by Ellis, Tim
‘A map would be useful,’ Parish said. ‘I agree that because this killer is copying someone else, the behaviour is only indicative of the original killer.’
‘We still don’t know where he’s taking the victims,’ Ed said.
‘This morning I had the idea that maybe it was Harold Wood Hospital because of what Catherine experienced, but there are a number of obstacles to that theory. First, the mortuary is where the third victim was left, so police and forensics – under normal circumstances – would be crawling all over the place...’
‘Unless he leaves the trunk at King George Hospital,’ Ed said.
‘Yes, but even so, the police have already visited the hospital this morning. If he was keeping his victims there he’d risk being discovered.’
‘It’s a big site,’ Richards said.
‘And the killer was there this morning,’ Catherine said.
‘He might have followed you,’ Kowalski said.
‘Until Steve Potts unravels that DVD we won’t know. Another obstacle to it being the hospital is that there’s a security company looking after the site with infrared CCTV cameras all over the place. If the killer was there I think someone would have caught him on tape, or seen him coming and going with his victims...’
‘Have we checked out the on-site security people?’ Kowalski asked.
‘Of course,’ Richards said. ‘We didn’t ask Paul Hartson if he was the only one looking after security. There could be a whole rugby team, and one of them could be the killer.’
‘A whole rugby team?’ Parish said. ‘What do you know about rugby, Richards?’
‘Well nothing much, but I do know there’re eleven members in a rugby team.’
Kowalski laughed. ‘They’re called players, and a rugby team has fifteen of them on the field of play with eight substitutes sitting on the bench.’
‘Yeah well, we’re not talking about rugby players, are we?’
‘You started it,’ Parish said.
‘I did not.’
‘Do you mind if we move on?’ Parish admonished her. ‘Otherwise we’ll end up sleeping here.’
‘We are sleeping here.’
‘I’m not,’ Ed said.
‘Nor me,’ added Toadstone.
‘And you’re not either, are you, Ray?’
‘No, I have a wife...’
‘So,’ Parish interrupted. ‘We require a list of names for the on-site security staff, which then need feeding into CrimInt. Ray, can you do that tomorrow?’
‘Leave it with me. In a perverse way, I’m beginning to like being a clerical assistant.’
‘Anything else on your list, Richards?’
‘Oh, now you need my help?’
‘Well?’
‘He has a friend called Marty, and he smells of something.’
‘Carole Dobbins not rung you yet?’ Catherine said.
‘No, I’ll give her a nudge tomorrow. Maybe you could include the reference to Marty in the information with the pictures.’
‘Okay.’
He wrote ‘Victims’ on the board. ‘We have three victims. Two – Valerie Nichols and Francis Wenham – are dead unfortunately, and one – Louise Trenchard – we hope is still alive. You’ve got another list for victims, Richards?’
‘Of course. They’re all young and attractive; the same man picked them all up from different dance clubs and the two that have been murdered were both killed in the same way. As far as I can see there is no victim profile. They all have different physical and psychological attributes, different jobs, different socio-economic backgrounds and lived in different areas.’
‘She’s been watching the Crime Channel again hasn’t she, Jed?’
‘What can I do, Ray? Angie and I have tried everything to stop her, but nothing seems to work. We’re at our wits’ end.’
‘Are they always like this?’ Catherine said.
‘Mostly, I just ignore them.’
‘Okay,’ Parish said. ‘Let’s wrap this up. Toadstone, you’re going to get Rachel Linklater to manipulate the original suspect picture and send variations to our mobiles tomorrow evening. You’ve got two DVDs for Steve Potts: one from the traffic camera to enhance the image of the killer, and the security DVD from Harold Wood Hospital, which is the priority. You’ve got the old police reports to compare the post mortem findings, and you’re going to visit Terri Royston and find out who else she told about there being a second killer. Have I missed anything?’
‘I think I have enough to be getting on with.’
‘Kowalski, you’re going to get a couple of area maps, acquire a list of the security staff employed by Touchstone at the Harold Wood Hospital site, and feed them into CrimInt.’
Kowalski wrote in his notebook and nodded.
‘Ed, you’re going to confirm the alibis of Luther Southern and his sister Marie Gilchrist for both the 14th and the 21st.’
‘Consider it done.’
‘As I said earlier, Richards and I are at the hospital tomorrow afternoon. As such, we'll only be visiting the landfill site to question the workers about the trunk, and then meet with Martin Collindale from the Essex Genealogical Society to find out whether he has anything on a W.E. St. John from the 1950s. Also, because some people will be busy tomorrow evening, let’s have the next meeting on Saturday morning at ten o’clock.’
There were nods and smiles.
‘This must be what it feels like to win the lottery,’ Ed said.
‘Finally, and on a happier note, Angie and I would like you to keep the 25th June free to join us on our wedding day.’
‘It’s about time she made an honest man of you,’ Kowalski said.
‘Invitations will be forthcoming.’
Chapter Sixteen
As Harry hosed her down with the freezing water, she squealed and squirmed like livestock going to the market. He smiled – Harry would soon warm her up. That was the difference between the two of them: Harry liked to do things to the women, but he simply liked to watch – he’d been watching a very long time. Hiding in the cupboard as a child, he watched an army of men having sex with his mother. Sometimes they would beat her, torture her, and make her do things that still gave him nightmares. Sometimes they found him in the cupboard playing with himself, dragged him out screaming, and did things to him as well. No, he didn’t like to be touched anymore. Now, he just wanted to watch from the cupboard and bash his bishop.
He could see Harry was getting warmed up, hitting the woman, making her beg for mercy. Yes, Harry was just like those men who used to hurt him and his mother. In some ways he felt sorry for the women because they reminded him of his mother, but it was the only way he could feel anything now, the only way he could have a reasonably normal life.
He and Harry were two sides of the same coin, yin and yang, love and submission, rewards and punishments. He hated Harry- he was so angry all the time- but he also loved him as well. If it hadn’t been for Harry tracking him down, seeing what he’d become, telling him about his father, letting him watch again after so long, where would he be now?
The little bishop woke up as Harry climbed onto the stainless steel mortuary table and kneeled between the woman’s legs. When it was erect – as it was now – Harry’s bishop was a sight to behold. He could certainly do some damage with such an impressive bishop. In comparison, his clergyman was a tiny little thing. He’d be embarrassed to show it to anyone. If he was doing what Harry was doing, the women would be laughing instead of screaming. Yes, watching was what he was good at – watching and bashing his bishop.
Watching was so much better. He had hated doing things to all those men. Sometimes he had felt as though he was going to die when they forced their bishops in his mouth – twice he had actually blacked out. On a few occasions the men had made him do things to his own mother, and if he objected they would beat and torture him. The worst thing though, the very worst thing, was the men putting their bishops into his back passage – some were as thick as his arm. They hu
rt him, tore him inside, made him bleed, and the pain went on and on.
Ever since then he’d had no control over his bowels. It leaked all the time, and most times everything just came out. The only way he knew something had happened was the smell. He had to wear incontinent pads all the time like a baby, or a senile old man.
He’d needed the doctors, but his mother wouldn’t let him go. Said they’d ask how it happened, and what could she say? Said they’d take him away from her, and he wouldn’t want that, would he? Said she needed him; it was why the men kept coming back, because of him. Said if he wasn’t there, she’d starve to death, end up dead. Well, she ended up dead anyway. One night, two days after his eleventh birthday, a man had gone too far. He didn’t know it at the time; he’d been too busy bashing his bishop and ejaculating into an old rag he kept in a hole in the cupboard for the purpose.
Afterwards, when he’d gone into the room and found her dead, saw the man’s sperm smearing her face and lipstick, her clothes torn, her breasts bruised and battered – he felt guilty. He’d been emptying himself into a dirty old rag as a stranger murdered his mother – he was a terrible son.
He locked the door, sat down and stared at his dead mother, and wondered what would become of him. After what seemed like days, but was only hours, he picked up the two ten pound notes the man had thrown on his mother, packed what little he had in an old rucksack and walked out.
For a long time he lived on the street, forced to do what men had wanted so that he could survive. There were always men looking for a handsome young man, and he had always kept his youth and good looks. But there came a time – when he’d been fifteen – when he felt he’d sucked enough bishops, swallowed enough semen, and endured more than enough anal intercourse. That was the time he killed his first punter. The man wanted the usual, but he got something totally unusual. He bit right through the man’s bishop, and as the punter clutched at his groin to ease the pain and staunch the flow of blood, he had stabbed the bastard in the neck and then helped himself to the man’s wallet – an easy hundred and fifty pounds.
That first time had been a bit messy, bloody, noisy. Afterwards, he had travelled from town to town, refining his modus operandi, and leaving a trail of bitten bishops in his wake. After the first couple of times, he didn’t kill the punters, just left them clutching their ruined bishops and helped himself to their wallets.
Often it was never reported. Nobody wanted to say where they’d been poking their bishops. They’d probably taken the piece he spat out and paid to have it reattached, but he didn’t really know, and he didn’t care.
God, that Harry knew how to pleasure the ladies – sweat was dripping off him. He knew when men were going to come, and Harry was going to come any minute. He thought he might come as well, come into his dirty little rag that he’d kept with him all these years.
***
Friday 27th May
Davos Hospital offered basic medical care, nursing care, and a 24-hour emergency department 365 days of the year, but it lacked two things. It didn’t really have the facilities to cope with stroke victims, although Peter Tremain had shown a marked improvement since his admission and if one listened carefully one could decipher the odd word he uttered. Also, the hospital lacked any real security. Aella Krallis – who used to be called Alex Knight in another life – had walked right in without being challenged and now, at three-fifteen in the morning, she had locked the door to her old boss’s hospital room and was standing next to his bed, listening to him snore.
She had seen his face on the international news. The incident at the Hotel Alpina in Klosters had been reported as a minor news item, and she’d nearly missed it. As soon as she saw the face and heard the name, she began having palpitations. Her past had come back to haunt her. Once her heart had stopped beating thirteen to the dozen, she searched the Internet for more information and discovered that Peter Tremain was being treated for a stroke in Davos Hospital.
Her first thought was that it was a chance to sever all connections with her past- all she had to do was kill Sir Charles Lathbury before he had a chance to recover. Her second thought was that maybe, if the evil bastard was reasonably coherent, she could find out the truth about Jed Parish and his missing parents before she killed him.
After closing her little clothes shop that she’d called Pooka – a slight English deviation from Poúxa, which meant clothes in Greek – she walked to the post office and kissed Sander goodbye. They’d been on two dates and the local women were already making plans for the wedding. Outside the gift shop she caught the rickety old bus to Evdilos Port and hopped on the ferry to Samos Island. From there she boarded a Swissair flight to Engadin Airport and hired a Suzuki Bandit 1250 to get her to Klosters in the fastest possible time.
Now, in the injection port of the intravenous cannula in the back of Lathbury’s hand, she inserted a syringe filled with air, then she placed a hand over his nose and mouth until his eyes popped open. When he recognised her in the dim light he smiled a crooked smile.
‘Alive?’ he said.
‘With the help of Jed Parish.’
‘Should have known.’
She gave a wry smile herself and indicated the syringe sticking out of the cannula. ‘I’ve come here to kill you, so that I don’t have to keep looking over my shoulder.’
‘Good... don’t want... live like this.’
‘Yes, I can imagine this is a bit of a comedown for you.’
He grunted.
‘Before I kill you, I want you to tell me what you know about Jed Parish and his parents.’
‘Can’t do that.’
‘If you don’t, I’ll stick a long needle in your brain and wiggle it about – as you’d expect, I’ve done some background research on the effects of a frontal lobotomy. It won’t kill you, but for all intents and purposes you’ll be dead. You’ll be able to live a long and unproductive life as a self-aware vegetable, but unable to communicate with the rest of us. How would you like that, Sir Charles?’
He coughed, and a large globule of phlegm flew from his mouth onto her arm.
‘You filthy bastard,’ she said, wiping it off with the blanket on the bed. ‘I always hated you, and it’s going to give me great pleasure sticking that needle into your brain.’ She rummaged in her rucksack.
‘Wait.’
She looked up. ‘Well?’
‘Frati neri...’ He began coughing again. At first softly, but then more loudly.
She knew that someone would come soon and find her there, but before she could press the plunger on the syringe, pushing the air into his vein, he forced his right arm across his body and did it himself. Within a minute the bubble – or thrombus – had passed through the right side of his heart and caused a pulmonary embolism, which in turn resulted in a massive heart attack.
Once the light had gone from his eyes, she removed the syringe and closed the cap on the cannula injection port. Now it was time to leave.
On her way down the stairs and through the half-lit corridors, she didn’t see one person and wondered if there really were any medical or other staff employed in the hospital at night.
After driving back to the airport and reluctantly giving the Suzuki back, she decided to book into a hotel. First she needed some sleep, but she also had some thinking to do.
‘Frati neri!’ What did it mean? She’d hoped for a fuller explanation, not a cryptic clue, but it was certainly more than she had before. The question now was: What was she going to do with it? She could keep it to herself. Lathbury was dead, and he wouldn’t be bothering Parish or her again, but would someone replace him? As far as the Service was aware she had died in the Tantalus warehouse fire, but there was still the problem of Parish finding out about his parents. If she gave him the clue, wouldn’t she be putting him in danger again? Maybe it was an important piece of the jigsaw. She didn’t have any contextual information, but the clue might mean something to Parish. She fell into a deep sleep as others were waking up.
***
‘Parish,’ he said, looking at the display on the digital clock – three twenty!
‘Meat.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘It’s Carole Dobbins...’
‘Oh yes, what...?’
‘The smell, I remembered... It’s meat. He works with meat. I’m on night duty. I was just cooking some meat when the smell tripped my memory.’
‘That ties in with some other clues we have. Thank you for calling, Carole.’
‘You’ll catch him?’
‘We’re very close.’
He put his dressing gown on, crept downstairs to the kitchen, and made himself a strong four-sugared coffee. Then he went into the backroom and was surprised to find the light on and Richards in her Dennis the Menace pyjamas sprawled on the floor with a flipchart pad and a marker pen.
He sat down on one of the chairs. ‘It’s three thirty in the morning, Richards.’
‘I woke myself up snoring. The nose clip must have fallen off. I couldn’t get back to sleep, so I thought I’d come down here and make a mind-map.’
‘You’ll need to go to that health spa by the time...’
‘I didn’t tell you, did I? Catherine and I have found one.’
‘You seem to be getting on like a house on fire with Catherine now.’
‘She’s okay once you get to know her.’
‘I’m glad. So, what’s the health spa called, where is it, and, more importantly, how much is it going to cost me?’
‘I printed the details out. I’ll go and get them.’
She came back a few minutes later and handed him three A4 sheets of paper.
‘Ragdale Hall Health Hydro & Thermal Spa. Leicester! That’s miles away.’
‘But it’ll be worth it.’
He looked at the prices and was pleasantly surprised. He’d expected something in the region of £700 per person, but it was only £492 for the best rooms.
