by Ellis, Tim
‘No, neither do I, but I’m sure it’s a long time. And, of course, they’ll freeze your assets and bank accounts; take all your computers and paperwork away; examine emails, minutes of meetings, the reasons for decisions . . . from what I’ve read – it’s not a very pleasant experience. You’ll effectively be out of business during the investigation. Also, there’s no smoke without fire. An insurance company that takes people’s money, but never pays out on claims won’t stay in business long . . .’
This time, Krueger-Billett interrupted her. ‘I’m prepared to look at the reports again, Mrs Kowalski. Maybe I’ve been applying the company’s guidelines a little too stringently. I’ll give Mr Baxter a call this afternoon to let him know our final decision.’
‘Thank you, Mr Krueger-Billett. I was sure you’d be reasonable once you heard our counter-argument. Of course, should your final decision be the wrong decision – I will also ask the Faculty of Law at King’s College, London to examine all aspects of that decision and publish its findings in a paper that will be read by academics worldwide . . .’
‘I think we understand each other, Mrs Kowalski.’
Now, she shook his hand. ‘Excellent.’
After he’d gone she said, ‘Right, Charlie Baxter, let’s find you a new office and somewhere to live.’
‘Yes, please.’
‘What’s it like living with Xena Blake?’
‘Don’t ask. I’m grateful. Don’t think I’m not grateful, but she’s hell to live with.’
‘I think we need to go upmarket.’
‘Really?’
‘Woodford Green was a good starting position, but now I think you should consider Chigwell. Charlie Baxter from Chigwell sounds much better.’
‘It does, doesn’t it?’
***
‘Correct me if I’m wrong,’ Stick said. ‘But wasn’t the operation meant to make you a much nicer person?’
‘You’ve got a fucking nerve, stickleback. I already was a nicer person. In fact, I’m the nicest person I know. Go on, ask me who’s the nicest person I know?’
‘Who?’
‘Me. There you are, you’ve heard it first-hand straight from the horse’s mouth, and I use the term “horse” in a metaphorical sense only.’
‘Of course.’
They were sitting in the squad room moving files from one tray to another. It had been the laziest summer since records began, which suited Xena just fine. Although she’d been back at work for a week, she wasn’t really ready to start chasing murderers through the streets of Hoddesdon just yet.
The Chief appeared in the room like a harbinger of doom. ‘Left or right, Blake?’
‘In connection with what, Sir?’
‘In connection with you and Gilbert actually doing what the British public are paying you for.’
‘Paying me for! Is that what you call the grudging pittance I receive every month after the taxman has robbed me blind? I’d earn more shekels begging outside a London tube station.’
‘Two murders have just come in. Left or right? I’m giving you first choice, Blake – make the most of it. Whatever’s left will go to Parish and Richards.’
Richards shuffled up. ‘Whatever’s left? Is that a clue? And I’m not sure we want other people’s leftovers.’
‘I’m not keen on choosing blind,’ Xena said. ‘It would help if you simply told us what the cases . . .’
‘Right,’ Richards shouted.
‘Hey! Fuck off, Richards. You new detectives think you can come in here and get the pick of the murders. Well, you can just fuck off. Stick and me choose right as well, don’t we Stick? And as I’m a DI and you’re a DC guess who wins?’
Chief Kowalski smiled. ‘Right hand it is then. Get yourselves over to Nine Acre Wood, off Bromley Lane, which is between Much Hadham and Hadham Ford. The frozen body of a young woman has been found by a mountain biker.’
‘Frozen?’ Stick said. ‘In this weather?’
Richards flapped her hand in front of her face like a mechanical Victorian fan in need of oiling. ‘It’s a thousand degrees outside.’
Parish stopped what he was reading. ‘I’ve told you a million times not to exaggerate, Richards. What tasty morsel have you saved for us, Chief?’
‘Just wait your turn, Parish,’ Xena said. ‘Have forensics been despatched?’ she directed at Kowalski.
‘Yes. Di Heffernan is on her way out there.’ He passed her the piece of paper with the details on. ‘That’s all I have.’
‘And what’s in your left hand?’
‘The body of a nine year-old boy . . .’
‘Sir,’ Richards said. ‘You know I don’t like child murders.’
The Chief’s face crumpled up. ‘The dice have been rolled, Richards.’
‘But . . .’
‘No buts . . . Unless DI Blake wants to swap . . . ?’
‘Please, DI Blake,’ Richards pleaded.
‘What do you think, Stickamundo – should we swap?’
‘I think you should do what you feel is right, bearing in mind that you’re the nicest person you know.’
‘Mmmm! Do you really want to swap, DC Richards?’
‘Yes, please.’
‘In which case . . . I think we’ll leave things just the way they are.’
Richards turned to Kowalski. ‘But I chose your right hand first, Chief.’
Parish stood up. ‘Stop whining, Richards.’ To the Chief he said, ‘Where’s the body?’
‘The Paradise Golf and Country Club in Broxbourne. His name is Paul Gifford, and it looks like he sneaked out of his house around three in the morning to collect golf balls. Toadstone is already on his way.’
‘Get the details off the Chief, Richards.’
‘Do I have to?’
‘Yes, you have to.’
Chapter Two
‘You could have swapped,’ Stick said.
They were on their way to Nine Acre Wood, and during the time they’d been basking in the breeze from a couple of stand-up fans in the squad room, Tonatiuh – the sun god – had cranked up the temperature a few notches.
Air conditioning in the pool car consisted of winding down the windows and putting the blowers on full power.
‘I could have done a lot of things. Instead, I decided that a frozen body in the hand was worth more than a child in the bushes.’
Stick wiped sweat from his hairline with a paper tissue. ‘Don’t get me wrong, I think you were right in your choice. Richards isn’t the only one who doesn’t like child murders, but she did pick the Chief’s right hand first.’
‘You think I’m right? Has the universe stopped turning? Has the world come to a sticky end? Has . . . ?’
‘I often think you’re right.’
‘You’re trying to make me have a relapse, aren’t you?’
‘Is it good to be out of the hospital?’
‘Is it good to be out of the prison?’ she countered.
‘I went to see Isolde Koll, you know,’ he said.
‘She was beautiful. Now she’s a mess.’
‘She didn’t recognise me. I don’t know whether it was a good idea to have brought her back from Bulgaria.’
‘Which is a pointless comment, because she’s already been brought back.’
‘They used heroin to keep her compliant, and a whole bunch of men raped and beat her.’
‘If I had my way, I’d line the bastards up and shoot every last one of them.’
‘That’s why they sent me to prison.’
‘Men have a lot to answer for.’
‘Some men.’
‘All men. Just because you’re barely a man, don’t think you can wriggle out of your responsibilities.’
‘Thanks.’
‘You’re welcome.’
‘Do you think she’ll get through it?’
‘No, she’ll be a fucking mess for the rest of her life.’
‘That’s what I thought. That’s why I’ve paid for her to get professional
help from a specialist clinic in Switzerland.’
‘You should be a member of the United Nations Council for Human Rights.’
‘I know.’
The press were already camped out in Nine Acre Wood like an occupying force. There were also two ice cream vans, a hot-dog trailer and a crowd of boys on bikes who should have been in school.
‘Ring the truant officer,’ she said to the uniformed officer keeping the riff-raff back.
‘Can you tell us what’s going on, Inspector,?’
‘Is it true that a frozen body has been found?’
‘Have you got any suspects yet?’
Ignoring the press, they ducked under the crime scene tape and followed the dirt track to the forensic tent. There were patches of bluebells, ivy winding its way up the trees and – because it hadn’t rained for a month – the ground beneath their feet was like concrete.
After donning white paper suits, boots, gloves and masks they stepped inside. The body of a half-dressed semi-frozen young woman lay on a carpet of soft green undergrowth. Her shoulder-length blonde hair was matted, the yellow summer dress was stained and torn, and her body was covered in cuts and bruises. Clear plastic bags had been put over her hands and feet.
‘If it isn’t the dynamic duo,’ Di Heffernan said.
Xena grunted. ‘Have you missed us?’
‘Not one bit.’
‘Same for us. Stick had to remind me what you were called – other than “bitch”, of course.’
‘They say that old and ugly people have worse memories than us young and beautiful people.’
Xena laughed. ‘Have you looked in a mirror lately.’
‘Excuse me,’ Stick interrupted. ‘Can we focus on what we came here for?’
‘Where’s Doc Paine?’ Xena said, looking around the tent.
‘She’s on her way.’
‘Good. Well, what have we got?’
‘If I’m not mistaken, this is seventeen year-old Clarice Kennedy. She went missing a month ago after dance class. She caught a bus home from Widford and reached Hadham Cross just after six o’clock on June 13. From the bus stop she began to walk up Malting’s Lane to her home, which was a quarter of a mile away – at number fifteen. Another girl – Jessica Curry – saw her walking up the lane as she drove along Tower Hill on her scooter, but Clarice never made it to her house.’
‘You seem to know a lot about it,’ Xena said.
‘That’s because I watch the news, and they did a reconstruction to jog people’s memories.’
‘Some of us have had more important things to worry about.’
Stick came between them again. ‘Where’s she been for a month?’ Stick asked.
Di shrugged. ‘If I had to guess, I’d say in a walk-in freezer.’
‘Why a walk-in one? Why not a chest freezer?’
‘Look at the purplish red discolouration of the feet,’ she said pointing. ‘When the heart stops, the action of gravity forces the heavy blood cells through the serum to the lowest part of the body. Also, the marks on her wrists suggest that she’s been hung up like a piece of meat.’
‘Doing my job again, Di?’ Doc Paine said as she came into the tent.
‘All I need now is your salary and I’ll be a happy woman.’
‘Not a chance. I’m not giving up my extravagant lifestyle of microwave dinners for one until I’m forced to. Is it Clarice Kennedy?’
Di Heffernan nodded. ‘Definitely looks like her.’
Doc Paine visually examined the corpse from a standing position. ‘Yes, you’re right about the livor mortis, and the fact that she’s been suspended upright by her wrists for at least a month.’
She squatted, opened up her bag of magic tricks, took out a pair of tweezers and a small self-sealing clear plastic evidence bag, and picked up a small piece of something from the wound of the victim’s right wrist. She held it up, peered at what she’d got and said, ‘Green plastic by the looks of it.’ It was then deposited into the bag and sealed.
‘Meaning?’ Xena said.
‘I’m thinking plastic-covered wire, like you get on bike locks for example.’
‘I know the thing you mean,’ Stick said. ‘I have . . .’
Xena elbowed him. ‘Nobody’s interested in your weird fascination with bicycles.’ She turned back to the pathologist. ‘So, you’re suggesting that she was strung up using one of those?’
‘A suggestion only until I’ve completed the post mortem . . .’
‘Which will be when?’
‘I’ll begin tomorrow at two o’clock.’
‘Anything else you can tell us?’
Doc Paine lifted the woman’s dress up. ‘Jesus!’
Stick turned away.
Xena elbowed him again. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Giving her some privacy.’
‘She’s dead, numpty. Look at her. This is another example of man’s inhumanity to woman. What she needs is not privacy, but for us to find her killer.’
‘The labia are torn, the vaginal opening is split . . . help me turn her onto her side.’
Xena stared at Stick. ’You’re not expecting me to do it, are you? I can hardly turn myself on my side.’
‘Of course, sorry.’ He squatted and rolled Clarice Kennedy towards him.
The Doc shook her head. ‘As I suspected. Her anus is in the same condition. I would suggest that you’re not looking for one killer, but two or more. This young woman has been raped and sodomised over a sustained period of time. Okay, Sergeant,’ she said to Stick.
He lowered the corpse back down and stood up again.
‘Any idea how she died,’ Xena asked.
‘There are strangulation marks on the neck, but whether that’s what killed her, I’m not sure yet.’
‘What about drugs?’ Stick said.
The doc checked the crooks of the victim’s elbows, her femoral creases and between her toes. ‘No evidence of her being drugged, which is good and bad. Good that they didn’t drug her, but bad because she would have been conscious during everything they did to her.’
‘We’re talking about her being stored in two places, aren’t we?’ Xena said.
‘Unless . . . she was strung up in a walk-in freezer, but it wasn’t switched on until she died.’
Xena nodded. ‘Okay, that’s a possibility.’
‘Any idea when she might have died?’ Stick asked.
‘The body being frozen makes determining that very difficult, but I would say sometime in the past week. I may be able to pin it down to within forty-eight hours following the PM.’
‘Thanks, Doc,’ Stick said. ‘You’ve been a great help.’
‘Do you think I’ve been a great help, Inspector Blake?’
‘I think you’ve done an adequate job of filling in a few blanks. If anybody asks me for the name of a half-decent pathologist, I’ll give them your name.’
‘You’re too kind.’
‘I know.’ She looked at the forensic officer. ‘What about you Heffernan – have your people found anything I can use?’
‘I knew you’d turn your unwanted attention to me sooner or later.’
‘And you were right. Well?’
‘The photographs will be available later. As you’re well aware, the ground is too dry and compacted to obtain any tyre tracks or footprints. Nothing in the way of fingerprints. We have found some items – cigarette butts, an empty water bottle, chewing gum – but whether they’re relevant is yet to be determined. We might find hairs and fibres on the victim’s clothing . . .’
‘What are those stains on her dress, Doc?’ Stick asked.
Doc Paine pulled her mask down and sniffed one of the larger stains. ‘All I can smell is bleach.’
Xena’s forehead furrowed. ‘Bleach?’
‘I have a bad feeling about this,’ Doc Paine said. ‘I have no idea what the stain on her dress is, but she’s been hosed down with bleach.’
‘And bleach destroys DNA?’
‘Exactl
y, but I’ll try my best to find something for you.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Who would have a walk-in freezer?’ Stick mused.
‘A butcher?’ Doc Paine offered, as she began collecting samples with swabs and writing down the details on the outer casing.
‘I wouldn’t get too excited by that revelation,’ Di Heffernan said. ‘You can also find walk-in freezers in restaurants, supermarkets, convenience stores and sometimes in people’s homes.’
‘Trust you to pour cold water on a very good suggestion,’ Xena said. ‘So, keep going – have you found anything else besides nothing?’
‘We’ve taken fingernail scrapings . . .‘
‘She was strung up by her hands. A fat lot of good those will be.’
‘We might get lucky.’
‘You sound like a female version of Wilkins Micawber . . . In fact, you look a lot like him as well. Especially the fat gut, bald head and squinty eyes. Okay, it’s clear that I’m wasting my time talking to you. Come on let’s get out of here, Stick.’
Outside, they took off the paper suits and put them in the waste bin, specifically located for the purpose.
‘What do you think?’ Stick said.
‘I think you shouldn’t ask stupid questions.’
‘It’s like we’ve never been away, isn’t it?’
Was it? She supposed it was. She was back on insulting terms with that bitch Heffernan, the murders were much the same as before, and Stick was the same old pathetic Stick. The only thing that was different was her – she didn’t have a uterus, she couldn’t have children and she’d lost a shitload of cellulite.
The press thrust microphones towards her. ‘You tell them,’ she said to Stick. ‘I can’t be bothered.’
‘Me?’
‘You are a Sergeant now, aren’t you?’
‘Well yes, but you’ve never let me talk to the press before.’
‘I’m letting you now, but I could change my mind . . .’
‘No, I’ll do it.’
‘Don’t cock it up.’
Stick puffed himself up and faced the press. ‘Detective Sergeant Rowley Gilbert, for those who don’t know me,’ he began. ‘The body of a young woman was found early this morning . . .’
‘Becky Terrell from the Thurrock Sentinel. Is it Clarice Kennedy?’