In the Twinkling of an Eye (9781311593672)

by Ellis, Tim

  Stick grabbed her elbow. ‘Come on, we have people to see.’

  ‘You’re going to let him get away with it?’

  ‘He hasn’t done anything.’

  ‘Everybody’s done something, Stick. In his case, we just have to find out what. Anyone who sells ice cream to children is suspicious in my book.’

  ‘Why do you have to alienate everyone?’

  ‘I don’t have to, it’s just something I like to do.’

  A bearded muscular man in his late twenties, wearing a body-hugging black Team Sky short-sleeved cycling jersey, shorts, gloves and helmet approached them pushing a mountain bike. ‘Have you finished with me?’

  Xena looked him up and down. ‘I haven’t even started on you yet. Just let me finish this bloody ice cream and then I’ll begin.’

  ‘You found the body and called it in?’ Stick asked.

  ‘Yes. I wish I hadn’t. My day’s turned to shit. I’ll be lucky if I get to work before lunchtime.’

  ‘But you’ll bask in the radiance of being a good citizen,’ Xena said.

  ‘I’ll remember that when I’m in the queue at the job centre.’

  Stick took out his notebook. ‘Name?’

  ‘Jacob Trengove.’

  ‘What time was it when you came across the body?’

  ‘Six thirty-five. I was on my way back home.’

  ‘And you called it in immediately?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you see or hear anything else?’

  He shook his head. ‘No, but what I can tell you is that she wasn’t here at five-fifteen when I was going that way.’ He pointed deep into the wood. ‘So, whoever dumped her did so between five-fifteen and six thirty-five.’

  ‘Do you come here often?’ Xena asked.

  ‘Every morning. I have a route. I . . .’

  ‘I don’t think we need to know your route,’ Stick said. ‘Where do you live?’

  ‘I’m renting a one-bedroom cottage on Vicarage Close in Puckeridge.’

  ‘Work?’

  ‘Primary school teacher at Puckeridge First School.’

  Stick passed him a card. ‘If you think of anything else that might be useful, please give us a call.’

  ‘Is it that Clarice Kennedy?’

  ‘Why?’ Xena said.

  ‘I’m just asking.’

  ‘What do you know about Clarice Kennedy?’

  ‘I don’t know anything.’

  ‘Then why are you asking about her?’

  ‘I’ll go, shall I?’

  ‘Unless you want us to think that you’re involved in some way, Mr Trengove.’

  He climbed on his bike and rode off.

  Xena grunted. ‘Just because they come forward as a witness they think they’re entitled to some special fucking treatment, or something.’

  Stick smiled. ‘Isn’t it great to be back?’

  ‘Why are you so happy?’

  ‘Being in prison made me realise what I had.’

  ‘Oh! And what was that?’

  ‘The best partner in the whole police force.’

  ‘It took you long enough to realise it. Right, let’s get going before we take root.’

  ***

  ‘The difference between genius and stupidity is that genius has its limits, Toadstone,’ Parish said as he and Richards struggled into the paper suits, boots and gloves.

  The head of forensics turned to greet them. ‘An anonymous quote, if I’m not mistaken.’

  Richards stopped what she was doing to stare at Parish. ‘Is he mistaken, Sir?’

  ‘The jury’s still out.’

  She half-laughed. ‘He’s not mistaken, is he? Paul’s never wrong.’

  ‘Still got your number one groupie I see, Toadstone. So, where’s the tent?’

  ‘It’s too hot for a tent.’

  He looked over at the fence along Appleby Street where a crowd of rubberneckers had begun to accumulate. ‘What about them?’

  ‘I have a plan.’

  ‘A man with a plan – go on?’

  ‘They can’t see anything because the body is in the bunker . . .’

  ‘See, Richards – bunker.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘I do say so.’

  ‘I’ve got a windbreak coming.’

  ‘Like the stripy ones with poles that people have on the beach?’ Richards asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  He looked around. ‘Doc Riley?’

  ‘On her way.’

  ‘Is it me, or is she dragging her heels a bit these days?’

  ‘She’s busy.’

  ‘And we’re not?’

  ‘This is the first case you’ve had in a month, Sir.’

  His eyes narrowed. ‘I didn’t realise you were keeping score?’

  ‘When you’re called out so am I.’

  ‘So, what have we got?’

  Toadstone pointed to the river winding its way between the fourteenth green and the fairway. ‘Paul Gifford was standing on the bank over there fishing for golf balls. There’s a pile of six balls that he’d managed to recover, and the self-made net he was using to scoop up the balls from the bottom of the river was half-in and half-out of the water when we arrived.’

  ‘And now he’s in the bunker?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did he get tired?’

  ‘We think . . .’

  ‘We?’

  ‘Me and my officers. We think that someone came up behind him, injected him with a paralytic, and then dragged him unconscious into the bunker.’

  ‘And you have evidence to support that theory?’

  ‘An injection mark on the left of his neck, which suggests that the killer is left-handed; pinpoint pupils; the drag marks . . .’

  ‘Drag marks? Where?’

  ‘They’re hardly noticeable, but if you kneel down and look . . .’

  He kneeled down and looked along the ground between the bunker and the spot on the bank of the river where Paul Gifford had been fishing for golf balls. ‘I see – there are two runnels where the grass changes direction.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good work, Toadstone.’

  ‘Thanks, Sir.’

  ‘But don’t start sending out the party invitations just yet . . .’

  ‘You had to spoil it, didn’t you?’ Richards said. ‘You gave him a gold star with one hand and snatched it back with the other.’

  ‘I’m simply trying to protect him, Richards. You know what these forensic types are like. If I didn’t keep a tight rein on him, he’d be down the pub telling all his mates that it was he who had solved the case single-handedly, and if it wasn’t for his input we’d be stumbling around in the dark like crash test dummies.’

  ‘He’s right, Mary. I often go down the pub . . .’

  ‘You never go down the pub . . .’

  ‘Stop interrupting, Richards. So, the question is: Who dragged him from A to B? What are your thoughts on that, Toadstone?’

  ‘A woman.’

  ‘Did you hear that, Richards? A woman! And you think he never goes down the pub. I wouldn’t be surprised if he came straight here after an all-night session with kegs of home brew, tequila fuegos and lap dancers. Do you know what the chances are of the murderer being a woman, Toadstone?’

  ‘I didn’t say . . .’

  Parish glanced at Richards. ‘He’s trying to wriggle out of it now.’

  ‘Slim to none?’ Toadstone suggested.

  ‘That’s right – slim to none. Edging more in the direction of none than slim. Women aren’t killers. The numbers don’t lie. And, in the miniscule number of cases that a woman has been the perpetrator, they’ve killed a spouse, another family member, or an intimate acquaintance. What have you got to say to that, Toadstone?’

  ‘Evidence doesn’t lie either.’

  ‘Evidence!’ Parish gave a grunt. ‘You know even less about evidence than you do about lap dancing. Have you heard this, Richards? Evidence indeed!’

  ‘What
evidence, Paul?’

  ‘Stop encouraging him, Richards.’

  ‘A partial shoeprint.’

  Parish’s brow furrowed. ‘You never said anything about a partial shoeprint.’

  ‘I’m saying it now.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘In the sand.’

  ‘Show me.’

  Toadstone pointed to half a heel print with wavy ridges on the edge of the sand. ‘We can model the whole shoeprint from that indentation and tell you what type of shoe it was.’

  ‘And you think it’s a woman’s shoeprint?’

  ‘Yes. We think it’s a size five.’

  ‘A small man?’

  ‘It’s possible, but unlikely. We’ll also be able to approximate the height and weight of the person.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘Well, we’ve . . .’

  ‘Don’t start waffling. How long?’

  ‘Tomorrow afternoon.’

  ‘Okay,’ he said, looking in the bunker at the criss-cross of interlocking aluminium treadplates that had been placed over the sand to prevent any crime scene contamination. ‘The body is in the middle of the bunker, and I can see the mess the groundsman left as he checked whether the boy was alive or not, but I don’t see any other shoeprints.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Which means the killer used the rake?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’ve swabbed the rake handle for DNA?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘You could be a bit more forthcoming with the available information, Toadstone.’

  ‘You can work on the basis that I’ll give you all the results tomorrow afternoon at three o’clock. If we find something sooner, I’ll let you know.’

  ‘See, that wasn’t too difficult, was it?’

  ‘So, the killer must have missed that heel print in the dark when he or she was raking over the sand?’ Richards suggested.

  Toadstone nodded. ‘It seems likely, Mary.’

  ‘Could the shoeprint belong to a child?’

  ‘It’s possible, but again - unlikely. I say that, because the pattern on the shoeprint looks as though it’s from an adult shoe. Also, there’s the paralytic . . .’

  ‘Thank you, Paul. Do you want to read my diary?’

  Toadstone’s face turned crimson, and he resembled a fish as his mouth began opening and closing. ‘I don’t think so, Mary.’

  She laughed. ‘No, not my personal diary . . .’ She told him about Loveday’s diary from 1966.

  ‘That sounds really intriguing. Yes, I can look at that for you.’

  ‘Tomorrow?’

  Parish chipped in. ‘As long as it doesn’t interfere with what he’s meant to be . . .’

  ‘It won’t, Sir,’ Toadstone reassured him.

  ‘Good.’ He looked at the body of Paul Gifford. There didn’t seem to be any evidence of sexual assault. He was wearing a pair of tracksuit bottoms, a Tiger Woods t-shirt and a pair of Reebok trainers. ‘So, tell me about the boy, Toadstone. Why has the killer left him in a kneeling position with his hands wired together as if he’s praying? I take it, that is wire I can see?’

  ‘Yes, 20-gauge fine copper wire. It’s the same type of wire that is used to make wire art.’

  ‘And you’re an expert on wire art?’

  ‘No, I’m not an expert, but I do know that it consists of wind chimes, beaded curtains, jewellery and sculptures.’

  ‘So, you’re saying that the killer is a bit of a wire art nut?’

  ‘I’m not saying anything of the sort. The killer could simply have bought a coil of wire at a hardware store.’

  ‘What do you think, Detective Constable Richards?’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I think Paul might be right.’

  ‘Not about the wire. What do you think about the boy being left as if he’s praying?’

  ‘Paul mentioned sculpture. In a way, it’s as if it is a sculpture. It reminds me of a figurine I saw in a shop once.’

  ‘Yes,’ Toadstone said. ‘I think I know the one you mean.’

  ‘I’ve not walked into a meeting of the art appreciation society by mistake, have I?’

  Richards huffed. ‘You asked me what I thought.’

  ‘A mistake I won’t be making again.’

  ‘Huh!’

  ‘Sorry I’m late,’ Doc Riley said as she picked her way over the plastic walkplates placed around the edge of the green.

  ‘Late!’ Parish said. ‘Armageddon has come and gone while we’ve been waiting for you to arrive.’

  ‘Oh dear!’ she said, when she saw how Paul Gifford had been left. ‘Why . . . ?’

  ‘Let’s not get into the why, Doc. What we want to know is how.’

  She shook her head. ‘Yes, knowing why wouldn’t change anything, would it?’

  Parish placed a hand lightly on her shoulder and said, ‘No. The only thing we can do now is bring his killer to justice, and even that won’t change anything. Focus on your job, Doc. The senseless death of a child is merely a grain of sand in the parched desert of humanity.’

  ‘Very poetic, Parish.’

  ‘I have my moments.’

  She walked across the treadplates to the body. ‘I suppose the position he’s been left in means something to you . . . besides the obvious, of course?’

  ‘If it does,’ Richards said. ‘We haven’t worked it out yet.’

  ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but haven’t I seen . . . ?’

  ‘The little figurine?’

  The Doc’s eyes opened wide. ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’s what I said, but his lord and master . . .’

  ‘I hope you’re not referring to me, Richards?’

  ‘As if.’

  Toadstone interrupted. ‘His name is Paul Gifford, he’s nine years old and he crept out of his house at three this morning to collect golf balls.’

  ‘You don’t need me to tell you the time of death then?’

  ‘I think we can work that out for ourselves,’ Parish said. ‘The groundsman found him at approximately twenty to five. It would have taken him about twenty minutes to walk here from his house on Longfield Lane. Let’s say it took him thirty minutes to collect six golf balls, so we’re looking at a time of death roughly between three forty-five and four forty-five.’

  ‘Looks about right,’ Doc Riley said, as she began examining the body. ‘Is that a puncture wound?’

  Toadstone nodded. ‘We think that the killer came up behind him, injected him with a paralytic to knock him unconscious, dragged him across the green from the river bank and then positioned him in the bunker.’

  She lifted his eyelids. ‘Pinpoint pupils.’

  ‘Yes,’ Toadstone agreed.

  ‘The bloodshot eyes are a clear indication that he was suffocated,’ Doc Riley said. ‘Also, there is slight discolouration around the nose and mouth. Yes, cause of death was definitely suffocation, but . . .’ She stood up and walked to the side of the bunker to look at the scene as a whole. ‘. . . I get the feeling that the death of the boy was incidental to the killer creating a work of art.’

  ‘A sculpture?’ Richards offered.

  ‘Yes – like the little figurine.’ She returned to the body and continued her examination. ‘As far as I can see, there are no other wounds . . . Oh!’

  ‘What?’ Parish said, leaning forwards.

  ‘There’s a piece of paper between the boy’s hands.’ She took a pair of tweezers and a plastic evidence bag from her leather case, carefully extracted the paper, slipped it into the bag and passed it to Parish.

  He read the handwritten prayer:

  Now I lay me down to sleep,

  I pray the Lord my soul to keep,

  If I shall die before I wake,

  I pray the Lord my soul to take.

  Amen.

  Chapter Four

  ‘Carrie . . . ? Carrie . . . ?’ The Chief nudged her. ‘Hello! Anyone in there?’

  ‘Oh sorry! I was miles away.’ />
  ‘Lying on an exotic beach in the Indian Ocean with the waves lapping . . . ?’

  She gave half a laugh. ‘I wish.’

  ‘Do you want to share?’

  ‘It’s nothing.’

  ‘But you’d tell me if it was something?’

  ‘Of course. What did you want?’

  ‘The file on wearable video cameras.’

  She slipped her hand into a stack of files and pulled out the one he wanted.

  ‘You should apply to join the Magic Circle.’

  ‘I’ve been a member for years.’

  It wasn’t nothing though, but she couldn’t tell the Chief. She was worried. Maybe “worried” was the wrong word – concerned.

  Jed had checked into Grant Mottram’s background and found nothing, so three weeks ago she had asked him to move in with her and the children – nine year-old Howard, seven year-old Sarah, and Melody who was now thirteen months old. At first, everything had been fine. Grant had made himself at home, and it was as if he’d always been there. He was easy to be with, and they seemed to fit together like adjacent pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.

  Gradually though, things had begun to change. She hadn’t noticed it at first – he was like a mouse nibbling away at the edges of her life. He’d asked her if he could use the garage for his hobby – wildlife photography. His collection of bird photographs were the best she’d ever seen, and she wondered why he was an accountant when he could take such wonderful pictures. Of course, she had agreed. It was only used to store rubbish anyway – remnants of her past. He’d ordered in a skip, and her rubbish had miraculously disappeared.

  Then, he’d spent a couple of nights moving in his photographic equipment and setting up his darkroom. A builder appeared one day, and connected up a sink with drainage while she was at work, put another lock on the connecting door between the kitchen and the garage, and bolts on the inside of the garage up-and-over door.

  She’d laughed and said, ‘You’re hiding a collection of gold bars in there, aren’t you?’

  ‘It’s the chemicals, darling. We wouldn’t want Howard or Sarah swallowing anything by mistake, would we?’

  ‘They wouldn’t.’

  ‘Those locks and bolts will make sure they never do. I couldn’t live with myself if anything happened to them and it was my fault.’