by Tim Ellis
Richards’ face lit up. ‘This is great, Sir. I think I’ll have a go on the swings.’
‘I know this will come as a shock to you, Richards, but we’ve not come here to play on the apparatus. Get the camera out and start taking pictures.’
‘Sorry, Sir. I got carried away for a minute.’ Rummaging in her bag, she pulled out the black Nikon camera that she’d signed out from forensics earlier.
‘You know I don’t want pictures of the playthings, don’t you?’
‘Of course.’
‘And you do know how that thing works?’
‘They showed me what to do in forensics.’
‘And that you’re not Dorothea Lange?’
‘I don’t even know who she is.’
‘Was, Richards, was. And for your information she was a famous female photographer who took photographs of the Great Depression in America in the 1930s.’
‘Oh… I’ll start should I, Sir?’
He looked at his watch. It was twenty-five past three. ‘And make it quick, we haven’t got all day.’
‘Huh!’
As Richards walked round the park taking a multitude of pictures, Parish stood at the entrance and examined the layout. Surrounding the park was a twelve-foot high wire mesh fence overgrown with beautiful white-flowering Clematis. Outside, to the left of the park, was a public footpath. Anyone could stop on the footpath and watch the children playing through gaps in the Clematis, and not be seen. The wire mesh had been cut in several places at ground level, and the disguised holes acted as easy entrances/exits to and from the park for children or adults if they crawled through on all fours. Even as he stood there, three boys aged about seven or eight, slipped through a gap in the fence and jumped squealing onto the climbing frame like Capuchin monkeys. To the right of the park stood a house, and a six-foot high brick wall had been built along its length to gain some privacy.
‘Finished, Sir,’ Richards called as she sat on one of the four swings and pushed off. ‘Come and push me?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Richards. I’m going to walk down the path to see where it goes.’ He made his way out of the park and into the public footpath. It was in desperate need of repair as the tarmac was uneven and full of potholes. The path zigzagged in the middle at the end of the park, which made it difficult for anyone to see who might be standing there from either end of the path. There was also a streetlight, which made it ideal as a place for teenagers and others to congregate at night. Littered on the ground in the weeds he saw cigarette packets, beer bottles, used condoms, and the telltale tinfoil of drug users.
Although the area appeared to be a desirable place to live with its detached houses, mowed lawns, and 4 x 4’s in the driveways, behind this façade were the same old societal problems.
‘You’re a misery, Sir,’ Richards announced as she caught up with him.
‘I’m too old to play on swings, and so are you.’
‘I don’t think people can ever be too old to play on swings. You just don’t have a romantic bone in your body. You should take my mum to the park and push her on the swings.’
‘So, what do you think, Richards? Remember, we’re here because Amy Linton disappeared from the park eight years ago.’
‘I think this place is scary, Sir. A child could slip out through these holes in the fence and disappear in a moment.’
Just then, an unshaven man wearing worn and marked corduroy trousers, a woollen hat, and a donkey jacket shuffled past watching them warily.
They carried on along the footpath and came out at the side of a row of shops with a small car park.
‘You think this is where Amy Linton was taken from, Sir?’
‘Seems likely,’ Parish said watching the comings and goings of people at the shops and the vehicles pulling in and out of the car park. ‘People stop, shop, and leave. Someone taking a willing little girl and putting her into a vehicle wouldn’t even be noticed in a place like this. There’s no sense of community. Everybody keeps themselves to themselves. Nobody has the time anymore to care about other people.’
‘You make it sound so depressing.’
‘That’s because it is. Communities have died out. Oh, the government keeps trying to bring them back, but they’ve gone forever. People are different now. There’s no respect for authority, people’s privacy, possessions… In fact, there’s no respect for anything anymore. Yes, it is depressing, Richards.’
They walked back along the path, past the park, and climbed into the pool car parked on Crooked Way.
‘Do we have a clearer idea of how Amy Linton went missing, Richards?’
‘Yes Sir. It looks like she was lured through one of the holes in the fence, taken along the path with the promise of sweets or ice-cream, and driven away to her death.’
‘Remember it was January when she went missing – it’s now May.’
‘You mean the green stuff with white flowers on the fence, Sir?’
‘Clematis, Richards.’
‘It’s really thick. I still think it would have prevented people from seeing who was on the footpath.’
‘Okay, now all we need to do is find out who took her,’ he said staring out of the passenger window at a group of hooded teenagers walking towards the park drinking from beer bottles and smoking. ‘Right, let’s go and break the news to Mr and Mrs Linton.’
***
‘Why are the press here, Sir?’
Parish’s lips tightened into a thin red line. Anger, like molten lava, began bubbling inside him. There must have been about fifty reporters, TV cameramen, anchormen, photographers, and hangers-on huddled together on the pavement like penguins on an ice floe outside 12 Barnard Acres. ‘Why indeed?’
Finding it difficult to park, Richards pulled into the curb outside Number 18. They both climbed out of the car and the press moved towards them.
‘What are you all doing here?’ he said.
No one answered.
‘Didn’t I make it abundantly clear that there was a news blackout until six tonight?’ He checked his watch. ‘It’s still only twenty to five. So, what are you doing here?’
Still no one said anything.
He saw Catherine Cox from the Chigwell Herald trying to hide behind a man with a large belly and a television camera perched on his left shoulder. ‘That camera better not be on or pointed at me?’ he said to the cameraman.
The man let the camera rotate downwards on the shoulder grip.
‘Miss Cox, can you shed any light on why there are hordes of media outside the Linton’s house?’
Everyone turned to look at the freckle-faced young reporter with long brown hair and a thigh-length green jacket. She edged out from behind the cameraman.
‘Masterson…’ she blurted out.
There was a groan from those assembled. ‘We never reveal our sources…’
‘Shut up you spineless bastards,’ Parish shouted at them. ‘From now on I speak only to Catherine Cox. The rest of you don’t exist…’
‘We had no choice,’ an older man said. ‘Once Masterson went ahead and reported that Amy Linton had been found, we had to follow suit.’
Parish craned his head. ‘There’s always a choice, you simply chose the wrong option. Where is Masterson?’
‘He’s not here.’
‘Well, until Masterson no longer works for…’ Parish realised he didn’t know which organisation Masterson represented.
‘…the Hoddesdon Mercury,’ Catherine Cox said.
‘Until he no longer works there, or any other media organisation within a hundred miles of Redbridge, press briefings will consist of one person besides myself – Miss Cox. If she wants to divulge any information I pass onto her then that’s her prerogative, but you’ll get nothing from me.’
The press parted to let him and Richards through.
‘Are you allowed to do that, Sir?’ Richards whispered.
‘We’ll soon see.’
The door of 16 Barnard Acres opened before the
y reached it. A woman with shoulder-length wavy hair brushed over to the left and a pale drawn face stood there looking as though the end of the world had come and gone. And maybe for her it had, Parish thought.
‘Mrs Linton?’ Parish asked.
‘Yes.’
He showed his Warrant Card. ‘Detective Inspector Parish and this is Constable Richards. Can we come in?’
She stood to one side and let them in. ‘You’ve found her?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘Good, I can move on with my life now. He’s in there.’ She pointed to the living room.
Parish led the way, but Mrs Linton didn’t follow. An obese John Linton sat in a chair with a can of beer in his hand. The room smelled like a brewery.
‘We’ve heard already, from some fucking reporter knocking on the door wanting a comment. Is that how its done these days?’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Linton, there was meant to be a news blackout, but I’ll find out who’s responsible.’
‘Who did it? Who killed my Amy?’
‘We don’t know that yet. Your daughter was found in a shallow grave in Galleyhill Wood this morning, and we’re investigating what happened.’
‘Have you got any suspects?’
‘I’m sorry, I can’t tell you that, Mr Linton.’
‘How did she die? Did she…?’
‘I’m sorry, we don’t know anything more yet…’
‘You may as well leave then. If you can’t tell me what I need to know then there’s no fucking point in you being here, is there?’ He took a swallow of beer from the can.
‘I can arrange for a Victim Support Officer to…’
John Linton grunted. ‘A Victim Support Officer! Can they bring back my Amy? Can they repair my marriage? Can they give me back my life?’ He threw the beer can at the wall and began sobbing. ‘Just get the fuck out, will you. All I need is to be left alone.’
Parish glanced at Richards and shrugged. He remembered John Linton being a tall muscular man in his early thirties. A proud father, a soldier in a uniform, not this broken slob living in a filthy chair.
They made their way out into the hallway just as Mrs Linton came down the stairs in a coat carrying a dark brown suitcase.
‘Are you going somewhere, Mrs Linton?’ Richards said.
‘To live my life. John can’t – or won’t – move on, but I need to. I’ve been waiting eight years for you to find Amy. Well, now you have, and its time for me to go and live my life.’
She barged past them, opened the front door, and made her way to a waiting taxi with the press taking photographs and trying to coax her into saying something, but she ignored them.
Parish and Richards followed her out and watched her go.
‘What should we do, Sir?’
‘What can we do, Richards? It looks like Mrs Linton was only staying with her husband until their daughter was found. You’ve seen Mr Linton, he’s been slowly killing himself for eight years. Maybe now Amy has been found…’
‘Don’t say that, Sir. Maybe we should get him some help?’
‘You heard him, he doesn’t want our help.’
‘So, we just leave him to kill himself?’
‘Isn’t that everybody’s right in a democracy?’
‘But…’
‘Come on, let’s get back…’ His phone played the William Tell overture again in his pocket. He carried on walking back to the car as he answered it. ‘Hello, Toadstone. Good news, I hope?’
‘Sorry Sir, we’ve found another grave with five more bodies in it.’
‘I want you to delete my mobile number from your address book, Toadstone. If you can’t ring me, maybe you won’t find any more bodies.’
‘That’s an interesting idea, Sir. We found the third grave about five hundred metres further into the woods beyond the original site.’
‘So we have fifteen bodies now?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Any other news besides more dead bodies?’
‘No Sir, but I’ve got three teams out here now. It will be difficult to hide what’s happening from the press.’
‘Nobody speaks to the press without my express authorisation, Toadstone. Make sure all your people understand that their job will be on the line if they disobey my orders.’
‘We leave the press to you, Sir.’
‘Good, that’s just the way I like it. Do I need to come up there?’
‘Only if you want to. I think we’ll be here for some considerable time removing the bodies and searching the ground for evidence.’
‘I’ll make it my first port of call tomorrow, if that’s okay with you?’
‘It’s fine by me, I’m not going anywhere.’
‘Excellent, and try not to call me again, Toadstone.’
‘I’ll do my best, Sir.’
He disconnected the call.
‘Fifteen children! What’s going on, Sir?’
‘I wish I knew, Richards. I wish I knew.
Chapter Four
‘Fucking bastards,’ John Linton shouted. He would have had another swig of beer, but he’d thrown the half-full can at the wall. That was a waste. He struggled out of the chair, pushed himself to a standing position, and walked through into the kitchen. So, Maggie had left him? He could hardly blame her. All she’d been waiting for was for them to find Amy. Well now they had, and Maggie had gone. He opened the fridge door and took out a beer, but before he could open it his legs crumpled beneath him as he realised his beautiful Amy was dead.
He began sobbing. Collapsing face down on the kitchen floor the cold terracotta tiles pressed against his cheek. Tears came until there was nothing left. They had taken away his hope. Before, there had always been the hope that Amy was still alive, that he could still rescue her, but now… now he knew that she was dead. The emptiness threatened to engulf him. He had lost everyone he ever cared about on 17th January 2003. His perfect life had been snatched from him in the blink of an eye.
What should he do now? Without Amy, without Maggie, what did he have left? Maybe it was time to go, time to join his beautiful little girl, time to end his useless life.
He lay on the kitchen floor until the darkness was complete. What was there to get up for? He could drink himself into a stupor, but what was the point now? Before, the drink
had eased the pain, blurred his self-loathing, but that wouldn’t work anymore.
He and Maggie had become victims just like Amy. Lying on the hard floor without the fog of alcohol he saw it clearly now. Maggie had climbed out of Amy’s grave – she refused to be entombed with her daughter, but he was still buried up to his neck in the dirt. Could he get out? Did he have the strength anymore? Even if he could, what was the point? Now that they’d found Amy all that remained was to bury her properly, and then what? His life was over.
The police had no suspects, and no idea who had taken his angel. After eight years what chance did they have of catching Amy’s killer? The trail was long since cold. Then it came to him, in the darkness, on the hard cold floor – that he should find the person who took Amy – find them and kill them. God, why hadn’t he thought of it long before now? He’d been a soldier, a warrior, a killer. He’d had seven confirmed kills in Iraq. He’d killed for his country, why couldn’t he kill for Amy?
Yes, now he had a mission, an objective. Now, he had a reason to get up off the bloody cold floor and live.
***
At twenty-five to six he tapped on the Chief’s door with his index finger like a rent collector expecting payment a week in advance.
‘Come in, Parish.’
‘One of these days, Chief,’ he said as he opened the door.
‘It’ll never happen, Parish.’
‘Especially when the Chief’s expecting us, Sir,’ Richards chipped in.
‘It could’ve been someone else. I might have been late, or stuck in a lift somewhere helping a woman give birth to triplets, or in the Cretan labyrinth locked in a life and death struggle with the Mi
notaur – you just never know what life has in store for you, Richards.’
‘You should have been a storyteller, Sir.’
‘I might just do that when I’m not looking after pushy trainee detectives, and chasing serial killers all over Redbridge.’
They sat down in the easy chairs next to the coffee table, but instead of joining them as he usually did the Chief remained seated at his desk. Parish helped himself to the Colombian coffee and spooned four sugars into the mug, while Richards put the small bottle of Buxton mineral water she’d brought with her on the table.
‘I’ve had some phone calls, Parish.’
‘Let me guess, Sir,’ he said after he’d taken a long swallow of the piping hot coffee. ‘They’ve been from people high up in the media world – people who hobnob with the Chief Constable – complaining that I won’t talk to them?’
‘Since when did you develop second sight?’
‘Since a reporter from the Hoddesdon Mercury called Oliver Masterson reneged on an agreement I had with the press to hold off reporting – until six tonight – that Amy Linton had been found. When we arrived at the Lintons at twenty to five there were hordes of press outside the house, and the dead girl’s parents already knew she’d been found.’
‘So, you decided – without talking to me first – that you’d only brief…’ he looked at a piece of paper between his hands on the desk, ‘…a Miss Cox from the Chigwell Herald?’
‘It seemed like a good idea at the time, Chief.’
‘Well, it’s going to be embarrassing when you have to go back on your word, Parish.’
‘But…’
‘Unfortunately, we are accountable to our paymasters – the general public. We can’t keep news of public interest to ourselves. Also, it’s my understanding that you put pressure on the media to get this… Masterson sacked from the Hoddesdon Mercury and tried to make sure he was unemployable within a hundred miles of Redbridge?’
