Josiah Dark Thrillers Box Set

by Tim Ellis

  ‘I can’t do all that tonight.’

  ‘You want Sunday off, don’t you?’

  ‘Giving your apprentice a day off! My God! That would be madness. Nobody in their right mind . . .’

  ‘I know I’ll regret it, but you can take tomorrow off to get your life back on track. Don’t waste the opportunity I’m giving you. Someone will arrive between eight and nine on Monday morning to take your collection away, and then I want you in here – understand?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Don’t buy any more stork scissors. Don’t think about any more stork scissors. Don’t even look at any more stork scissors online. And don’t think I won’t know if you do, because I will. If you begin getting unnatural urges in relation to stork scissors – call the stork scissors anonymous helpline, or someone else who can tell you how pathetic you’re being. Any questions?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Good. Remember – one chance. Don’t throw it back in my face.’

  She trudged to her car. The engine wouldn’t start the first time of asking, but then it kicked into life.

  He watched her reverse out and leave the car park. She looked like a normal young woman leading a normal life, but she wasn’t. She was someone who had been coping with her mother’s long-term cancer and subsequent demise through addictive behaviour. He told himself he didn’t want to help her because of what, and who, she represented, but he knew he was lying. If it had been Cloe or Coco, he would hope that their boss would make every effort to keep them out of harm’s way. He knew what addicts were like though. They were easily tempted off the path of righteousness. Well, as much as he wanted to help her, he wasn’t a counsellor or a carer. He was a detective, and he had a number of murders to solve, not least the murder of Toby Flagg.

  After making himself a coffee, he called the Duty Sergeant.

  ‘Yes, Sir?’

  ‘Any news of Joseph Corbyn?’

  ‘Not a snifter, Sir. No one’s seen him since Monday afternoon, which is unusual for Joe, because he keeps turning up like a bad smell, but not one sighting. Of course, we’ll keep looking for him and asking around, but we’re not optimistic that we’re going to find him alive in this weather.’

  He’d seen the statistics. Already, over fifty homeless people had died of hypothermia in Manchester. They were all preventable deaths, if only someone had bothered to care. ‘Okay. Any calls from the public about the E-FITS from Rose Hill train station?’

  ‘Nothing you’d want to waste your time on, Sir.’

  After what they’d learned today, he had the feeling that the older man in the E-FIT was Jeffrey Higham. He had no idea what Higham looked like, and as Lake had said, they needed to compare his likeness with the man in the Rhyl photograph from 1991, and now also the E-FIT. The Whitchurch Architectural Partnership would be closed tomorrow, but they’d go and talk to Higham on Monday after the press briefing he was thinking of holding in the morning. It was time Higham knew that they were onto him.

  ‘Thanks, Sergeant.’

  ‘No problem, Sir.’

  The call ended.

  He googled Jeffrey Higham. Although a number of versions of his biography appeared, none of them included a photograph. It seemed that Natalie – the receptionist at Whitchurch – was right, Higham seemed to be paranoid about having his photograph taken. He’d at least have expected him to have appeared in newspaper articles about some of the structures he’d built. But it appeared he preferred to remain anonymous, letting others in the company take the plaudits. A man with something to hide, he thought.

  Next, he logged onto the computer and checked his emails. Burrows had sent him four on her day off. The first informed him that the analysis of CCTV footage from Marple train station had drawn a blank, which was what he’d expected, but he had to tie the loose end off. The second suggested that the number 794, which had been hand-engraved on the wooden stake, might refer to Genesis 9:4:

  But you shall not eat flesh with its life, that is, its blood.

  The letter “G” was the seventh letter of the alphabet – thus, 794. And if it wasn’t that, then they had nothing else to offer.

  He sat back in his chair nursing his coffee and thought about the bible offering from Forensics. Could it be that simple? He and Lake had more or less agreed that Toby Flagg hadn’t been killed by Jeffrey Higham. If that was true, then the murderer was someone they hadn’t yet stumbled over. Right from the beginning of the investigation, they’d decided that the murder wasn’t about vampires, because everyone knew that vampires didn’t exist, but maybe they’d been wrong to dismiss that crazy notion so soon. Maybe vampires was exactly what the murder was all about. Lake had explored the possibility that there might have been other similar murders, but she hadn’t found any either locally, or in the UK. Was it possible that they were hunting someone who thought that Marple and Marple Bridge were teeming with the undead? And were they dealing with an isolated murder? Or the first in a series?

  Without any other viable suspects, maybe they needed to re-visit the idea that Toby Flagg had been killed by someone who had mistaken him for a vampire. They had the Hawthorn stake, the quote from Genesis, and – if they could find him – Joseph Corbyn – as a possible witness.

  He carried out an internet search. Sanguivoriphobia! Who’d have thought there was a name for the fear of blood-eaters, or vampires? Could that fear translate into murder? He knew that anything was possible with the human mind. Maybe he needed to talk to a psychiatrist. Had there ever been any recorded cases of sanguivoriphobia? He couldn’t find any cases described on the internet, but that wasn’t necessarily conclusive proof. After another internet search, he found a psychiatric clinic within walking distance of where he was sitting – Portman Therapy on Windmill Street. He phoned the number provided.

  ‘Portman Therapy. Milly speaking. How can I help?’

  ‘Hello, Milly. I’m Detective Inspector Dark from Bootle Street. I’d like to speak to a psychiatrist about a phobia, if that’s at all possible?’

  ‘Tonight?’

  ‘I was thinking of tomorrow – say around twelve o’clock?’

  ‘Can I ask what you’re afraid of, Detective Inspector?’

  ‘I’m afraid that people will misunderstand me, Milly. I don’t personally have a phobia. I’m conducting a murder investigation as part of Manchester’s Serious Crime Division, and I’d like to speak to a doctor about a phobia that could be a possible motive for that murder.’

  He heard her giggle and wondered how old she was. ‘Sorry. I thought . . . Well anyway, you need to speak to Doctor Justine Bird, phobias are her speciality.’

  ‘And is she working now?’

  ‘No, but she’ll be in tomorrow morning?’

  ‘Can you book me in to see her at twelve?’

  ‘I will.’ She giggled again. ‘I’m sure she’ll be able to help you with your phobia.’

  ‘Thank you, Milly.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  The call disconnected.

  The third email from Burrows concerned the fingerprint and DNA analysis of the note. Yes, they’d found a number of prints and a mishmash of DNA, none of which were stored on any of the databases. So, without known samples to compare them against . . .

  In the fourth and final email, someone at forensics had unscrambled the list of 14 books, and suggested that it was a “simple” acrostic. He didn’t know whether the “simple” was aimed at him, or not.

  The Handmaid’s Tale, Margaret Atwood;

  The ABC Murders, Agatha Christie;

  The Wasp Factory, Iain Banks;

  The Talisman Ring, Georgette Heyer;

  The Hobbit, JRR Tolkien;

  The Old Man and the Sea, Ernest Hemingway;

  The Ragged-Trousered Philanthropists, Robert Tressell;

  The Night Manager, John le Carré;

  The Diamond Hunters, Wilbur Smith;

  The Return Journey, Maeve Binchy;

  The Island of the Day Be
fore, Umberto Eco;

  The Vicar of Nibbleswicke, Roald Dahl;

  The Exile, James Patterson;

  Fall of Man in Wilmslow, David Lagercrantz.

  14 Hawthorn Drive, Wilmslow

  He wanted to drive over there and find out who lived at the address, and what exactly Miranda Flagg had hidden there, but he also knew that “fools rushed in” as the saying went, and he’d invariably found that to be true. He’d wait until tomorrow, and take some back-up with him – just in case. Whatever had been hidden at the address, it had been sitting there for a year, another twenty-four hours wasn’t going to make any difference.

  Next, he collected Harriet Fairchild’s fax from the machine, which listed all the construction and building contracts awarded to Whitchurch Architectural Partnership and overseen by Albert Flagg. These included:

  Construction of junction flyovers;

  Filling in a sinkhole and upgrading works on the Mancunian Way;

  A variety of road access improvements;

  Converting a dual carriageway to three lanes;

  Repair of Junction 11 on the M56;

  New builds, repairs and upgrades to schools;

  Hospital upgrades and extensions;

  Affordable housing;

  Improving disabled facilities and access, which attracted government grants;

  Hostel accommodation for the homeless;

  Prison upgrades.

  Contract work wasn’t something he knew anything about, but he imagined that the Fraud Squad would have someone who could examine and understand the list in the context of the award of local government design-build contracts and identify anything unusual. As for Whitchurch’s finances – he’d have to obtain a Search Warrant to gain access to them, and without more than speculation that wasn’t likely to happen.

  He called the Fraud Squad number.

  ‘Night shift,’ a man said.

  ‘Is the new name meant to confuse people?’

  ‘Who is this, please?’

  ‘DI Dark, SCD. And you?’

  ‘DS Joydeep Murali.’

  ‘Who’s on the night shift besides you?’

  ‘No one else. Just Joydeep, Sir.’

  ‘Are you a fraudulently-trained officer?’

  ‘Yes, very much so, Sir. Do you have something for Joydeep?’

  ‘If I fax over a list of local government design-build contracts awarded to a company and overseen by a property solicitor, could you take a look at it for me and identify anything out of the ordinary?’

  ‘That is exactly what Joydeep is trained to do. Fax away, Sir. Joydeep will examine the list with a forensic eyeglass and get back to you first thing in the morning.’

  ‘Thank you, DS Murali.’

  ‘It is Joydeep’s pleasure, Sir.’

  He put the phone down and faxed the list over to Joydeep at the Fraud Squad. Additionally, he added in the original summary from 2002 that Harriet Fairchild had compiled for DC Vickers.

  Before he called it a day and drove to Macclesfield, he decided to annoy Chief Superintendent Louise Isherwood by calling the mobile number Henn had given him in case of emergency.

  ‘Yes?’

  She sounded impatient.

  He could hear her struggling to bring her breathing under control. ‘It’s DI Dark. I’ve not called at a sexually inconvenient time, have I, Ma’am?’ As he recalled, Isherwood was in her mid-thirties and reasonably attractive.

  ‘Has anyone told you you’re a fucking bastard, Dark?’

  The corner of his mouth creased up. ‘Many times, but I’m shocked that someone as sweet and lovely as you would think such a thing.’

  ‘Now that you’ve got my undivided attention, what do you want?’

  ‘I’m planning to give a press briefing tomorrow morning at ten o’clock. I wondered if you’d like me to brief you prior to that, seeing as you’re my boss pro-tem while Henn is away on his pub crawl around Brighton?’

  ‘Can’t it wait until Monday?’

  ‘‘It could, but then I’d be briefing you after the event.’

  ‘The press briefing, Dark?’

  ‘I’d like to move the case along by giving the briefing tomorrow.’

  ‘You’re at Bootle Street, aren’t you?’

  ‘For my many sins.’

  ‘I’ll come to you at nine o’clock.’

  ‘My cup overfloweth, Ma’am.’

  The line went dead.

  He smiled. He enjoyed winding up the new guard who thought that the old guard knew nothing about nothing, especially policing. He’d forgotten more than Henn or Isherwood would ever know, either singularly or as a double act.

  It was quarter to ten. He’d had a productive couple of hours. He rinsed his coffee mug in the kitchen sink, switched the lights off and climbed the stairs to the exit. Time to find out how Hendrik and Dixie had got on in Blackpool.

  ***

  Hendrik answered the door with a beer in his hand and offered it to Dark. ‘Nectar of the gods, Mister Dark.’

  He stepped inside and took the bottle. It was ice cold. He closed his eyes, took a long swig and then licked his lips. ‘I can’t recall ever having tasted anything so good. I hope you’ve got a few more of these on ice, Hendrik.’

  ‘All stacked up in the fridge ready to be drunk.’

  ‘Are we celebrating?’

  ‘Dixie and I have had a good day, but some of what we found is hardly the stuff of celebration.’

  ‘We’ll just drown our sorrows then.’

  Hendrik grinned. ‘Or, just drown?’

  ‘Yes. I suppose I’m the one with all the sorrows. You’ve got everything you want.’

  ‘I have indeed. There’s no denying it.’

  Dixie was waiting for them in the living room dressed in jeans and a skinny tight t-shirt that emphasised her assets. On the front was printed:

  I TRIED

  TO BE

  NORMAL

  ONCE

  Worst Two Minutes

  Of My Life

  ‘I like the t-shirt,’ he said as he sat down on the sofa.

  She gave him a wry smile. ‘I thought you might. I said to Hendrik when I saw it in the shop at Blackpool: “Dark will like that.”.’

  ‘She said exactly that, Mister Dark.’

  ‘You were right – I do. And talking about crazy people, what do you know about stork scissors, Hendrik?’

  ‘Less than nothing.’

  ‘Ooh! I do,’ Dixie said. ‘Aren’t they scissors shaped like a stork that midwives used to use in the old days to cut the baby’s umbilical cord?’

  ‘That’s exactly right. Well, I have this partner who’s hocked her soul to the devil to collect over seven hundred pairs of these things . . .’

  Dixie laughed. ‘The crazy bitch.’

  ‘I thought you might be able to relate to her addictive behaviour. Anyway Hendrik, I’ve told her you’re going to send someone to collect them between eight and nine on Monday morning.’

  ‘Me? What will I do with them?’

  ‘Find a buyer. I want you to sell them for the best price possible, so that she can pay off her debts and buy some food.’

  ‘You remind me of Robin Hood,’ Dixie said.

  ‘Not through choice, believe me.’ He turned back to Hendrik. ‘Can you do that?’

  ‘It seems fairly straightforward.’

  ‘Great. Take any expenses and a ten percent fee for your trouble out of the proceeds.’ He passed Hendrik Lake’s address. ‘So, I hope you had a productive day in Blackpool?’

  As usual, Dixie began at the old people’s wall. ‘First, we went round to Edward Singer’s address and spoke to all his neighbours. And because it was Saturday, they were all at home.’

  ‘And what did they tell you?’

  ‘He had cats.’

  ‘A lot of old people have cats.’

  ‘That’s true. But they don’t all receive a visit from a female representative of the Cheshire Cat Rescue Centre.’

  ‘It
would only be right that he should want to make arrangements for his cats in the event of his sudden demise.’

  ‘Of course, but he also wanted to leave them a legacy.’

  ‘A legacy?’

  ‘All of his money.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘He told one of his neighbours, and she was happy enough to share the information with me over a nice hot cup of tea.’

  ‘Did you get a description of the female?’

  ‘Yes, but it’s not very helpful. Also, I wouldn’t be surprised if it was a disguise.’

  ‘Yes, you’re probably right. What about the other victims?’

  ‘We haven’t had chance to check up on them yet. If you recall, you sent us to Blackpool to do your dirty work.’

  ‘And was the work dirty?’

  She passed him a stick of rock. ‘I hope it rots your brain.’

  ‘So, now you’ve got to find out whether all the other victims owned cats and then contacted the Cheshire Cat Rescue Centre to arrange leaving them a legacy?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And what about Singer’s money sitting in the bank account in Monaco?’

  ‘It’s not been moved yet, Mister Dark,’ Hendrik assured him. ‘I’m keeping a close eye on it though.’

  ‘Also,’ Dixie interrupted. ‘Hendrik and I went to the funeral directors to pay our respect to Edward Singer and found this . . .’ She pointed to two more photographs on the wall. The first was of a small circular entry wound beneath the corpse’s grey hair. The second, of a barbeque skewer pushed into the wound at a forty-five degree angle that entered the brain to a depth of approximately five inches, which was the same angle and depth as the other dead bodies. ‘Edward Singer is definitely our eighth victim.’

  ‘Sixth,’ he said. ‘You can only speculate about the two people who were cremated.’

  ‘Well yes, but there’s the money?’

  ‘Without physical evidence . . .’