by Tim Ellis
He was sure his heart had stopped beating because he was no longer breathing. His senses had become so acute that he could hear a butterfly’s wings beating in China, smell a sizzling cockroach on a charcoal fire in the jungles of Peru and feel every snow crystal falling on his hand.
‘Are you still there, Mr Dark?’
‘Yes – I’m still here.’
A couple of telephone calls would send in the helicopter gunships, CO19, tracker dogs, hostage negotiators . . . the whole gamut – what was stopping him?
‘How?’
‘You want me to reveal my magic tricks now?’
‘Well?’
‘I followed him.’
He waited for the clarification that he knew would come.
‘When he left your house yesterday, I followed him – electronically speaking, of course – back to an address in Kendal – 17 Underbarrow Road.’
‘That’s the Lake District, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
He was already travelling up the M61 and the M6. A couple of hours and he’d be there.
Then what?
The stranger would have a gun. He’d kill Ellie, the girls and then himself – the truth would be lost in a lake of blood.
Or . . . He’d confront the stranger, kill him with a knife in a fight to the death – Ellie would tell him her version of the truth, and doubts would plague him forever.
There were so many questions that needed answers, and he would never get those answers if he rushed in like a fool. He needed to understand what the truth really was before he confronted anybody about what had happened.
‘Name?’
‘Samuel Henchel.’
‘Thanks, Hendrik.’
‘It’s what I do. If you need my help again – just ask.’
‘I’m grateful . . . and stay away from that Oakley woman – she’s nothing but trouble.’
‘I will. Good luck, Mr Dark.’
The call ended.
Taking deep breaths, he walked along the road trying to wrestle control of his heart and mind back from the maelstrom of emotions that threatened to engulf him.
***
1137 hours
As he climbed into the car, his phone vibrated again.
‘Dark.’
‘It’s Popeye.’
‘Yes.’
‘I have a name for you.’
‘Go on.’
‘Joseph Kibble.’
‘Is that it?.’
‘What did you expect? Anyway, he had the tattoos done in Mexico in 1985 and 1986. Maria moved to Miami in 1987.’
‘I’ll call off Environmental Health now.’
‘It was worth it just to give those two tattoos back to the world. Oh, and tell your partner I’m keeping my snake warm for her.’
He ended the call.
‘What?’ Lake asked.
‘Our male corpse is called Joseph Kibble.’
‘What about the other call?’
‘I’ve won the lottery.’
‘Really? How much?’
‘Ten pounds.’
He started the car and headed back to Bootle Street Station.
‘Are we going back to the station?’
‘What do you think?’
‘What about lunch?’
‘Are you paying?’
‘No.’
‘We’ll eat in the canteen then.’
‘It’s Boxing Day – they won’t have much on offer.’
‘How much do you need?’
As he was parking his car Lake said, ‘I can’t believe you have a space and I don’t.’
‘Go down to the dungeon and feed Kibble’s name into the database.’
‘What are you going to be doing?’
‘Is that any of your business? I’m the boss. I tell you to do something, you do it – it’s that simple.’
‘I thought we were making progress.’
‘So did I.’
Lake was right, the choice in the canteen was limited to a small selection of rolls. Turkey and stuffing was a bestseller, followed by cheese and onion, prawn mayonnaise, and ham and piccalilli.
‘Is that it?’ he said to Billy Sutherland – the thin spotty-faced kid who had drawn the short straw to work over Christmas.
‘It’s Boxing Day.’
‘And the world has ended.’
‘My world definitely has. I had a hot date with a girl called Pussy. Can you imagine that, Mr Dark. I break out in a sweat every time I think about that name.’
‘I’ll have two of the cheese and onion rolls just for a change.’
‘A drink?’
The coffee always tasted like effluent. ‘The tea isn’t stewed, is it?’
‘Freshly made with these . . .’ He examined his plastic-covered hands. ‘. . . Anyway, it’s freshly made.’
‘I’ll have the tea then.’
The rolls were like rock cakes and the tea was stewed to a consistency that he was sure could have been used by NASA to repair its rockets.
He made his way to a table.
What was he going to do about the children’s home? All five families were connected to there, but how? There didn’t appear to be any link between the five children – although he would liked to have examined their files, found out who the mothers and fathers were, maybe carried out a DNA comparison, but he knew a magistrate would never sign off on that. He’d probably have more luck trying to get a court order for a staff list, but really – he had nothing. The home must have a board of governors or something like that. Maybe he could appeal to their civic duty, but if the home’s manager – their employee – had stood firm to protect the reputation of the home, he would be unlikely to get anything from them.
Lake appeared, threw a scrap of paper onto the table and carried on up to the counter.
He picked up the piece of paper. It had a file reference written on it: MP/078G/9BTDM064/YHD07, which meant that Joseph Kibble had been arrested in the past, but it was pre-computerisation.
When Lake returned with a turkey roll and a bottle of water he said, ‘You’ve rung the archives at Force HQ?’
‘Yes, but there’s a problem.’
He took a bite of his second roll – it was as dry as toilet paper. ‘There shouldn’t be any problem. It’s a simple procedure: You ring up, a clerk finds the file, you drive over to collect it and then bring it back.’
‘It would be a simple procedure if there were any clerks to find the file.’
‘Have the idiots let them all go off on Christmas break at the same time?’
‘A virus has decimated their ranks.’
‘So there’s no one there to retrieve the file?’
‘No, and don’t think I’m going over there on my own.’
‘Are you scared?’
‘Damned right.’
‘They’re only stories, you know. There’s no such thing as ghosts.’
‘You come with me, or I’m not going.’
***
1318 hours
He went with her.
The Duty Sergeant – Keith Westray – gave them the key to the archives.
They caught the lift down three levels.
‘We must be close to the centre of the earth by now,’ Lake said as the lift came to a stop.
‘I thought I got a whiff of sulphur.’
When the doors opened and they saw the size of the archives Lake said, ‘We’ll never find a single file in here without help.’
‘We’ll find the file.’
At the archive station they found instructions on how to find a file in an emergency, but the instructions didn’t mean anything in relation to the file reference they had.
Dark discovered an emergency contact list. He began ringing numbers on his mobile. On the third try he reached someone who sounded as though they were dying.
‘Yes.’
‘Is that Lynsey McKee?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m DI Josiah Dark from SCD, and I’m sitting in the archives trying t
o locate a file.’
‘Is nobody there?’
‘All dying apparently.’
‘There are instructions . . .’
‘I think we have a really old file reference.’ He read it off.
She sneezed. ‘Sorry.’
‘Are you having a good Christmas?’
‘Wonderful.’
‘So how can I find this file?’
‘You want to go to Bootle Street Station.’
‘I’ve just come from there.’
‘Well you need to go back. That’s where we keep the old files because there were problems with silverfish.’
‘Thanks for your help.’
She sneezed again. ‘You’re welcome.’
‘It’s not my fault,’ Lake said when they were driving back to Bootle Street.
‘Of course it isn’t.’
Once they were back in the dungeon Lake said ‘You’ll have to go . . .’
‘I’m the boss. You’ve got the file reference. Go and get the file.’
‘What about the silverfish?’
‘You’re supposed to be a detective. Silverfish are tiny little insects that eat paper not human beings.’
‘If you were a gentleman . . .’
‘The file . . . ?’
She was in the store for only five minutes, but during that time she squealed non-stop.
‘I hate you for that,’ she said when she came out with the file, threw it at him and headed towards the stairs. ‘I’m going to the ladies.’
As he opened the file two silverfish fell out onto the concrete floor – he stamped on them.
In 1982 Joseph Kibble was accused of raping a thirteen year-old girl called Cynthia Ford – he was never brought to justice. There was no follow-up, and nothing in the file about the girl.
There was an address.
He met Lake coming down the stairs.
‘Where are you going?’
‘To the address of Joseph Kibble’s parents.’
‘You have a partner now.’
‘Don’t remind me.’
***
1455 hours
Fred and Mabel Kibble lived in a stone cottage on Sparrow Lane on the outskirts of Knutsford. They were both well into their eighties and a carer – called Mrs Diane French – had popped in to make sure they had everything they needed and hadn’t frozen to death over Christmas.
‘You’re best speaking to Mabel,’ Diane said. ‘He’s got a touch of dementia, but she’s still as sharp as a pencil.’
‘Find out what she knows, Lake.’
‘Me?’
‘Is that an automatic response before you put your brain into gear?’
‘Must be.’
Lake pulled up a chair in front of the wrinkled old woman. ‘Hello, Mabel.’
‘Hello, lovey.’
‘I’m Detective Constable Annie Lake from Manchester Police.’
‘We don’t talk to the police.’ She turned to look at her husband. ‘Freddie, they’re here again.’
Other than slobbering from the corner of his mouth, Freddie didn’t respond.
‘I have some sad news, Mrs Kibble – your son Joseph is dead.’
‘He’s been at sea, you know?’
‘Yes, we know.’
‘And he’s dead?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘Doesn’t surprise me – he was nothing but trouble from the day I gave birth to him.’
‘Has he been staying here?’
‘Does that make us accomplices?’
‘No, you’ve done nothing wrong.’
‘You’ve come about that girl, haven’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘I knew it. Do I need a lawyer?’
Lake put her hand on top of the old woman’s. ‘No. It’s finished now.’
‘Finished?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m glad. That poor girl. He made her pregnant, and then ran away like a coward, you know. Freddie was with the SAS in the Second World War – a hero with a dozen medals to prove it. And we had to bring a child into the world who was a coward. Where’s the sense in that?’
‘Did she keep the baby?’
‘We would have liked grandchildren, but it wasn’t to be.’
‘What can you remember about Cynthia Ford?’
‘Cynthia Ford! Yes, that was her name. A beautiful young girl. Freddie and me wanted to run away and hide as well when we found out what he’d done, but we stayed here and faced the music. We didn’t have much, but we offered to help with the child. The girl’s parents didn’t want anything to do with us.’
‘So she kept the baby?’
‘I don’t know. We never heard from them again.’
‘You don’t know how we could find her, do you?’
‘Lived in Mobberley, they did. I’ll always remember it: Number 7 Graveyard Lane. Imagine having an address like that. I want to cry, but I have no tears left. My son ruined two families when he raped that girl. He’s dead, you say?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good riddance.’
***
1613 hours
No one answered when they knocked at 7 Graveyard Lane in Mobberley. There were no lights on, and no signs of life.
When Lake squatted to peer through the letterbox she threw herself backwards and sat in the snow. ‘Christ!’
Dark called for back-up.
When Constables Mick Higgins and Alec Parker arrived they forced entry into the house through the back door.
It didn’t take a genius to work out that this was where the killer had murdered and cut up Joseph Kibble and Cynthia Ford. There was blood splatters on the walls and ceiling, and a coagulated jelly-like goulash covering the floor. A chest freezer had been moved into the hallway, and inside it they found the remaining body parts.
‘Get forensics here,’ he said to Lake.
They were travelling in the right direction. He tip-toed into the living room in search of something – anything – that might help him resolve the case. If Joseph Kibble had been the only corpse he could have cast his gaze towards Cynthia Ford’s family, but Kibble and Ford had both been killed. Who should he be looking for now? The only idea he had was that a child had been born from the illegal union, and that the child had come back to take revenge.
He rifled through cupboards and drawers, and eventually found the clue he needed in a stack of papers on the coffee table – a half-completed Knutsford Social Services Adoption Application form. He had no idea why Cynthia Ford might have wanted to adopt a child, but adoption seemed to be the thread running through this case.
He rang the number on the form, but was directed to an emergency number – he rang that.
‘Hello.’
‘Who’s speaking?’
‘Who’s calling?’
‘Detective Inspector Josiah Dark from the Serious Crimes Division at Greater Manchester Police.’
‘That’s a mouthful.’
‘And you are?’
‘Debbie Golesworthy.’
‘That’s a mouthful.’
‘Touché. What can I do for you, Inspector?’
‘It depends where you fit in the scheme of things.’
‘I’m the Social Worker on call.’
‘You’ve heard about the body parts?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m investigating the case.’
‘What leads you to me?’
‘One of the victims was a woman called Cynthia Ford. I have in front of me a part-completed application form to adopt.’
‘I still don’t see . . .’
‘When she was thirteen years old – or thereabouts – Cynthia Ford was raped. I need to know if she gave birth to a child and what happened to that child.’
‘You know you need . . .’
‘What I need is for you to help me, Debbie.’
‘And you say this Cynthia Ford is dead?’
‘Yes.’
‘In the spirit of co-operation I suppose I
could . . . When are we talking?’
‘1982.’
‘1982?’
‘That’s what I said.’
‘So it’s not a simple matter of looking it up on the computer?’
‘Isn’t it?’
‘Anything before 1990 is still paper-based. I’ll have to go down to the archives.’
‘So you can help me?’
‘If you help me.’
‘Doing what?’
‘There are no lights in the archives. Have you got a torch?’
‘You’re frightened of the dark?’
‘I could stay in my nice warm flat.’
‘All right, I’ll bring a torch to the party. Where?’
‘The Emily Pankhurst building on Bexton Road in Knutsford. I’ll wait outside in the car park for you.’
‘I’ll be about twenty minutes.’
He was glad to get outside and breathe in some fresh air.
***
1735 hours
‘It’s creepy when there’s no one here,’ Debbie Golesworthy said. She was a small thin woman with a wandering left eye and bat ears hidden behind thick black hair.
He and Lake had both brought torches, and the beams bounced about in the dark dank room.
‘Can you point one of those torches straight ahead so that I can see where I’m going?’ Debbie complained.
‘Sorry,’ Lake said, who was second in line.
Debbie led them to a set of shelves encompassing 1982 and soon found “Ford, Cynthia Geraldine”. ‘Do you need to take the file with you?’ she asked.
He pursed his lips and shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. All we need to know is whether Cynthia gave birth to a child, and what happened to it.’
‘Yes she did – a boy.’
‘And?’
‘The child was taken into the care of Sycamore Children’s Home, or Sycamore Orphanage as it was called then.’
He glanced at Lake. ‘Why doesn’t that surprise me?’
‘You’ve had dealings with them before?’
‘The manager: Agatha Marwick – earlier today.’
‘I think you’ll find that she’s the assistant manager. The manager is Kenneth Bishop.’
