‘Right, I’ve got the local newspaper, South London Press, for the day after the court hearing, October 5th; they ran a story and a picture of the parents outside the court. Look.’
She pulled it up onto her screen as Palmer bent to read it. A minute later he stood upright.
‘Better print that off for us please, Claire. Seems the parents thought their daughter’s death was suicide caused by continual bullying at the College.’
He sat down and folded his arms.
‘Interesting, very interesting. So, we could have a parent or parents getting revenge on those who they blamed for their daughter’s suicide; or, we could have young Angela Bennett being the first victim of our current killer, who is starting up again from where he or she left off in 1984 after a long hiatus.’
‘So where do we go from here, sir?’
Gheeta could see quite a few avenues of investigation opening up, but which one was the key? Palmer stroked his chin.
‘Well, that’s a difficult choice.’
He pondered a few moments more.
‘Right, first I think we pull the teams back in and trace all the class of 1984 that are still around; they all have to be warned not to stay in any hotels, and they all have to be interviewed, nice and easily, to see if we can get any handle on this bullying claim the parents made – who was doing it, and to whom. With a bit of luck, we’ll find out that our three victims were the bullies, and revenge has been taken by Angela Bennett’s dad, if he’s still alive. On the other hand, if the bullies had more victims it could be any one of them from 1984 having their revenge.’
‘So every girl from the class of 1984 could be a potential victim. or a potential killer then?’
Gheeta could see a problem with interviewing them without warning off the killer if she was one of them, or frightening the rest of the class. Palmer nodded.
‘This one will have to be done very softly softly. Priority is to safeguard Friday’s Child and Saturday’s Child, whoever they might be.’
‘Friday’s Child is loving and giving, Saturday’s child works hard for a living,’ Claire said. ‘Don’t sound like labels to hang on bullies. Just about everybody could claim to be either of those.’
Gheeta nodded.
‘It’s not going to be easy to pin either of those labels on just one of the class, sir.’
‘No, no it’s not, is it. Try asking them all for the names of those who were bullied and the bullies; can’t think that a bully is going to own up even now, but we might get a couple of recurring names. Meanwhile, get an update on the Bennetts and where they live – that is, if they are still alive. They’ve got to be number one suspects, should the information we get from the girls of the class point to suicide because of this bullying.’
Chapter 17
It wasn’t an easy job tracing the class of 1984. The team were brought back to the Yard and split into pairs before being sent out to find the class of 1984, being told to tread very lightly with interviews, the aim of which was to really get into the make-up of the class and who was doing what; who the bullies were, and who were their victims. It had occurred to Palmer that bullies he’d known usually have that trait ingrained in their make-up and once a bully always a bully; so in all probability there had been more than one victim. Which could, of course, mean that there may well be more than one girl who had bided her time and was now out for revenge. As the saying goes, it’s a meal best served cold.
None of the present staff at the College were employed there at that time except Timms-Beddis, and those that were had passed away or were now so infirm as to have little memory of the College, let alone the class of 1984. It was now a matter of waiting for the team to do the basic ground work, ask the questions, and hopefully ring a few bells in ex-students’ minds.
Two days later came the breakthrough Palmer was hoping for. Gheeta announced her arrival into the office with a triumphant imitation of a trumpet fanfare, placing a large photo in front of Palmer.
‘Our little clan of bullies!’
The photo showed all four victims, plus two others.
‘The one on the right is Angela, and next to her is Friday’s Child; the others are the known victims.’
‘How do you know that? How do you know she is Friday’s Child?’
‘Because the girl who had this photo, now a fifty-eight year old checkout girl at Morrisons, gave it to us and named them all.’
‘Checkout girl at Morrisons? Not exactly the career path she and her parents had hoped for when enrolling in the Milner’s College of Dramatic Art, was it?’
‘And you won’t believe this; the real reason for the nursery rhyme link is not what we thought. ’
‘Go on.’
‘Those girls in this photo put on a self-penned small end of term play featuring the poem, where each played a ‘Child’ character. So the killer is using their part in the play to nominate the day he or she kills them.’
‘Is this checkout lady at Morrisons Friday’s Child then? Is that why she kept the photo?’
‘No, she can’t remember the name of the girl who was, so I’ve got Claire sending this photo out to the team on their mobiles so they can show it to the rest of the class that we’ve found so far when they interview them, and hopefully somebody will come up with a name; or indeed may even be one of them.’
‘I hope so,’ Palmer said, thinking for a moment. ‘Mind you, she might just as well be Saturday’s Child. We don’t actually know for definite which day’s child is which out of Angela and this other girl, do we? Angela could have been Friday, and the other girl Saturday.’
‘Angela’s parents might remember, guv?’
‘Okay, get Claire to concentrate on finding an address for them. See if they are still in the land of the living.’
Chapter 18
Mr and Mrs Bennett were still in the land of the living and living in the council house that Mrs Thatcher had sold them in the 1980s; a well-kept, if small, front garden led to the double glazed front door. Palmer pressed the bell and gave Sergeant Singh a look that said: ‘I’m not looking forward to this.’
Mr Bennett answered the door. He was rather frail and in his late seventies, walking with the aid of a stick. He greeted them warmly. Gheeta had rung ahead and told him they would be coming to chat informally about the College, purposely avoiding to mention his daughter’s death, although it was pretty obvious that would be the subject. There didn’t seem to be a Mrs Bennett around as they sat on the sofa in the front room. They declined the offer of tea and biscuits.
‘Well, Superintendent Palmer, this sounds all very mysterious. Has it anything to do with Angela? I suppose it must do; no other reason why you should be here to talk about the College. It seems so long ago now, although I think of her every day.’
Palmer felt so sad for this elderly gentleman, having carried such grief for so long.
‘I’m sure you do, Mr Bennett. I’m sure you do. Unfortunately it does concern her in a small way.’
He tried to ease the old chap’s worry as best he could.
‘You see, we have had a couple of rather nasty crimes committed against some of the other girls that were in Angela’s year, and amongst her circle of friends. Now, of course, they are all grown up, middle-aged ladies.’
‘Her circle of friends? She didn’t have many friends at that awful place. I take it you are familiar with the events surrounding her suicide?’
Palmer and Gheeta noted his use of the word.
‘Indeed yes, sir, we are; which is why we are here as you rightly assumed. You see, from our enquiries it would seem that Angela may not have been the only one that suffered bullying at the College at that time, and we are just trying to get a picture of it all. I’d like to show you a picture of some of the girls, including your daughter if it won’t upset you too much? Just to see if you can recognise any of them, even after all this time. Would you mind taking a look?’
‘It won’t upset me at all, Superintendent’, he said,
pointing to picture of his daughter on the sideboard. ‘ I have a chat with her every day.’
Palmer smiled and handed him the photo of the six girls. He took a while looking at it.
‘Bastards, all of them.’
There wasn’t malice in his voice; his anger had abated over the years, but his heart hadn’t forgiven.
‘These creatures were the cause of my daughter’s suicide; a little band of bullying bastards. And they got away with it.’
‘Until now, sir.’
Palmer took the photo back.
‘What? What do you mean until now’? Is that stupid coroner’s verdict being quashed at long last?’
‘No, sir. The nasty crimes that I said are being committed against some of the girls now are being committed against those girls in the photo. They are being murdered, one by one.’
Mr Bennett was silent. He didn’t seem surprised. Palmer didn’t want to break the silence; he wanted to hear Bennett’s next sentence. It was important. Bennett looked him straight in the eye.
‘Good.’
Palmer kept silent.
‘Good, good, good. I knew that Angela wouldn’t be the only one. I knew there were other bullied girls in that year, who were too scared of those bastards to speak up. Good, bloody good. Hope they all suffered. We certainly did.’
‘Did Angela have any good friends at all at the college, sir? Any one single close friend, maybe?’
‘No, she wasn’t there long enough really.’
A light turned on in Bennett’s mind.
‘Looking for a revenge motive, eh Superintendent? You’re probably on the right track too; could be anybody affected by those shits.’
He looked up at Sergeant Singh.
‘Please excuse my language, dear; but if I were able, and had the opportunity, I’d probably take great joy in killing them myself. Do you suspect me?’
Gheeta smiled.
‘I don’t think so, sir.’
Mr Bennett laughed quietly.
‘No. Not with two replacement knees; and I still need my stick for balance.’
‘Is Mrs Bennett around, sir?’ Palmer asked.
Bennett laughed again.
‘Oh my, I don’t think you have a suspect there, Superintendent. She’s been in a care home with dementia for five years.’
‘Oh, I am so sorry, sir; we didn’t know that. You’ll forgive us if we check that though, just to tick all the boxes?’
‘Of course, I’ll give you the details.’
Chapter 19
Gheeta clicked off her mobile and turned to Palmer as they travelled in the squad car back to the yard.
‘It checks out, sir. They’ve had Mrs Bennett in the home for over five years, and on the very rare occasions she goes out it’s always with a carer. She has severe dementia.’
‘So, it’s going to be one of the college girls then, eh?’
Palmer relaxed in the back of the car; at least they were cutting down the number of suspects by two. Gheeta nodded from the front passenger seat.
‘Looks like it, sir; or if there were other victims, it could well be a relative of one of them.’
‘We need to find that other girl in the picture.’
He straightened his right leg out as a twinge of sciatica raked it.
'She’s the only one left alive of the bullies, and she can’t possibly know what danger she’s in.’
‘So where do we start to look for the killer now, sir?’
Palmer exhaled loudly.
‘God only knows, Sergeant. God knows. We just keep interviewing and asking questions and hope one name comes up a few times for another bullied girl. Can’t see anybody else taking revenge on those women except somebody they tormented.’
Chapter 20
Steak and kidney pie in the microwave, four minutes.
So read the note Mrs P. had left for Palmer; he’d forgotten it was her gardening club night, and she was off down to the local community hall to discuss fuchsia cuttings and tomato blight with the other fans of Monty Don who gathered there once a month. Palmer checked his watch: just gone eight. That gave him a couple of hours grace to eat his meal and laze about a bit before she returned. Daisy the dog was alert. She’d seen the steak and kidney and was her master to leave even a smear of gravy on the plate she’d make a nuisance of herself by his side, knowing that he’d eventually put it down for her; something Mrs P. would never do. Palmer smiled at Daisy and gave her a pat.
‘You crafty bitch; you think you’re going to get some, eh?’
He took the plate from the microwave, placed it on a tray with a glass of cider from the fridge, and he and the dog wandered into the lounge to switch on Sky and catch the midweek match. How he managed not to drop the tray and end up with steak and kidney all over the carpet is a miracle.
‘What the…!’
The television was already on, and beaming from the forty-inch plasma screen was the unmistakeable fake-tanned face of Benji.
‘Hello, Justin. How are you? Had a good day?’
‘What the….what are you doing on our telly?’
‘I’m on Skype. Your good lady and I set it all up yesterday. We had a little chat earlier about roses and she must have left it on. Good isn’t it? Especially with a large family like yours. That dinner looks nice – what have you got?’
‘Got?’
‘On the tray. Your meal looks appetising.’
‘Can you see me?’
‘Of course I can, that’s what Skype is for. There’s a webcam on top of your set.’
Palmer noticed the small lens peeping at him from a black plastic holder sitting on the set. He put his tray down on the sofa, crossed to the set, and turned it face down.
‘Goodnight, Benji.’
‘Wait a minute, Justin. I’ll tell you how to shut the programme down properly.’
‘I know how to do that thank you, Benji. Goodnight.’
He flicked the remote to the football and spoke to Daisy.
‘That’s quite enough of that. Having Benji next door is bad enough without having him in the lounge!’
‘I heard that.’
‘Are you still there?’
‘The program’s still running, so I can still hear you. I’ll said I’d tell you how to shut it down properly; you have to close the programme, not just switch channels.’
Palmer leant behind the set and pulled the plug from the wall socket.
‘That settles that.’
He turned back to the sofa, where Daisy lay licking her lips and looking very contented next to an empty plate.
Chapter 21
Marion Stanley was tired. It had been a busy day, and she was tired. Having just got in to her Lincoln home and poured a much needed glass of red wine, all she wanted was some peace and quiet, and now the damn phone was ringing. She answered it in a fed-up manner.
‘Hello?’
‘Hello, is that Marion Stanley?’ asked the female voice on the other end.
‘It is.’
‘Hello, Mrs Stanley. It’s The Guardian newspaper Arts section.’
‘Oh yes?’
Her manner changed to very bright and businesslike. What the devil could they want with her?
‘Will you be going to the London Literary Review Conference, as we’d like to get an interview with you about the problems of being an ‘out of town’ agent?’
Marion laughed.
‘Yes, I’m going up for the conference. No problems being an ‘out of town’ agent, as you put it; you just have to work ten times as hard as your London rivals.’
The woman laughed as well.
‘Oh, I’m sure there is much more to it than that, Mrs Stanley. Would you give us some of your time? It shouldn’t take too long.’
Being an ‘out of town’ literary agent, Marion Stanley was adept at seizing every opportunity to get publicity for her stable of authors, and this sounded like an opportunity not to be missed. The conference was an annual get-together, where agents cou
ld overstate the quality of their authors and badger publishers into deals. A name piece in any newspaper’s Arts section would be good, but in The Guardian, well respected for its Arts coverage, it would be excellent.
‘Yes, of course I will. I’m there from next Thursday through to the following Monday.’
‘That’s fine, probably be the Friday. We can make it after the daytime conference session, so as to intrude as little as possible on your business time. Plus if we can do it on the Friday we can get it into the Sunday Arts supplement. Would an hour or so at your hotel Friday evening suit you?’
‘Perfect. I’m at the Carlton Towers, Edgware road.’
‘I know it. So if we have somebody come round about seven in the evening, how does that sound?’
‘Yes, that’s perfect; I’ll look forward to it. Thank you.’
‘No, thank you. I’m sure it will make a very interesting piece. Thank you so much, and have a good conference. Goodbye.’
‘I will. Goodbye, and thank you.’
She put the phone on its hook and finished off the rest of her glass of wine, as her husband came in from the garden with a bunch of freshly picked sweet peas.
‘Hello dear,’ he said, pecking her on the cheek. ‘Had a good day?’
‘It just got better. That was The Guardian newspaper on the phone. They want to do an interview with me at the conference about being an agent outside the London bubble.’
‘The Guardian? My word,’ he said, starting to strip leaves off the pea stalks. ‘Sweet peas are really good this year.’
‘Stick them up your arse.’
‘Pardon, dear?’
He was used to her abuse, so just carried on stripping the stems. She could have retired early when he retired, but her vanity and egoistic selfishness of being ‘in the publishing business’ had won the day.
‘I work my fingers to the bone while you piss about in the garden all day. I get an opportunity like this from a national paper, and all you can say is ‘the fucking peas are good this year’?’
POETIC JUSTICE & A KILLER IS CALLING: The DCS Palmer and the Serial Murder Squad series, cases 3 & 4. Page 6
