by Tim Ellis
‘Okay,’ he said simply because he was sure she expected him to say something, but he was really only interested in the analysis. The idea that a person’s personality could be derived from their handwriting was not new, but he knew it was controversial and at best pseudo-science.
‘A very disturbed person wrote these messages, Inspector,’ Amanda began. ‘The handwriting shows that he suffers from conflicts with his inner demons. Disconnection from his parents and his past are apparent in the writing, and I get the feeling that he is attempting to make sense out of a very confused existence. Cruel violence and the strong need to satisfy urges are visible in the writer’s script, as are indications of excesses, perversions, and sadistic tendencies. He has an explosive temper, which is a means of self-protection, and he doesn’t mix well with others. The disconnection from his parents also suggests that he may have developed more than one personality to deal with the deep held neuroses that were employed to try to defend against his sexual dysfunction.’
Richards came back with a tray, distributed the drinks, and put a plate with two curled-up bacon sandwiches in front of Parish.
He picked up one of the sandwiches and said, ‘You asked the cook to make them look inedible so that I wouldn’t eat them, didn’t you?’
‘I’m trying to save you from yourself, Sir.’
‘Well, it’s not going to work, Richards.’ He took a large bite from the top sandwich. ‘Mmmm.’
‘Did you start without me?’
‘We haven’t got time to wait for people who made us late in the first place.’
‘You’re so mean, Sir.’
‘You won’t say that when I’m helping you with your studying tonight.’
‘That’s different.’
‘I thought it would be.’
He finished the first bacon sandwich and swilled it down with coffee.
Amanda sat quietly through their exchange with a smile on her face watching the conversation move back and forth as if she were sat in the stands on the centre court at Wimbledon Lawn Tennis Association.
‘We don’t normally permit such flagrant insubordination to go unpunished in the Police force,’ Parish said, ‘but I make allowances for Constable Richards because she’s new.’ He saw Richards pull a face. ‘When you say that the killer doesn’t mix well with others, could he be a recluse?’
‘Most definitely. A schizoid personality is characterised by a lack of interest in social relationships, a tendency towards a solitary lifestyle, secretiveness, and emotional coldness.’
‘I don’t understand your comment about the sexual dysfunction, each victim was raped prior to being killed.’
‘Are you sure about that, Inspector? If the killer could get an erection, then I believe he was unable to achieve an orgasm. Oh, I’m sure he tried to have sex with the victims, but it would have been unsuccessful. His failure to be a man would probably bring back memories of his blighted childhood and erupt into rage.’
‘Before I let you go, let me ask you one final question: Are you suggesting that the killer has multiple personalities?’
‘No, I’m saying that he has at least two ways in which he deals with the world. He can be shy, timid, and inadequate; but he can also be filled with anger and rage.’
Parish stood up, conscious of time slipping by. He extended his hand. ‘Thank you for coming in this morning, Amanda, we’ll be in contact.’
‘I hope you catch him soon, Inspector, and I hope you find the missing woman alive.’
‘Show Amanda out Richards, then phone Doc Michelin and ask him to provide us with more details about the sexual assault. I’ll meet you in the incident room when you’ve finished.’
‘Okay, Sir.’
Once Amanda Sprinkles had left, Parish walked along the corridor to the toilet, and met Kowalski on the way.
‘Dragged out of bed early, I hear, Jed.’
‘Unfortunately, yes.’
‘No luck?’
‘Nothing yet.’
‘Maybe now is the time to get the press involved? They’ve been squatting outside for about four hours.’
‘Yeah, good call Ray, I’ll do that.’
‘By the way, you look like crap.’
‘And I thought we were having an adult conversation.’
‘Don’t be stupid, Jed. Perhaps you should give Richards a taste of stardom.’
‘That’s the second good idea you’ve come up with, Ray. Maybe there is something between your ears after all.’
‘Let’s not get too excited, I’m sure you would have thought of them if we’d waited long enough.’
‘Have a good day, Ray.’
‘And you, Jed.’
He went to the toilet. Richards came along the corridor and they went back to the side room together.
‘Are you still grumpy, Sir?’
‘Those bacon sandwiches have done wonders for my disposition, Richards. I feel like a new man now.’
‘Good.’
‘Right, before you speak to the press, there’s some things…’
‘Me… Sir?’
‘Kowalski has correctly informed me that I look like a tramp. The Chief Constable would not want a tramp representing the police force on television, especially as the briefing is communicated around the world in the blink of an eye, so it’s up to you.’
‘Me… Sir?’
‘You’ve said that already, Richards.’
‘But… I feel faint.’
‘You’ll be all right, I’ll tell you what to say.’
‘Oh God, Sir.’
‘First of all, go out and tell them that you’ll speak to them in the press briefing room in half-an-hour. That’ll give us time to prepare.’
‘Me… Sir?’
He pulled her up, pushed her out into the corridor, and shut the door.
She clawed at the wood and pressed her face against the dimpled glass. ‘Please don’t make me, Sir.’
‘Grow up, Richards, and get down there.’
‘I hate you.’
‘I know.’
Chapter Nine
What did he want Richards to tell the press? He began writing, crossing out, re-wording and re-ordering, until he had a statement:
At approximately 11:30 p.m. last night local newspaper reporter Marie Langley, was abducted from the Redbridge Tribune car park at Gants Hill. We know she was bundled into a dark blue Renault Master, which exited Gants Hill roundabout onto the A113. We would be interested in speaking to anyone who saw the van on this road, or afterwards. We believe the van was stolen, but anyone who owns such a van should come forward so that we can eliminate them from our enquiries. Our primary objective now is to find Miss Langley alive.
The photograph of Marie Langley also needed to be distributed to the media. He went into the squad room and asked Cheryl, one of the clerical assistants, to produce fifty copies of the picture Mark Wozcniak had given him.
He looked at the clock on the wall, and wondered where Richards had gone. It was ten to eleven when he’d pushed her out of the side room, now it was eleven-fifteen. She had five minutes to get herself down to the press briefing room. Cheryl gave him the stack of photographs. He thought he had an idea where Richards might be, and walked along the corridor.
Standing outside the female toilets he opened the door and said, ‘Your fans are waiting for you, Richards.’
‘I can’t, Sir,’ echoed from inside. ‘Please don’t make me,’
‘Do I have to come in there and get you?’
‘Sirrr, this is the ladies.’
‘Well, get out here then.’
Edging into the corridor she said. ‘I think I’m coming down with flu or something, Sir.’
He could smell freshly applied perfume, and noticed that she’d put on lipstick and a hint of blusher. Her hair now hung loose, and shone like crushed black velvet.
‘You only have to read what I’ve written. I’m not asking you to do a song and dance routine.’
She snatc
hed the piece of paper off him and stamped down the corridor with it. ‘If I die of a heat attack out there I’m going to come back and haunt you, Sir.’
Following her he said, ‘That’s the least I would expect from you, Richards.’
At the bottom of the stairs she stopped and turned to him. ‘Oh God, what if they ask me questions?’
‘You start by saying that you’ll be making a statement and distributing a recent photograph of Marie Langley.’ He passed her the stack of photographs. ‘You also tell them that you will not be answering any questions at this time. Once you’ve finished reading the statement, you leave – simple.’
‘I could go to the Court of Human Rights about how you abuse me.’
‘Are you still here, Richards?’
She opened the rear door to the press briefing room and stepped inside. He stuck his hand in the gap before the door closed, and held it ajar so that he could listen to her. If things went awry, he’d be able to intervene quickly.
Everything went as he’d planned. She read out the statement; distributed the photographs; but then the lure of the cameras got the better of her.
‘One more please, Constable,’ someone called.
‘Can we have a profile?’
‘What about undoing the top button…’
Parish stuck his hand through the door and dragged her into the corridor. ‘What in God’s name are you doing, Richards?’
‘Well, I… Oh! I forgot where I was for a minute.’ She put her hand to her mouth. ‘Oh no, the Chief Constable will see it, won’t he, Sir?’
‘I wouldn’t be surprised if the Queen, and all the Queen’s men have been watching you make a fool of yourself. I expect we’ll both be back walking the beat tomorrow. I blame myself. I should never have listened to Kowalski. I should have gone home and made myself presentable. I was a fool to push you out there to fend for yourself…’
‘Yes, you were, Sir. If the Chief Constable rings me up and wants to know who’s to blame…’
‘You’ll tell him?’
‘I certainly will, Sir. What are you going to make me do next?’
‘The first thing I’m going to make you do is to scrape off your war paint, you look like a…’
‘Sirrr.’
‘…a supermodel.’
‘Do you really think so?’
‘No, Richards. Get your arse in the toilets. I’ll meet you in the conference room in five minutes.’
‘You’re so mean, Sir.’
***
Gabriel still thought of the two-bedroom bungalow in Lodge Close, off Lambourne Road in Grange Hill, as his Father’s house. From outside, the bungalow looked like all the others in the cul de sac., but it wasn’t the same. Number 7 had five people buried at the bottom of the garden next to the rotting shed – five people who had displeased his Father.
He kept himself to himself, and although – on the surface – the neighbours appeared to be friendly he knew they were merely being nosy, and ignored them. People came to the door, but he didn’t open it. On the front door he had a sign: YOU HAVE NOTHING I WANT – GO AWAY. It wasn’t his fault if they couldn’t read plain English.
Sometimes – at weekends – when the weather was warm, he would do some gardening at the front of the bungalow. People would walk past with their dogs, or alone, and say, “Hello, nice weather we’re having?” He pretended not to hear them, and they would carry on walking. They wanted to engage him in conversation, to find out who he was, and what he did, where he’d been, and excuse me: “How many people are buried at the bottom of your garden?”
It was best to ignore them, his Father had taught him that. He wasn’t a tiny bit interested in them, so he had a right to be left alone.
This morning he had returned to the bungalow at five-fifteen, put his car in the garage, and scrubbed the sinner’s smell from his body, from under his fingernails. The dirty clothes he had worn were in the washing machine. He was naked as he passed the television and saw her on the News. Turning the sound up, he listened to her soft voice. He felt a stirring between his legs, and knew that she was the one. She was talking about the sinner, and about him. At the bottom of the screen they kindly gave him her name: Police Constable Mary Richards from Hoddesdon Police Station. Yes, he had to have her. With her he knew that he would get an erection. He would be what his Father had called a stud.
Now he could go to work, warm in the knowledge that soon… soon he would be a man not a sissy. He might even keep her, bring her back to the bungalow, and put her in the secret room beneath his feet. The room where his many uncles had photographed and filmed him while they did unspeakable things to him. Then he would have all the time in the world to do what he wanted with her. He could give her a baby, like his Father had given his Mother a baby. As he knotted his tie, he closed his eyes and thought he had never been happier.
***
Richards had taken her make-up off, and put her hair back into a ponytail.
‘That’s better,’ Parish said as she sat down. ‘You look almost human again.’
‘You don’t deserve me.’
‘Ha! So, have you still got the names and addresses of the spouses from the Women’s Refuge?’
‘Yes.’
‘…And the forwarding addresses of the released prisoners?’
‘Yes.’
‘Take them down to the Duty Sergeant, and ask her to arrange for them all to be brought in for questioning at about four this afternoon.’
‘What about Marie Langley?’
‘All we can do is wait, and hope we get a break on the van.’
‘What are we going to do while we’re waiting?’
‘We’ll have some lunch in the canteen…’
‘I’m not hungry, Sir.’
‘You need to eat, Richards. I’ve heard that being a supermodel is ravenous work.’
‘You’re going to tease me all day about that, aren’t you?’
‘Oh, it will extend beyond today, and I’m sure the Chief, Kowalski, Doc Michelin, and anyone else you know will have something to say about it as well.’
She stood up and sighed. ‘Maybe modelling would be a good career move.’
‘I’ll be in the canteen if you decide to continue being a trainee detective, Richards, and don’t be long this time we have a lot of work to do.’
‘Okay, Sir,’ she said as she closed the door.
In the canteen, he decided to have the jacket potato with a chilli con carne topping, a slice of triple chocolate cake with double cream, and a mug of coffee with four sugars. He found a table away from a boisterous crowd of uniforms and, began consuming the evidence.
Richards arrived as he was on his last forkful of chilli con carne.
‘Sirrr?’
‘Stop harassing me, Richards. And no telling your mum. Did you do as I asked?’
‘Yes, but…’
‘But what? We haven’t got time for buts.’
‘DI Kowalski wants to be my agent.’
‘I bet he does, and that will involve you having sex with him. Go and get something quick to eat and drink.’
Richards joined the food queue, and Parish watched as the predominantly male uniforms turned to stare at her. She could be a supermodel, he thought. Like Mother, like daughter. Maybe she was a bit on the short side in comparison with other supermodels, but she certainly had the figure and the assets.
While she ate a multigrain salad sandwich, he told her what Amanda Sprinkles had said. ‘You can read her report later, anyway.’
‘Doc Michelin said it was probably about revenge as well. So, we’re looking for a sadistic loner who has a grudge against women?’
Parish drank the last of his coffee. ‘So it would seem, but it doesn’t help us, and I think there’s more to it than that.’
‘Maybe we should tell the press…’
‘I’m never going to let you talk to the press again, Richards. You’ll be wanting time off for photoshoots in the Caribbean next.’
&n
bsp; She ignored him. ‘I was thinking that if we gave the press a profile of who we were looking for, a relative or somebody might come forward.’
‘Two things. First, he’s a loner. Second, the press would want to know the source of the profile.’
‘Even loners know people.’
‘Do you know any loners?’
‘Well, no…’
‘People keep themselves to themselves these days, Richards. How many of your neighbours do you know?’
‘There’s Mrs Beadle next door…’
‘Your Mother said she died six months ago.’
‘Oh dear… Then there’s Mr and Mrs Rochester across…’
‘They emigrated to Canada last month.’
‘You’re making all this up aren’t you, Sir?’
He laughed. ‘I promise you, I’m not. While I was off, I knocked on some doors to find out who lived in the houses around me. I am a detective after all, Richards.’
‘All right, you’ve made your point. What’s wrong with the press knowing about Amanda Sprinkles?’
‘Graphology is on a par with phrenology, astrology, and levitation. It’s pseudoscience. We may as well admit to calling in a psychic.’
‘Maybe we should, Sir.’
‘Like that’s going to happen. Tell me about the two women you saw at the Refuge?’
‘Abigail and Hannah weren’t their real names, you know?’
‘I’m already losing the will to live, Richards.’
‘Sometimes you’re so mean.’
‘Well?’
‘Abigail was only sixteen, and her boyfriend physically and psychologically abused her for two years. Hannah got involved with an obsessive married man who sexually abused her. When I was listening to their stories I got so angry, and began to wonder whether I wanted a love life.’
