* * *
D.S. West, dressing gown draped loosely around her shoulders, sat on the edge of the bed, opened the top drawer of the bedside cabinet and removed a small, black, suede box. She took the ring, slid it gently onto the third finger of her left hand and smiled ruefully as the stone glistened in the dim light. She sighed and turned to face the bearded barman slumbering in her bed. Her lip curled at the stench of his slimy hair gel, the juvenile tattoo proclaiming ‘love’ on the top of his arm, and the braided, leather bracelet wrapped around his wrist. He woke with a start as his jeans hit his face.
‘Piss off,’ she said, returning the ring to the drawer.
‘What?’
‘I’ve got work to do.’
‘But it’s… have you any idea what time it is?’
‘You’ve got sixty seconds, or I’ll call the police.’
‘But you are the police,’ he said, leaning back on his elbows, a cocky grin smeared across his face.
‘Which is why you wouldn’t want to meet my friends,’ said West, fastening her gown and heading for the kitchen. ‘They don’t like it when one of their own is assaulted.’
‘What? But I haven’t…’
West stood in the doorway and held her wrists aloft.
‘I’ve got the bruises,’ she said. ‘Clock’s ticking.’
She cleared the table with a single sweep of the arm, showering the floor with half-eaten pieces of southern fried chicken and cold, greasy chips, opened her laptop and began trawling for Samantha Baker. It didn’t take long to find her, or her address, or the fact that she was a fan of garage and hip-hop, margaritas and Keanu Reeves.
Annabel Parkes, however, was an altogether more private person. So private, in fact, that West could find nothing on her but old news items about the unfortunate incident in Aldeburgh, the newly-wed who drowned in the dead of night, the devastated husband, the coastguard search and the relentless efforts of the locals who’d spent days combing the beach for clues.
She scrolled through the list of others sharing the same name, those fortunate enough to still have a breath in their lungs, all fourteen of them. They were scattered across the country, from Hammersmith to Hertfordshire, Sunderland to Surrey, and Bangor to Berkshire. Berkshire. ‘No,’ she whispered, incredulously, as another shot of vodka hit the back of her throat. ‘Winnersh? Couldn’t be.’
Munro did not take kindly to being woken at 4am.
‘Meet me at the office,’ he said, tersely, ‘6 o’clock sharp. And Charlie, don’t be late.’
CHAPTER 9
“WHY DID YOU GET INVOLVED?”
Who knows. God knows. I don’t know. Got carried away, I suppose. I was, intrigued. Captivated. Enthralled. She made it seem so… exciting. So, interesting. It was like, it was like going on holiday for the first time, or learning a new skill. She’d have made a good teacher, her enthusiasm was contagious.
I had thought of getting out, splitting up, I mean, in the early days, when all she did was claw my back to shreds. I knew, even then, that there was something odd about her but she was like a magnet. Charismatic. I felt compelled to find out was going on inside her head. You’d have thought, after the cigar box incident, that leaving would have been the easiest thing to do. It wasn’t. It made it difficult. I knew it was wrong. Wrong. Sounds like an understatement. I thought, is she winding me up? Could she really have done it? I mean, really? Was she actually demented? Mad? Unstable? Or just a bit of a fruit loop? She wasn’t on medication. She wasn’t prone to wandering the streets at night, wringing her hands and mumbling gibberish to herself. What if I told the police and I was wrong? What then? I’d have looked a right fool and lost her as a friend. But what if I told the police and I was right? Could she cope with it all? The questioning? The interrogation? The psychoanalysis? The trial? The prison? The hatred? I’d lie awake at night, churning it over in my mind, not to mention my stomach. Worried. Confused. Scared, even. Then, next day, I’d see her again. And everything was back to normal. Everything was, alright. I suppose, the thing is, when she talked about it, when she described what she’d done, it was as though she was somehow, detached, doing nothing more than relating a story. And that’s how it affected me. I became detached. Like a farmer is with his cattle, or a doctor with his patients. Emotionally detached. It’s the only way to deal with it.
Anyway, the day finally arrived when she popped the question. I half expected it, I think. She was in a playful mood, a bit hyper, frisky, and had managed to land a couple of champion bruises on my arms, not to mention a cut across my shoulder, all before dinner, after which, I sat on the sofa and she, as usual, sat before me on the floor, cross-legged. First, there was the grin. Then, the tingle. ‘Why don’t we do one together?’ she said. I nearly choked. ‘It’ll be fun,’ she said. ‘Another practice run.’ A practice run? A practice run for what? ‘What are you planning?’ I asked, jokingly. ‘A massacre?’ She laughed and told me not to be so silly, she just had something a bit ‘special’ in mind. I had no idea what she was talking about but one thing was for sure, I wasn’t going to be one half of a joint suicide pact. I agreed, kind of, just to keep her happy, for a couple of weeks at least, till she’d forgotten all about it. ‘I’ll think about it,’ I said. ‘I’ll think about it.’ Two days later, she said we were ready to roll.
She’d found him on the internet, on one of those local sites used for selling worthless tat that no-one in their right mind would buy if they were sober. A digital jumble sale. Then, she did a bit of digging around, you know, Facebook, Twitter, that kind of thing, just to make sure he was suitable. Amazing what you can discover on the web. If a policeman asked you to surrender your details, you’d probably cry ‘not without my lawyer’, ‘invasion of privacy’, ‘breach of human rights’, but, but when it comes to the internet, people are, bizarrely, all too willing to expose themselves. This chap, who should have known better, was hiding his true identity behind the tag ‘chantheman’, which was about as effective as a false moustache and a pair of clear-glass spectacles. Real name: Jason Michael Chan. Born: Malaysia. Age: 28. Educated: APU, Kuala Lumpur. Status: Single. Parents: Two. Happily married and living in Toronto, Canada. Profession: Freelance Computer Geek. He would not, she said, be missed. Not for a while, at least.
We were going to buy a lawnmower. He had one, she didn’t. ‘We’ve come straight from work,’ she said, justifying the rucksacks on our backs. As he wasn’t expecting her to have company, she explained, much to his delight, that as a female of the species, she knew nothing of engines, whereas I, being a male, knew all there was to know about anything mechanical. ‘No problem,’ he said. ‘We’ll have a party.’ It was obvious that ‘chantheman’ didn’t get out much. He embraced our company like a ship-wrecked mariner who’d spent twenty years living off coconuts and raw fish in total isolation. His living room, workroom, work space, call it what you will, looked like mission control at NASA. It was silent, bar the barely audible hum of a million computers linked to a million screens, each one displaying a different visual treat for the eyes, most of it, gobbledegook. I shudder to think how much technologically encrypted information was flying through the air and, more worryingly, through me.
Anyway, his initially nervous disposition soon turned to one of generosity as he plied us with drinks. Actually, he plied himself more than us. A couple of beers to start with, then he made himself a whisky mac. Then another. And another. And so it went on. He didn’t actually tell us exactly what he did for a living, I mean, how he earned money, could’ve been a spy for all I know, but he did take great delight in telling us what a genius he was. He pointed to a screen with a scrolling display of black and white characters and numerals. Royal Bank of Scotland. Apparently. Then, laptop in hand, he drew us to the window. We looked down at the street below, at a brand new, white, Mitsubishi Shogun. It belonged to the family next door. He tapped the keyboard and grinned. The hazard lights came on. He tapped a few more keys, the engine started. He laughed out loud. ‘Tappe
d into the car’s wi-fi,’ he said. ‘Easy.’ Impressive. To a degree. If you were in the market to be impressed. I wasn’t. Computers are one thing. People are totally different. His social skills were lacking. He wasn’t a good judge of character. He was too, trusting.
I asked him about the lawnmower. He went into a bout of hysterical laughter. ‘What would I be doing with a lawnmower?’ he said. ‘I’m on the first floor, I don’t have a garden.’ Touché. ‘So, why are we here?’ I asked. He said he was bored. Didn’t like going out on his own. Thought he might meet some interesting people but, apart from us, every caller he’d had, had only been interested in the lawnmower. At that point, I was flummoxed. I didn’t know where things were going. All I knew was, I’d read about people like Jason Michael Chan in the newspaper. For a fleeting moment, I actually thought it might be me who’d end up finely sliced in a bowl of black bean sauce. I didn’t even know what she had in mind, it wasn’t as though we had a plan and short of hitting him on the head with a frying pan, I could see no way of calming him down, let alone extinguishing him completely. Then, the artist went to work. It was like watching a command performance. She grinned, a big, wide, friendly grin. ‘Well, as we’re having a party,’ she said, ‘we may as well have some fun.’
She stood up, took off her coat, slipped off her trainers and unbuttoned her shirt to the waist. His eyes nearly popped out of his head. She flirted with him outrageously, complaining about the heat, saying she felt, hot. The more dishevelled she became, the higher his temperature rose, fuelled by the whisky macs she kept feeding him. I don’t think the alcohol alone would’ve knocked him out, he was, undoubtedly, hardened to it, but he never noticed the powdered paracetamol she’d slipped into every glass. 64 tablets in all. It wasn’t long before his liver sent out a distress signal and he collapsed on the floor. In a heap. Like a sack of bricks.
She giggled, mildly intoxicated, yet still managed to run through her ‘procedure’ with the efficiency of a paramedic attending an RTA. We donned our overalls, rolled him to one side of the room, spread out the groundsheet and rolled him back again. I was instructed to fetch whatever I could from the kitchen, saucepans or casseroles, if there wasn’t a bucket, while she stripped him naked. By the time I’d returned, she’d already stabbed him with a needle and was ready to start syphoning off his blood. The casserole wasn’t ideal, I lost count of the amount of trips I made to the sink and back, but eventually, there was nothing left.
‘Are you sure he’s dead?’ I asked. ‘He’s twitching.’
‘Spasms,’ she said. ‘It’s like watching a dog dream, isn’t it?’
She stroked his cheek with the back of her gloved hand, said it was a shame, that he was a nice chap. Friendly. Said he shouldn’t be forgotten, that a souvenir was called for. Then, she cut off his left ear, bagged it, and tossed it in her rucksack. After that, well, I felt like a spare part for the most, just watching from the sidelines. I mean, I have enough difficulty carving a chicken so it wasn’t as though I could join in. She set about him with a scalpel, slicing and carving, sawing and pulling, grinning and giggling. She told me to pay attention. Next time, I’d have to do it myself. The head came off first, a swift cut from ear to ear, took a couple of goes because the blade’s only so long but then, off it came. It looked one of those dummies the hairdressers used to have in their windows to show off the latest styles. Then off came the hands, the feet and, well, the rest you know. All in all, it didn’t take that long, really. We cleared everything away, put the groundsheet and his clothes in a bin sack for burning at the allotment, scrubbed the pans clean and bleached the sink. We sat with a scotch in hand staring at the pile of assorted appendages, the disassembled ‘chantheman’.
She got up and walked around the flat, came back, sat down again and smiled. ‘We’ve got a problem, Sweeney,’ she said. She still had her sense of humour. ‘Nowhere to put him.’ She wasn’t fazed, didn’t fret, she was as calm as a mill pond. A mild panic caused my tummy to rumble. ‘We can’t carry him out,’ I said. ‘There’s too much of him.’ I leaned back against the sofa and looked skyward for divine intervention, although, with hindsight, I should have been looking in the other direction. Either way, our prayers were answered. There was a hatch, in the ceiling. He had a loft. All we had to do was find a ladder. He kept it in the bedroom, behind the door. I didn’t venture all the way in, no need, besides, it was too dark. I fumbled around, cautiously, lest I disturb a false widow spider or a roof rat, and that’s where ‘chantheman’ went. His days of luring unsuspecting visitors to his flat under false pretences were over.
CHAPTER 10
SPRATT HALL ROAD, WANSTEAD. 5:50am
Munro stopped dead in his tracks. There was little that shocked him, but the sight of D.S. West sitting at her desk, knocked him for a six.
‘Do you know what time it is?’ he said, flabbergasted.
West glanced at the wall clock.
‘Early,’ she said, matter of factly.
The glare of the laptop accentuated the bags under her eyes. Her face creased with a smile.
‘I’ve been busy,’ she said. ‘Up all night. Tea?’
‘Aye,’ said Munro, as he placed a greasy, paper bag on his desk and removed his coat. ‘That would be most welcome. Have you had yourself some breakfast?’
West hesitated.
‘Yes, thanks,’ she said. ‘I had some… some muesli. Before I left. Muesli and yogurt.’
Munro said nothing, simply shook his head, opened the bag and handed her one half of a toasted, bacon sandwich.
‘So,’ he said. ‘What have you got?’
‘Samantha Louise Baker,’ said West, devouring the sarnie. ‘The ex. She’s living in Waterloo.’
‘Waterloo?’ said Munro. ‘Is that not a wee bit, metropolitan, for someone of her breeding? Mind you, I suppose she could be living in one of those fancy riverside apartments.’
‘Fraid not,’ said West. ‘Ospringe House, Wootton Street. It’s a council flat. Couldn’t find anything about her on the work front, though.’
‘And you’re sure it’s her?’
‘Positive. Her Facebook page is so old it even has a few pics of Harry on it.’
‘Is that so? Good work, Charlie. I’m impressed. We’ll pay her a visit, right enough. Is that it?’
‘Not quite,’ said West. ‘You’ll like this. Annabel Parkes. You were right.’
‘I was? That’s nice to know,’ said Munro. ‘In what way, exactly?’
‘She’s not dead.’
Munro stopped chewing.
‘Sorry, Charlie,’ he said, ‘tis early yet and I’ve not finished my breakfast. Say that again.’
‘Annabel Parkes. She didn’t drown.’
‘What?’
‘She’s alive and well. And living in Winnersh.’
Munro chuckled to himself.
‘Och, no, you must be wrong, lassie. That theory was intended as an exercise to make you think, that’s all. Must be another Annabel Parkes. Must be hundreds of them.’
‘There are,’ said West. ‘But only one in Winnersh.’
Munro eased himself into his chair, crossed his legs and regarded West curiously.
‘Come on then, Charlie,’ he said. ‘Enlighten me. If she’s not dead, what do you think happened?’
‘I’m thinking that she faked her own death.’
‘I see. And why would that be?’
‘Who knows? Fed up? Not cut out for marriage? Someone else on the side?’
Munro dusted the crumbs from his fingertips and reached for his tea.
‘All the obvious reasons. No. Sorry, Charlie. I don’t buy it. Do you not think they’d have checked her out when she went missing? They would have…’
‘They didn’t,’ said West, abruptly. ‘I’ve been through the records. The inquiry focused on Aldeburgh and the search and rescue. They didn’t bother looking any further.’
‘Didn’t try her home address? Didn’t inform the parents?’
�
�What parents? You know she didn’t have any, the Farnsworth-Browns told us as much.’
‘I still don’t buy it. You’re telling me a girl disappears, presumed drowned, then pops up…’
‘With all due respect, sir,’ said West, raising her voice. ‘She’s the only Annabel Parkes, with an ‘e’, living in Winnersh, and has done for years, she’s still on the electoral register, it’s just too much of a…’
‘Okay,’ said Munro, sighing, as he tossed the crumpled bag to the bin. ‘Okay. I give in. We’ll make her our second port of call.’
* * *
From behind the rain-spattered windscreen, Ospringe House looked as cold and foreboding as a Dickensian workhouse, the doorways draped in shadows of gloom and despair. An anonymous looking male, dressed in jogging pants and a hoodie, emerged from one of the flats on the ground floor, followed by a tan and white Staffie wearing a collar resembling a medieval instrument of torture.
‘Let’s hope that’s not her husband,’ said Munro.
Samantha Baker did not, thought West, resemble a typical council house tenant. She eyed the black, two-piece suit, the court shoes and the remarkably flawless skin, which would have been more at home in the City or the wine bars of Maida Vale, with more than a hint of jealousy.
‘Miss Baker?’ she said, sternly, holding up her warrant card.
‘Yes. What’s the matter?’
‘Detective Sergeant West, this is D.I. Munro. Mind if we ask you a few questions? It’s about a Mr. Farnsworth-Brown.’
‘Farns… you mean Harry? Whatever’s…’
‘May we come in?’
The flat, observed Munro, belied its grim exterior, a far cry from the schemes north of the border. With its Farrow & Ball paintwork and White Company furnishings, it resembled a feature from the pages of Homes & Garden. He glanced around the lounge, a look of mild bewilderment on his face.
‘Not what you expected?’ said Baker.
‘No,’ said Munro, smiling. ‘It is not. And that’s a compliment, mind.’
SHE: A gripping serial killer detective thriller (Detective Inspector Munro murder mysteries Book 1) Page 8
