In the Twinkling of an Eye (9781311593672)

by Ellis, Tim

  ‘What about me? Can I come in?’

  ‘Of course you can, but it’s best that you always knock first and wait for me to say, “Come in”. That’s what the red light above the connecting door is for. When that’s on, you definitely can’t come in because I’ll be developing film. If you open the door and let the light in, my photographs will be ruined.’ He had touched her face and neck with his hand. ‘We wouldn’t want that, would we?’

  ‘No, of course not,’ she said. She hadn’t noticed before, but sometimes he could be really cold and creepy.

  He had shown her what he’d done in the garage, and it was certainly impressive. It didn’t look like a garage anymore – it resembled a photographic studio, or at least what she imagined one might look like. Everything was in its place. That’s one thing she could say about Grant – he was neat, and always put things away after himself. In fact, he put things away after her and the children as well – he was very tidy.

  On the second Sunday, he’d asked if she and the children wouldn’t mind accompanying him to church.

  ‘I didn’t know you were a churchgoer.’

  ‘Oh yes, I like to go every now and again – to cleanse the soul, so to speak. And now we’re living together, I think it’s important that we should both go.’

  ‘Yes, of course we’ll come.’

  Howard wasn’t best pleased, but he’d done as he was told.

  She had assumed they were going to the local Church of England church, but instead they travelled a good few miles to St Luke’s Lutheran Church in Ware. Apparently, he was a member and the Pastor knew him well. The Lutherans believed that everyone was a sinner until proven otherwise. Well, she certainly was a sinner that was for sure, but the children hadn’t been given the chance to commit any sins yet.

  ‘You and the children have been baptised, haven’t you?’

  ‘Me, Howard and Sarah have, but Melody hasn’t. Jed’s not much of a believer. I’ll have to speak to him about it.’

  ‘Yes, you do that.’

  On the Monday evening – when they’d sat down at the table for the evening meal – Grant had asked if they could do a bible reading before they ate. She didn’t see the harm in it, and she had to do everything she could to make their relationship work.

  He must have known she’d agree because he already had his bible with him.

  Behold, I tell you a mystery; we will not all sleep, but we will all be changed, in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet; for the trumpet will sound, and the dead will be raised imperishable, and we will be changed . . .

  1 Corinthians 15:51-52

  Howard and Sarah had given her a quick glance, but neither of them dared to ask what the reading meant, which was probably a good thing, because she had no idea, and Grant would have rambled on for ages if they had asked. After that, he had read a passage from the bible every day before the evening meal.

  Once the meal was over, and while she was clearing up and putting the children to bed, he’d spend a couple of hours in his “studio”, which is what they now called the garage, working on his photography.

  Things were going just fine. After her first husband’s betrayal it was understandable that she was cautious. It would take a while for her to get used to living with a man again.

  Maybe she’d been too hasty in asking him to move in with her and the children, but it was too late now – he’d made her house his home, and her garage his hideaway.

  Yes, she was being silly. Everything would be fine. She just had to adjust to his ways. And she’d speak to Jed about baptising Melody at the weekend when he came to pick her up.

  ***

  ‘How’s Jenifer?’

  ‘Great.’

  They were on their way to see Clarice Kennedy’s parents – Walter and Dorothy – at 15 Malting’s Lane in Hadham Cross.

  Bromley Lane – leading to and from Nine Acre Wood – had suffered during the winter rains, and now resembled a dirt track from an off-road driving competition. Because of the farms beyond the wood, it was used on a regular basis by farm vehicles such as tractors, four-by-four Grizzleys and bean harvesters, and was now full of inclines, ditches and furrows. Xena felt like a passenger in a rally-cross car, but without the protective helmet or proper seat belt.

  ‘This is hardly doing my recovery from a near--death experience much good, you know,’ she said, clinging onto the door handle with her left hand and pushing back on the dashboard with her other.

  ‘Sorry.’

  At last they reached the main road and turned left towards Hadham Cross.

  ‘When are you taking Jenifer on holiday again?’

  ‘In September, after the children have gone back to school.’

  ‘You don’t like children?’

  ‘Not other peoples’ children.’

  ‘Have you got some of your own?’

  ‘You know I haven’t.’

  ‘I thought I knew everything about you before, but you had a box full of secrets. For all I know you could have a whole horde of offspring like Genghis Khan.’

  ‘I have no children.’

  ‘What about secrets?’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘Do you have any more secrets?’

  ‘Why are you asking?’

  ‘That’s not the right answer, Sticky wicket. You’re meant to say that you’re secretless.’

  ‘I’m secretless.’

  ‘Why don’t I believe you?’

  ‘Because you’re paranoid.’

  ‘Look me in the eye and tell me that you’re secretless.’

  ‘I can’t do that.’

  ‘Won’t?’

  ‘Can’t – I’m driving.’

  ‘I knew it. Well, don’t think I’m going to save you the next time some men in black come knocking at your door.’

  Stick parked up outside the Malting’s Dog Kennels. Getting out of the car they could hear barking like an unfinished rhapsody by an out-of-tune ensemble that had forgotten the words.

  They walked down the gravel tree-lined path to the office.

  A thin grey-haired woman with a pinched face was standing behind the counter shuffling papers. She looked up as they stepped through the door. ‘Yes, how can I help you?’ She was pale and had the look of someone who’d had more than enough tranquilisers. The lines and creases etched into her forehead, and around her eyes and mouth told the story of her life much better than any words could have done.

  ‘Mrs Dorothy Kennedy?’ Stick asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  He showed his warrant card, ‘DS Gilbert . . . and this is DI Blake,’ he added, indicating Xena. ‘Is there somewhere we can go?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘We need to talk to you and your husband.’

  Her knuckles turned ivory white as she gripped the wooden counter. ‘You’ve found her, haven’t you?’

  ‘Is your husband about?’

  ‘He’s gone to the Cash and Carry. He won’t be back for at least an hour.’

  ‘Yes, we’ve found your daughter.’

  Tears ran down her face. ‘She’s dead, isn’t she?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Is there someone . . .’

  ‘No, it’s just me and my husband now. Clarice used to help out when she wasn’t at Ware College or day-dreaming about becoming a celebrity . . .’ She crumpled to the floor like a leaking balloon, and sobbed as if she’d never stop. ‘Are you sure it’s Clarice? Maybe it’s someone who looks . . .’

  Stick moved to the other side of the counter, squatted and tried to comfort the poor woman by putting a hand on her shoulder. ‘we’re sure.’

  ‘Oh God! My poor Clarice. She was so beautiful. Where did you find her?’

  ‘Nine Acre Wood.’

  ‘Is that where she’s been all this time?’

  ‘There’s a lot we don’t know yet.’

  ‘But what do you know?’

  ‘Not very much.’

  ‘She was raped, wasn’t she? I�
�m her mother, I deserve to know.’

  He looked at Xena.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Xena said. ‘Yes, your daughter was raped.’

  ‘But why has it taken you all this time to find her?’

  ‘That’s one of the things we don’t know yet. Do you want to call your husband and ask him to come back?’

  ‘Yes. We’ll have to shut the kennels until after we bury . . .’ She began sobbing again. ‘My lovely, Clarice. Who would do something like that to her’

  Stick squeezed her shoulder. ‘We’ll try our very best to find the person responsible, Mrs Kennedy.’

  Xena picked up the phone on the counter. ‘Should I call your husband?’

  Numbers spilled from the woman’s mouth.

  Xena pressed the numeric keys on her Blackberry.

  ‘Have you forgotten to write something on the list . . . ?’ a man’s voice asked.

  ‘Mr Kennedy?’

  ‘Yes. Who’s that?’

  ‘Detective Inspector Blake. I’m at . . .’

  ‘It’s Clarice, isn’t it?’

  ‘It would help if you could come back to the kennels now.’

  ‘I’m on my way. I’ll be there in ten minutes.’

  The call ended.

  As Stick helped Mrs Kennedy into a rattan chair, Xena said, ‘He’s on his way.’

  ‘I don’t know what to do now,’ Clarice’s mother said to them. ‘What do I do now? I had a hysterectomy after Clarice was born – she was my only child. Everything was for her. Who is it all for now?’

  ‘It’ll take time,’ Stick said. ‘But you’ll come to terms with what has happened.’

  She turned on him. ‘Come to terms with my daughter’s rape and murder? I don’t want to come to terms with it. I want to find the evil fucking bastard who did it, cut off his penis and watch him bleed to death. You can’t imagine how angry and empty I feel. Even if you catch him, it won’t mean anything. He’ll be locked up for a few years, but he’ll still be alive, won’t he? My Clarice is never coming home again.’

  Xena called the station for a Victim Support Officer to attend.

  Mrs Kennedy didn’t say anything else, and shortly afterwards her husband – an overweight man with a goatee beard, and hair that had been gelled and combed straight back – appeared.

  He went to comfort his wife, but she shrugged him off.

  ‘I want to see her,’ Mrs Kennedy said.

  ‘We’ll need you to formally identify your daughter before the post mortem . . .’

  ‘I don’t want anybody cutting Clarice open . . .’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s the law. You want us to catch . . .’

  ‘I’ve told you what I want. If you can’t give me that, then I’m not interested.’

  ‘A Victim Support Officer will be here shortly. She’ll arrange with the hospital for you to go and see your daughter.’

  They left the Kennedys with their life in tatters.

  ‘That was awful,’ Stick said.

  ‘Are you glad we’re back now?’

  ‘No. Now, I wish I’d gone on holiday.’

  ***

  ‘What is it, Sir?’ Richards asked.

  He passed the evidence bag to her and she read the prayer. ‘Oh! This isn’t good, is it?’

  ‘It could just be a one-off.’

  ‘You know it isn’t.’

  ‘I don’t know anything of the sort, Richards. You see serial killers under every rock we turn over. And as for a female serial killer, they’re rarer than William Shakespeare’s signature.’

  ‘What makes you say that?‘

  ‘Because there are only six of them in . . .’

  ‘No. I mean about a female serial killer.’

  ‘You tell me – you’re the world’s expert on serial killers? How many female serial killers have there been in the last twenty years?’

  ‘There was the Barraza woman in Mexico who killed over eleven old women for their money and . . .’

  ‘She was a wrestler, a lesbian and because of the over-abundance of testosterone looked more like a man than a woman.’

  ‘What about the one in Australia who smothered her own children and . . .’

  ‘She stopped after four because she ran out of children.’

  ‘Also . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Well, if you’d said in the past thirty years I could have had Aileen Wuornos . . .’

  ‘No cheating. Aileen Wuornos is outside the time-frame. So, all you could come up with was two barely legal females who lived on the other side of the world. Hardly convincing evidence, Richards.’

  ‘Ooh! There’s that woman who’s been arrested in Stockport for killing eight patients in Stepping Hill Hospital.’

  ‘It’s a man.’

  ‘No . . . are you sure?’

  ‘They did arrest a woman, but they let her go. Now they’ve arrested a man, but even if it was a woman it doesn’t count because no one has been charged yet.’

  ‘I could have sworn it was a woman.’

  ‘So, your cupboard is bare.’

  ‘If we were looking at female serial killers in history . . .’

  ‘But we’re not. And anyway, most of them were Angels of Death or Black Widows. Only men kill for no particular reason.’

  ‘This could be an Angel of Death murder.’

  ‘I’m not averse to that idea, but I need more than a partial shoeprint to convince me it was a female. And not only that, we have one death, so any discussion of a serial killer – male or female – is premature to say the least. Also, you forgot about the woman with the knife who said she’d killed three men . . .’

  ‘I knew there was someone else.’

  ‘Except, she was helped by men.’

  ‘Well, if we’re taking partnerships into consideration . . .’

  ‘We’re not.’

  ‘Oh!’

  Parish turned back to the pathologist. ‘Anything else, Doc?’

  ‘Post mortem at eleven o’clock tomorrow morning. I’ll meet you in the cafeteria at twelve-thirty and give you the report. It’s your turn . . .’

  ‘My turn?’

  ‘Definitely your turn.’

  ‘Are you sure? Wasn’t it my turn last time, Richards?’

  ‘I can’t remember.’

  ‘I have the feeling you’re taking advantage of my good nature, Doc. Maybe it’s Richards’ turn . . .’

  ‘I don’t have turns.’

  ‘Maybe . . .’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Well, at least make a note that I’ll pay this time, but it’s Doc Riley’s turn next time.’

  ‘I’ll try.’

  ‘What about you, Toadstone?’

  ‘It’s not my turn.’

  ‘Have you got anything else for us?’

  ‘Three o’clock tomorrow afternoon.’

  ‘Is that your final word on the subject?’

  He nodded

  ‘Right Richards, let’s go and speak to the boy’s parents then.’

  ‘Can I drive the buggy?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Please.’

  He passed her the key. ‘If you kill a senior officer you’ll be in serious trouble . . .’

  She laughed, ran towards the buggy and slid into the driving seat. ‘I thought you went a little too slow getting here.’

  ‘Is that right?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘You’ll soon discover that it only has one speed – slow.’

  ‘Oh!’

  They returned the buggy to the clubhouse and picked up the list of golf club members and staff from the manager – Mr Hunter.

  ‘Can I have my golf course back now?’

  ‘If I were you Mr Hunter, I’d go and speak to the Head of Forensics – Dr Paul Toadstone. He’s in charge, and might be able to give you a better idea about when they’ll finish their examination of the area.’

  ‘I thought you were in charge.’

  ‘Of the investigation,
but the crime scene . . .’

  ‘Oh, okay.’

  As they walked back to the car Richards said, ‘Paul won’t let him have his golf course back without your say-so.’

  ‘I know that, you know that, but Mr Hunter doesn’t know that.’

  ‘He soon will.’

  ‘You didn’t tell me you had a personal diary,’ Parish said once they were heading out of the golf club.

  ‘It’s none of your business.’

  ‘Am I mentioned in it?’

  She hesitated. ‘No.’

  ‘You lie like a cheap Mongolian watch. I hope it’s not one of those “tell-all” diaries?’

  ‘As I’ve already made quite clear – it’s none of your business.’

  ‘Is it a handwritten diary? Or an electronic one? Have you taken a copy just in case?’

  ‘In case of what?’

  ‘It gets into the wrong hands.’

  ‘The only wrong hands it could get into would be yours.’

  ‘What have you said about me?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Nothing?’

  ‘That’s right – nothing.’

  ‘I see.’

  Chapter Five

  They stopped off at the Green Man in Widford before going to interview Clarice Kennedy’s dance teacher – Bernadette Jodh – at the Rhythm Stick Dance Studio on Bell Lane.

  ‘Isn’t it your turn to pay?’ Stick asked as they sat down at a table next to a window overlooking the car park.

  ‘My turn? Mmmm! Let me see. I ignore my own health and save your life from my hospital bed; against my better judgement I offer to take you back as my partner even though you’re a rubbish detective; I dance with the devil to find out who . . .’

  ‘I’ll pay, shall I?’

  ‘That would be good.’

  ‘You’re never going to let me forget it, are you?’

  ‘I’ve heard that never is a very long time, you know.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve heard that as well.’

  Stick ordered the southern fried chicken with fries, BBQ dip and buttered peas. Xena had the creamy cauliflower cheese, baby potatoes and green beans.

  The orange juice arrived just before the food.

  ‘She was gang-raped, wasn’t she?’ Stick said.