Lamb to the Slaughter (9781301399864)

by Ellis, Tim

  Parish nodded. ‘I would say so.’

  ‘That would explain the variety in ages, sex and geographical location,’ Bonnard said. ‘It reminds me of online shopping.’

  ‘Exactly, Sir,’ Richards said. ‘A man comes round in a truck and delivers your order.’

  ‘Are they paying online?’

  ‘It wouldn’t take much to set up a fake online shop,’ Gold said. ‘But they could just as easily pay cash on delivery.’

  ‘What we need to do is find out everything we can about the parent’s and child’s online activities and see what we turn up. Lily, I was going to ask if you wouldn’t mind doing that tomorrow.’

  ‘Yes, I’ll do that. It’ll stop me thinking about . . . other things.’

  ‘Thanks. Go on Richards, tell the Chief about the card.’

  ‘Oh yes. The removal man leaves a business card – that’s how we know it’s him taking the children, and why we think he’s hiring himself out to a paedophile ring. On the card – besides THE REMOVAL MAN – there’s an infinity symbol made up of tiny butterflies . . .’

  Parish opened one of the files and passed Bonnard a sealed evidence bag with one of the business cards inside.

  ‘Interesting,’ Bonnard muttered.

  ‘What is interesting, Sir,’ Richards said. ‘Is that those tiny butterflies are paedophile code for “Child Lover”.

  Bonnard pursed his lips and nodded. ‘Of course, it’s a form of communication between paedophiles.’

  ‘Add the business card to the list of evidence, Richards.’

  She wrote it down.

  ‘And add it to your ‘To Do’ list. Contact Vice, see if they can shed any more light on that symbol.’

  ‘I’m going to be busy tomorrow.’

  ‘You were hoping to sit around with your feet on the desk reading celebrity magazines?’

  ‘No, but . . .’

  He interrupted her. ‘We’ve also got Sally Bowker’s body as evidence – the facial marks, the results of the swab samples taken from her face, mouth, vagina, rectum and under her finger nails . . . You can chase up forensics as well tomorrow morning, Richards.’

  ‘I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m not doing a lot of chasing at the moment.’

  ‘The more exercise the better then. The London Marathon will be here before you know it.’

  Bonnard raised an eyebrow. ‘The London Marathon?’

  ‘Constable Richards and I are running it for charity next year.’

  Richards opened her mouth to speak, but the Chief spoke first.

  ‘Very commendable. Contact me nearer the time and I’ll make a donation, Inspector.’ He looked at Richards. ‘Well done, Constable.’

  Richards smiled. ‘Thank you, Sir. I’m looking forward to it.’

  ‘As soon as that plastic boot comes off, she’ll be in training. I’ve already started, but I’m sure Richards won’t be far behind me.’

  ‘Oh yes, training for a marathon is a must. I’ve completed the Boston, New York and Berlin marathons so far. Unfortunately, London has never fallen right for me. Maybe next year I might be running right beside you, Constable.’

  ‘What do you think of that, Richards?’ Parish said with a stupid smile on his face.

  ‘That would be good, Sir.’

  ‘Anyway, let’s carry on, shall we? There’s also the rope and the knots. Apparently, DI Gold is an expert on both . . .’

  ‘A keen fisherman?’ Bonnard asked.

  ‘A lapsed fisherman,’ Gold said.

  Parish continued. ‘The rope – an old three-strand right-hand manila rope – is possibly a fisherman’s rope, the hangman’s knot is not uncommon, but the other knot – a double fisherman’s knot – suggests that Sally Bowker’s killer could have something to do with fishing. Also, forensics might be able to find some DNA, fibres, or other clues on the rope.’

  Richards continued to fill up the whiteboard.

  ‘There’s the post mortem tomorrow morning. Doc Riley might be able to tell us something about the drug that was used on Sally before she was hanged.’

  ‘She wasn’t dead before the killer hanged her?’ Bonnard asked.

  ‘Sadly no, but we think she might have been drugged. Hopefully, she won’t have known anything about it.’

  Bonnard shook his head. ‘I shouldn’t say this, and I’ll deny it if you ever repeat it, but I’d bring back capital punishment for certain crimes.’

  ‘I think we all would,’ Parish said.

  Richards and Gold nodded their agreement.

  He continued. ‘We’re also piecing together a profile of the killer. As well as the fisherman angle, we have plastercasts of a size eleven trainer by the hanging tree and a tyre on the track. Neither might be connected to the killer, but as Di Heffernan said, when we catch him those two pieces of evidence might be able to place him at the crime scene. Lastly, there’s the witness – Ms Angela Dear. She saw a dark green – possibly an “X-registered” – Range Rover leaving the wood that might have been driven by our killer. Another job for you tomorrow morning, Richards. Contact traffic in the morning and ask them for a list of dark green Range Rovers in the Thurrock area.’

  ‘Not just the X-reg Range Rovers?’

  ‘No. Ms Dear might have been wrong about it being an “X-reg”.’

  ‘What if the killer lives outside Thurrock?’ Bonnard asked.

  ‘We can only do what we can do, Sir.’

  ‘You’re hoping to strike it lucky? Maybe find a fisherman with a dark green X-registration Range Rover, who uses old rope and has a cabinet full of syringes and drugs?’

  The corner of his mouth creased upwards. ‘I think all murder detectives hope for that, but I’m not a great believer in dumb luck. Although, I do know that it sometimes has a part to play in an investigation.’

  ‘Sounds like a PhD thesis to me, Inspector. There was the case in Scotland where detectives in a murder inquiry were too late asking for CCTV footage of Edinburgh city centre, only to discover later that coverage for the day in question had been acquired by other detectives as part of a different investigation. As a result, they found the body of the murdered woman and caught the killer.’

  ‘I love things like that,’ Richards said. ‘I watch the Crime Channel all the time and . . .’

  ‘The Chief doesn’t want to know about your addiction to the Crime Channel, Agent Richards. Keep your mind focussed on the investigation at hand. So, that’s all we’ve got for now. It’s also interesting to note that some keen-eyed reporters have already identified a connection between the missing children, and one of them even mentioned the removal man.’

  Bonnard’s lips tightened. ‘You’ve given a press briefing?’

  ‘I had little choice. They were like a pack of hyenas circling the carcass of a wildebeest on the Serengeti, but I only threw them scraps. Do you want to take the briefings in future, Sir?’

  ‘Absolutely not, but I’d like to be there. I didn’t get where I am today by hiding my light under a bushel.’

  ‘I see!’ He thought he’d get everything out into the open while he had the chance. ‘Would you like to take over the investigation?’

  Bonnard showed his perfect white teeth.

  Parish wondered if he’d had a mouthful of cosmetic work undertaken in preparation for future promotions.

  ‘I didn’t get where I am today by taking over other people’s investigations. I have a very simple mantra: Each to his or her own. I’ve read your file, Parish. You’re one of the best murder detectives on the force. Your clear-up rate is impeccable. I’d be an idiot to interfere in your investigation. Now, I’m not saying I couldn’t take over the investigation if you were unable to continue, but my interests and talents lie elsewhere. I’ll help and support you in any way I can, and take some of the credit. You tell everybody what a fabulous DCI I am, and I’ll reciprocate by singing your praises to the powers that be. What do you think?’

  He thought it was great. A hands-off DCI like Kowals
ki was exactly what he wanted. As much as a man is only as good as the woman beside him, so a leader is only as good as the people following him. ‘I think we’re going to get along just fine, Sir.’

  ‘Excellent. What about you, DI Gold?’

  ‘Men are not my favourite flavour at the moment.’

  ‘Okay! And you, Constable Richards?’

  ‘If it’s all right with DI Parish, it’s all right with me, Sir.’

  ‘That’s what I like – a happy workforce.’

  ‘I was thinking of having the next press briefing at four o’clock tomorrow afternoon, if that’s okay with you, Chief?’

  ‘Leave it with me, Parish. I’ll organise it with the press officer. Press briefings fall within my interests and talents. Senior officers stand in front of the press in the mistaken belief that a press briefing is simply a press briefing. Believe me, it’s as far from a press briefing as you can possibly get, but you’ll see that tomorrow.’

  ‘I’ll look forward to it. So, to conclude. DI Gold is going to do some detective work tomorrow to try and connect all the removal man’s victims through their online activity; Constable Richards is going to plot a timeline of the abductions, as well as their locations on a map after we’ve finished here; she’s also going to conduct a database search for similar abductions in the southeast over the past year. What else are you doing tomorrow, Richards?’

  ‘Yes, I can understand why you might forget all the things I’m doing. It’s a good job I’ve written them down in my notebook. I have to chase up forensics, ring Vice about the symbol and contact Traffic about the dark-green Range Rover. We’ve also got to go and see Doc Riley about Sally Bowker’s post mortem at midday, and now we have a press briefing at four o’clock.’

  ‘Good. That should keep you out of mischief. I suggest that we meet here at five o’clock tomorrow evening to see where we are. Is that okay for everyone?’

  They all nodded.

  On the way out of the incident room DCI Raif Bonnard said, ’Good job, Parish.’

  ‘Thanks, Chief.’

  Chapter Eight

  They took the two items that Shirley Bridges had picked out from Mathew Pitt’s possessions out of the boot of the car and carried them up to an incident room. Stick had the third item – the library card – in his wallet. The squad room was devoid of human habitation. Stick glanced at the clock on the wall – it was ten past five.

  As they walked along the corridor, they could hear mumbled voices in the nearest incident room, which Stick guessed must be Parish and Richards, so he led Koll into the furthest of the three rooms available.

  ‘Do you want a coffee?’ Koll asked.

  He shook his head. ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  She sat down at the table. ‘Nor me.’

  Stick went to the whiteboard, picked up a marker pen and began writing down everything they knew about the case:

  Mathew Pitt, 12 Old Ferry Road, Wivenhoe, Colchester;

  He picked up the phone and dialled the extension for Vice, but it rang continuously.

  ‘Vice,’ he said when he saw Koll’s questioning look. ‘I was going to ask them if they knew anything about Mathew Pitt, but they’ve all gone home.’

  ‘How the other half live.’

  ‘Exactly.’ He carried on writing.

  Secret room underground with six cages;

  DNA evidence of sixty-three children having passed through the secret room;

  ‘Sixty-three children, plus the three we found, is a lot of children, Sarge.’

  ‘It is, isn’t it?’

  ‘What I don’t understand is how that number of missing children hasn’t been classified as a national disaster. Where did the children come from? Where have they gone?’

  ‘You’re asking the right questions. Now we just need some answers.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘No, you’re right to ask the questions. I don’t understand what’s happening either. I would have expected at least one familial DNA match from sixty-six, and why didn’t the three children we found in Pitt’s cellar know their surnames? Also, if those three children weren’t siblings, why were they all blonde? Why did they all have the same mother? And why did they all live in the same house?’ He wrote down the points they’d been discussing:

  No individual or familial DNA matches on the database;

  Three blonde-haired children – aged around five or six – found in cages;

  A further two children had been in the cages;

  The children only knew their first names: Adam, Eva and Suzie;

  Their mother was called Anna;

  The children were not biologically related;

  They had lived in a big house surrounded by a metal fence;

  ‘It’s getting to you as well, isn’t it?’

  ‘Child cases are the worst. We have no idea how long Pitt had been using his cellar to store children.’

  ‘We could speculate,’ Koll said. ‘Let’s say he kept six children for a month in those cages. That would suggest he was doing it for at least a year.’

  ‘There’s no evidence of what he was doing. No contacts, no money, no bank accounts – nothing. Hopefully, we’ll find out something useful at the British Library tomorrow morning.’

  Koll leaned back in her chair. ‘Which brings us to the letters and numbers, and Pitt’s penchant for codes and clues.’

  Stick wrote the points on the board:

  Possibly a codeword: Fata Morgana GB 970;

  Three clues: A library card for the British Library of Political & Economic Science in Holborn, London; a gelatine silver print entitled “Luminogramm” by Otto Steinert dated 1952; and a six-inch coloured ceramic plate with IONIAN engraved on the back and signed by the artist Janice Wicks, 1970.

  ‘I can’t even imagine what it’s all about,’ Stick said.

  ‘Maybe it’ll lead us to the money.’

  ‘Maybe there is no money.’

  Koll pulled a face. ‘There’s always money.’

  ‘Pitt wasn’t exactly living the high life. He didn’t have a million-pound mansion, a luxury yacht, or a fleet of Lamborghinis in the garage.’

  ‘He didn’t have a garage.’

  ‘My point exactly.’

  Koll’s phone vibrated on the table.

  After picking the mobile up and accepting the call she said, ‘Yes?’

  She listened.

  ‘Oh! . . . Now? . . . Can’t I just . . . ?’

  She ended the call.

  ‘I have to go.’

  ‘We haven’t finished yet.’

  ‘No – I have to go. That was Nancy Green from the CPS. They’re coming to pick me up from the hotel in an hour.’

  ‘But you’re coming back?’

  ‘I don’t think I can. They’re taking me into protective custody.’

  ‘I don’t know if I like the sound of that.’

  She threw him half a smile. ‘I’ll be all right. They need me so that they can begin recording the evidence against those four bastards from Shrub End – I have a lot to tell them.’

  ‘Surely they don’t need you now . . .’

  ‘It’s okay, Rowley,’ she said touching his arm. ‘I have to do this – otherwise what has it all been for?’

  ‘If you’re sure?’

  ‘I’m sure.’ She stood up, hugged him, and kissed him on the cheek. ‘Thanks for everything, especially for saving my life. I’ll never forget you.’

  ‘I’ll come with you to the hotel.’

  ‘There’s no need.’

  ‘I know, but I want to make sure this Nancy Green is who she says she is. I don’t want them killing you after all we’ve been through.’

  ‘What about the case?’

  ‘It can wait until tomorrow.’

  Koll collected up her few personal possessions from Xena’s desk and together they headed for the stairs.

  ‘What will you do now?’ Koll asked.

  ‘I’ll go and see DI Blake after I’ve checked Nancy
Green’s credentials.’

  ‘No, I mean with the case.’

  ‘Carry on, I suppose. I’ll travel up to Holborn in London tomorrow morning and find out what Mathew Pitt was doing with a British Library card. I’ll just keep going until I can fit the pieces of the puzzle together.’

  ‘What about asking the Chief for help?’

  ‘There isn’t anybody to help . . . and I don’t think the clerical assistant – Judy Moody – would add much to the investigation.’

  Koll laughed. ‘No, probably not.’

  He drove her to the hotel and waited in the reception while Koll went up to the room to pack her bags.

  The car with Nancy Green from the CPS arrived.

  Stick produced his warrant card and asked Green to reciprocate.

  She showed him her ID without complaint.

  ‘And you can vouch for the driver?’

  ‘Yes, he’s one of ours.’

  ‘So was the person Shrub End had in their pocket.’

  ‘It happens. She’s now in custody.’

  ‘Blackmail?

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You don’t need to know that. Let’s just say that she had some unusual sexual desires.’

  Koll appeared, handed in the room key and paid the bill.

  ‘The CPS should pay your bill,’ he said.

  ‘Keep the receipt,’ Green told Koll. ‘I’ll wait in the car.’

  Koll hugged him again and he followed her out.

  He waved, made his way into the hotel bar and ordered half a lager to drown his sorrows.

  ***

  She felt as though she’d been flayed. Slivers of skin hung from the top of her arms, her breasts and her thighs. As well as the searing pain from the canings, she had the feeling some of the wounds were getting infected. If that happened, she would be in serious trouble. There would be no way that Amy would let her see a nurse or a doctor.