by Ellis, Tim
‘You really love chasing serial killers, don’t you?’
‘It’s the best job in whole world.’
‘Okay, so now we have to focus on everything that’s connected to the killer in an effort to identify him. The forensics; the crime scenes; the dumping places; the post mortem reports; the notes – we’ll have another look at everything... anything else?’
She turned to look at the incident board, examined each item, and ticked it when she was happy.
Parish could hear her mumbling under her breath. ‘I’ve created a monster,’ he mumbled.
She turned and smiled at him, but carried on with what she was doing.
He nursed his lukewarm coffee and waited.
‘From that list we only need to go up to forensics,’ she said. ‘All of the other tasks relate to either Nadine Chryst or Lord Latham, but not both of them. We need to identify his signature.’
Parish said, ‘There’s a few things he performs as a ritual that aren’t necessary to perpetuate the crime. He sends each of his victims a letter, which tells them – and us – why he’s killing them.’
‘No.’
‘He abducts them from their homes and takes them to an abandoned building to kill them.’
‘No.’
‘He cuts their femoral arteries and lets them bleed to death.’
‘No.’
‘Will you stop saying, “No”.’
She shook her head. ‘No. It’s something else, something that he does intentionally for emotional satisfaction. We need to look at the bodies again through the serial killer lens. We didn’t do that the first time round.
‘You do realise that signatures are extremely rare. He might not have a signature.’
‘He’s got one. Also, I think we should use the media. Somebody out there knows who he is. We should also tell them about the messages, because somebody might know what they mean.’
‘Okay, I’ll call a press conference for two o’clock. What about bringing in a profiler?’
‘It’s your decision, but everybody thinks they’re witch doctors. There’s been no recorded case of a serial killer being apprehended as a result of a behavioural profile.’
‘You’re not a great believer then?’
‘I’d like to see the science behind it,’ she said. ‘I’d like to see the data on how profiles have contributed to the apprehension of serial killers. There’s a lot of criticism that profiling is more fantasy than science. Dr Craig Jackson from Birmingham City University has said that, “Behavioural profilers put themselves forward as shamans cursed with the nightmares of dead people”.’
‘We’ll keep it up our sleeve as a last resort then.’
‘We’ll call a profiler in at the same time we contact the clairvoyant, and the tea leaf and tarot card readers.’
‘All right, Little Miss Sceptic.’
Richards pointed at the second incident board. ‘What about your Frankl?’
‘What about him?’
‘Well, unless we find some evidence they’ll have to release him.’
‘It’s a dead duck. We’re not going to find any evidence to keep him locked up.’
‘But...’
‘You can say, “But” until the cows come home, but it won’t change anything.’
‘But...’
Chapter Sixteen
The distance from Hoddesdon to York was 195 miles as the crow flies. They stopped for thirty minutes at a service station to use the ladies room, stretch their legs, and get a snack courtesy of DC Buxton, and arrived outside 43 Nursery Road in Nether Poppleton at one fifteen.
‘Mrs Samuels?’ Xena said to the thin grey-haired woman who opened the door.
‘I haven’t been called that for a long time. It’s Morris now – Joy Morris.’
Xena and Buxton showed their warrant cards. ‘Can we come in?’
‘You’ve found him, haven’t you?’
They walked along the hall into a spacious living room and sat down in the white leather suite surrounding a glass-topped coffee table.
‘Yes. He was buried under a patio in Essex.’
‘He’s one of those bodies they’ve found at the house... Hobbs Cross?’
‘Yes.’
‘My God, what was he doing there?’
‘That’s what we’ve come to ask you. We think he was investigating the missing women prior to 1997, and we were wondering whether you still have any of his files?’
‘There were boxes of it. He had a study, and it full to bursting with his stuff. After eighteen months I knew he wasn’t coming back. I had to do something, so the kids and me packed it all up and sent it to the Sentinel. Whether they’ve still got it, I don’t know. I mean, it was over thirteen years ago.’
‘And you have no idea what he was working on?’
‘I’m sorry, would you like a cup of tea and biscuits?’
‘That would be nice,’ Buxton said.
Mrs Morris left them to make the tea.
‘Did I say you could fucking speak?’
‘It’s been ages since we’ve had a drink.’
‘Now we’ve got to wait while she makes us tea, and we could have been on our way to the Sentinel.’
‘Sorry, Sarge. My thirst got the better of me.’
Mrs Morris returned with a tray. As she poured she said, ‘Yes, I think you’re right about Stephen investigating the missing women. A woman disappeared in Haxby...’
Xena put two sugars and a drop of milk in her tea. ‘Tracey Rush was an usherette in The New Reel Cinema on Blossom Street, and went missing from there on 7th Jan 1993.’
‘On one wall of his study he had newspaper articles, maps, pictures, and he’d made lots of notes. There were connecting lines between things... that girl’s picture was in the centre. I remember because she was so pretty. I recall reading the newspaper story, and wondering how anybody could be taken from a cinema without people seeing.’
‘And you packed up all this in boxes and sent it to The Sentinel?’
‘Well no, not the stuff on the wall. We put all the stuff that wasn’t in files in black plastic bags and burnt it in the back garden.’
Xena closed her eyes and sighed. She was just beginning to nibble on the cheese before it was so cruelly snatched away.
‘But...’ Mrs Morris left the room.
After about ten minutes, when they’d finished the tea and munched trough all the biscuits, Xena made an executive decision to leave. Just as she stood up, Mrs Morris came back.
‘Sorry, I didn’t realise it would take me so long to find them.’ She handed Xena three 6 x 4 inch photographs. ‘Of the wall. I knew we had them somewhere. They were in a box in the garage. They’re not brilliant, but I know that you police people can do wonders with pictures these days.’
Xena and Buxton squinted at the pictures. Mrs Morris was right, they weren’t brilliant. In fact, they couldn’t make out one thing on the wall from any of the pictures. ‘Thank you very much, Mrs Morris,’ Xena said standing up. ‘We’ll have to see whether forensics can make them any clearer. You don’t have the negatives, do you?’
‘Since when did anyone keep negatives?’
‘And thank you for the tea and biscuits,’ Buxton said. ‘Very welcome.’
Outside Buxton said, ‘The pictures aren’t much good.’
‘Well, Buxton. If I agreed with you we’d both be wrong. That’s probably why you never solved the case, but I will. You should be glad I brought you along, because you might learn something. Forensics will be able to tell us what was on that wall. And let’s face it, we already know ninety five per cent of what he had on his wall. What we don’t know is the five per cent, the clue that led him to his death in Essex. If it’s on that wall, forensics should be able to find it.’
‘I guess that’s why you’re a Sergeant, and I’m only a Constable.’
‘Exactly right, Buxton.’ Xena phoned Di Heffernan.
‘You again?’
‘It could have been som
eone using my phone, but it’s not. Listen, I’m in York...’
‘Impromptu holiday?’
‘That would be nice, but no. I have three 6 x 4 inch photographs. You remember, the old type before digital.’
‘It’s a vague memory now, but carry on.’
‘I won’t be back in Hoddesdon until tomorrow afternoon, but I’m going to send these pictures by courier now. You should get them in a couple of hours. I’d be very grateful if someone could play about with them, so that I can read what’s on them.’
‘Very grateful?’
‘A slip of the tongue.’
‘My team get really motivated at the mere mention of chocolates.’
‘I’m feeling generous.’
‘They’ve become addicted to Anglesey Farmhouse Chocolates.’
‘Where am I going to get those?’
‘You’re a detective, aren’t you?’
‘And you’re taking the fucking piss.’
‘Forensic officers who have the gift to manipulate old photographs – or not – can afford to take the piss sometimes. If you want the best, you have to be prepared to pay for it.’
‘You’re blackmailing me?’
‘You should know that blackmail is illegal, DS Blake.’
‘I thought we had an understanding, Heffernan.’
‘We do. Three enhanced photographs for two boxes of Anglesey Farmhouse Chocolates.’
‘Two boxes?’
‘I could make it three boxes, if you prefer?’
‘Fuck’s sake.’
She ended the call.
On the way to the York Sentinel, they called in at Clifton Shopping Centre.
‘Right, while I’m organising a courier for these photographs, you can arrange for two boxes of Anglesey Farmhouse Chocolates to be sent to Di Heffernan at Hoddesdon Police Station.’
‘How do I do that?’
‘Let me see. You want to be a DI one day, don’t you? You have a phone with an Internet connection? You have a credit card? You have a brain? There we are, all the essential ingredients for a successful purchase.’
She walked into the shopping centre without looking back. It took her fifteen minutes, but she eventually found Thunderbolt & Lightfoot Couriers above an Ann Summers shop. It cost her two hundred and seventy pounds to have the photographs at Hoddesdon within three hours. She’d be able to claim the money back, but it had nearly reduced her bank account to a wasteland. She should have got Buxton to pay for the courier instead of the chocolates.
‘Well?’ she asked when she got back to the car.
‘Two boxes of chocolates are on their way from Wales to Hoddesdon.’
‘Good. I knew you could do it if I gave you enough rope.’
‘The rope wasn’t the problem. It cost me two hundred and eighty pounds.’
‘Fucking expensive chocolates.’
‘You’re telling me, and on a DC’s salary as well.’
‘Well, DC Buxton, I hope you’ve saved enough money to buy lunch, and then later there’s the hotel rooms, the massage, and the male stripper.’
***
Stick couldn’t make up his mind whether to go back to the station, or visit Louise Marsden and Iwona Przygoda – if they were still together, of course, so he went and had lunch in a cafe off Coopersale Lane. Once he sat down he realised he was famished, and really wanted something substantial like a fillet steak with chips and a peppercorn sauce, but he knew his mouth wasn’t up to it, so he ordered homemade tomato soup with two soft rolls and a mug of tea.
As he took out his notebook, he wondered how Xena was getting on. He wanted to ring her, to hear her voice, but knew if he did that she’d think he was needy, and he didn’t want her to think he was needy. There was nothing to tell her yet, and he could hardly call and say he had nothing to tell her. Her voice echoed inside his head.
‘Then why are you calling me, you fucking idiot? Didn’t I say to phone me when you had news?’
‘Yes, Sarge.’
‘Have you got news?’
‘No, Sarge.’
‘I should never have left you on your own.’
The soup and rolls arrived. He licked his lips, and then spread dollops of butter on his rolls before dunking them in the soup.
He decided not to call her. There was a long list of things he could only do at the station. He should have done them before he left this morning to get things moving. Now, if he didn’t do them during today he’d look stupid when Xena got back and he had no answers.
‘Can’t you do anything right? You’re like a fucking robot without a programme.’
He’d go back to the station. After he’d done all the things on the list, then he’d go and see Louise Marsden and her friend. He smiled. Now he had a plan. He finished off his lunch, paid, and set off back to Hoddesdon.
***
‘As you are all fully aware we now have two bodies,’ he said to the packed room of reporters, cameramen, lighting experts, and Uncle Tom Cobley and all.
After re-designing the incident board, they’d popped up to see Jenny Weber and arrange the press conference, and then raced each other down the stairs to the canteen – Richards won.
‘Little Miss Cheat.’
‘I never did. You’re just getting slow in your old age.’
They hadn’t been to the canteen for at least a month. As usual, old Nancy was behind the counter. Parish just knew she was going to live forever. She didn’t say anything, but her eyes were sad as she took one each of their hands in hers and squeezed.
‘Now, what delicious fare can I get you two wonderful people?’
‘You’re going to nip across the road and get our orders from the greasy spoon then?’ Parish enquired, and his lip curled up.
‘Inspector Parish. I might have expected something like that from you. And as usual I will treat it with the contempt it deserves.’
‘What’s in the Chef’s pie of the day?’
‘A surprise.’
‘Will it kill me?’
‘Probably.’
‘I’ll have that with...’
‘...New potatoes and peas.’
‘If you say so, Nancy.’
Richards had the salmon and crab Thai fishcake with mango salsa and oriental salad.
‘Excellent choices.’
‘A mug of tea for me.’
Richards helped herself to a bottle of water from the glass-fronted cabinet.
‘There’s no sugar left,’ Nancy said.
Parish looked to where they kept the sugar sachets next to the till. ‘What are those?’
‘Poison.’
‘I see. What’s going on, Nancy?’
‘We’re having a crackdown on unhealthy eating. There’s an amnesty on sugar. You can hand in your sachets and we won’t charge you. Try drinking it without sugar today... for me.’
‘I’ll hate it.’
‘You’ll love it.’
As it turned out, it wasn’t too bad.
After lunch they walked up to forensics.
‘Irony can be pretty ironic sometimes, Toadstone.’
Toadstone lifted his head from the microscope viewer and smiled. ‘Spoken by William Shatner who played the character of Buck Murdock in Airplane II: The Sequel, 1982.’
‘I would give up. He beats you every time.’
‘One of these days, Little Miss Cheerleader, I’m going to cut him into little pieces.’
‘Keep them coming, Sir. The opening track on Pink Floyd’s 1971 Meddle LP, which features Nick Mason on vocals for the first time.’
‘He’s like a computer, isn’t he, Sir?’
‘Have you come up here to test my encyclopaedic knowledge, or do you actually want something?’
‘As usual Toadstone, we’re chasing the elusive butterfly of evidence. I don’t know if you’re aware, but the law relies on evidence to put criminals behind bars. I’m beginning to think it’s a concept you don’t seem to understand.’
‘Take no notice of him,
Paul. We came up to see if the tests have been done on the blood on Nadine Chryst’s bed sheet, and whether there were any fingerprints found in her house.’
‘The blood belonged to Nadine Chryst, and there were hundreds of fingerprints, but none belonged to anyone of interest.’
‘I want you make comparisons, Toadstone. Both victims were murdered by the same killer. I want you to examine...’
‘I think I know how to make comparisons, Sir.’
‘Find us something, Toadstone. At the moment, we have nothing.’
‘You know I’ll do my very best.’
‘He knows that, Paul. He’s just having a grumpy day.’
Now, here he was, sitting in front of a hostile press to tell them he had another serial killer, but no leads.
‘When you say “two bodies”, Inspector, do you mean that they were killed by the same person?’
‘Yes.’
‘A serial killer?’
‘Yes.’
As usual, there was uproar until he raised his hand for quiet.
‘We also have two messages from the killer: “Green-Eyed” was sent to Nadine Chryst, and “Silver-Tongued” was on Lord Latham’s body. If you know who this killer is, please contact us on the confidential number Constable Richards is holding up. If the messages mean something to you, let us know your thoughts in confidence. That’s all, thank you.’
‘Constable Richards, could you hold the number a bit lower, smile, and... great. What about opening a couple of buttons, and...’
‘Richards,’ Parish said.
‘Oh! Sorry, Sir. I got...’
‘...Carried away again?’
‘Yes. I don’t know what comes over me.’
***
As soon as he arrived back at the station and was sitting at his desk, he pulled out his notebook and began ticking the things off the list he’d compiled. He rang Di Heffernan first.
‘Yes?’
‘It’s DC Gilbert.’
‘Stick?’
