Okay, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking that if she wasn’t completely barking, then she must have got some kind of perverse, twisted kick out of it. Maybe she was some kind of closet feminist who got turned on by carving up men. But no. She wasn’t. And no, she didn’t. I admit, the ‘idea’ of doing it excited her and simply talking about it made her… frisky, but the actual act, the actual process of extinguishing a life and transforming the body into take-away-sized portions, well, that was clearly a brilliant, and almost scientific exercise in dismemberment.
Even as a kid, when she wasn’t culling the insect population of her back garden, she’d turn her attention to anything she could lay her hands on, just to find out what went where, and why, and how. Like a toaster, taken apart, its component parts laid out on the table. As individual items, they meant nothing, but as a part of something bigger, they suddenly became integral to the functioning form. Just as an automatic kettle is useless without a thermostat, so a body is useless without a brain.
Or maybe I’ve got it all wrong. Maybe it’s more deep-rooted than that. Maybe she suffered from the unquantifiable consequences of bereavement. Death. The loss of her father at such a young age. That’s a cliché for the couch if ever there was one, only problem with that theory is that she didn’t hate life, nor did she resent being alive. She relished it.
So, I’m afraid I can’t tell you why she did it, all I know is, you can read too much into it. You can go over the suppositions, the whys and wherefores, until you’re blue in the face. You can blame it on her childhood or the parents or even a gene mutation but the bottom line is, she simply upgraded from pulling legs off spiders to dissecting her own species.
CHAPTER 12
FLAT B, HERONGATE ROAD, WANSTEAD. 3:12pm
The house was typical of the area: a large, run-of-the-mill, Victorian terrace comprising two floors, each hastily converted into one bedroom flats with scant regard for planning permission or the safety of its occupants. A lone WPC stood guard by the front door as a line of blue and white tape, strung around the block-paved drive, flapped and rustled in the wind. Munro said nothing, flashed his warrant card, and smiled politely.
‘Upstairs, sir,’ said the WPC. ‘Top floor.’
D.S. Jeff Ashford, a crinkly, forty-something with a face weathered by nicotine and a belly swollen by London Pride, met Munro at the top of the stairs and sighed.
‘James,’ he said, mournfully, as he ruffled his mop of auburn hair. ‘How’s it going?’
‘Same as, Jeff. Same as. And yourself?’
‘The usual. Over-worked and underpaid. Don’t know how you do it.’
‘Do what, exactly?’
‘Keep going.’
‘Porage,’ said Munro, with a wry grin. ‘Just water and salt, mind. No milk.’
‘Somehow, I think retirement will taste better.’
‘So, what have we got?’
‘Enough to make you glad you didn’t have a full English.’
‘That bad?’
‘Worse,’ said Ashford. ‘People downstairs got pissed off at the noise going on all night, some sort of alarm, they said. They knocked the door and weren’t too keen on the smell either, so they gave us a bell, or rather, Tommy. About seven, it was. They were adamant the bloke was in so we gave the door a nudge.’
‘And?’
‘And… the “alarm” was a computer, one of his computers, making a heck of a racket it was, all pinging and whirring. And there were flies like bluebottles, clambering at the window. We had a nose around and that’s when we found him. Them. His bits. All chopped up. In the loft.’
Ashford buttoned his once fashionable jacket at the waist, handed Munro a pair of gloves, and led him into the flat. Two Scenes of Crimes Officers, wearing face masks and body suits, were finishing up, systematically bagging anything they could lay their hands on – from external disks and flash drives, to an empty bottle of scotch – while a skinny, young man with a shaved head and a tattoo on his neck, tapped furiously at a keyboard.
‘This is Sean,’ said Ashford. ‘His bark’s worse than his bite.’
Sean stopped typing, turned, and smiled at Munro.
‘Inspector,’ he said, with a cut-glass accent. ‘How are you?’
‘Relieved,’ said Munro, grinning. ‘Are you here on work experience? You look awfully young.’
‘I’m 26, Inspector. Been doing this for years.’
‘26? My, my, not long till you get the gold watch, then. I take it you know your way round this pile of… technology?’
‘Could do it blindfolded,’ said Sean. ‘From the other room.’
‘Ah, the arrogance of youth, eh, Jeff. So, don’t keep us in suspense, laddie, what have you found? Can you tell us who he is?’
‘I can do better than that, Inspector,’ said Sean. ‘I could probably tell you everything about him.’
‘I’m listening,’ said Munro.
‘Okay. Name’s Jason Chan. Malaysian. Age, 34. He’s been here eight years, bit of a whizz on the techno front, not in our league, but good enough. From what I can gather, he was into building algorithms, writing scripts and codes. Back-end stuff. And for kicks, he seemed to enjoy hacking. He dabbled with Anonymous and was personally responsible for taking down more than a few corporate websites, blue-chip companies, that kind of thing.’
‘I see. And apart from the obvious, the hacking,’ said Munro, ‘you think he’s legit?’
‘Seems to be,’ said Sean. ‘He’s got a bunch of regular clients by the looks of it, and the only people outside of them he’s been in regular contact with are his parents. Canada. Aside from that, I’ve got pretty much everything you need to know about him, bank details, tax code, National Insurance number, hobbies, where he shopped, in fact, his life story if you want it.’
‘Excellent,’ said Munro, pondering his next question. ‘You say he’s Malaysian?’
‘That’s right. Born, Shah Alam, educated Kuala Lumpur.’
Munro looked at Ashford and frowned.
‘It’s probably nothing,’ he said, ‘but if he’s Malaysian, he’d be a Muslim, would he not?’
‘Don’t ask me,’ said Ashford, with a shrug of the shoulders. ‘Haven’t a clue.’
‘He might be,’ said Sean. ‘Coming from Shah Alam, but then again, there’s every chance he could be a Hindu, or a Buddhist, even.’
‘I suppose, what I mean is, Sean, you’ve not found anything, untoward?’ said Munro. ‘Anything vaguely, suspicious?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Okay. Good. Jeff, a wee favour, if you will. I know it’s not your patch, but once we’re done here, can you chase the DNA profile for me, so we can get a formal I.D., please,’
‘No probs,’ said Ashford.
‘Then send it over to CT Command, make sure he’s not on their list of suspects. I’d hate to think we’d had a terrorist in our midst and no-one spotted him.’
Ashford nodded.
‘So, how about a time of death?’ said Munro. ‘Have we a clue about that?’
‘Initial estimate, they reckon within the last 48 hours, 36 maybe.’
Sean spun around in his chair.
‘I can tell you who did it, if you like,’ he said, cockily. ‘Well, probably, did it.’
Munro glanced at Ashford then slowly turned to face Sean. His eyes narrowed as he bit his bottom lip.
‘Say that again,’ he said, his voice barely more than a whisper.
‘I think I know who did it,’ said Sean. ‘Not that I’m a detective or anything, but look, here, I’ve pulled up all his emails and texts. He was selling a lawnmower…’
‘What? Are you joking me?’ said Munro, with a huff. ‘Why on earth would he… was he mowing the carpet?’
‘No idea,’ said Sean. ‘Point is, he was selling it. Had it on this “pre-loved” sort of website, you know, like a local eBay, called himself “chantheman”.’
‘Sounds like a dope dealer.’
‘Here’s the thing,
someone came to see it, that is, they arranged to see it, night before last. I’m guessing they showed up. Meeting tallies with the time of death.’
Munro turned to Ashford.
‘Jeff. Neighbours. Any sightings of anyone coming or going?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Okay. Well, let’s assume, for now, they slipped in, unnoticed. Go on, Sean, what else?’
‘Here’s the correspondence between him and the buyer, someone called Sheba.’
Munro let out a short, blunt gasp, as though he’d been thumped on the back. He looked at Sean, a startled expression on his face.
‘Have I hit a nerve?’ said Sean.
‘I think you may have severed it, laddie. Sheba, you say? And you’re sure of it?’
‘Positive. It’s all here.’
‘Okay, listen, Sean, this is very important, do you have the email address?’
‘Had. It was active for three days, then deleted. Hotmail. Sheba745.’
‘Damn and blast, and there’s no way of…’
‘Not a Hotmail address, no. Same as Yahoo. Free. No questions asked. Besides, you can put in any info you want when you sign up, doesn’t have to be, factual.’
‘Mother of… and there’s no trace of any calls?’ said Munro, scratching the back of his head. ‘No text messages confirming the meeting or…’
‘’Fraid not. Just the emails. Sorry.’
Munro, scowling with frustration, slowly turned on his heels and scanned the room, from the door to the desk to the open hatch to the loft, before moving to the kitchen. His nose twitched, irritated.
‘Jeff,’ he said. ‘Here, a moment. Can you smell that?’
Ashford joined him, tilted his head back and sniffed the air.
‘Nope. What are we sniffing for?’
‘Bleach. There’s the scent of bleach in the air. It’s down the sink. Get someone under there, look in the trap, and check the drains outside. Something’s been flushed down there, I’d like to know what.’
Ashford sighed.
‘If you say so, James,’ he said. ‘But I reckon you’re wasting your time, people chuck bleach down the plughole all the time.’
Munro smirked and regarded Ashford with tilt of the head.
‘Look around you, Jeff,’ he said, softly. ‘What do you see?’
‘Well, nothing. It’s spotless.’
‘Does that not strike you as odd?’
‘Odd? No, why…’
‘Look through there, where he worked, what’s it like?’
‘Like my son’s bedroom, a tip.’
‘So why is it so clean in here, especially if he had company? No cups, no glasses, even the bin’s empty.’
‘Well, I suppose he could have been…’
‘He could have been a lot of things, but house-proud, he was not. What about prints? Have we anything obvious yet? If he had visitors, surely there must be something...’
‘We’ll know for sure by the morning,’ said Ashford, ‘but so far, it looks as though he was on his lonesome.’
‘No,’ said Munro, staring at the sink. ‘He wasn’t. Of that, I’m sure.’
* * *
D.S. West rammed the remnants of a chocolate digestive into her mouth, scattering crumbs across her desk as Munro flew through the door.
‘Did you find your pensioner?’ she mumbled, holding up an empty mug. ‘What was it? Cardiac?’
‘Not a pensioner, Charlie. Another Harry.’
‘What?’
‘Hacked to pieces. Name of Jason Chan. Aye, tea, please. Tommy, first thing tomorrow, call Jeff at Chingford, see if they’ve the DNA profile back, will you? Oh, and prints, too.’
‘Guv.’
‘Charlie. Annabel Parkes. Number, please.’
‘You seem flustered,’ said West, handing him a mug.
‘Not flustered, Charlie. It’s what we call “adopting a sense of urgency”. Two bodies, one square mile. We have to move on this. Incidentally, this Jason Chan, have a guess at who the last person was to see him alive?’
‘No idea,’ said West. ‘Surprise me.’
‘Sheba.’
‘You’re…’
‘I kid you not. What’s the time?’
‘Five. Give or take.’
‘That makes it 1am in Perth,’ said Munro. ‘Let’s give her a wee call.’
‘At this hour?’ said West. ‘She’ll be in bed, surely?’
‘Nae bother. She’ll have to get up to answer the phone anyway. That picture of Harry and the lassie, copy it onto your phone, quick now, we’ll need to send it to her.’
Munro, spectacles perched on the end of his nose, took a slug of tea, read the piece of paper at arm’s length and carefully dialled the number, clearing his throat as it rang through.
‘Annabel. What’s up?’ came the voice at the other end.
‘Miss Parkes?’
‘That’s right. Who is this?’
‘You won’t know me. My name’s Munro. Detective Inspector James Munro. I’m calling from Wanstead C.I.D., in London.’
‘Police? Christ! What’s happened? Is it mum?’
‘No, no, she’s fine. Just fine,’ said Munro. ‘Now, you’ll not thank me for calling at this hour, I’m sure, but I wonder, might we have a wee chat? It won’t take long.’
‘I guess so,’ said Parkes.
‘Excellent, I’ll be as quick as I can. We’re trying to trace a missing person; someone you may have known. Chap by the name of Farnsworth-Brown, Harry Farnsworth-Brown.’
‘Never heard of him.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Think I’d remember a name like that,’ said Parkes. ‘What makes you think I’d know him?’
‘He was courting, I mean, seeing, a friend of yours. Samantha Baker?’
‘Samantha? That’s going back a bit. Oh, it’s not her, is it? Nothing’s…’
‘No, no. She’s fine, too,’ said Munro. ‘Nothing to worry about, there. She’s living in London. Waterloo, actually. Back to this Farnsworth-Brown chappie, we need to find him, and a young girl he was seen with. I’ve a photo of them, as a couple, would you mind if I sent it to you, on the email? You might…’
‘Email? How did you get my…’
‘I’m a detective, Miss Parkes.’
‘Fair enough,’ she said, laughing politely down the phone. ‘Do you want to send it now?’
Munro nodded at West.
‘Thanks, you should have it in a moment or two. Chances are you probably won’t…’
‘Christ almighty,’ said Parkes, as she opened the image. ‘Where did you get this?’
Munro snatched his glasses from his face and sat bolt upright.
‘What is it?’ he said. ‘Do you recognise him?’
‘No, don’t know him from Adam, but she…’
‘She?’
‘She’s trouble,’ said Parkes. ‘If she’s gone missing, hopefully it’s off the edge of a cliff.’
‘You know her?’ said Munro.
‘Kind of.’
‘Listen, if there’s anything you can tell us about her, anything at all...’
‘She used to hang around the campus…’
‘She was a student?’
‘No, she flunked,’ said Parkes. ‘Didn’t have the grades to get in, but she virtually lived there. At first I thought, good for her, she was obviously dedicated, wanted to learn, spent all her time in the library.’
‘And no-one thought to remove her? If she wasn’t a student…’
‘Everyone turned a blind eye, especially the staff, she could charm the pants off a priest. Obviously, she didn’t, couldn’t, attend lectures or anything. She was kind of, teaching herself.’
‘I see. And, do you remember what she read?’ said Munro. ‘What she wanted to study?’
‘In-between tidying the bookshelves, you mean?’ said Parkes. ‘Anything to do with anatomy. Pathology for Dummies, that kind of thing.’
‘And that was trouble?’
‘N
o, the dealing was the trouble,’ said Parkes.
‘Dealing?’
‘She used to peddle grass, you know, weed, and a few other bits, too. Practically supplied the entire university.’
‘But surely that’s not enough to make her…’
‘She ran a book, Inspector, credit. For all those poor, hard-up students. Thing is, she didn’t charge interest on the debts, they just had to pay up when it was due, otherwise…’
‘Otherwise?’ said Munro.
‘Let’s just say a lot of students lost a lot of possessions, jewellery, stereos, phones, anything she could flog. Nine times out of ten, whatever she got was worth a lot more than the dope.’
‘And she got away with it? I mean, these students, they just willingly handed over…?’
‘The consequences didn’t bear thinking about,’ said Parkes, lowering her voice. ‘She knew people, if you know what I mean.’
‘I see. I do,’ said Munro. ‘And you knew her well enough to speak to? Or just...’
‘Obviously, I was partial to a bit of weed back then. We got on okay, for what it was worth, until…’
‘Until?’
‘She turned on me.’
‘And why would that be?’ said Munro.
‘Jealousy,’ said Parkes. ‘I had a job lined up before I graduated, that, and… and the fact it was me who turned her in.’
‘Turned her in? You mean, you told the police what she up to?’
‘Yes. She was becoming too much of a nuisance, I wasn’t going to stand by and watch all these kids get fleeced by…’
‘And then? What happened then?’ said Munro.
‘Nothing much,’ said Parkes. ‘She got a slap on the wrist and a fine. Following week, she was at it again.’
Munro grabbed a pen and held it, poised above his notepad.
‘Listen, Annabel, you’ve been most helpful, really, and I thank you for that, there’s just one more thing. A name. I need a name.’
SHE: A gripping serial killer detective thriller (Detective Inspector Munro murder mysteries Book 1) Page 10
