by Tim Ellis
‘I’m not going to wear it.’
‘If you don’t, I’m going to come into your room every night and wake you up.’
‘You’re so mean to me, Sir.’
***
Richards was up in her room studying, and Angie had gone to work.
During an evening meal of Sirloin steak in a black pepper and mushroom sauce, new potatoes, peas and carrots, Angie had told them about diabetes and confirmed what Michelle in forensics had said concerning the erectile dysfunction without the aid of drugs. There didn’t appear to be anything else related to the diabetes that could help them in identifying the killer.
Before he settled down to read Tanya Mathews’ files and to glance over the list of men living alone that Cheryl had identified from the Electoral roll, he took Digby for a walk.
‘Come on, Digby.’ He put the dog’s lead on and led him through the front door barking and jumping up with his tail wagging. He enjoyed walking the dog. It was usually peaceful and relaxing, and gave him time to think. Richards buying him a dog was the best thing anyone had ever done for him. He loved dogs, and he especially loved Digby. If he’d been asked what type of dog he would have liked before she’d got him, he’d have said a Schnauzer. Digby was black all over, except for a white star between the eyes, and white feet. He looked like a waiter in a restaurant. ‘Sometimes, I wish I had your life, Digby,’ he said to the animal as he walked down the path to the road.
He cleared his head of everything except the case. The first murder was Tanya Mathews. Was her murder more significant than the later ones? He’d have to look at her cases closely when he got back to the house – maybe the killer was hiding in those files. They still hadn’t solved the problem of the seven-year gap. He’d put Richards onto the mental health database first thing tomorrow – maybe she’d find a name. There must be a connection between all the victims, but what was it? As far as he was aware none of the women knew each other, and Tanya Mathews was seven years removed from Susan Reeves and Marie Langley. Maybe the Chief was right, maybe the killer was a Priest. He’d get Richards to find out the victim’s religion, and where they went to church, but they all lived so far apart. How could they all have shared a Priest and a church? He sighed – the pieces just weren’t shunting together in his mind. He also had a nagging feeling that maybe the killer didn’t live alone, maybe he still lived with his father. If that was the case, then the killer wasn’t even in the list of thirty-seven people. Cheryl would have to interrogate the Electoral Roll database again tomorrow.
As he reached the gate, he noticed a small blue Toyota drive away from him down the road, and recalled Doc Michelin mentioning a blue car. He shrugged. He hadn’t seen the driver or the registration plate, but he made a mental note to find out who the car belonged to if he saw it again.
After giving Digby a Boneo treat and putting clean water in his bowl, Parish made himself a four-sugared coffee and settled down at the kitchen table with the Social Service files and the Electoral Roll list.
‘I could help, Sir?’ Richards said when she came into the kitchen in her dressing gown and poured herself a fresh orange juice from the fridge.
‘You are helping, by staying out of my way.’
‘I’ll go to bed then, shall I?’
‘That would be good.’
‘Huh!’ she said and flounced out and up the stairs.
He checked his watch. It was ten-forty. Richards mentioning bed had made him feel tired himself. The first eleven files had produced no insights, and more significantly – no suspects. Deciding that bed could wait, he made himself another strong coffee with four sugars and stole two chocolate chip cookies from Angie’s secret stash for guests. At the sound of rustling paper, Digby cocked his head, but Parish didn’t give him any biscuit.
It was quarter past one when he finished going through the files. Nothing – not one man living alone below the age of seventy and no man living with his father. Although the work hadn’t produced anything worthwhile it had been a necessary task, and he had crossed it off his list. He hadn’t looked at Cheryl’s Electoral Roll list, which would have to wait until tomorrow.
‘Come on, Digby, let’s call it a day,’ he said to the dog as he switched the kitchen light off and made his way upstairs to an empty bed with Digby padding after him.
***
Trevor Naylor waited until the last light had been switched out in Chigwell’s Women’s Refuge Shelter and then he made his move. He had prepared earlier by wrapping the five-gallon plastic container of petrol in sticky-backed felt, bought two 15-tog duvets and a 20-foot rope ladder.
After making his way along the fence to a place under a tree, which was hidden from the road, he hefted the petrol canister over the eight-foot palisade galvanised security fencing first, and heard it land with a barely noticeable clump. Next, he threw the two duvets over the top of the fencing – one on top of the other – then the rope ladder over the duvets. It was easy when you knew what you were doing. The rope ladder hooked on one of the fence posts and he was up and over in no time at all.
Picking up the petrol container he made his way to a side entrance. The white paint on the rotting wood doors was flaking, and the panes of glass could have been lifted out without too much trouble.
Peeling the sticky-back felt from the petrol canister, he stuck it on a pane of glass next to the handle. He knew the building had a security alarm because he’d seen the metal box containing the wiring high on the wall above the main entrance with ASCOT SECURITY SYSTEMS stencilled on it in blue, but he wasn’t bothered. The police and any security staff responding to an alarm would add to the confusion. He pushed the thin glass with the ball of his hand and it gave way. Turning the key left in the lock and opening the door he moved quietly, but quickly.
There was no audible alarm, but he knew it might be a silent alarm, a flashing light at Ascot Security notifying them of a breach at the Women’s Refuge Shelter. The Night Operator would ring the mobile unit, who would laugh and say, “Another bloody false alarm,” and continue eating the pizza they’d just bought from Domino Pizza, and swilling it down with a beer. They’d respond to the alarm activation, but in their own good time – rushing around could give a man indigestion.
He turned left along the corridor. At the main entrance he backtracked, but now he had the screw top off the yellow plastic petrol container. As he walked backwards, he splashed the petrol over the parquet floor, up the walls, and over the carpet. Back at the wooden door, he threw the empty container into the room, lit a match and touched it to the tail of the petrol. He watched it for just a second as it caught and snaked out of the room and into the corridor with a whoosh, and then he walked back to the fence. He removed the rope ladder and duvets as he climbed back over the fence, and put them in the boot of his car.
By the time the women and children began screaming and desperately piling out through doors and windows in their night-clothes, Trevor Naylor was stood in the shadows watching the chaos, and scanning the women as they poured into the street. It wasn’t long before he spotted Katie holding onto seven-year-old Chloe and ten-year-old Christian.
Two fire engines arrived, but because of the palisade fencing they couldn’t get near the building with the ladders, and had to reel out the hoses through the metal gate that the occupants were fighting to get out of. It quickly became apparent that the building couldn’t be saved, and the only course of action was to focus their efforts on saving the women and children.
Trevor Naylor approached a blackened Fire Officer leaning against the side of the fire engine and flashed his warrant card. ‘DI Parish from Hoddesdon. I was passing. Do you know what happened?'
‘No, not yet,’ he said breathing hard. ‘Some of the women said they smelled petrol, so you lot could be involved sooner or later, but we don’t know anything yet. After our guys have carried out the fire investigation, we’ll let you know the cause.’
‘How long will that take?’
‘Couple of w
eeks.’
‘Thanks.’ Two weeks before they found out the cause of the fire suited him very nicely, he’d be somewhere and someone else.
He moved away slowly to where Katie and the kids were. It was unlikely that they’d recognise him because he had on a woollen hat pulled down low over his ears, and had grown a full beard. When he’d seen himself in the mirror earlier as he was taking a piss even he didn’t recognise himself, he thought he looked like a tramp.
Stood behind her, he removed the gun from the pocket of his donkey jacket. It was a Bulldog 5-shot snub-nosed revolver with a silencer that took a .357 cartridge. It was one of the many illegal weapons he’d confiscated during his time in the force.
He grasped his wife’s left upper arm and put the cool metal of the silencer to the right side of her neck. He felt her go tense. All she had on was a flimsy nightdress and a hairy blanket. The children were stood in front of her, and she had a hand draped over each of their shoulders. They were all mesmerised by the conflagration. He could smell her fragrance as he pressed himself into her, and there was a fleeting moment of regret.
‘Keep quiet and come with me, Katie. If you so much as squeak, I’ll shoot you and the kids here, and you know I will.’
She nodded. ‘Come on children, we have to go now.’
He led them to the car he’d stolen for the occasion, pushed the children in the back, and made Katie drive.
‘Where to?’
‘Just drive, I’ll let you know where soon enough.’
‘Are we going home, Daddy,’ Chloe asked.
He sat sideways on the passenger seat pushing the gun into Katie’s side and looked at his children. ‘Just sit there and be quiet,’ he said. They weren’t his kids anymore, she’d taken them away from him. Now, they were her kids, and soon they’d be dead just like her.
Chloe began to snivel, and Christian put his arm around her.
Katie reached the B170, he told her to turn left. Just after they passed over the M11, he directed her left again along a road with no lights, which ran parallel to the motorway and crossed the railway lines.
‘Where are you taking us, Trevor?’
‘You don’t need to know.’
‘We can work it out, you know. I’m willing to try again.’
‘Turn right here.’
They turned down Luxborough Lane, and carried on along the dirt track to a clearing after crossing the railway lines again.
‘Stop here.’
‘Please, Trevor,’ she pleaded. ‘Don’t do anything stupid.’
He smiled in the dark. ‘You’re the one who’s been stupid, Katie. Leaving me was really stupid.’ He pulled the trigger, the silencer making the sound bearable in the confines of the Volvo. He turned the gun on his two children, and even though he felt something akin to guilt as he heard them crying, he still killed them and dropped the gun on the floor.
Climbing out, he took the can of petrol from the boot, and emptied its contents over the bodies of the family he thought he’d have forever.
As the three-fifteen train from Chigwell to Roding Valley passed, he threw a match into the stolen Volvo and walked back towards Luxborough Lane where he’d parked his car. ‘Now for Parish,’ he said aloud.
Chapter Sixteen
Friday, 5th March
‘Go and get a pool car, Richards?’
Parish had just pulled into Hoddesdon Police Station car park, and they were stood either side of his Ford Focus leaning on the roof facing each other.
‘I thought we were investigating the men that Cheryl had identified from the Electoral Roll database?’
‘We are. So, let’s say we find the killer, assemble a snatch squad, and then what? Have you got a mountain bike that I don’t know about?’
‘We could go in this car?’
‘But we’re not going to.’
‘Sometimes you can be really mean, Sir.’
‘Only sometimes?’ He locked the car. ‘Are you still here?’
She stamped off towards O’Flynn’s Garage, and he headed into the rear door of the station.
In the squad room Kowalski was already at his desk looking like a homeless person. ‘Did you sleep here?’ Parish asked him.
‘Morning, Jed. I may as well have done the amount of time I spent in my own bed last night.’
‘I guess something happened?’
‘No wonder you’re a detective, Jed. Women’s Refuge Shelter in Chigwell went up in flames.’
‘Richards and I visited the place yesterday. I’d have received a warmer welcome from the polar bears in the Arctic.’
Kowalski took a slurp of coffee and pulled a face. ‘Yeah, I’ve been there before. As I recall, they don’t like men much.’
‘So, what happened?’
‘The Fire Brigade think somebody torched the place, that’s why I was called out.’
‘And I thought you were moonlighting as a fireman. Everybody get out okay?’
‘Guess who’s missing?’
Parish grunted. ‘You know I’m no good at guessing games, Kowalski, I like hard evidence.’
‘Naylor’s wife and kids.’
‘Bloody hell! I didn’t even know his wife had left him, but then why would I? It’s not as if we were best buddies or anything, is it? Did they die in the fire?’
‘Some of the women swear they saw Katie Naylor outside with her two children, but apparently it was chaotic and nobody knows for sure. One woman said she saw them leaving with a man, but there are no corroborating witnesses.’
‘Christ, it must be Naylor?’
‘Let’s not jump to conclusions, Trainee Detective Parish.’
They both laughed.
‘You’d have to be stupid not to think it was Naylor,’ Parish said. ‘You think he’s killed them?’
‘That’s certainly what Naylor does. Anybody who crosses him winds up dead. His wife leaving him and taking his kids away would fall into that category. You know about Lewin?’
‘I do now, but I didn’t before yesterday, Ray.’
‘It was the worst kept secret in the station, but he made sure there was no evidence that led back to him.’
‘So, you’ve got a manhunt for Naylor in progress?’
‘Nothing so grand, unfortunately. Uniform are looking for him, but only to tell him his wife and kids are missing, possibly burned to death in the fire.’
‘Yeah, I suppose you’ve got no evidence that he’s actually done anything, have you? He’s too good for that. What about a description of the man?’
‘Hazy, but it didn’t sound like Naylor.’
‘When will they know if his wife and kids died in the fire or not?’
‘Unfortunately, there’s not much left of the house now. The Fire Officer I spoke to said it’d be at least a week before they had anything concrete.’
Parish shook his head. ‘Christ Ray, Naylor could have killed his wife and kids and be skipping the country, and we’re allowing him to do it.’
‘I don’t know if you’ve forgotten, Jed, but this is the Murder Investigation Team – the emphasis being on murder. As far as we know there’s not even been a crime committed never mind a murder.’
‘Good morning, Inspector Kowalski, you look terrible.’
Kowalski ripped his shirt open, the buttons catapulting through the air, and bared his hairy chest. ‘Get a knife, Richards. Get a knife right now, open up my chest, and cut my heart out.’
‘You think that impresses me? I bet it was an old shirt, wasn’t it?’
‘You’re like an open book to her, Kowalski.’
‘What were you two talking about anyway?’
Parish stood up. ‘Keep me informed, Ray?’
‘Will do, Jed.’
‘Have I become invisible?’
Parish moved to his desk with Richards following.
‘Chigwell Women’s Refuge Shelter went up in flames last night.’
‘Oh God, Sir! Did everyone get out?’
‘That’s
what Kowalski and I were talking about. Remember Chief Inspector Naylor?’
‘I remember you talking about him, but I don’t think I ever met him.’
‘Well, apparently his wife and two children were in the Refuge, and now they’re missing.’
‘Oh no! Not the children as well?’
‘Nobody knows anything yet, Richards. Right, the Women’s Refuge is nothing to do with us we’ve got our own work to do, so lets get organised. While I’m seeing Father Rosario from Our Lady of Sorrows Church who’s due to appear any minute, I want you to access the mental health database.’ He passed her the Court Order and the paper with the username and password on it. ‘Also, send the files in the boot of my car…’ He passed her his car keys, ‘…back to Redbridge Social Services, but keep the summary list. Later on we’ll start looking into the men that Cheryl identified from the Electoral Roll.’
‘I suppose you want a coffee now, Sir?’
‘You’re getting the hang of this job, Richards.’
***
‘Thank you for coming, Father,’ Parish said shaking hands with the Priest. Father Rosario had dark brown curly hair greying around the temples, a broken nose, and the strong grip of a boxer. He was in his early fifties, the same height as Parish, and wore a cassock with a white collar. The man fitted the stereotype that Parish carried around in his head of a Catholic Priest.
‘I am only too pleased to help,’ Father Rosario said, and Parish noted the hint of an Italian accent. ‘The Lord God said, “It is not good for the man to be alone. I will make a helper suitable for him.” Genesis 2:18.’
Parish shepherded Father Rosario into the incident room. After declining the offer of refreshments, the Priest stood examining the pictures of the mutilated women, the map with the locations identified by marker pen and copious photographs, and the messages from the killer. ‘It is destined that each person dies only once and after that comes judgement… Hebrews 9:27.’
