. That’s the real reason you rang, isn’t it?’
‘No, it isn’t, Sir.’
‘I’m going somewhere, Richards, and I’ll see you at five o’clock. If you want something to think about while I’m going where I’m going, think about wh
at you, Kowalski and Toadstone missed at the crime scenes.’
‘Missed?’
‘Yes, Richards, missed.’
‘It’s not that we missed something, Sir, it’s that you found it. You’re such a brilliant detective.’
‘I’m still not going to tell you, Richards.’
‘Please, Sir? I don’t know how you can bear to keep your partner in the dark.’
‘Don’t forget to arrange some lunch for Dan, and tell the Chief good luck at the hospital from me. Goodbye, Richards.’ Smiling, he ended the call. She was like a robot on a mission.
After eating an unhealthy lunch consisting of a fry-up, toast, and a mug of tea in a shabby café at South Woodford, he hopped onto the North Circular and aimed his car towards London. An hour and a half later he reached Wormwood Scrubs on Du Cane Road in the borough of Hammersmith and Fulham where he visited Terry Reynolds.
He didn’t condone what Terry had done, but he understood the reason why he had killed all those people. In another life, he might have done the same thing.
***
It was twenty-five past three when he set off back to Hoddesdon, and after an uneventful journey pulled into the station car park at five to five.
His first port of call was the toilet. Then he went to the kitchen and made himself a coffee. As he walked through the squad room, Kowalski signalled to him.
‘Parish, what’s this Richards tells me about her missing something at your two crime scenes?’
‘You both missed it.’
‘You’ve misunderstood my role in all this. I wasn’t even looking. I only accompanied Richards because she kept pestering me. I sat in the car outside while she went inside and did what she did.’
‘That’s hardly the actions of a DI and a partner, Ray.’
