by Tim Ellis
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.’
‘Marwick definitely said she was the manager.’
‘No – definitely Bishop.’
‘Do you know Mr Bishop?’
‘Of course. We get involved with a lot of fostering and adoption cases at Sycamore. Also . . .’
‘You don’t happen to know what colour car he drives, do you?’
‘A red one, I think.’
‘Thanks for your help, Debbie.’ To Lake he said, ‘Come on, I think we have justification to get into Sycamore Children’s Home now.’
Debbie threw the file onto the shelf and ran after them, ‘Wait for me.’
***
1847 hours
‘Yes.’
‘DI Dark and DC Lake again.’
‘Didn’t I make myself sufficiently clear this morning, Inspector.’
‘You certainly did, but this time I’d like to speak to the organ grinder, not the monkey.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You’re not the manager, Kenneth Bishop is.’
‘Was. He resigned on Christmas Eve and I was appointed manager in his stead.’
‘Please let us in.’
‘I don’t think it’s necessary for you to come inside.’
‘I could hold a press conference out here if you wish.’
The door clicked open.
‘Wait . . .’
They barged in and continued along the corridor.
Agatha Marwick met them coming the other way. ‘I thought I said . . .’
‘I want you to tell me where I can find Kenneth Bishop.’
‘I’m sure . . .’
‘Look, Miss Marwick. If you want to stay as manager I suggest that you co-operate with me. If you continue to create obstacles in my path I’ll obtain a search warrant and tear this place apart, and then I’ll inform the board of governors that it was because you were so unhelpful. Well . . . what’s it to be?’
‘Follow me.’
She took them to her office. ‘What do you need?’
‘A cup of coffee wouldn’t go amiss . . . and some biscuits.’
She narrowed her eyes as she stared at him, picked up the phone and made an internal call. ‘Could you bring a tray of tea and coffee to my office, Mrs Drinkwater and . . . three custard creams.’
She waited for him to speak.
‘Tell us about Mr Bishop.’
‘It is my understanding that he spent his whole life here at Sycamore.’
‘His whole life?’
There was a knock at the door.
‘Come.’
A woman shuffled in carrying a tray.
‘Thank you, Mrs Drinkwater.’
‘Will that be all, Miss Marwick?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
The woman shuffled out and pulled the door closed as she went.
Marwick poured a tea for Lake and added milk and sugar to Dark’s coffee. ‘Help yourself to a biscuit.’
Lake declined her biscuit, so Dark took two.
‘What do you know about Mr Bishop?’ Marwick asked.
‘Nothing,’ he said, spitting crumbs on the parquet floor. ‘That’s why we’re here.’
‘He was brought to Sycamore for adoption, but he was never adopted.’
‘Why?’
‘He contracted a childhood illness called mulluscum contagiosum when he was just six months old. It’s a viral infection of the skin, which is sometimes called water warts. If the condition had been treated it would have cleared up fairly quickly with minimal after-effects, but it wasn’t treated. He was kept isolated from the other children, and the virus went untreated until it subsided of its own volition when he was four years old. As a result, he was left with pox-like scarring all over his face and body.’
‘Was it bad?’ Lake asked.
‘Yes. That’s largely why he stayed here at Sycamore his whole life. In a sense, he was deformed. The older children were frightened of him. They thought he was a monster.’
Dark’s brow furrowed. ‘Then why did he resign?’
Marwick shook her head. ‘I have no idea. Except . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘There was a woman. She came here about three months ago making enquiries about adopting a child . . . his behaviour changed after that her visit.’
‘Did he live here at Sycamore, or . . . ?’
‘He had a small room, which he vacated when he left, but he also rented a house in Knutsford.’
‘Do you have the address?’
She opened a drawer, pulled out an address book and copied the address down on a post-it note. ‘I think that concludes our business, Inspector.’
‘That wasn’t so difficult, was it, Miss Marwick?’
‘You think Mr Bishop is involved in what you’re investigating?’
‘I think he’s central to it.’
‘I don’t suppose there’s any way you can keep Sycamore out of it all?’
‘No.’
***
1949 hours
Kenneth Bishop lived at 29 Gough’s Lane. The house was a semi-detached two-bedroom bungalow with a large cherry laurel hedge along the front that hadn’t been trimmed for some time..
All the curtains were drawn.
They each took a torch with them.
A red Volvo V40 was sitting on the driveway.
‘Should we call for back-up?’ Lake asked.
‘Or we could simply knock on the door like normal people.’ He opened the gate, strode up the flag-stoned path and banged on the door. ‘Police! Open up, Mr Bishop.’
‘That’s hardly what normal people do,’ Lake whispered.
There was no answer.
‘Have a look through the letter box,’ he said to Lake.
‘I think it’s your turn to do that.’
His lip curled up.
They walked round the back.
Kenneth Bishop was hanging from a hook in the ceiling of the kitchen dressed in a Santa suit.
Dark forced an entry into the bungalow through an old-style patio sliding door.
On the dining table was a suicide note explaining how, when Cynthia Ford arrived to discuss her application for adoption, he had realised part-way through their discussion that she was his mother. That night, he had visited her house to tell her he was her son, but it hadn’t turned out that way.
She wasn’t his mother, never had been and never would be. Cynthia Ford was the woman who had left him in that place to endure a lifetime of suffering.
He wanted revenge, and once she had told him who his father was, he had killed her. The following day he killed Joseph Kibble – his biological father, and then stored both bodies in the chest freezer until he’d decided how he was going to end his terrible existence.
All he’d ever wanted was to be adopted, to be part of a real family, but nobody had ever wanted a grotesque pox-scarred monstrosity such as him. They took one look at him and recoiled in horror.
The families came to Sycamore and picked the good-looking, well-behaved children – nobody wanted the ugly ones. He snapped, and those last five families were simply unlucky. Although ultimately it was about taking revenge on his biological parents, he also needed to be remembered for something more than his hideous appearance, and he wanted people to realise that ugly children needed love as well.
‘Call forensics,’ he said to Lake.
‘What about the keys?’
‘What keys?’
‘The ones he used to get into the houses.’
He shrugged. ‘The families came to see him to discuss the adoptions – he must have manipulated things so that he could help himself to either a key or made a copy. It wouldn’t have been difficult.’
‘That’s it then.’<
br />
‘That’s it,’ he said. ‘I’m going home. You wait here for forensics to arrive and let them know what’s been going on.’
‘You’re going to leave me here?’
‘Is that a problem, Constable?’
‘My car’s at the station.’
‘You can get a lift back in the forensic truck.’
‘They’ll be here for hours.’
‘Get a taxi then.’
‘It’s Boxing Day.’
‘I’ll see you at eight-thirty in the morning, and try not to be late tomorrow.’
‘I think I’ll ask for a transfer.’
‘Feel free.’
***
0830 hours
Friday, December 27
‘You decided not to ask the Chief for a transfer then?’
‘I’ll write my report first.’
‘Good. I’d hate to have dragged you back to fill out a few forms.’
‘You would have done as well, wouldn’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘In a way I hate you, but in another way I respect you.’
‘You’re still going to ask for a transfer though, aren’t you?’
‘You know what – I don’t think I will. You’ve been trying to force me into that position since the Chief made you take me on as your partner, but I don’t give in so easily.’
‘If you’re staying you can make me a coffee.’
‘When you didn’t make me one yesterday?’
‘You know where the stairs are.’
She stomped over to the coffee area.
He didn’t often smile, but his face made a weak attempt.
***
1607 hours
Saturday, December 28
He’d leased a grey Ford Kuga because his black Rav-4 had a personalised number plate – DARK 01 – that Ellie had bought him for his fortieth birthday.
It took him an hour and twenty minutes along the M61 and M6 to reach Kendal in Cumbria.
He was sitting hunched down in the Kuga on the opposite side of the street outside 17 Underbarrow Road – a three-bedroom stone cottage with Georgian windows and a drive large enough for two cars.
The cold was beginning to gnaw at his feet and legs. He’d been there for over two hours, and he was giving up hope of seeing Ellie or the girls. He had the idea that they were in the house because the lights were on and the cars were still on the drive, so he was surprised when he saw them outside. The girls were running along the pavement towards him, scooping up snow and throwing snowballs at each other. Ellie and Henchel were behind them, arm-in-arm, laughing and joking.
They crossed over and went inside the house.
Tears jumped into his eyes.
It looked for all the world as if Ellie was another man’s wife, and Coco and Cleo were another man’s daughters.
What had gone wrong?
What should he do?
Indecision turned him to stone until three in the morning when he drove home, but he knew it wasn’t over yet.
####
Dark Heart
Monday, January 6
‘Something here,’ Paulie Sears whispered into his walky-talky.
Robyn and Smiffy converged on him out of the darkness.
It was four in the morning. The three of them were in old Poulson’s field behind Delamere Road in Handforth – the one that hadn’t been farmed for as long as anyone could remember – with their Christmas presents.
Frost lay on the ground like crushed velvet and it was as cold as a snowman’s heart.
‘Are you sure?’ Smiffy said, wiping his dripping nose with the back of his gloved hand. Smiffy was the resident expert when it came to treasure hunting, and unbearable with it as well. After his mum had died eighteen months ago, his dad had bought him a second-hand metal detector to occupy his mind, and he’d got a new top-of-the-range model for Christmas.
‘Listen for yourself,’ Paulie said slipping off his headphones and passing them to Smiffy.
Smiffy pressed one of the earpieces to his left ear, concentrated, and then said, ‘Yeah, you’re right. There’s definitely something down there, and not too far either.’
The three of them shrugged off their rucksacks and unbuckled the shovels. They put the bags on the ground, and carefully propped the shiny new metal detectors up against them.
‘I’ll start,’ Robyn said.
Paulie laughed. ‘You know we’ve got school later.’
‘You’ll get a smack round the head with this shovel, Paulie Sears,’ Robyn said. ‘I can dig just as well as you boys, and don’t you say I can’t.’
‘Go on then, Rob,’ Paulie relented. ‘But hurry it up, will you.’
Robyn rammed the shovel into the hard ground, which looked as though it had been dug up not too long ago, and jumped onto the treads of the shovel in her pink Wellington boots. ‘Like digging concrete,’ she said, her breath visible in the torchlight.
The two boys watched her struggle to remove the top layer of frozen soil.
Out of breath Robyn said, ‘Someone else’s turn.’
Smiffy shouldered his way through. ‘Let me show you guys how it’s done.’ After three shovelfuls he said, ‘I think I’m gettin’ a blister on me hand.’
‘You’re a wimp, Smiffy,’ Robyn taunted him. ‘I did at least seven digs, and no blister either.’
‘Let’s remember why we’re here, shall we?’ Paulie said. He began removing dirt from the hole that the other two had begun. ‘I don’t know what you two are moaning about, this is easy.’
‘You won’t find it easy if I smack you round the head with my shovel,’ Robyn suggested.
Paulie carried on digging with a grin etched on his face. He really liked Robyn Wilshire, but hadn’t told her yet. Would like to have kissed her, but hadn’t plucked up enough courage to do anything about it. ‘Shine the light down here.’
Smiffy Smith aimed the torch beam down the hole, which was about eighteen inches deep. Something small glinted up at them.
Paulie got down on his knees, reached into the hole and touched the round object. ‘Looks like a locket on a chain.’
‘Well pull it out,’ Smiffy said.
‘Can’t,’ Paulie said. ‘It’s stuck.’
‘Maybe the chain’s stuck because it’s round the neck of a dead body,’ Robyn said in a scary voice, shining the torch up her face from beneath her chin.
‘Maybe you shouldn’t come with us again,’ Smiffy said.
Robyn smacked him round the head with her free hand. ‘Maybe you shouldn’t come with me and Paulie again,’ she countered.
‘Maybe you two should stop arguing,’ Paulie said. ‘I think Robyn’s right, it is round the neck of a dead body – look.’
He’d removed some more of the dirt with his hand to reveal a chin and a mouth.
‘Doesn’t look like a Roman soldier or a Saxon King,’ Smiffy said.
Paulie sat back on his heels. ‘That’s because it’s not. It looks like a girl about fourteen – our age. The locket’s fairly new as well.’
‘A dead body?’ Smiffy said sounding scared.
Paulie stood up. ‘Yeah.’
Robyn took hold of Paulie’s arm. ‘What we gonna do, Paulie?’
‘Call the police,’ he said, feeling like a million dollars with Robyn hanging on his arm.
‘We’ll get into a heap of trouble,’ Smiffy said. ‘First of all, we’re treasure-hunting on private land, second of all we sneaked out to come here, and third of all . . . Oh yeah, we’ll be late for the first day of term.’
‘Don’t matter.’ Paulie pulled his mobile phone from his jacket pocket. ‘We gotta do what’s right. That body is somebody’s daughter like Robyn.’
‘Yeah, Smiffy,’ Robyn said. ‘Paulie’s right.’
Paulie keyed in 999, and reported what they’d found and where they were.
***
They’d built a small fire to keep warm.
A police car arrived first. Parked on the lane
. A male and a female slip-slid across the field to where they were.
‘Who reported the dead body then?’ the male policeman asked.
Paulie stepped forward like he’d found the missing link in human evolution. ‘I did.’
‘Do you want to show us?’
‘Aren’t you going to wait for forensics to get here first?’ Paulie asked.
The two Constables looked at each other and smiled. The female spoke: ‘You’re an expert in police work then?’
‘I will be one day,’ Paulie told her. ‘I’m going to be the best detective in the world.’
‘In the meantime, you can all answer some questions.’
The two Constables interrogated them for at least ten minutes. What are you doing here? Do your parents know? Did you take anything off the corpse? Where do you all live?
Paulie wondered if they’d brought thumbscrews with them.
Robyn offered them hot coffee from her flask, which they accepted and slurped down in no time at all.
Eventually, a white van pulled up behind the police car. Five white-suited figures climbed out and came towards them like ghosts out of the darkness – each one carrying a silver box.
The figure in the lead was a woman, although Paulie could only tell that from her voice when she spoke: ‘Where’s the body?’
The female Constable nodded at Paulie. ‘You’d better show her where it is then, Detective Sears.’
Paulie grinned. Yeah, that sounded really cool. After picking up his torch, he walked towards the hole they’d dug. He didn’t get too close for fear of contaminating the crime scene more than the three of them already had, but shone the light to where the dead girl lay buried with the locket round her neck.
He watched everything on the television about murder, detectives, and forensics. If it was too late at night, he recorded it for watching the next day, or at the weekend. Searched charity shops, and used his pocket money to buy books on the same subjects. Had three stacks of books reaching up to the ceiling in his bedroom. He knew that by the time he joined the police at twenty-one – after he’d done his degree in Criminology and Psychology at Cambridge University, of course – he’d be an expert on murder. Police forces from around the world would seek his expert opinion. He’d be wined and dined by Kings and Queens, invited to lecture at conferences, Hollywood would want to make a film about his meteoric rise to fame, they’d ask him to play himself because he was so good-looking, beautiful women would want to be seen on his . . .