by Tim Ellis
‘I’ll be there.’
Chapter Twenty-One
‘Come,’ the Chief’s voice reverberated through the door.
He missed Ray Kowalski. DCI Nigel Nibley didn’t sound like Ray at all – didn’t look like him either. In fact, if he was being brutally honest, Nibley was nothing like Ray Kowalski. Maybe that was a good thing, maybe it wasn’t. All he did know was that things hadn’t changed that much, but he missed Ray Kowalski. Chief Nibley was a decent enough boss, but a bit wishy-washy if he was being honest.
‘Morning, Sir,’ he said as he went into the office and shut the door behind him.
‘Parish! A cat among the pigeons springs to mind. Take a seat.’
He sat down in front of the desk. No, briefings with DCI Nibley just weren’t the same – no coffee, no easy chair, no verbal jousting. ‘It wasn’t planned, Sir. As soon as I saw Selwyn Kingdom I just had a feeling that something wasn’t quite right.’
‘I vaguely recall having feelings like that myself when I was much younger. How many bodies have they found now?’
‘Seven at the last count – all female adults. Two under the floorboards of the house, and five buried in the back garden.’
‘And you’re passing the case to the Mets’ Homicide Team?’
‘As soon as I’ve interviewed and formally charged them.’
‘Yes. Best all round. Let them deal with the fallout. It’s the type of thing you expect in London – not the backwaters of Hoddesdon.’
‘I suppose you’re right, Chief.’
‘Exactly. So, tell me about Hayley Kingdom.’
‘Richards is collecting up the information as we speak.’
‘I was wondering where DC Richards was.’
‘Working, Sir. We don’t have time for two people to do what one can do.’
The Chief nodded. ‘I’m all for cost-cutting measures, Parish.’
‘Peckham in Forensics is hopefully restoring the deleted files from the victim’s computer and the shredded documents from her shredder. Even though she took a week off and told her housemate that she was visiting family, we now know it was a lie. She wasn’t visiting her parents, and there are no siblings that we can find. As far as we can determine, she didn’t take a suitcase or any clothes with her. We still have no idea whether she was meeting someone, or if she was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. It’s all a bit of conundrum at the moment, Sir.’
‘So it would seem.’
‘I’m also expecting Peckham to produce an analysis of her bank and phone records.’
‘No suspects yet?’
‘Not a one. We think paraphilic psychosexual disorder explains why the victims were mutilated and killed, but at this point it’s only a hypothesis put forward by Doctor Riley. In the absence of any other explanation it seems likely, but not conclusive.’
‘Have you been to her place of work yet?’
‘This afternoon. We were meant to be going this morning, but the business with the house on Sutherland Road threw a spanner in the works or, as you so aptly described before, put the cat among the pigeons. As soon as we’ve finished interviewing and charging Selwyn and Portia Kingdom and making plans to pass the case on to the Met, we’ll be on our way to Canary Wharf.’
‘And the other victim?’
‘The Press Officer – Jenny Weber – distributed a doctored headshot to the media yesterday afternoon, but we’ve heard nothing back yet.’
‘No forensics?’
‘Nothing at either crime scene. The killer is washing the body after he’s tortured and killed them.’
‘You could do with a break, Parish.’
‘A break would be welcome about now, Chief. Having said that, we’re still working on the understanding that no good deed goes unpunished.’
‘A wise work ethic, Parish. Are you briefing the press now?’
‘Yes. Although “briefing” is probably stretching the truth a bit out of shape.’
He made his way down to the press briefing room and sat down in his normal place. It took a while for the congregation to notice he’d actually appeared, which gave him the opportunity to pour a glass of water.
The noise died down.
‘Good morning,’ he began. ‘As you’re all aware we now have two bodies – a male and a female. The female has been identified as Hayley Kingdom, a twenty-six year-old Assistant Marketing Manager from . . .’
A woman with black frizzy hair and a face like crazy paving shouted out, ‘Susan Cole from the Broxbourne Beagle, Inspector. What can you tell us about the house on Sutherland Road?’
He took a breath. ‘I can tell you that it’s in the Higham Hill part of Walthamstow, which happens to be a borough of London. As such, it doesn’t fall within Hoddesdon or Essex. Any questions you might have concerning Selwyn and Portia Kingdom, or 116 Sutherland Road for that matter, should be directed to Homicide & Serious Crime Command at the Metropolitan Police Service.’ He took a sip of water. ‘Now, if I may continue? Hayley Kingdom left her home in Chipping Ongar on Friday evening, but we have no idea where she went from there. We’re therefore asking the public for their assistance in identifying her movements between five and ten that evening – you all know the helpline number.’
‘Brian Mulligan from the Mission Daily,’ said a man with a bald pointed head, staring eyes and a beard under his chin. ‘Do you have any suspects yet, Inspector?’
‘No.’
A woman with spiked yellow hair, thick-rimmed glasses and a chubby face stood up. ‘Debbie Boyd from the Identity Channel. There’s been two murders now, Inspector. How many more do you think there will be?’
‘Contrary to popular belief, I’m not a clairvoyant, Miss Boyd. I certainly hope we catch the killer before he kills again.’
‘Melinda Fleming from the Estuary Telegraph,’ a thin woman said. She had a ponytail and heavy black eye makeup. ‘At the last press conference you said that strangulation was the likely cause of death.’
‘That’s correct.’
‘Can you confirm that diagnosis?’
‘Yes, I can. Both victims died from strangulation.’
‘Did either of the victims suffer any other injuries?’
‘I think you’ve had your fair share of questions, Miss Fleming.’
‘But . . .’
A black man with a lazy right eye, a thin moustache and a pock-marked forehead put his hand up. ‘Nathaniel Biobaku from Five News. I know you’re not at liberty to talk about the events that are unfolding at the house on Sutherland Road, but can you tell us if there is any connection to the Hailey Kingdom’s murder?’
‘No, there’s no connection between the two events.’
There didn’t seem to be any more questions.
‘Thank you all for coming.’ He stood up. ‘There’ll be another briefing at the same time tomorrow morning.’ He made his way out through the rear door and up the stairs to the squad room.
***
Stick put the phone down. ‘Neither of the schools will tell me anything about Sarah Dawson over the phone.’
‘You did inform them you were a police officer and that you were investigating a murder?’
‘Of course.’
‘And they didn’t believe you?’
‘Well, they didn’t say that in so many words, but I suppose they mustn’t have done. They have a policy of not giving out personal details of staff or students over the phone.’
‘You obviously have an untrustworthy voice . . . And to be perfectly honest, you don’t look very trustworthy either.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Anything I can do to help. Oh well, I suppose we’ll just have to go there and show them our Warrant Cards. What else have you got to do?’
‘I could call Forensics and see how they’re getting on with our boat, but I think they’re a bit busy after Parish and Richards . . .’
‘I hope you’re not going to mention Sutherland Road?’
‘They’ve found a lot of bodies ther
e.’
‘Pure luck – they went there to question the parents of their first victim and the next thing is forensics are digging up bodies. I’d like to know how Parish and Richards knew there were bodies buried there. If I was SIO I’d drag those two in for questioning. I wouldn’t be surprised if they had prior knowledge of where the bodies were buried and were implicated in some way.’
‘Do you think so?’
‘Definitely. How else could they have a higher body count than us? I mean, we’re better than them, aren’t we? . . . Well, I’m better than Parish, but I’m not so sure about whether you’re better than Richards. I think you need to put more effort in.’
‘Really?’
‘I’d say so. After all, it’s not about you – it’s about us. If we’re falling behind in the body count department, then you need to pull your finger out. I mean, you’re a DS and she’s a DC.’
‘I see. And you think she’s finding more bodies than me?’
‘You tell me. What do you think?’
‘I’ll try and find some more bodies, shall I?’
‘A good idea. The one saving grace is that Sutherland Road is in Walthamstow, which is in London not Essex and therefore shouldn’t really impact on their body count. If they try to include those bodies this year we’ll submit a strongly-worded complaint to the Chief Constable. Mind you, you can bet that bitch Richards will try and wangle them in somehow. I could swing for her.’
‘We’ll just have to wait and see, won’t we?’
‘That’s your answer to everything, isn’t it?’
‘Everything?’
‘Getting your bony arse comfortable on that fence.’
‘What fence?’
‘Never mind what fence. What about the sketch of Roland Beagrie from the forensic artist?’
‘Rowena Chalfont. What about it?’
‘Call the Duty Sergeant.’
‘I’m sure that if there’d been any developments we’d have had a call.’
‘Well?’
‘I’ll call the Duty Sergeant, shall I?’
‘Good idea.’
Stick made the call and then put the phone down.
‘Nothing. Beagrie has probably gone to ground.’
‘I never would have thought of that if you hadn’t mentioned it. Call Forensics and ask them about the boat.’
Stick called them. After a brief conversation he put the phone down again. ‘As I said, they’re busy. They’ve left one man and a dog examining the boat. They might have something for us tomorrow if we’re lucky.’
‘Tomorrow! Parish and Richards have done this on purpose. They heard that we were close to solving our case, so they’ve sabotaged us by throwing obstacles in our way.’
‘How are we close to solving our case?’
‘Stop being so negative.’
‘Sorry.’
‘And why is there a dog on our boat?’
‘It’s probably a sniffer dog.’
‘Sniffing what?’
‘Drugs!’
‘Sounds feasible. Okay then, let’s venture out into the freezing cold and go to Roydon. We still need to talk to the Vicar at the church, and also the remaining playground witness – Charlie Mapstone – if we can get any sense out of him, that is. You’ve got a copy of the forensic artist’s drawing of Beagrie to take with us, haven’t you?’
He began searching on his desk. ‘I’m sure there’ll be one here among all this rubbish. Do you want your stuff back?’
‘My stuff? I haven’t got any stuff.’
‘The stuff with your name on it.’
‘Just because it’s got my name on it, doesn’t mean that it’s my stuff.’
‘I’ll put it in the bin then, shall I?’
‘You will not. There might be something important there. Go through it and see if any of it is important.’
‘But it’s your stuff.’
‘Stop being a baby. I’ve told you, I haven’t got any stuff.’
He sat down with a sigh. ‘I suppose I’ll have to go through it then.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘What?’
‘What are you doing?’
‘Going through your stuff.’
‘Your stuff?’
‘Sorry! My stuff.’
‘Why? We’ve just decided that we’re going to Royden and you decide to sit down and start tidying up your cluttered desk. Leave it for fuck’s sake. You can come back tonight after you’ve taken me home and do it then.’
‘Oh, okay.’
‘Are you ready then?’
‘Nearly.’
‘And don’t forget the picture. We need to show it to people.’
‘Right.’
Stick parked up on the High Street outside St Peter’s Church, opposite the entrance to Duckett’s Mead.
They walked along the winding flagstone path, through the wood and slate archway, and up to the church entrance. The tower was under repair and surrounded by scaffolding. Inside, there was more wood and it was as cold as charity.
‘Been here since 1198,’ a voice said from behind a carved wooden panel.
‘You have?’ Xena ventured.
‘Very droll,’ the voice said. ‘That’s why there’s no central heating. Oh, don’t think the Church Council hasn’t thought about the idea, but there’s no gas supply from the road to the church, so they’d have to dig up the graveyard . . . And then there’s the extortionate cost involved, and the obvious incompatibility of a modern central heating system with a 12th Century church. In the end – no central heating. And let’s face it, a couple of radiators would be lost in here. Heat rises, so the scientists tell us. I think it’s just God taking all the heat for himself. And who can blame him?’
The Vicar stepped from behind the wooden panel. He was small and round, and everything a Vicar should be. His grey hair was combed straight back, he had bushy mutton chops and circular lines round his eyes that looked like a pair of glasses. ‘Reverend William Ambrose at your service.’
Xena showed her Warrant Card. ‘Detective Inspector Blake and Detective Sergeant Gilbert from Hoddesdon.’
‘The black rose on poor Libby Stone’s gravestone?’
‘Yes. Were you here in 1992, Vicar?’
‘Shortly afterwards. Strangely enough, I conducted the funeral service.’
‘We’re obviously interested in whoever put that black rose on Libby Stone’s gravestone.’
‘That’s understandable.’
‘Do you still keep Parish records?’
The Vicar half-laughed. ‘No – haven’t done since 1978. Oh, we still keep books for marriages, christening and the like, but it’s purely for show. You’ll be surprised to hear that not everyone is a member of the church.’
Xena’s eyes opened wide. ‘I’m astounded, Vicar.’
‘Unfortunately, we live in a secularised and polarised Christian society.’
‘So you’re not aware of the comings and goings of the people in the village – your parishioners?’
‘Not really. My parishioners are few and far between these days. Oh, they come to me for the traditional ceremonies – christenings, marriages, deaths – but Sunday services consist of a few female stragglers. Men and the young don’t come to church anymore. It’s just me and the old guard now.’
‘Do you have any ideas about who might have put the black rose on Libby Stone’s gravestone?’
‘Me? Sorry – no. I suppose in the old days, I might have known if someone new had come into the village, or a wandering sheep had returned to the fold. Not today though. You’d be better asking the local Council for a copy of the Electoral Register. Of course, when I do hear of people moving into the village, I usually pay them a visit and tell them that the local church is a one-stop shop for all their spiritual needs, but invariably these days the newcomers are either of another religious persuasion, or have no time for religion. As Bob Dylan once sang: The Times They Are A-Changin’.’
‘Show him the pictu
re,’ Xena said to Stick.
He unfolded the artist’s sketch of Roland Beagrie and held it out towards the Vicar.
Reverend Ambrose took the picture, looked at it closely for a handful of seconds and then shook his head. ‘Sorry – no one I recognise.’
Stick took the picture back, folded it up and put it back in his jacket pocket.
‘What about the name Sarah Dawson?’
‘No . . . Although, there is – if that’s the right tense – a Mrs Lucinda Dawson. I say that because she’s currently residing in Burnt Mill Care Home on Allende Avenue overlooking Harlow Town Park. I’m a bit unsure of the tense because she suffers from Dementia. Some days she’s here with us in the present and everything is as clear as a bell. Other days, she only remembers the past. Of course, she has bad days, which are becoming more frequent, when she doesn’t remember anything or recognise anybody . . . Come to think of it, Lucinda did have a daughter called Sarah – a police officer I believe who did quite well for herself.’
‘What about Mr Dawson.’
The Vicar rubbed his chin and then headed towards the door. ‘Follow me,’ he said, and led them through the graveyard to an overgrown grave. ‘Yes, here we are.’
Stick pulled the ivy and brambles away from the gravestone, and they read the inscription:
In Memory Of
George Albert Dawson
December 8, 1931 – May 13, 1987
Devoted Husband and Father
Always in our thoughts
Forever in our hearts
‘Lucinda used to keep this plot lovely, with fresh flowers every week – now look at it.’
‘Did you ever see her daughter here?’
‘No. Too busy, I expect. The dead are not revered or remembered as they used to be. As Heraclitus once said: There is nothing permanent except change.’
‘Thanks for your time, Reverend,’ Xena said.
‘Theophrastus once said that: Time is the most valuable thing a man can spend. Enjoy the rest of your day.’
‘And you, Reverend.’
They meandered out of the churchyard and climbed in the car.
‘Where to?’ Stick said.
‘Burnt Mill Care Home. Let’s hope we catch Lucinda Dawson on a day when everything is as clear as a bell.’
