by Ellis, Tim
‘A man called Robert Stanford.’
‘Come on then. You’ll be forgetting them next. Put Midway Holdings and Robert Stanford on the board. Look at that, we haven’t even seen the body yet, and we’ve got half a dozen suspects.’
‘I bet none of them is the killer... Yes, I know we have to check them out.’
‘After all the hours I’ve spent giving you the benefit of my experience – a smidgen of knowledge peeps out at last!’
‘Huh! So, are we going now?’
‘There’s nothing else in that file?’
‘No.’
‘We can go then, but now we go armed with knowledge.’
***
Erin Donnelly had been at Hoddesdon for seven months getting her feet under the table, preparing the ground, and generally becoming invaluable to the team. Now, she had decided that it was time to act. She approached the problem as she normally did – shape the problem, plan a solution, execute the plan, and evaluate the solution.
Over the holidays, she had passed the time doing her homework, and found out everything there was to discover about Raymond Livermore Kowalski and his wife Jerry née Krossa. One of the advantages of being a computer geek in forensics was that she had access to all the databases – to telephone records, bank details... everything. Nothing was beyond her reach. Now, she knew Kowalski better than he knew himself. In fact, better than his wife knew him.
Since coming back to work she’d played a waiting game because of Kowalski’s new promotion and the funerals, but now it was time to move into stage three – execution of the plan.
She had access to his online diary, and he was due to attend a Serious Crime Seminar on “Honour Killings” at Goldsmiths University in London tomorrow and Wednesday – which was all part of his induction program. His secretary had booked him a double room overnight at the Hilton London Docklands Riverside Hotel, which she had upgraded to a Wharf Building Deluxe Plus Bedroom. If she was going to be joining him, then she wanted only the best for their first night together.
***
DS Xena Blake had been transferred from Barking & Dagenham. She wasn’t happy, but then she wasn’t unhappy either. In fact, in some ways the transfer worked for her. At least she was running her own investigation instead of dancing to DCI Frank Pickles’ tune – or Prickles – as everyone called him behind his back. To her, he was just a loud-mouthed prick.
She’d found herself a humdinger of a flat that had two bedrooms for half the price she’d been paying in London – robbing bastards, so she was in the money.
What she was unhappy about was DI Tom Dougall. She’d been having an extra-marital affair with him for eight months, and the sex had kept her sane. She certainly wasn’t the prettiest colour in the crayon box, so she had to get her loving where she could, and if Tom Dougall wanted a mistress on the side, then she was happy to oblige. He wasn’t about to leave his wife and kids, and she didn’t want him to either. She’d told him in no uncertain terms that if he did leave them, he should not come knocking on her door – a good shag was the limit of their relationship.
But he couldn’t pop round for that shag on some pretence anymore, and that’s what made her unhappy – the transfer had resulted in her enforced celibacy.
‘Are you still here, Sarge?’ Rowley said, after they’d donned the white suits, gloves, masks and boots.
Rowley was harmless. How he’d been accepted into the police force she had no idea. He was the ugliest and thinnest partner she’d ever worked with. He didn’t have the first clue about being a detective, and his breath smelled of rotting meat.
‘Yeah, I’m still here. Let despatch know we’ve arrived.’
They were hovering at the rear of 117 Hobbs Cross Road. It was a house that had a name – Acorn Lodge – and boasted ten bedrooms, various outbuildings, a three-horse stable, a swimming pool, and a games room and bar in the cellar. It also had a large patio with an assortment of patio furniture, a table tennis table, a gas-powered barbecue, and three skeletons – so far – under the slabs.
Forensics had erected four tents and joined them together to form a marquee-size covering over the patio. There were generators humming outside, which were providing power for the lights inside. All the patio slabs had been lifted, and the ground underneath had been sectioned off with tape in six-by-four foot chunks. The whole thing looked like an archaeological dig rather than a crime scene.
‘Who’s in charge?’ she said.
Di Heffernan stood up with a grunt. ‘I am. Deputy Chief Scientific Officer Diane Heffernan.’
‘I’m DS Blake, and this stick insect is DC Gilbert.’
‘I’d heard they’d drafted in some new detectives.’
‘You heard right. Here we are. What’s going on?’
‘Well, you know about the three skeletons?’
‘That’s why we’re here,’ Xena said. Great, somebody she didn’t like already. Did she think they’d just been passing, and popped in for a look?
‘We’ve found another two.’
‘I see. Any other information, like when they died?’
‘You want to talk to Doctor Paine.’
‘Sandy,’ a white-suited figure said, leaning over one of the bodies. ‘There’s a lot of work to be done before I can give you any definitive answers, but here’s some interesting facts that I can tell you from my initial examination. First, I would estimate that they died between two and fifteen years ago. The reason I say that is because I found a one-way train ticket from York to Roding Valley on the man dated 12th November 1997, and a shopping receipt on one of the females for a handbag from TK Max in Southend to the value of £33.99 dated 3rd May 2010. Also, the different levels of decomposition lend weight to this conclusion. Second, there’s one man, three women, and an adolescent female. Third, all of the bodies were buried with jewellery and clothing, which should make identification easier. Fourth, I can’t immediately see the cause of death on Woman 2 and the adolescent, but on Women 1 and 3 the hyoid bone is fractured, which strongly suggests strangulation. Fifth, I’ll be starting the post mortems this afternoon at two-thirty... King George Hospital if you were wondering.’
‘Thanks, Doc.’ It wasn’t all bad – somebody here she did like. She turned to Rowley. ‘I want to know who owned this house from the time it was built until now, and who laid the patio.’
Rowley continued to stand in front of her. His eyes were hangdog and sad-looking like a beagle.
‘Why are you still here? Get outside and start phoning.’
‘I thought there was more.’
‘More what?’
‘More instructions.’
‘Look, if we’re going to work together you have to be a bit brighter and quicker.’
‘Okay, I’ll try.’
‘Try harder. And brush your teeth, or see a dentist.’
‘Oh, okay!’
Christ, she hoped he wasn’t like this all the time – she hated crazy people.
She imagined it would all be straightforward – one person will have owned the house during that thirteen-year period, and would have laid the patio to hide the bodies – simple. Put the cuffs on him and give him life imprisonment – another case solved. She had a feeling it was going to be slightly more complicated than that though.
Chapter Two
‘What a dump,’ Parish said as he walked into the abandoned furniture warehouse.
There were sofas with the stuffing hanging out, rusting metal desks and chairs stacked against one wall, and leaves and debris blown against vertical surfaces like snowdrifts. The body of a young woman lay on the floor in a pool of blood with inkpots where her eyes should have been. The left side of her face was bruised and swollen as if she’d been thumped. Her wrists and ankles had been secured by metal twine, and she still had on all her clothes – a short top showing her midriff, and a miniskirt.
Here we go again, Parish thought. The evil that men do to women. What terrible thing had she done to end up here with her eyes c
ut out? A wave of revulsion washed over him. No matter how many layers of armour he wore, sometimes the horrors of what he had to contend with found their way through.
Toadstone stood up, pulled his mask down below his chin, and smiled. ‘Bette Davis, playing Rosa Moline, in Beyond the Forest, 1949.’
Richards laughed. ‘I didn’t even know you were testing him. Have you ever beaten him? No, you haven’t. You’re never going to, are you?’
‘Your cheerleader is back, Toadstone.’
‘Hello, Mary.’
‘Hello, Paul. Do you want to go out for a meal tonight?’
Toadstone’s face reddened, and his mouth began to open and close as if he’d devolved into a fish.
‘You’re meant to say something like, “That would be brilliant, Mary. Do you want me to pick you up? What time? Where would you like to eat? Is this a date, or just two friends having a bite to eat?” Feel free to use any of my witty responses.’
‘What time would you like me to pick you up?’
‘Good one.’ Parish looked at Richards. ‘I think eight o’clock, what do you think?’
‘Have you got nothing else better to do?’
He smiled. ‘Not a thing.’
‘Eight o’clock would be just right, Paul.’
‘Excellent,’ Parish said. ‘Now that you two have sorted your love life out, can we get back to why we’re supposed to be here?’
‘Hello, you two.’ Doc Riley said. ‘I saw on the news that you’d had an eventful Christmas.’
‘Hi, Doc. You don’t know the half of it. So, here we are again. What can you tell me?’
‘Yes, the only things that seem to change are the killers and the victims, but everything else remains the same. It’s like Groundhog Day. As you can see, this particular victim has had her eyes removed.’
‘Any idea what with?’
‘It wasn’t a scalpel I can tell you that. I’m sure you know that the eyes can be scooped out with a spoon – or something similar – and then the optic nerve can simply be cut, but this killer didn’t bother doing anything like that. He stuck a knife through the eyelids and just hacked the eyes out.’
‘It obviously wasn’t the cause of death.’
Doc Riley lifted the woman’s skirt up. ‘No, but these were.’
There were two deep cuts in the creases between the thighs and the torso. She had no knickers on, and the pubic hair had been shaved and trimmed into a thin line from the top of the vagina.
‘Both femoral arteries have been severed,’ Doc Riley said. ‘She bled to death.’
‘Richards, what do you think happened?’
‘I hate the way you embarrass me in front of all these people by asking me questions.’
‘Come on, I know about your delaying tactics now.’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Well...?’
‘The cuts to the femoral arteries are merely functional. He cut them to kill her, not to make a point. The binding at her wrists and ankles are simply to restrain her. The eyes were the focus of his attention. When you look at the body, all you notice are the blood-filled eye sockets.’
‘What came first, Doc – the arteries or the eyes?’
‘I would say the arteries, but she was still alive when he hacked out her eyes. That’s why the cavities are full of blood.’
Richards interrupted. ‘He waited until she was close to death, so that she couldn’t fight back. She was still conscious though, and I bet he told her why he was cutting out her eyes.’
‘Very good,’ Parish said. ‘Why do you think that was?’
‘You think I’m a clairvoyant? If I knew that I’d be the best detective ever.’
‘Time of death, Doc?’
‘I would say about six hours ago, say five this morning.’
‘Any idea who she is?’
‘I can tell you that,’ Toadstone chipped in.
Parish’s brow furrowed. ‘Oh?’
‘Nadine Chryst, the soap actress.’
Richards moved to the victim’s feet. ‘Oh God, you’re right, Paul – she played Susan Peck in The Mall. How sad, she had the most beautiful eyes.’
Parish shrugged. ‘Never heard of her.’
‘Didn’t you watch the daytime soaps while you were off sick, Sir?’
‘Don’t talk rubbish, Toadstone. Do I look like the type of person who watches daytime television?’
‘Well...’
‘It was a rhetorical question. No answer is necessary. Have you found her handbag, ID, or mobile?’
‘No, nothing.’
‘What about her shoes?’
‘None.’
‘Knickers?’
‘No.’
‘Which all suggests what, Richards?’
‘The killer took them, or she never had them with her in the first place.’
‘What about a coat, Toadstone?’
‘No.’
‘Are you keeping up, Richards?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It’s the middle of winter. The snow has gone, but it’s below zero...’
‘Why is she wearing summer clothes?’
‘And?’
‘Why hasn’t she got a coat or a pair of shoes?’
‘And the answer is?’
‘She could have been kidnapped from her home... and that’s why she hasn’t got any of these things with her.’
‘Good. I knew you’d get there if I gave you enough time.’
‘Huh!’
‘I think we need to get a forensic team over to her house, Toadstone.’
He nodded, and asked one of his people to phone the police station and arrange it.
‘Any sexual assault, Doc?’
‘Nothing obvious, but... the discoloration around her nipples suggests that she probably had an abortion sometime within the last couple of months.’
‘Okay. Start writing Richards... Current and past boyfriends, fans, stalkers, incoming and outgoing phone calls...’
‘I haven’t even got my notebook out yet,’ she said pulling the zip of the paper suit down, and wiggling around to put her hand into her jacket pocket. ‘All right, shoot.’
‘I will shoot you if you keep talking like an American gangsta.’ He repeated what he’d already said. ‘Credit cards, friends, family, soap or actor rivals... Anything I’ve missed?’
‘Email, social networks?’ Richards suggested.
‘Good. You’ll get your computer people onto that, Toadstone?’
He nodded. ‘Phone and credit card records, email, and social networks?’
‘By tomorrow morning?’
‘I’m sure we can work a miracle for you.’
‘And by the way, Toadstone, I never thanked you for stepping up to the plate for Angie and the baby – thank you.’
‘I would have done it for anyone, Sir.’
‘Yeah I know, but this time you did it for me, and I’m grateful. I owe you one.’
‘Only one?’
‘Let’s not push it, Toadstone.’
‘So, anything else, Doc? No items in the mouth, or cryptic messages pinned to the body?’
‘No, you have everything I have.’
‘Post mortem?’
‘Lunch tomorrow. I think it’s your turn to pay.’
‘Richards, is that right?’
‘I think so.’
‘Whose side are you on?’
‘I didn’t realise there were sides.’
Parish sighed. ‘All right, my turn to pay. What about you, Toadstone...?’
‘I’m not paying for your lunch.’
‘Very comical. Have you found any evidence?’
‘I told you who the victim was... Let’s not push it, Inspector.’
Richards giggled.
‘Stop encouraging him, Richards. Okay, I think our work here is done. Thanks Doc, we’ll see you tomorrow.’
‘See you then.’
‘After all, tomorrow is another day!’
; ‘Vivien Leigh, playing Scarlett O’Hara in Gone with the Wind, 1939.’
‘Ha, he beat you again, Sir! See you tonight, Paul.’
The small patch of Toadstone’s face that they could see above the mask reddened. ‘Eight o’clock.’
They began walking towards the door.
‘Have you found out where this Nadine Chryst lives yet?’
‘Me?’
He waved his right hand about. ‘You can see I only have one functioning arm.’
‘Pah! It takes one hand to make a phone call.’
‘Well, you should be able to do that while you’re taking off your suit then.’
‘I don’t need to, I know where she lives.’
‘And you’re only just telling me this because?’
‘You didn’t ask.’
‘You’re beginning to sound like Toadstone, and talking of tonight’s main course, what’s that all about?’
‘I decided to give him a chance.’
‘Very magnanimous of you, I’m sure.’
‘Well, he came through for mum, didn’t he?’
‘He certainly did.’
‘And he never moans – unlike some people. He never expects a reward, and well... he’s just a very nice man.’
‘I’ve been saying that for ages... In fact, since Moses was a baby.’
‘I know, but this morning, when I realised that he’d had that cosmetic surgery for me, and that he was just a really nice person, I thought I should give him the chance to win my heart.’
‘I see, you’re the princess and he’s the frog?’
‘No, I’m the beautiful princess, and he’s the beast.’
‘Ah! You think you’ll fall in love with him after a few dances? That your tears will transform him into the prince he’s always been inside?’
‘I don’t know what will happen.’
‘Well, I do. Tonight, he’ll be all tongue-tied and ham-fisted. He’ll drop and spill everything, and generally make an ass of himself. He’ll be like that because he loves you. This is a guy who has a PhD, who has a team of about twenty-five people working for him, who is responsible for a whole forensics department and a million pound budget, and who gives lectures and presents academic papers at conferences. In most company, he can hold his own. He only makes an ass of himself when you’re about.’
