Deceit is in the Heart (P&R15)

by Tim Ellis

Yeah, go on. What’s it called?

  The twilight zone.

  Rubbish.

  There is a fifth dimension, beyond that which is known to man. It is a dimension as vast as space and as timeless as infinity. It is the middle ground between light and shadow, between science and superstition. You have just crossed over into . . . the Twilight Zone.

  You’re trying to frighten me.

  I think you’re doing a good job of that yourself, Mary Richards.

  She stood up on the bed to take a closer look, but there was still nothing. She stretched her right hand up, but couldn’t quite reach the ceiling.

  It jumped into her mind what Sally Prentice had told her about: “a way of moving between rooms” to avoid the security cameras in the corridors. What did she mean by that?

  She’d go and ask her – that’s what. She jumped off the bed and headed to the door.

  First though – she’d better put some clothes on. And before that, she should have a pee and take a shower. She glanced at the clock again – quarter to five. It was probably a bit too early to go knocking on people’s doors as well. Maybe she should ask her on the way to breakfast – that would be the thing to do.

  She glanced at the ceiling again, went into the bathroom, locked the door and took her time with her ablutions. Was she seeing things? Had she begun hallucinating? Was she in the early stages of a terminal disease?

  Another possibility was that the room was haunted. Had she glimpsed something between the light and the dark? Had she strayed into the twilight zone?

  Wrapped in towels, she left the bathroom. And keeping one eye on the ceiling, she got dressed.

  At quarter to seven she left her room, walked along the corridor and knocked on Sally Prentice’s door.

  The door opened as she was about to knock a second time. Sally Prentice was standing there with her short blonde hair every which way, wearing a creased blue and white top and shorts with a Joe Cool Snoopy on the front.

  ‘You don’t need to do that.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Are you showered and dressed already?’

  ‘I’m eager.’

  Sally left the door open, went back inside and got back into bed. ‘You’re a loony tune. I just need another five minutes.’

  Richards followed her inside. ‘Good night last night?’

  ‘Too good.’ Sally said, pulling the quilt over her head.

  ‘You mentioned a way that people could move between rooms without being seen by the security cameras?’

  ‘You’ve found someone?’

  ‘No. But I’m sure I saw an eye above my bed watching me.’

  Sally threw the quilt off and sat up. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. Really – I think . . . Tell me how they move between rooms.’

  ‘In the ceiling crawlspace.’

  ‘You mean there really was someone up there watching me? I was naked as well.’

  ‘You gave him a good eyeful then. Do you know who it was?’

  ‘No. I only saw a blinking eye.’

  ‘What colour?’

  Richards laughed. ‘Red.’

  ‘Ah – Lucifer! He’s a bit of a voyeur.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Open the wardrobe.’

  Richards went to Sally’s wardrobe and opened it. Clothes, shoes, handbags and a mass of other stuff fell out.

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘Oops! Sorry. I need to do some Spring cleaning.’

  ‘Summer cleaning, you mean.’

  ‘That’ll be it. I must have missed Spring.’

  ‘Now what?’

  ‘Use the shelves as a ladder. Open the top cupboard door. Climb up, push the ceiling tile over the next one, pull yourself up onto the metal beam.’

  ‘Are you sure it’ll take my weight.’

  ‘You’re not morbidly obese with a Body Mass Index (BMI) above 30, are you?’

  ‘I am not. I keep myself at 18.5 – my optimal weight.’

  ‘You’ll be all right then.’

  Richards clambered up the shelving.

  ‘There’s a torch up there somewhere. I haven’t used it in a while. I make the men come to me. They’re more suited to slithering along beams and through crawlspaces, and I’ve never had any of them decline my invitation.’

  She moved a ceiling tile over, found the torch and pushed her head into the crawlspace. ‘Have they got these on every floor?’

  ‘Yep.’

  She shone the torchlight towards her room, but it was too far away to see anything. ‘I’m going to crawl to my room.’

  ‘You’ll get filthy. It’d be a lot easier if you walk up the corridor and climb up your own shelves.’

  ‘Can I borrow your torch?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Are you going to get ready for breakfast?’

  ‘I don’t suppose I’m going to get anymore sleep, so I may as well.’

  ‘I’ll come back after I’ve had a look in my crawlspace.’

  ‘Okay.’

  She walked back along the corridor to her room, got changed into jeans and a t-shirt, and climbed up the shelves to the crawlspace. The blinking eye had been above her bed, so she crawled the short distance from the wardrobe to where she’d seen it.

  Shining the light, she examined the back of the ceiling tile and the surrounding area. There was evidence that the tile had been lifted and moved, and there were three cigarette stubs lined up like little soldiers on the metal beam right above where she slept.

  Now what?

  She wasn’t happy about the idea that she could have burned to death in her sleep. If she reported the peeping tom, it would probably have a far-reaching effect on sexual activity and romance at Bramshill, and would not necessarily identify the culprit.

  There was no point in sending the cigarette stubs for DNA analysis, because there was nothing to compare it against. But she might be able to narrow down the suspect list by the type of cigarette and the fact that her stalker was on the same floor. She wrapped the butts in a tissue, put them in her pocket and climbed back down into her room.

  Before she returned to Sally’s room, she had another wash, changed back into the clothes she had on before and brushed her hair.

  ‘Well?’ Sally asked.

  She held out the cigarette butts. ‘Time to do some detective work.’

  Chapter Nineteen

  After reviewing the journey from Chigwell to Heptonstall he decided to travel by train. It would have taken him three hours fifty-five minutes in a car, but that time was based on clear motorways and perfect drivers. On the other hand, a train journey would cost him £88.80 one-way and take him five hours five minutes, which was also based on no disruptions en route. If it had only been a four-hour drive, he might have taken his car, but it wasn’t. It would take four hours there and four hours back, and the return journey would also involve rush-hour traffic. Of course, the train journey there and back would include the rush-hour as well, but it would be much easier to pass the time dozing than dodging other tired drivers on a motorway at seventy miles an hour.

  For a brief period of time he’d considered flying from Gatwick to Leeds Airport, but when he saw that it was going to cost three hundred pounds he decided that he wasn’t made of money even though he’d get three months’ pay as a DCI, and that the rail option was the better of the three.

  Now, he was sitting on the seven-fourteen train from Chingford to Huddersfield, which would reach his destination at twelve minutes past eleven. He hadn’t planned to go to Huddersfield, but when he’d looked at the routes and journey times, it seemed logical to take a direct train, and then hire a car and drive the rest of the way to Heptonstall, which would take him thirty-five minutes. Instead of arriving at two o’clock, he’d be there at twelve and eating his lunch in the local pub.

  It seemed as though Richards was enjoying her secondment and getting herself into the usual trouble. He wasn’t sure about the red flashing computer flag she’d generated though. Who had initiated the
flag? Why had they not made contact with Richards already? It all seemed a bit strange. And who was Runnel Took? The name sounded Danish or Norwegian – maybe a troll’s name!

  Anyway, it seemed as though she’d unwittingly connected the dots. The reason the police and emergency services hadn’t found the body of seven year old Luke Norton in the 1989 fire at Heptonstall Methodist Chapel was because he wasn’t there. He had started the fire and then disappeared. What had driven a seven year old boy to kill his whole family? Was Gilli Allen’s psychological profile fact or fiction? He’d find out in Heptonstall. There would be people who remembered Samuel Norton – the Methodist Minister – and his family.

  He had a number of phone calls to make before he reached Huddersfield. He called Toadstone first.

  ‘Good morning, Sir.’

  ‘Not all those who wander are lost, Toadstone.’

  ‘Out of all the books in all the world, The Lord of the Rings by JRR Tolkien is my favourite.’

  ‘You’re getting soft in your old age.’

  ‘And the quote you left in my message box was by Haruki Murakami from IQ84.’

  ‘You’ve had time to look it up.’

  ‘You know very well that I wouldn’t do such a thing.’

  ‘Did you get my message about the Alf’s Head?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. Anyway, why have you been avoiding me?’

  ‘I hear the Chief Constable is making you a temporary DCI?’

  ‘You hear too much for your own good, Toadstone.’

  ‘Congratulations.’

  ‘Thanks. Now, let’s get back to your ducking and diving.’

  ‘I was underground without a signal.’

  ‘You could have said you were mining your own coal.’

  ‘That was easier said than done. Yesterday didn’t really go to plan.’

  ‘Tell me what’s been going on?’

  ‘I’ve been sworn to secrecy.’

  ‘I’m the DCI now, Toadstone. That means when I say jump, you ask how high?’

  ‘I was never any good at jumping.’

  ‘Well?’

  Toadstone told him how Jerry’s trip to write a Last Will & Testament for the ninety-two year old Mrs Margaret Birmingham had transmogrified into a disaster of epic proportions . . .

  ‘For the children and their families?’

  ‘Of course, Sir. Except . . . most of the children didn’t have families, and that’s why Birmingham and his cronies were able to get away with it for so long. Children were put into orphanages, but instead of being looked after by the system, they were betrayed and sold like pieces of meat to paedophiles who are now in positions of power.’

  ‘So that’s what the Chief Constable meant when he said it was a bit sensitive?’

  ‘Yes. Except . . . it’s a lot sensitive.’

  ‘And the Commissioner’s Special Advisor – Fagin – is going to bury it, or at least water it down, isn’t she?’

  ‘That’s what Chief Kowalski thinks.’

  ‘And he’s planning on doing something about it, isn’t he?’

  The silence at the other end of the phone sounded like a bottomless well.

  ‘I’m not the enemy, Toadstone. And besides that, I’m hardly in a position to start throwing slings and arrows at transgressors, am I?’

  ‘I suppose not. Yes, he plans to do something about it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’d have to ask him, but he had me photograph every page in that ledger and send it to him by email. Also, it involves a young woman . . .’

  ‘A young woman?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t mean in that way. Her name is Bronwyn – she was shot in the stomach . . .’

  ‘What about the PCSO with the body to die for?’

  ‘She died in the explosion.’

  ‘That’s not good at all, Toadstone.’

  ‘No. Where are you, Sir?’

  ‘The less you know, the more chance you have of surviving unscathed.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘I do say so. All right, I’ll phone the Chief afterwards and find out the gory details from him. Tell me what’s been happening with your graduate – Kirsty Nicholls – and the saga of the fingerprints and DNA from the Passport Office and GRO.’

  ‘Nothing from the fingerprints. We should get the DNA results back this afternoon.’

  ‘That’s not what I wanted to hear, Toadstone.’

  ‘I know, but you’re well aware of how long it takes to produce a DNA profile, and then we have to feed it into the database.’

  ‘What about the E-fit pictures?’

  ‘More luck there I’m glad to say. We have a face.’

  ‘It’s about time you produced the goods.’

  ‘Would you like me to send it to your phone?’

  ‘Does an elephant have a trumpet?’

  ‘Hardly a trumpet. More like a trombone, or maybe a tuba, or . . .’

  ‘Send the picture, Toadstone.’

  ‘It’s on its way.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘What about the crime scene reports?

  ‘Ah! You’ll understand that I’ve . . .’

  ‘You haven’t looked at them, have you?’

  ‘I’ll ring you first thing in the morning.’

  ‘You’ll present yourself to the new DCI first thing in the morning, Toadstone.’

  ‘Of course, Sir.’

  ‘I have a name I want you to run through CrimInt by this afternoon for me.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Luke Norton. He’s supposed to have died in a fire in Heptonstall in 1989, but I think he survived.’

  ‘I can do that.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Not that I can think of.’

  ‘Thanks for your miserly contribution.’

  ‘You’re welcome, Sir.’

  He ended the call and waited.

  People in the carriage were staring at him. He didn’t know whether they were Yorkshire people, Essex People, or the troublemakers in-between.

  The phone pinged.

  He looked at the photograph of – possibly Luke Norton. Was it really Luke Norton? And did it help him? It was the face of a man about his own age with short wavy dark hair, an oblong face and a pointed chin. There was nothing distinctive about the eyes, the ears, the nose or the mouth. In a way it was a perfect face, yet it was also a nondescript face. Could he see Grant Mottram in that face? He stood up, manhandled his overnight bag from the overhead shelf onto his seat and took out the thick file he’d compiled on The Family Man murders.

  When he looked up, people were staring at him again.

  ‘Is there a problem?’

  They all turned back to what they were doing.

  ‘I thought not.’ He put the bag back on the shelf, sat down and found the E-fit of Grant Mottram, which he placed on the table next to his phone. The two men were totally different, and yet there was a familiarity about the man in the new stripped-down picture. The nose was thicker, the ears larger, the eyes light instead of dark, the hair blond instead of black, the eyebrows bushier . . . but underneath the prosthetics was the man on his phone. It was a similar story with the other E-fits of Martin Rollins and Lewis Jones. He was looking at The Family Man – Luke Norton.

  The problem, of course, was that Norton didn’t look like any of the four faces on the table in front him now.

  He scooped up the pictures, put them back in the file and phoned Kowalski.

  ‘I was beginning to think you didn’t care, Parish.’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘I thought not.’

  ‘Hang on a minute.’

  The surrounding passengers were staring at him again. He took out his warrant card and flashed it about. ‘I’m a Detective Inspector investigating a murder. If any of you look in my direction again I’ll start thinking you’re suspects and run some background checks.’

  They looked away once more. Soon, a few left empty seats and shuffled along the trai
n in both directions.

  ‘Okay, Ray. Sorry about that. I’m on a train and the locals were getting uppity.’

  ‘Yeah, people don’t like you talking on the phone in a train.’

  ‘Tough. I have work to do.’

  ‘Work? And here’s me thinking you were on leave.’

  ‘Before I tell you about my illegal activities, you tell me about yours.’

  ‘Toady couldn’t keep a secret if his life depended on it.’

  ‘As the new DCI, I ordered him to tell me.’

  ‘Congratulations, by the way.’

  ‘Thanks, but it’s only temporary. Which, of course, depends on the idiot whose job it really is. I hear that he’s planning on committing seppuku.’

  ‘You could say it was about honour, Jed.’

  ‘The children?’

  ‘Yes. Fagin will bury it. I can’t let her do that.’

  ‘They’ll know it was you.’

  ‘Proving it is another matter. Not only that, I’m thinking of stepping down.’

  ‘Stepping down where?’

  ‘AS DCI. Driving a desk stacked with paperwork to my own funeral was not how I envisaged going out. Lying here with my leg looking like a train crash has made me realise that.’

  ‘You’ve got a couple of months to think about it.’

  ‘Of course. No hasty decisions. I haven’t even spoken to Jerry about it yet. So, tell me about your illegal activities.’

  ‘I’m investigating The Family Man murders.’

  ‘You’re like an open book, Jed. I knew what you were planning as soon as you submitted you request for leave.’

  ‘Am I that obvious?’

  ‘Sorry to say – yes. How’s it going?’

  ‘I think I have a name. The problem, of course, is the face. I should know more by the end of the day. I’m on my way to a little village near Halifax called Heptonstall.’

  ‘What have you told the Chief Constable?’

  ‘Nothing about the investigation yet, but I’ve said that I’ll fill in for you from tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Don’t tell him anything. When he needs to know, because you’ve solved the case, I’ll inform him that I authorised it.’

  ‘He won’t be happy.’

  ‘The key to redemption is you solving the case. If you don’t, then nobody needs to know anything. If you do, what can he say except it was a brilliant decision on my part, and I’ll recommend that he examines how quick detectives seem to shift cases into the unsolved category.’