by Tim Ellis
‘Why would I know?’
‘What’s your line of work?’
‘I’m a chartered accountant.’
‘And you, Mrs Glover?’
She gave a laugh, which made her pinched face even more pronounced. ‘You live in a fantasy world if you think I have any spare time with a husband and four children, Inspector. If I did, I’d book into a health spa.’
His lip curled up. ‘I can imagine. When you say you’re an accountant, Mr Glover – who for?’
‘I’m a partner with three other accountants, and we look after small businesses.’
‘No clients who might want to send you a message?’
‘We’re in Poynton, Inspector – not Chicago or Hollywood.’
‘I have to ask.’
‘We saw the news,’ Mrs Glover said, pointing towards a small television on a rattan table in the corner. ‘We’re not the only ones, are we?’
‘No. Another family in Wilmslow were left similar gifts. Do you know anyone who lives in Wilmslow?’
Mrs Glover shook her head. ‘Not to my knowledge.’
‘I do,’ the daughter said as the Jenga tower collapsed.
They stared at her.
‘A girl in my class is from Wilmslow. She comes to school in a taxi. People say she’s one of those – you know . . . foster children.’
‘I don’t think that’s what the Inspector had in mind, Beatrice darling.’
‘Well, you don’t know her, mother. If anyone could kill someone and chop them up, she could. They say she was expelled from . . .’
‘Get back to your game, darling.’
‘We have a problem,’ Dark said. ‘Whoever left those presents let themselves into your house using a front door key, and each of the presents was addressed to a family member. He knows who you are and where you live. He’s been close enough to at least one of you to get a copy of your front door key. He also used a key to gain entry to the house in Wilmslow, and he knew their names as well. There’s a connection between the two families that we need to uncover, which I think is the key to solving this mystery. I’m going to leave DC Lake here to find out what that link is . . .’
‘What about Christmas?’ Martha Glover asked. ‘I’m already late getting the dinner . . .’
‘I’m afraid you can’t stay here . . .’
‘I’m sorry . . . ?’
‘It’s a crime scene, Mrs Glover. Forensic officers will be working here most of the day.’
‘We have family coming . . .’
‘Sorry.’
‘What about our presents?’ one of the boys asked.
Dark pulled a face.
‘Tell him, Eric.’
‘Tell him what, dear?’
‘You’re useless. I should have listened to my father. He said you had no balls.’ She stood up and went to go inside the house, but realised she couldn’t, so she stomped into the back garden and stood shivering in the falling snow.
‘Very kind, Inspector.’
He shrugged. Not his fault. Not his problem. ‘I have to go now, but thanks for your help.’
Lake followed him out. ‘What am I supposed to do?’
‘Didn’t I make it clear?’
‘You want me to identify a link between the two families.’
‘So, you do know what to do?’
‘I mean afterwards?’
‘You know where I’m going – 27 Swan Grove in Cheadle Hulme.’
‘You made me leave my car in Wilmslow.’
‘Get a taxi.’
‘On Christmas Day? It’ll cost me a month’s salary.’
‘I’m sure daddy can afford it.’
‘Don’t think you can get rid of me that easily.’ She held out her hand. ‘I’ll need your number.’
‘Why?’
‘So I can ring you.’
‘Why?’
‘I might find out something.’
He gave her a card. ‘I doubt it.’
‘Do you want my number?’
‘No.’
He made his way outside and headed towards the car.
‘Inspector,’ Tamsin Oakley said as he bent to go under the crime scene tape. ‘Anything to say?’
‘Haven’t you got a home to go to? Someone to cook Christmas dinner for? Children to annoy, or a television to watch?’
‘I could ask you the same questions, Inspector.’
He carried on to his snow-covered car and had the feeling that the weather was taking a turn for the worse.
***
0759 hours
His phone activated.
‘Dark.’
‘Hello Inspector, it’s Constable Charlene Kelly again.’
‘What can I do for you, Constable?’
‘I’m going off shift at eight o’clock.’
‘I’m very pleased for you. Is that what you called to tell me?’
‘Oh no, Sir. There’s been a report of more body parts being left under the Christmas tree.’
‘And you have an address for me?’
‘I do.’
‘Feel free to pass that address on, Constable.’
‘Oh yes. It’s in Wythenshawe.’
‘And?’
‘It’s 97 . . . or it could be . . . no, it’s definitely number 97 Merridew Drive.’
‘And who lives there?’
‘Ah! Colin and Mary Crumpsall, and they have three children: Tammy, Pansy and Billy.’
‘Thank you, Constable.’
‘Happy Christmas, Sir.’
‘Hardly.’
He ended the call.
That was four families now. How many more would there be? As many as there were body parts? Whoever Santa was, he’d had a busy night. Were they going to get the heads? They had the left hand of a female, but it was unlikely they’d get a fingerprint match. Maybe they’d get lucky . . . Shit! Lake had wormed her way into his head. He was already thinking of “they” instead of “he”. Maybe he’d get lucky with a DNA match. They . . . He had a DNA sample for Santa and each of the two corpses. Maybe . . . but he had the feeling he wasn’t going to be that lucky.
As soon as he started the car his mobile activated again.
‘Dark.’
‘It’s me, Sir.’
‘I don’t know anyone called “Me”.’
‘You know who it is.’
‘What do you want, Lake? Haven’t I seen enough of you already today?’
‘I thought I’d ring you so that you could add my number to your phonebook.’
‘I said I didn’t want your number.’
‘Partners have each other’s numbers.’
‘But we’re not partners.’
‘Yes we are, you’re just a bit slow connecting up the dots.’
‘Write down this name and address.’ He passed on the information Constable Kelly had given him. ‘If I’m not at the Cheadle Hulme address – I’ll be in Wythenshawe.’
‘You think I’m going to follow you all round Manchester like a lapdog?’
He ended the call.
She rang again, but he ignored it.
***
0906 hours
Traffic on the roads was picking up. Why people had to venture out on Christmas morning he had no idea. As far as he was aware, everything was locked up. It was a time for families, which was something he didn’t have any more.
Jeremy and Maureen Clayton lived at 27 Swan Grove in Cheadle Hulme with their two boys – Jack and Dean.
The house was a modern four-bedroom dwelling similar to all the others on the road. When they’d been built, the homes were new and attractive, but maintenance and repair had fallen on hard times. Now, the dwellings were beginning to look run-down and lived-in.
‘Hello, Inspector,’ Tamsin Oakley goaded him. ‘I’m beginning to get the feeling you’re following me.’
It should have been the other way round. How in hell had she got here before him?
‘I’d rather follow the slimy trail of a slug into hell.’
‘You’re so pleasant.’
‘I always save my best for the press.’
He put on a paper suit at the front door, which he normally only had to do once per murder. It was certainly unusual for him to don three or four in one day. This was turning out to be an unusual crime to say the least.
‘Michael Thompson is in the lounge-diner, Sir,’ a suited forensic officer in the hallway said.
He nodded.
Thompson wasn’t one of his favourites – a bit too slip-shod for his liking. Also, he smelled. Oh, it wasn’t a Pigpen type of smell that could have been cured by a bar of Imperial Leather and a good scrub with a wire brush, it was an occasional downwind whiff that you couldn’t pinpoint exactly and then had the nagging feeling that it might be you.
‘Inspector,’ Thompson acknowledged him, pointing to the bagged-up body parts stacked up on the dining room table like cuts of meat on display at a butchers’ shop.
‘Thompson.’
‘I’m up to speed on what’s been found at the other crime scenes. Here, we’ve got a male left forearm and thigh, and a female left forearm and lower leg.
‘Tags with names on?’
‘Yes.’
‘Distinguishing marks?’
‘No.’
‘Access?’
‘Through the front door with a key.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Drank the sherry and half-ate the mince pie.’
‘Family?’
‘In the kitchen.’
‘Thanks.’ Short and sweet – exactly how he liked it.
He wandered through into the kitchen.
The two boys – aged about five and six – were sitting at the kitchen table playing a board game he hadn’t seen before. Jeremy Clayton was sitting on a stool at the breakfast bar nursing a mug. His wife – Maureen – was busy chopping carrots, potatoes, turnips and anything else that looked like a vegetable.
‘Detective Inspector Josiah Dark,’ he said, putting one of his cards on the breakfast bar.
‘Josiah,’ Mrs Clayton said. ‘That’s a name you don’t hear much of these days.’
‘My father was a Methodist Minister who used the old testament as if it was a blueprint for life.’
‘You got out as soon as you could?’
He hadn’t come for a therapy session. ‘I’m sorry, but your Christmas dinner preparations will be wasted unless you have somewhere to take the food.’
‘Why?’ Mr Clayton asked.
‘You can’t stay here – it’s a crime scene.’
‘It’s also my home, Inspector,’ Maureen said, glancing at the clock on the wall. ‘I’ll give your people until ten o’clock, and then they’d better get the hell out of my house and take those . . . things with them.’ She stopped chopping. ‘In fact, go and tell them, Jeremy. Tell them they have one . . .’ She burst into tears.
It was as if Maureen’s battery had lost all its energy.
Jeremy went and comforted her.
She shrugged him off. ‘Go and tell them, Jeremy. Ten o’clock. If they’re not out of here by then, I’ll throw them out myself.’
Jeremy shrugged and left the room.
He decided he wasn’t going to argue with her. Maybe Thompson could finish and be out by ten o’clock.
‘Who would do this, Inspector?’
‘It was someone who had a front door key and knew your names, so it’s me who should be asking you that question.’
‘Believe me, if I knew who it was I’d kill them. They’ve come into my house and brought those things in with them. Why? Why us?’
Mr Clayton came back in and sat on his stool at the breakfast bar again.
‘That’s what I’m trying to get to the bottom of, Mrs Clayton. Similar presents have been left at three other houses. The Glovers in Poynton, the Nicholson’s in Wilmslow, and the Barber’s in Gatley – do you know any of those families?’
She shook her head. ‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘What about you, Mr Clayton?’
‘I’d have to check my client list, but none of the names sound familiar.’
‘What’s your job?’
‘I’m an independent financial consultant.’
‘Could you check now?’
‘Now?’
‘It’s important.’
Clayton shrugged. ‘Sure. I’ll need to get my laptop from the cupboard.’ He wandered out.
‘Would you like a coffee?’ Maureen asked him.
He realised he’d been up since four o’clock and hadn’t had a drink since then. ‘That would be great.’
‘Let’s get back to your father, Inspector.’
‘What do you do, Mrs . . . ?’
‘. . . Maureen. I’m a bereavement counsellor. Sugar?’
He wasn’t surprised. ‘Just one.’
She passed him a mug.
‘Thanks.’
‘Mum, Jack’s cheating,’ one of the boys shouted.
‘Play nicely, boys. You can see mummy and daddy have a house guest.’
Mr Clayton returned and opened up his laptop.
He was surprised at how different the two boys looked – one was blond and thin, the other was dark and chubby. But then his mind jumped to his own daughters – Coco and Cleo. They had similar looks, or at least they used to have . . . He wondered what they looked like now. Their personalities were at opposite ends of the spectrum. Coco was quick to rile, would do anything for anyone and never held a grudge. Cleo, on the other hand, was lazy, looked after herself and bottled everything up inside until she saw an opportunity to get her own back. If he hadn’t known better, he’d have thought Cleo was the coalman’s daughter – if they’d ever had a man delivering coal.
‘Would you like to talk about your father, Inspector?’
‘Leave him alone, Maureen,’ Jeremy said. ‘He’s not come here for counselling.’
‘Well, maybe now that he knows it’s available . . .’
‘No, thank you.’ He turned to Jeremy. ‘Any luck?’
‘I’ve got a Mr and Mrs Barber in Alderley Edge and a Mr Nicholson in Macclesfield, but no other families with the names you’ve mentioned or matching locations.
‘My assistant – DC Lake – will be here soon. She’s trying to find a connection between all four families and will need to ask you some questions. We’re trying to identify how someone could get a copy – not just of your front door key – but keys to the other properties as well. All four families intersect somewhere, and we need to find out where.’
‘Of course,’ Maureen said. ‘We want to find out who and why just as much as you do.’ She looked at Jeremy. ‘Did you tell them they have until ten o’clock?’
‘Yes, dear.’
‘And?’
‘They’ll do their best.’
‘Their best better be ten o’clock.’
‘I have to go now,’ he said. ‘Thank you for all your help. I’m sure a Victim Support Officer will be here shortly to . . .’
Maureen pulled a face. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘We leave it up to you. Some people find them very helpful, others . . .’
‘I don’t need more people cluttering up the house. We have Christmas to organise – don’t we boys?’
‘Can we open our presents yet?’
‘In three quarters of an hour.’
‘Great.’
He wandered back through the house.
‘Maxwell?’
‘Yes, Sir?’
‘Are you going to be finished by ten?’
‘It’ll be touch and go.’
‘Your lives could be in danger if you’re not.’
‘I understand.’
As he was walking back to his car his mobile vibrated.
‘Dark.
‘It’s Constable Robinson, Sir.’
‘Do I know you?’
‘I’m the Victim Support Officer with Mrs Nicholson and Mr Noble.’
‘Oh yes. What can I . . . ?’
/>
‘You asked me to find out . . .’
‘. . . About the key?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘You need to talk to my assistant – DC Lake. She’s collating all the information. You do know . . . ?’
‘. . . About the others? Yes, Sir.’
He gave her Lake’s number. ‘She’s waiting to hear from you.’
‘Okay, Sir.’
He ended the call.
‘Any news, Inspector?’ Oakley asked as he approached the crime scene tape.
‘News? What would you know about news, Oakley? You just print what you want to and bugger the consequences.’
‘I’ll make a story up then, shall I?’
‘Feel free.’
Lake was standing by his car talking to Robinson on her mobile. She’d cleared a swathe of snow from his bonnet and was using it as a desk.
‘Hey! You’d better not be scratching my paintwork.’
‘Shush. Can’t you see I’m listening?’ and she carried on listening and writing down notes in her notebook. Once she ended the call she said, ‘I thought someone of your age would have better manners.’
‘My age! What’s that meant to mean?’
‘Old.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘Have you found a link yet?’
‘No.’
‘Are you sure you’re a detective?’
‘Are you?’
‘No, I’m not sure you’re a detective at all.’
‘Very funny.’
‘The family are waiting for you.’
‘You could wait for me. I won’t be . . .’
‘I have better things to do with my time, but if you hurry you might catch up with me.’
He walked round to the driver’s side and opened the door.
‘What about lunch?’ Lake suggested.
‘I thought I’d find a nice little pub somewhere . . .’
‘We could have lunch together and discuss . . .’
Checking his watch he said, ‘Are you paying?’
‘Am I fuck.’
‘Very lady-like.’ He climbed in the car, started the engine and left her standing there.
***
1037 hours
The snow was becoming heavier.
He jinked through the lights at the Griffin pub on his left as he turned right into Finney Lane, and drove through Heald Green onto Simonsway. As far as he could hear or see, there were no planes landing or taking off from Manchester Airport, and he wondered if there were thousands of passengers circling in holding patterns above him, or if the planes had been diverted to Liverpool John Lennon, Blackpool or Birmingham.
