Dominion of Darkness: (Parish & Richards #19)

by Tim Ellis

  It wasn’t the first time he’d been guilty of wandering across the road, grabbing a coffee – and sometimes a cheese roll or two – and casually strolling past Browne-Baguely Solicitors. The offices were on the corner of Lambourne Road and Coopers Close in Lambourne End, which was a small hamlet in Epping Forest surrounded by Chigwell to the west, Abridge to the north, Stanford Abbotts to the east and Havering atte-Bower to the south. Its one claim to fame was a Centre for Outdoor Learning.

  If there hadn’t been a sign above the windows and door that wrapped around the corner of the building that described what type of business to expect if one crossed the threshold and went inside, it would have looked like an estate agents, a building society, or an insurance drop-in centre.

  Usually, the rooms housing the important people were in the back, beyond the reception. That was not the case at Browne-Baguely. Yes, there was a young attractive female receptionist stationed behind a counter when one walked in through the door, who had the responsibility of responding to calls on the small switchboard and dealing with visitors. The two solicitors, however, were located in offices to the left and right, and seats were available outside each office for their clients. Behind the reception was another room where the three-woman administrative team were located, staff toilets, a kitchen, photocopy room and . . .

  ‘Yes, Sir?’ the young attractive receptionist said. Her name was Holly, and he could imagine that she wouldn’t be short of kisses under the mistletoe at Christmas.

  When he’d walked past the offices previously, he’d seen Tom Baguely on each occasion seated at his desk, or thereabouts – but not today.

  Today, Baguely appeared to be missing.

  He’d walked up and down outside, checked that Baguely’s black Lexus RX 450h was still there, waited an appropriate amount of time to give the man ample opportunity to empty his bowels if that’s what he was doing, and when he didn’t appear had gone inside.

  ‘I’m here to see Tom Baguely, please.’

  ‘Your name, Sir?’

  ‘Ray Kowalski.’

  ‘You don’t seem to have an appointment?’

  ‘No, I called in on the off-chance.’

  ‘I’m sorry Mr Kowalski, Mr Baguely has had to go out.’

  He wanted to ask, “Gone out where?”, but that would have raised even more suspicions than he was raising now. ‘Oh! I was sitting outside in my car wondering whether to come in and say hello – I didn’t see him leave. Did he go out of a back entrance?’

  ‘Can I ask why you’d like to see Mr Baguely?’

  ‘We’re old friends from university. Well, if he’s not here, he’s not here. Can you tell him I called? I’ll probably pop in again next time I’m passing.’

  ‘Of course, Mr Kowalski.’

  He left the receptionist with a parting smile and walked outside. Not for the first time, he was getting sloppy in his dotage. He should have realised there’d be a back entrance. But why would a solicitor leave through a back entrance? Had he realised he was being followed? Why hadn’t Baguely taken his car? Had he gone somewhere within walking distance? Or caught a taxi? The bottom line was, he’d lost his target. When was the last time that had happened? Never – that’s when.

  The problem was, that because the offices were located on the corner of a much larger row of buildings in both directions – similar to terraced houses, he hadn’t been able to see the rear of the solicitors’ offices. Baguely parked his Lexus in one of the parking spaces round the corner on Lambourne Road, so it was logical to assume that if the man planned to go somewhere, he’d take his Lexus with him. That assumption had obviously been wrong.

  Now what?

  He walked along the row of shops on Coopers Close until he found an alleyway between two buildings. It was narrow, dark and smelled of something unpleasant he couldn’t quite put his finger on. At the end, there was a network of open and enclosed alleys, as well as backyards – some with wooden gates. There were black bags full of stinking rubbish, overflowing bins and he realised that the frontage was merely a façade hiding a multitude of sins. He threaded his way through the labyrinthine alleys until he thought he’d identified the rear of the Browne-Baguely offices. From there, he tried to track which way Tom Baguely might have gone, and it didn’t take him long to come across the solicitor’s body with the knife still protruding from his chest.

  Taking a plastic glove out of his jacket pocket, he slipped it on his right hand, bent down and checked for a pulse – there was nothing. He phoned 999, reported the murder and told the officer on central despatch that he’d be in the offices of Browne-Baguely waiting for the murder detectives to arrive.

  ***

  ‘Do you think Kimberly has made a complaint about you?’ Stick asked as they walked back downstairs to the squad room.

  ‘Is this the face of concern?’

  ‘Maybe you should go up and see the woman in Human Resources before she sends a SWAT team after you.’

  ‘Stop being melodramatic. The bitch won’t have made a complaint. She knows damn well that she’d lose her job.’

  Stick pulled a face. ‘For a first offence? I doubt it. Using a mobile phone while you’re sitting on reception is hardly a sackable offence.’

  ‘Are you qualified in employment law now?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then you really have nothing useful to say on the subject, do you, numpty?’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  ‘Right, let’s go and read the original file and make notes on the incident board.’

  ‘That’s a good idea. I have a number of questions.’

  ‘A number! That seems like bragging to me.’

  ‘Well, maybe one question then.’

  ‘That’s more like it, but that one question will need to be subjected to stringent quality control checks.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘Go and make the coffees. I’ll scoop the file off my desk and make a start by putting up the photographs and the note.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Oh, and get a map of Roydon as well.’

  ‘The map store is downstairs.’

  ‘And your point is?’

  ‘Well, it’s a long way to go.’

  ‘Anybody would think I’d asked you to go to Australia. And while you’re down there, get me a Mars bar from the machine.’

  ‘The one in Australia?’

  ‘That’s the one. And don’t be long.’

  ‘I’ll try not to be.

  After collecting the Libby Stone file off her desk, Xena strolled to the incident room and began organising the boards. One whiteboard for the old case, a pinboard for the map to identify the relevant locations, and another whiteboard for the new case. She selected a couple of photographs of the girl’s headstone and the black rose that had been left on top of it and stuck them up on the new case whiteboard. She also stuck up the note that was still in the evidence bag. If he’s back – where did he go in 1992? If he had a plan, why didn’t he finish it? Was he forced to leave after he’d abducted and killed Libby Stone? Why? Was he sent to prison? Was he ill? Did he leave the area?

  She stood back to admire the work she’d done so far, and was pleased with the result. In another life she might have been a famous artist displaying her works in the Tate Gallery.

  Stick appeared with a map under his arm, two mugs of coffee in his hands and the Mars bar gripped in his teeth.

  ‘Did you get lost?’

  ‘Mmmm!’

  She took the chocolate from between his teeth and wrinkled up her nose. ‘It’s got slobber on it.’

  ‘Sorry. The map store was locked. I had to go to Operations to get the key. They’ve implemented a new system because maps were going missing.’

  ‘Missing?’

  ‘So I was told.’

  ‘And they’ve established a missing map department?’

  ‘I think they’re being a bit more proactive than that. Before they’d give me the key I had to answer a number of qu
estions such as which map I wanted, which case it was for, who was the SIO . . .’

  ‘I hope you didn’t say it was me?’

  ‘You are the SIO.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean you should give my name out to strangers. Now I’ll be accountable for that map.’

  ‘Anyway, that’s what took the time.’

  ‘So, is one of those coffees for me? Or are you going to drink both of them?’

  Stick looked at the two mugs he was holding in his hands. ‘Oh, yeah!’ He put her mug down in front of her. ‘You can have that one.’

  ‘Very kind. Especially as it’s my mug.’ She took a swallow of coffee. ‘Right, you read the file while I think.’

  ‘Think?’

  ‘It’s no good me trying to explain the concept of thinking to you, because I’ve tried that before and you just don’t understand it. So, I’m of a mind that it’s best all round if you do the low-level tasks and leave the high-level thinking to me.’

  ‘Okay.’

  Stick settled down to go through the file.

  She wondered if Dave Pittman might come and see her tonight. Maybe she’d give him a call and ask him what he was doing later. It was a long haul for both of them though. The nearest tube station was Woodford, and it took her a good forty-five minutes to reach there by car depending on the traffic. The journey time from Woodford to Greenwich via the Central Line and the Docklands Light Railway was at least an hour. All told, there and back, it was a good four hours out of a day that neither of them would get back.

  The file snapped shut and made her jump. ‘Are you trying to give me a heart attack? Interrupting someone while they’re thinking can be a dangerous business.’

  ‘I’ve finished.’

  ‘Well good for you.’

  ‘What were you thinking about?’

  ‘The options available to me in the event of the world being struck by a rogue asteroid.’

  ‘What options did you come up with?’

  ‘None. And not only that, have you ever tried kissing your arse goodbye?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘I have no idea where the saying came from, but I reckon people would have to be double-jointed to do that, and how many double-jointed people can you count on the finger of one hand?’

  ‘I don’t know any.’

  ‘There you are then. So, the killer abducted Libby Stone from a playground on Friday, February 21, 1992 . . . Where was the playground?’

  Stick rifled through the file.

  ‘I thought you’d just read the file?’

  ‘I have, but it didn’t specifically mention where the playground was, but in Mrs Stone’s statement she says: “I looked out of the window at two-fifteen and Libby was playing happily with the other children. When I looked again at two thirty-five she had gone. I ran out of the house to the playground calling her name, but I couldn’t find her, so I went back into the house and called the police.”’

  ‘The playground was outside where they lived?’

  ‘Looks like it.’

  ‘Which was where?’

  ‘Number 27 Duckett’s Mead in Roydon.’

  ‘Where do they live now?’

  ‘Same place.’

  ‘Is there a list of the children who were in the park at the same time as Libby went missing?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Basil Jacobs, Judy Knott, Kelly Ormrod, Charlie Mapstone and Emma Roberts.’

  ‘Put them on the board and in your notebook. They were only kids at the time. Maybe they remember what happened more clearly now. We’ll re-interview them.’

  Stick pulled out his notebook and started a list. ‘If they’re still in Roydon.’

  ‘You make the stupidest comments sometimes.’ She took a swig of coffee. ‘If they’re not in Roydon, we’ll find them. We’re the police aren’t we?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘If the playground was outside the Stone house, presumably there were other houses overlooking it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘A house-to-house was obviously undertaken?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Didn’t anybody else see anything?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘That seems strange. Maybe we should do our own house-to-house – see if anybody remembers anything.’

  ‘We’ve got nothing to lose.’

  ‘Except time. The killer has stated in that note that he’s going to start killing again, so there’s a degree of urgency to finding out who he is before he can abduct and kill another girl.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘We know Mr Stone visits his daughter’s grave annually on the anniversary of her abduction, but I haven’t heard any mention of Mrs Stone – where’s she?’

  He shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Okay. That’s a question we need to ask – make a note.’

  Stick added the question to his list. He then reached for his mug of coffee.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Having a drink of my coffee.’

  ‘We haven’t got time for you to keep making pit stops every five minutes. Put the map up.’

  He unfurled the map of Roydon and attached it to the pin board. ‘Okay. It looks like it’s a fairly old map – 1990.’

  ‘That’s what we want, isn’t it? Put a pin where the Stones lived.’

  He located the address on the map and pushed in a pin.

  ‘The body of the girl was found naked in a nearby stream seven days later – stick a pin in the map where she was found as well.’

  Stick identified the location and marked it on the map. He then described the terrain for Xena’s benefit using his pencil to trace the key points. ‘The River Stort runs parallel to Duckett’s Mead for a short distance, then at the end of the cul de sac there’s a public footpath between two houses that leads to fields, and a stream lined by trees that appears to be a small tributary of the river. Libby Stone was found a mile along the stream, just before a bend.’

  ‘They obviously searched along the stream as soon as the girl was discovered missing, didn’t they?’

  ‘Of course,’ Stick said. ‘There was a massive manhunt . . .’

  ‘Child hunt.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Well, if it was a missing woman, they wouldn’t call it a woman hunt, would they?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘So we’ll call it a child hunt.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Say it.’

  ‘There was a massive search of the surrounding area . . .’

  ‘You’re like a defiant child sometimes, numpty.’

  ‘Am not.’

  ‘So, there was a massive child hunt?’

  ‘If you say so.’

  Xena’s eyes narrowed. ‘I do say so.’

  ‘Anyway, they didn’t find the body until . . .’

  ‘They! Who are they? Did the people who were involved in the search find the body?’

  ‘No. Two boys on bikes.’

  ‘Names?’

  ‘Danny Price and Mathew Saville.’

  ‘Write their names on your list and on the board. We’ll find out where they are now and interview them.’

  ‘I take it we’re investigating the murder from 1992?’ Stick said as he wrote the names on the board.

  ‘We need to go backwards before we can go forwards. What’s happening now is based on what happened in 1992. You heard Pecker, he gave us nothing on the black rose or the note. We have to catch the killer from the past – we know nothing about who he is now, or what he’s planning.’

  Stick nodded. ‘Okay.’

  ‘I’m getting a feeling.’

  ‘Do you want me to call for an ambulance?’

  ‘Not that type of feeling, numpty. I’m looking at the map. I see the Stone’s house, the playground and the place in the stream where Libby was found – the killer is local.’
<
br />   ‘That’s one possibility.’

  ‘Where’s the girl’s grave?’

  ‘In the graveyard at St Peter’s Church, which is opposite the entrance to Duckett’s Mead on the High Street.’

  ‘Mark it on the map.’

  Stick did so.

  ‘Look how close everything is. Yes, I feel it in my water – he’s local. Also, there was a seven day gap between the girl’s abduction and her discovery in the stream – where was she?’

  ‘Hidden somewhere local, or why bring her body back and dump it in the stream?’

  ‘Damned right. Were any houses searched?’

  ‘Four. The Stone’s house, of course, because . . .’

  ‘I know why their house was searched, numpty. What about the other three?’

  ‘Suspects with prior offences under their belts?’

  ‘Names?’

  ‘Mitchell Webb, Philip Carr and Duane Henderson.’

  ‘Put their names up on the board and on your list. We’ll interview them again as well. Did any of the three suspects have a Mexican moustache?’

  Stick put the pictures of the three suspects up on the old case whiteboard. ‘Doesn’t look like it.’

  ‘Presumably, people who knew them were questioned to make sure they hadn’t just shaved it off?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And there were identity parades?’

  ‘Yes. None of the suspects were picked out by the children.’

  ‘The police didn’t have any idea who the killer was, did they?’

  ‘Doesn’t look like it.’

  ‘Who was in charge of the investigation?’

  Stick rifled through the file again. ‘The SIO was Detective Inspector Sarah Nunn.’

  ‘Add her to the interview list.’

  ‘Are you sure you want to do that?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘If I’m not mistaken, which I think you’ll find I’m not, Sarah Nunn is the Assistant Commissioner for Homicide and Serious Crime at the Met.’

  ‘Crap!’

  ‘Exactly. So indirectly, she’s our boss.’

  ‘Is that going to stop us outing her for the incompetent bitch she obviously appears to be?’

  ‘I have the feeling not.’

  ‘And you’d be right, Stickyfingers. So, is there anything we’ve missed?’