by Tim Ellis
There was a feeble knock at the door before it was pushed open.
‘Mum?’ It was nine year-old Oceana.
‘Mum’s run away with dustbin man,’ he explained.
‘No she hasn’t.’
‘Do you see her here?’
‘She’s in the shower.’
‘That’s the cleaning lady.’
She ran and jumped onto the bed. ‘You’re such a liar, dad.’
‘I’m not your father, but if I were I’d be explaining to you that you’re meant to wait outside the door until someone says: “Come in”. What did you say your name was again?’
Jerry came out of the bathroom wrapping a towel around her head. ‘Hello, love,’ she said to Oceana.
‘Dad just said he wasn’t my father.’
‘That’s right, love. Your father was a lot more handsome.’
‘I don’t know why I bother talking to you two.’
‘We haven’t had coffee yet,’ Kowalski said. ‘That’s why we’re not talking any sense. If you could go down and tell grandma that there’s a strange man in your mother’s bed who needs a coffee, that would be good.’
‘And me,’ Jerry said. ‘Did you come in here for a reason, love?’
‘I was wondering . . .’
‘The answer’s no,’ Ray said. ‘Two weeks in the South of France in June so that you can make eyes at that Frank Ritchie is never going to happen, young lady. Come back when you’re in your fifties, and even then . . .’
Oceana threw herself off the bed and stomped out. ‘Get your own coffees.’
‘You’re one of my three favourite daughters,’ he tossed after her.
‘I didn’t know you’d seen the letter from the school?’
‘I haven’t.’
‘You’ve been checking her tablet again?’
‘So sue me.’
‘She’s entitled . . .’
‘I’m entitled to keep my daughters safe, and if that means . . . Do you know she has accounts on Facebook, Snapchat, Instagram and a dozen other social networking sites that are meant to be for adults only?’
‘She’s nine years old.’
‘Exactly my point. Are you familiar with the number of nine year old girls who are abducted and sold into slavery each month?’
‘No, and I don’t want to know either.’
He got out of bed naked and put his arms around her. ‘Do you trust me?’
‘You know I do.’
‘No is always my first answer. From that position we can negotiate to keep her out of harm’s way.’
Jerry kissed him and then pulled a face. ‘You need a shave and a shower, and brushing your teeth would be a step in the right direction as well.’
He squeezed her buttocks and pulled her towards him. ‘What I need . . .’
She pushed him away. ‘. . . And what you get are two different things. Did you read that PM report?’
‘Nearly. Oceana came in just as I was about to apply myself to the task. I’ll go and take a shower, and then I’ll get to it. Things would go a lot smoother if I had a mug of coffee though.’
‘I’ll see if there’s anyone in the kitchen.’
He had a shave, brushed his teeth and stepped into the shower. Jerry liked the water temperature barely lukewarm, whereas he liked it just short of scalding, so he turned the knob into the red.
Life was good and he wanted it to stay that way. If that meant he had to investigate his own children to keep them from those who would harm them, then so be it. If anyone knew how dangerous the world could be it was him.
The bedroom was empty, but a hot mug of coffee was sitting on the bedside cabinet next to the post-mortem report Jerry wanted him to take a look at.
He sat down on the bed with a towel wrapped around his waist and began reading.
Jerry came in with a plate of buttered toast for him, and continued getting dressed.
He ate while he read.
‘Seventeen times!’ he said.
‘I know.’
‘The first knife wound through the heart killed him.’
‘I know.’
‘Don’t tell me! He was murdered by a woman who said he’d abused her over a long period of time?’
‘You’ve done this before.’
‘A few times. Not only that, I’m aware of the changes to the domestic violence legislation in December last year relating to psychological and emotional abuse, and the long-term effects of coercive or controlling behaviour.’
‘So you think this might be a case in point?’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘Why not?’
He took a swallow of coffee. ‘On page three it describes old fractures to the bones of the right foot – the metatarsals; the shin bone – the tibia, which doesn’t normally snap before the thinner fibula; the bones of the left hand – the metacarpals; the head of the radius; three fractured ribs; and a hairline fracture of the occipital bone of the skull. There’s also a number of healed lacerations and what appear to be stab wounds Now, it might be that Andrew Crowthorne was involved in an accident of some kind, but these injuries are not explained. They could also be the result of long-term physical abuse . . .’ He turned to the front of the report. ‘Mmmm! It seems to me as if the forensic pathologist – Doctor Harriet Whipple – has assumed the man’s guilt from the outset. The post-mortem report is not very comprehensive. If it was me, I’d want to know the cause of the man’s injuries. Also, if the female was subject to long-term physical abuse I’d expect to see some evidence of that – such as a set of x-rays showing similar types of injuries. Admittedly, our expectation is to see these types of injuries on female victims, not male ones. However, let’s not kid ourselves – female on male domestic violence is extremely common, but goes largely unreported due to the social stigma attached to it. And, of course, I speak from the perspective of a long-suffering husband . . .’
‘Of course you do.’
‘Also, there’s no description of the wounds, the point of each entry, where it ended, the angles and so forth.’
‘The woman was lying in bed next to him, waited for him to go to sleep and then stabbed him.’
‘Which has not been validated or otherwise by this rather weak post-mortem report. If I was you, I’d ask for a second post-mortem.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. So, does my analysis help?’
‘Definitely. After speaking to their old neighbours yesterday I was beginning to have my doubts.’
‘Glad to be of assistance.’
‘Are you not rushing to get to work?’
‘The man I was following was murdered in an alley behind his office, so the police are dealing with that now . . . Talking of which – do you remember Dan Wozniak?’
‘There’s a name I haven’t heard in a while.’
‘He turned up to investigate the murder with a female partner.’
‘You must invite him round so that we can catch up.’
‘I was thinking exactly the same thing. Except . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘He’s married now with two children – Peter and Abigail.’
‘I never thought I’d live to see the day.’
‘I know. It came as a bit of a shock to me as well – Dan Wozniak married! It’s like the universe hiccupped when he told me.’
‘Man cannot live by bread alone,’ she said, taking his last piece of toast to emphasise the point.
‘As much as I like to see that red Basque on you, I’ve always thought it looked better on the floor. Also, toast thieves deserve to feel the full extent of the law.’
She backed away. ‘You’re not the law anymore.’
‘I’m sure I have my old helmet somewhere. I could put it on if it’d make you feel more like a criminal.’
‘I’m nearly ready, Ray.’
‘I hope you’re not going to force me to make a citizen’s arrest, Mrs Kowalski?’
Chapter Eleven
‘Are you a
ll right?’ Stick said, as she entered the incident room.
‘Why wouldn’t I be?’
‘You look a bit flushed, and you also seem to be having difficulty breathing.’
‘Oh! So now you’re a doctor?’ The walk from her apartment to the station was either three time longer than she remembered, or her body was going to rack and ruin – probably the latter. She had to get out and do some more exercise. She’d read somewhere that sex burned as many calories as a thirty-minute jog, but as she wasn’t getting much of that either it was hardly useful information. When she reached her apartment last night she’d phoned Dave Pittman at Greenwich, but he’d said he couldn’t travel up to Hoddesdon to have sex with her because of his ridiculous workload. So she’d told him exactly what she thought of him and slammed the phone down mid-way through his pathetic excuses. That was probably the end of another relationship. ‘I had sex with the Duty Sergeant on my way up the stairs.’
‘I don’t think so. You walked in, but you forgot how far it was. So now you’re thinking that maybe you should get to the gym more often. I’m right, aren’t I?’
‘I hope you’re not suggesting that your superior officer is unfit and a liar into the bargain as well?’
‘I don’t have to suggest anything. The evidence is sitting here puffing and panting in front of me. Of course, if you want to take me to a disciplinary hearing for suggesting that the sun might not revolve around the earth then I’ll need to call the police surgeon up here to document the medical evidence – temperature, blood pressure, pulse, maybe a video of you wheezing like someone who smokes fifty cigarettes a day.’
‘Okay, you’ve made you’re point, Stickleback. You’re right, I can’t walk half a mile without running out of oxygen. And yes, I need to do more exercise. And for your information, the earth revolves around the sun.’
‘Stop trying to trick me.’
‘Now . . . Is that my coffee?’
‘Of course.’
‘And who do those French pastries belong to?’
‘I’m not sure you . . .’
‘Of course you are.’ She picked up the buttered croissant. ‘Well, this one belongs to me now. What about you?’
‘No, I . . .’
‘Why did you buy four pastries then?’
‘So you’d have a choice. I didn’t know which one would take your fancy.’
‘That’s very kind of you, numpty,’ she said, wiping her mouth with a paper napkin. ‘But now I have to eat all four of them.’
‘No, you don’t.’
‘I thought you said it was my choice?’
‘Well, it is, but . . .’
‘I choose to eat all four of them then.’
‘We could give the others to Parish and Richards . . . ?’
‘Over my dead body.’
‘Or the Chief?’
‘He gives us stuff, not the other way round. You’ll be getting a reputation if you start giving the Chief French pastries.’
‘Mmmm! I don’t think I want that type of reputation. I suppose I could . . .’ He stretched his arm out towards the pastries.
Xena moved the box closer to her. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘I quite fancy one now.’
‘You must think I arrived here in an upside-down boat. You had your chance and missed it. Get on with your progress report and stop trying to steal my French pastries.’
‘You’ll be sick.’
‘If I am, it’ll be your fault for buying me four French pastries.’
‘I didn’t . . .’
‘When you’re ready, garçon?’
‘I checked who had been released from prison in the past month and also lived within a hundred mile radius of Roydon.’
She finished off the butter croissant and picked up a blueberry muffin. ‘And?’
‘There were ten. So I carried out background checks on all of them. Nine of them didn’t fit within the time-frame, but the final one – a Roland Beagrie – had been serving life in Wormwood Scrubs for the abduction and murder of an eighteen year-old woman in 1992. He now lives on a houseboat that’s moored near Harlow Town railway station.’
‘Sounds like a prime suspect. And he also has two or three modes of transport?’
‘It’s possible. Although the train from Harlow doesn’t stop at Roydon.’
‘A minor point.’
‘And according to the DVLC he doesn’t own a car either.’
‘Are you his defence barrister? He doesn’t have to own a car to drive one.’
‘I’m merely passing on the information.’
‘And he lives in a houseboat.’
‘That’s true, but houseboats don’t necessarily move from their moorings.’
‘But sometimes they do?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s good enough for me. And something you might have missed, Stickyfingers. He could have borrowed someone else’s boat in 1992.’
‘Very true.’
‘Also, he’s familiar with the river.’
‘Again, true.’’
‘We’ll drive up there and ask him a few searching questions. Is he out on licence?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do we know who his probation officer is?’
‘We do – Victor Obasanjo in Harlow.’
‘And he’s reporting on a weekly basis?’
‘So far, so good.’
‘That proves nothing. He could have reported in, and then written the note and put the black rose on Libby Stone’s grave.’
‘Yes, he could.’
‘Is he wearing a tag?’
‘I didn’t ask.’
‘But they can be removed and reprogrammed anyway.’
‘I didn’t know that.’
‘There are videos on youtube that show you how to remove them. They work off radio frequencies from the base station. If you get a battery with an inverter that changes DC to AC you can transfer the plug over to it and take the base station with you in a backpack.’
‘I haven’t read the report on that.’
‘IQ’s above moronic – you didn’t qualify.’
‘Oh!’
‘Carry on then.’
‘The River Stort is twenty-four miles long and flows from just south of the village of Langley – west of Saffron Walden to the River Lea here in Hoddesdon.’
‘So we could have got a boat to Royden?’
‘There are companies that provide cruises up and down the river, but you have to book in advance. Also, all boats that use the inland waterways – rivers and canals – must be registered.’
‘That’s good news.’
‘Yes and no.’
She had a slurp of coffee and picked up an apple turnover. ‘I love the way you try to be mysterious.’
‘Do you?’
‘No. Get on with it, numpty.’
‘Well, the registration of a boat has to be renewed each year . . .’
‘Okay, that gives us some possibilities.’
‘And to get a boat registration you must have insurance and a Boat Safety Scheme certificate.’
‘What’s one of those?’
‘It’s like an MOT for a boat to reduce the risk of fires, explosions and/or pollution.’
‘Because they’re full of oil, petrol, diesel and shit like that?’
Stick nodded. ‘Exactly. Also, there are no records kept of boat movements on the river.’
‘You mean, they can sail up and down the river, and stop wherever and whenever they feel like it?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s appalling. Keep going then.’
‘There are no records for Marion Stone.’
‘No records! What does that mean?’
‘Her National Insurance number hasn’t been used since 1994. She has no bank account, no passport, no driving licence, no insurance, nothing – she disappeared in 1994.’
‘Disappeared! You mean she’s dead?’
‘Probably, but if she did die it wasn’t und
er her own name.’
‘Could she have changed her name?’
‘There’d be records.’
Xena took a bite of the turnover. ‘Of course there would.’
‘So, at the moment, Marion Stone’s whereabouts are another mystery that needs to be solved.’ He put a big question mark on the incident board next to her name.
‘Very dramatic.’
He stood back and admired his artwork. ‘I think so.’
‘What else, numpty?’
‘I carried out background checks on the four witnesses who were in the playground when Libby was abducted. Two are dead, one emigrated to Australia and Charlie Mapstone lives locally with his mother, but he’s a drug addict.’
‘That’s not very helpful.’
‘No.’
She picked up the last of the pastries, which was a cherry-almond Danish. ‘Don’t ever do this again,’ she said.
‘I won’t.’
‘Where did you get them from?’
‘The waste bin behind the supermarket. They throw the old food out between six and seven-thirty in the mornings.’
‘Mmmm! I’ll have to remember that. Well, what are you waiting for?’
‘The two boys who found Libby’s body don’t live in Roydon anymore. Mathew Saville lives in Leeds, and Danny Price lives in Cornwall.’
‘Okay.’
‘Two of the three suspects from 1992 are in prison for unrelated offences, and the last one – Philip Carr – died in police custody in 2002.’
‘We’re not having much luck, are we?’
Stick shrugged. ‘It was a long time ago.’
‘Very astute! What else?’
‘I tried to compare Royden Electoral Registers for 1992 and 2016, but couldn’t find anything useful. It has a population of 2,200 and eighty-five percent of those are the same people between the two years. Some people have arrived or grown up, others have left or died. We’d have to check every person on the register for each of the intervening years to identify a person who was only on the 1992 and 2016 registers.’
‘So, you’re saying you’re not up to the task?’
‘Yes, I’m saying that.’
‘You do know what a database is, don’t you?’
‘Yes . . . mostly.’
