by Tim Ellis
‘No, but don’t forget that the emphasis of their investigation was to find Amy. They didn’t find her, but it was still the search for a missing child. Well, she’s no longer missing, so our investigation focuses on finding out who killed her and then buried her in Galleyhill Wood.’
‘And the other…’
‘Yes… and the other children. We’re where we usually are, Richards – no leads, no suspects, and probably no evidence. So, instead of sitting here waiting for the killer to walk into the station and give himself up, we’d better get out there and do some police work.’
‘The press are going to be all over this aren’t they, Sir?’
‘As soon as they find out about the other children, it’ll spread all over the world like the plague. Right, get your arse up to forensics and steal a camera. I’m going to the toilet then I’ll meet you in the car park.’
‘Okay, Sir.’
‘Oh, and don’t think I don’t know what you’re thinking about when you mentioned the press, Richards.’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about, Sir,’ she said over her shoulder with a grin as she sashayed into the corridor.
***
Doc Michelin had already co-opted a table overlooking the ambulance bay by the time they arrived. The cafeteria was busy with patients in night attire shuffling around in slippers. Doctors and medical students in white coats, with stethoscopes dangling around their necks like medals of honour, made a point of being noticed. Nurses and health-care assistants in different shades of blue uniforms with fob watches hanging upside down huddled together on tables avoiding eye contact with both patients and doctors. Other people – like Parish and Richards – who couldn’t be identified by their dress, badges, or accoutrements as hospital workers looked out of place in the melee.
They joined the queue. It was Parish’s turn to pay, so he brought up the rear. Doc Michelin had the lasagne and a giant chocolate muffin for afterwards. Richards weighed a Caesar salad in one hand and a cucumber whole-grain sandwich in the other until Parish nudged her in the back impatiently. She then put both of them back and picked up a lemon cheesecake and a bottle of water.
‘What was all that about?’
‘I’m not really hungry.’
‘You’re never really hungry. Is it the wrong time of the month?’
‘Sirrr! You shouldn’t ask a lady that.’
‘Well, stop acting weird then.’
He selected the cottage pie with peas and carrots, a slice of caramel shortcake for afterwards, and a large mug of coffee. After paying and scooping up an assortment of sauce and sugar sachets, and plastic milk pots he made his way to the table and sat with his back to the window.
‘Are you okay, Constable Richards?’ Doc Michelin asked.
Richards’ brow creased. ‘What do you mean, Doc?’
‘Well, you know, after your ordeal with Millhaven?’
‘Yes, I’m…’
‘…Not fine,’ Parish interjected as he scooped a heap of cottage pie into his mouth.
‘I am, Sir.’
‘If you were fine, you wouldn’t wake up screaming in the middle of the night. First it was the snoring, now it’s the damned nightmares. I feel as though I’m living in a mental asylum, Doc.’
‘You have nightmares as well, so you must be one of the inmates.’
‘We’re not talking about me, Richards, we know where my nightmares stem from, but we need to get yours sorted out.’
‘I thought post-trauma counselling was standard procedure, Parish?’
‘It is, Doc, but she went on her course in Gloucestershire, and stopped going.’
‘Ah, of course.’
‘So, I’m going to ring up and book her back in.’
‘I am here, you know,’ Richards said. ‘I don’t want to go back to counselling, Sir. It didn’t do any good, you know?’
‘How many appointments did you have before you went on your course?’ Doc Michelin asked.
‘Two,’ Richards mumbled with her head down.
Doc Michelin glanced at Parish. ‘No wonder you’re still having the nightmares, Constable,’ he said. ‘The number of therapy sessions for post-traumatic stress disorder – or PTSD for short – vary case by case, but its certainly more than two.’
‘There you go, Richards, straight from the horse’s mouth.’
‘I’ll go if you go, Sir.’
‘I’m a lost cause, but you’re still young.’
The Doc cleared his throat. ‘If I may, Parish?’
‘Are you going to back me up, Doc?’
‘Well, I was actually going to support Constable Richards’ argument. The psychological problems associated with PTSD can manifest themselves years after the original trauma, but therapy is useful in the majority of cases regardless of how long a person has suffered. I’m surprised you didn’t start counselling after the Beech Tree Orphanage case?’
‘Yeah, Sir,’ Richards said with a grin.
‘Didn’t we come here to get the low down on Amy Linton?’ He dropped his voice to a whisper when he said the girl’s name.
‘Stop changing the subject, Sir,’ Richards said. ‘Seeing as we’re both at the hospital we could call in at the Trauma & Counselling Clinic and book appointments.’
Parish realised he was wedged between a rock and a hard place. If he refused, Richards wouldn’t go either, and she needed to go. He didn’t want her suffering any longer than necessary. Maybe he could book an appointment, but not turn up. Or, maybe if he did have to go, he could tell the counsellor he was fine and then stop going. He didn’t need counselling. He’d lived all his life with the trauma of Beech Tree Orphanage, and apart from the nightmares, which weren’t as bad now that he knew the truth about what had happened to him there, he didn’t have any other psychological problems that he knew of.
He had a plan. He’d go through the motions for Richards’ sake, but he wouldn’t buy into the counselling thing. ‘Okay, Richards. After the Doc has told us all his secrets we’ll make a detour to the clinic.’
‘Oh… I didn’t expect you to say that.’
‘Just goes to show you don’t know me as well as you think you do.’
Her eyes closed to slits. ‘You’ll book an appointment, but then you’ll make some excuse not to go?’
‘You’ve got a very devious mind, Richards. Men aren’t all liars, cheats, and good-for-nothings, you know.’
‘I’ll make sure you go.’
‘I know you will.’
‘Now that we’ve sorted out your PTSD,’ Doc Michelin said. ‘How’s the snoring, Constable?’
‘He makes me wear a nose clip.’
‘Is it working?’
‘I don’t know, I can’t hear myself snore when I’m asleep.’
‘It’s working, Doc,’ Parish said. ‘I usually listen at the door when I’m passing.’
‘See, I get no privacy, Doc.’
‘So, Doc, let’s cut through all this talk of Richards’ numerous medical conditions, tell me about our victim?’
‘It is who we think it is. I checked the dental records and there was a match.’
Richards swept a stray hair back off her face. ‘You obviously haven’t had time to do a… Is it still called a post mortem when you’ve only got a skeleton?’
‘Yes, Constable. A post mortem examination simply means an examination after death. The Americans use the term: Autopsy, which is defined as an inspection and dissection of a body after death. Essentially, it means the same thing as a post mortem. However, my examination is limited due to the lack of skin and organs.’
‘Do you mind, Richards?’
‘I was only asking.’
‘Anything else, Doc?’
‘I’ve carried out a cursory examination of Amy Linton’s remains, and I can tell you that there are no fractures or broken bones, and no damage to her skull. There were also no personal belongings on the body, and the fragments of clothing she was wearing have been despatched to forens
ics together with skeletal samples for DNA and toxicology analysis.’
Parish opened his mouth to speak, but Doc Michelin held up his hand to indicate he hadn’t finished.
‘No Parish, I have no idea of the cause or time of death. The hyoid bone is intact, which doesn’t rule out strangulation, but makes it unlikely. The toxicology report might provide something, but after eight years I’m sceptical about the possibility of finding any drug residue in the bone marrow. As to the time of death, Toadstone has put his forensic entomologist on the…’
‘I’ve seen them on the Crime Channel…’
‘Thank you for that Agent Richards. They have psychics on the Crime Channel, but we’re not using one of those.’
‘Maybe we should, Sir.’
He turned his gaze back on Doc Michelin. ‘So, this bugmeister will work out the time of death for us, Doc?’
‘That’s the plan. Although, we know the date Amy Linton went missing eight years ago, so it won’t be too difficult to place her death within a narrow timeframe.’
‘What about the other…’
‘Not again, Richards? You’re like Digby with a bone.’
‘Sorry, Constable, we don’t know anything about the other bodies yet.’
‘Oh.’
‘See, Richards. You won’t get anywhere trying to rush people into providing evidence…’
‘That’s rich coming from you, Parish,’ Doc Michelin said.
‘Richards has to learn to compartmentalise, Doc. Do you know that most women can’t divorce their emotions from their work or their relationships? They over-analyse everything. Compartmentalisation seems to be a man thing. This case is going to be difficult enough as it is without dragging emotional baggage around with us. Today, we’re dealing with Amy Linton in an objective unemotional way, Richards. We are not interested in the other children until we know something about them.’
‘But…?’
‘Is that clear, Richards?’
‘I suppose…’
‘See what I have to deal with, Doc?’
‘You have my sympathy, Parish.’
‘Are we done then, Doc?’
‘We’re done.’
‘Come on, Richards, let’s go and book you in for a brain transplant.’
‘And you, Sir?’
‘And me.’
Chapter Three
Richards knew where the Trauma & Counselling Clinic was located. They made their way along the corridor to the stairs, walked down one floor, and then turned left. As they reached the double doors to the Clinic, Parish’s mobile vibrated with the William Tell overture.
‘Hang on, Richards,’ he said as he pulled the phone out of his pocket, and pressed to accept the call. ‘Parish?’
‘Hello Sir, its Chief Scientific Officer Paul Toadstone in Galleyhill Woods.’
‘Do you have to be so formal, Toadstone. You could have just said, “Hi Sir, it’s me,” because I knew it was you from the William Tell overture ringtone and the display on my phone, so you didn’t need to tell me who you were. I also know what your title is, so you didn’t need to tell me that. And if that were not enough, I know where you are, so you didn’t need to tell me your location either. Next, you’ll be giving me all your post-nominal letters, how much your monthly pay is, and your hours of work… Anyway Toadstone, I’m sure you didn’t ring me to introduce yourself and tell me where you are?’
‘No, Sir.’
‘Well?’
‘Another gravesite, Sir.’
‘There are times when you can give me more information, Toadstone. This is one of those times?’
‘I had people searching the area just in case the gravesite discovered this morning wasn’t the only one…’
‘And it wasn’t? You’ve found another grave?’
‘Yes, Sir. About three hundred metres to the right of the original site.’
‘Tell me there’s only one body in this grave, Toadstone?’
‘I wish I could, Sir, but it has five bodies in it like the first grave.’
‘You’re determined to ruin my day, aren’t you?’
‘Sorry, Sir.’
‘Is that it?’
‘For now. We have a lot of work to do.’
‘Well, get on with it then. Ring me if you find anything useful, but…’
‘I’ll assume you’ll know who’s ringing.’
‘It takes a while Toadstone, but if you persevere you’ll get the hang of these new telephone contraptions.’
‘Thank you, Sir.’
The call disconnected.
‘You know he’s a member of Mensa, Sir?’
‘That’s what worries me. Did you know that Mensa means table in Latin? Probably like the round table. Toadstone thinks he’s a knight in shining armour in search of the Holy Grail of your love, like Sir Galahad on a white charger.’
Richards sighed, but otherwise ignored him. ‘Another grave, Sir?’
‘It’s rude to eavesdrop on people’s telephone conversations, you know?’
‘With another five bodies in? How terrible! That’s ten children in total, Sir. Where did they all come from? And how come there hasn’t been a hue and cry about missing children on the news?’
‘Very good questions, Richards, which will be useful when we start investigating the other bodies. Today though, if you recall, we’re only dealing with…’
‘…Amy Linton.’
‘I knew it would sink in sooner or later. I was hoping for sooner, but later is certainly better than never.’
‘You’re so mean, Sir,’ she said as she shouldered her way through the Trauma and Counselling Clinic door into a brightly-lit Reception. The curved reception counter was positioned to the left partitioning off the corner of the room. Chairs – covered in pastel blue weave – lined the room, and an array of health posters and notices had been pinned to notice boards, or stuck to the light green painted walls. A number of doors facing the main entrance had name slots screwed in place at shoulder-height.
‘Yes?’ said a dark-haired young woman with a tiny diamond stud in the left side of her nose. ‘Do you have an appointment?’
Richards took the lead. ‘No, we’ve come to book appointments. I’ve been here twice before, but Mr Parish hasn’t been at all - we’re police… detectives.’
‘One moment.’ She went to a filing cabinet and pulled out a dark blue book from the top drawer. ‘Name?’
‘Mary Richards, I was…’
‘Yes, you had appointments booked with Dr Suresh, you stopped coming without notification…’
‘Is this true, Richards?’ Parish said adopting an expression of shock.
‘I forgot…’
‘An unlikely story. You know I’m a Detective Inspector who has been trained to detect when people are not being wholly truthful, or in your case, trying to wriggle out of being caught red-handed deceiving your boss.’ He turned to the Receptionist. ‘Constable Richards has been on a six-week course, but she’s back now and wants to continue with her therapy…’
Richards nudged him. ‘Keep your voice down, Sir, there are people behind us.’
He turned around and saw that a small queue had formed. A wraith-like middle-aged woman with dark bags under her eyes was next, and behind her stood two shifty looking young men who resembled suspects and fidgeted constantly. Other people – looking depressed and defeated – sat in chairs around the room.
‘Thursday at eleven-thirty, Miss Richards, but you had better keep this appointment.’
Richards nodded and wrote the appointment details in her notebook. ‘What about DI Parish?’
‘What about him?’ the Receptionist said.
‘He wants an appointment as well.’
She glared at Parish, and he saw that she had a dark moustache on her top lip that was visible at certain angles under the fluorescent lighting. ‘Do you?’
‘It would seem so.’
‘You’re not a time-waster are you?’
‘No, I’m a
Detective Inspector.’
‘I’ve found that the higher up people go the less reliable they are. What about Friday at three-fifteen?’
‘That would be fine, thank you. With the same Dr?’
‘No, with Dr Rafferty.’
‘Okay.’ He turned to go.
‘Aren’t you going to write it down like she did?’ the Receptionist said pointing at Richards.
‘No, I think I can remember a date and time. You did say Saturday at ten?’ He smiled.
His attempt at humour fell into the gap between them.
‘If you say so,’ she said, ‘but if you miss the appointment you won’t get another one for a very long time, I’ll make sure of that.’
Parish hated gatekeepers, especially the ones who abused their power and made life difficult for average people. This be-studded hairy woman was a Receptionist for God’s sake. Who the hell was she to talk to him like that? If he missed the appointment it would mean he had something a lot more important to do – like catching a child killer. He was entitled to counselling it was part of the job, and she wasn’t going to deny him his entitlement. ‘What’s your name, young lady?’
‘Marie… Marie Rafferty… Dr Marie Rafferty, why?’
‘Oh… no reason… have a nice day.’
Richards started laughing in the corridor and continued until they were outside.
‘It wasn’t that funny.’
‘You should have seen your face, Sir.’
‘Remember, I’m the one making sure you’re meeting the trainee investigators’ occupational standards and writing your monthly reports, Richards.’
The implied threat fell on deaf ears.
***
The park on Crooked Way in Lower Nazeing was set back between two houses and had a set of four swings, a seesaw, a sandpit, a slide, and in the centre – in pride of place – stood a climbing house with tunnels, knotted ropes, ladders, chutes, walkways, and hidey-holes. The ground was constructed of a sponge-like substance that felt strange to walk on.
Parish couldn’t remember ever having played in a park as a child. There were no climbing frames, or old tyres tied to ropes and hung from trees, or buggies made from pieces of wood and old pram wheels inside Beech Tree Orphanage, and they weren’t allowed outside the high fence to play like normal kids. Then, as a fostered child, he had kept himself to himself, and stayed inside his room reading and studying. He quickly realised that education was the only escape route for a child in the care system.
