In the Twinkling of an Eye (9781311593672)

by Ellis, Tim

  ‘Looks that way, and some bright spark thought they’d destroy all the forensic evidence by hosing her down with bleach.’

  ‘They probably have.’

  ‘We’ll catch the bastards.’

  ‘It would be good . . .’

  Xena licked the orange juice from her lips and said, ‘Don’t even go there, Stick. Vigilante justice has never been the answer, as you very well know to your cost.’

  ‘Sometimes though . . .’

  ‘Justice is all or nothing.’

  ‘It doesn’t have to be. Some crimes . . .’

  ‘How many innocent people have been wrongfully executed in this country?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Five? Ten, Fifty? A hundred?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘The Criminal Cases Review Commission recently pardoned one person and exonerated three others who were executed between 1950 and 1953. That’s one a year from an average of seventeen hangings per year. Do you think it’s morally defensible to execute one innocent person to get sixteen guilty ones.’

  ‘Well no, but . . .’

  ‘Miscarriages of justice occur all the time, that’s why the death penalty was abolished on December 16, 1969.’

  ‘So you don’t believe in an eye-for-an-eye?’

  ‘I didn’t say that. If it was up to me, I’d hang the fucking bastards up by their bollocks and stick searing hot skewers through their eyeballs.’

  ‘But you said . . .’

  ‘I’m feeling hormonal today, so you probably don’t want to listen to a word I say.’

  The Rhythm Stick Dance Studio had a sprung wooden floor, so that the shoppers in the three shops beneath the studio couldn’t hear the tip-tap-tapping of dancers under instruction.

  Bernadette Jodh might have looked the part thirty years ago, but now she looked anything but. The collection of wrinkles on her face and neck, and the liver spots on the backs of her hands suggested that she was probably in her early sixties, but she had jet black hair cut in a page boy style and what appeared to be the body of a twenty year-old hidden under a black top and slacks.

  There were two middle-aged women in leotards and tights at the far end of the room practising spins, turns and kicks.

  Xena produced her warrant card, while Stick had wandered over to the other side of the room and was admiring himself in the full-length mirror that stretched the whole length of the wall.

  ‘We’d like to ask you some questions about Clarice Kennedy.’

  ‘I heard on the news that you’d found a body in Nine Acre Wood.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is it Clarice?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  She shook her head, pulled a tissue from beneath her sleeve and dabbed at her eyes. ‘I don’t know what the world’s coming to. Clarice was one of my best students. Even though she started late, she had a natural ability. I had high hopes for her.’

  ‘Did she say anything to you?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Whether anybody had been following her? If she was scared at all? Or, if she was worried about going home alone?’

  ‘No, nothing like that. We didn’t have that type of relationship.’

  ‘Was there anybody here who had . . . ?’

  ‘Absolutely not. I run a . . .’

  ‘You don’t need to get defensive, Mrs Jodh . . .’

  ‘Miss – I never married. Oh, and don’t think I didn’t have hundreds of offers and liaisons – I did, but . . .’

  ‘I’m sure. We’ll need a client list.’

  ‘Aren’t there laws about that? Don’t you need a warrant, or something?’

  ‘No, but I thought you’d want to help us find . . .’

  ‘All right, I’ll provide you with my client list. Do you want it now?’

  ‘Yes please.’

  The woman disappeared into a small office.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’ she said to Stick.

  ‘I was wondering if I should take up dancing. What do you think?’

  ‘I think your artistic ambitions would be better served by voluntarily signing yourself into Broadmoor.’

  ‘I could be the next Rudolf Nureyev.’

  ‘You’ve got more chance of becoming one of Santa’s reindeers.’

  Bernadette Jodh reappeared with a list of her clients and handed them to Xena. ‘I’m sure you’ll find nothing untoward in my client list.’

  ‘Did Clarice have any friends here?’

  ‘Friends? What type of friends do you mean?’

  ‘Anyone she might have confided in?’

  ‘Charlene. They used to talk together during rest periods, but I don’t know whether you’d call them friends. Clarice joined me nine months ago – Charlene six. Clarice took Charlene under her wing and showed her the ropes.’

  Xena began leafing through the list.

  ‘Kelly,’ Jodh said. ‘Charlene Kelly.’

  ‘Do you know if they met outside the dance classes?’

  ‘I have no idea. They used to leave together though.’

  ‘What about male dancers?’

  ‘No . . . I had some on my books in the past, but they were more trouble than they were worth. I gave up teaching males about five years ago.’

  ‘How was Clarice on that night?’

  ‘Same as always. She came in, gave me a hundred percent effort, and then left.’

  ‘With Charlene Kelly?’

  ‘Yes, Charlene was here that night as well.’

  ‘Thank you, Miss Jodh.’ She turned to Stick, who was hanging onto the handrail in front of the mirror doing lunges like a ballerina. ‘Have you got any questions, Rudolf?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘My partner sees himself as the next Rudolf Nureyev – what do you think?’

  ‘He’s certainly thin enough, but too old and . . . well, he hasn’t really got the looks or the physique to be honest.’

  ‘My thoughts exactly. Come on Rudolf Stickyev, we have work to do.’

  ***

  It took Richards less than ten minutes to drive round to 37 Longfield Lane, which snaked through the Flamstead End estate like the main artery of a living entity, and in a way it was.

  The press – as usual – had beaten them there, and it crossed his mind that maybe journalists should be employed as police informers. Also, a group of “concerned” neighbours had appeared to find out what was going on. It wasn’t a crime scene, and even though there was a uniformed officer outside the front door, he had no power to keep anyone back except the power of common decency.

  ‘Inspector – can you tell us . . . ?’

  He held up a hand. ‘There’ll be a press briefing at four o’clock at the station. In the meantime, I’d very much appreciate it if you showed a degree of respect and afforded the family their privacy – thank you.’

  It didn’t stop them from continuing to shout questions at him as they walked down the path and knocked on the front door of the three bedroom semi-detached house.

  Natalie McMullen – a Victim Support Officer from a private company who they’d worked with before – opened the door.

  ‘Hello, Natalie,’ he said, as he stepped inside.

  ‘Hello, Inspector Parish and Constable Richards . . .’

  ‘. . . Detective Constable.’

  ‘Really?’ Natalie smiled. ‘Congratulations.’

  Natalie was one of those people who looked as though she’d been cobbled together by a mad scientist using spare parts that nobody else wanted – nothing seemed to fit properly. She had dirty blonde hair, more teeth in her mouth than looked natural, her eyes were too far apart, her nose too long, one ear was more bat-like than the other, and her large drooping breasts looked as though they’d once belonged to a wet-nurse from the Victorian era.

  ‘Thank you,’ Richards said.

  ‘How are they?’ he asked, nodding his head towards the innards of the house.

  She shrugged. ‘What you’d expect, I’m afraid.
The mother is taking it very badly, but they always do, don’t they? It’s always the women who suffer the most.’

  Parish led the way down the hallway and into the living room. The television was on the BBC News channel, but it had been turned to mute. The ticker-tape of “Breaking News” reported that the body of a nine year-old boy had been found on a golf course in Essex.

  The patio door was wide open, and apart from a cocker spaniel who came to greet them, life at number 37 had come to a standstill.

  Parish bent down to stroke the cocker spaniel’s head.

  ‘His name’s Tiger,’ a girl of about fifteen said. ‘It’s Paul’s . . . was Paul’s dog.’ She burst into tears.

  He sat down on a hard chair by the patio door and stroked the dog under the chin.

  Annette and Linford Gifford were sitting on the sofa. Annette was comforting her daughter Lucy, and three year-old Malcolm was racing his toy cars in a sandpit in the back garden – he’d created a race track with crash barriers, trees and spectators.

  Parish produced his warrant card. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Parish, and this is Detective Constable Richards . . .’

  ‘You’ve just come from the golf course, haven’t you?’ Mr Gifford asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You saw Paul?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How was he? I mean . . . did they?’

  ‘No. I need to ask you some questions, if that’s all right.’

  Linford nodded, but Annette and Lucy cried quietly.

  ‘Did Paul often sneak out at that time of the morning . . .’

  ‘Twice a week – Monday and Friday. We told him not to, but what can you do? We thought it would affect his school work and we’d stop it then, but it didn’t so we let it slide.’

  ‘And he went to the same place each time?’

  ‘The fourteenth hole. He’d asked around. That’s where the golfers lost all their balls. You know about his business, don’t you?’

  ‘Business?’

  Linford turned to look at Malcolm, and to push back the tears. ‘Paul was our little entrepreneur. He ran an online golf shop, turned over five hundred pounds a week – sometimes more.’

  ‘That’s a lot of money for a nine year-old,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, he didn’t make that selling second-hand gold balls – that was just a minor part of the business. He had a whole catalogue of golf clothing and equipment. People would order something from him, he’d place his own order for the item with another seller. When it arrived, he’d re-package it and send it on. He made his money by adding ten percent and charging extra for the postage. Paul was on his way to earning his first million.’

  ‘First million?’

  ‘He used some of the money for his golf lessons with the pro-instructor at the club – Peter Harris, and the rest went straight into his high-interest savings account.’

  ‘How much did he have in his account?’

  ‘Last count – four hundred and thirty-three thousand pounds.’

  Parish’s eyes opened wide. ‘That is a lot of money.’

  ‘It is, isn’t it?’ Linford said with pride in his voice. ‘Paul knew exactly what he wanted to do with his life. As soon as he was legally able, he would have turned professional – golf was his life.’

  ‘And now he hasn’t got a life,’ Mrs Gifford sobbed. ‘Who did this, Inspector?’

  He sat forward, resting his forearms on his thighs and interlocking his fingers. ‘Here’s what we know, but you shouldn’t tell anyone else outside this room.’ He looked at them for confirmation that they understood.

  They nodded.

  ‘Someone came up behind him while he was fishing for golf balls in the river, and injected him in the neck with a drug to make him unconscious. They then suffocated him, so he wouldn’t have known what was happening, or felt anything.’

  ‘Why?’ Mrs Gifford asked. ‘What for?’

  ‘We don’t know yet, but he was left in a praying position in the sand bunker. His hands had been wired together with copper wire . . .’ He showed them what he meant. ‘. . . and a prayer – written on paper – was slipped between his hands.’ He glanced at Richards.

  She pulled out her notebook and read the prayer out loud.

  ‘Does any of that mean anything to you?’

  They looked at each other and shook their heads.

  ‘Okay, this is what’s going to happen now. Our forensic people will be here soon to take Paul’s computer away . . . I’m guessing he did have his own computer?’

  ‘Yes,’ Mr Gifford said. ‘In his bedroom.’

  Parish nodded. ‘They’ll also be looking for anything that might provide us with a lead. I know this is a very difficult time for all of you, but certain things are required to happen. First, one of you will need to formally identify Paul at the hospital . . .’

  ‘I’ll come and do that,’ Linford Gifford said. ‘Paul would have expected it of me.’

  Annette interrupted him, ‘I want to see Paul . . .’

  ‘There’ll be an opportunity afterwards to say goodbye to Paul, Mrs Gifford,’ Parish said. ‘We need to get the formalities out of the way before that. Also, there’ll need to be a post mortem . . .’

  ‘You’re going to cut him open?’ Lucy asked.

  ‘It’s the law, I’m afraid. Now, I’d like to take a look at Paul’s bedroom, if that’s all right with you?’

  Annette moved to get up.

  He held out his hand to stop her. ‘I’ll find it. While I’m doing that, I’d like you to give DC Richards a list of people who might be able to throw some light on what has happened – his school teacher, bank manager, financial advisor, best friends, close relatives, golf instructor, playing partners . . . Anyone who came into contact with Paul over the past three months. Did Paul keep a diary?’

  Linford nodded. ‘Had to. It’s in his bedroom as well. In-between his golf lessons, his schooling and his business – he attended tournaments at weekends . . .’ Paul’s father covered his face with his hands and sobbed. ‘What will I do at weekends now?’

  As he stood up he said to Richards, ‘People tend to focus on men. Make sure the list includes any women he came into contact with as well.’

  Richards nodded.

  He made his way up the stairs.

  Usually, he would have asked them for alibis, but there seemed little point – they had all been in bed at that time of the morning. None of the family had killed Paul Gifford. The boy was a business and golfing prodigy – everything a son should be – and he had left the house with the agreement of his parents. Whoever had killed Paul Gifford resided outside the family.

  What was the motive for such a callous crime? Why had Paul Gifford been chosen? He ran down the possible motives for murder. Was it jealousy? The boy appeared to be gifted in a number of areas. Was somebody jealous enough to kill because of it? Was it revenge? Was it the money? Five hundred pounds a week was a lot of money for a nine year-old boy. Was someone trying to take it away from him? Was it one of his business clients? Surely, a damaged golf club or torn golf shirt weren’t worth killing for – were they? Was it about something completely different? Or none of those?

  Why had he been left in a praying position? It was clearly a premeditated murder – the killer had the syringe, the needle, the drug and the copper wire with them, not to mention the prayer written on a piece of paper. Did any of that fit into the common motives for murder? Or was it a senseless murder dreamt up in the crazed mind of a psychopath?

  It wasn’t hard to find Paul’s bedroom. On the door was a sign that read: Gone Golfing.

  He went inside.

  Tiger Woods was clearly his hero. There were Tiger posters on the wall, a Tiger rug, and a Tiger quilt cover and pillow.

  Standing there, he thought of Jack. Would Jack have any special talents? Did it matter? You had what you were born with – nothing more, nothing less. The trick was making the most of what you did have. Certainly, Paul Gifford had grabbed his oppo
rtunities with both hands, and now he was dead. In the end, did anything matter?

  He went back downstairs.

  ‘Finished?’ he asked Richards.

  She nodded.

  He passed Mr Gifford a business card. ‘If there’s anything I can do to make things easier – give me a call.’

  ‘Thanks, Inspector.’

  They made their way outside.

  The forensic team were just arriving.

  ‘Limit your search to the boy’s bedroom,’ Parish said to the officer in front. ‘I want the computer and the diary, and anything else with a name on it.’

  The man nodded and carried on towards the house.

  The press threw questions at him as he passed, but he ignored them.

  ‘What do you think, Richards?’ he asked as they climbed into the car.

  ‘I think that you think it’s no one in the family.’

  ‘That’s very astute of you.’

  ‘I also think that I should have some business cards now that I’m a Detective Constable.’

  ‘Oh, you do, do you?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘You know the procedure – put in a request in triplicate, and I’ll get to it when I get to it.’

  ‘The Court of Human Rights has asked me to work for them as an undercover operative.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘And you’re my first case.’

  ‘Make sure you spell my name right.’

  ‘You’re a pig.’

  ‘I thought it was human rights – not animal rights.’

  ‘Where are we going next?’

  ‘Back to the golf club to speak to the boy’s golf instructor – Peter Harris. We can have lunch in the bar as well.’

  Chapter Six

  While they waited for Peter Harris to finish his golfing lesson with a female client, they went into the nineteenth hole.

  Parish ordered the Golfer’s Grill, and Richards had the smoked salmon served on a bagel.

  ‘Orange juice and a pineapple juice,’ he said to the barman as Richards returned from the outside veranda.

  ‘Why do all the tables on the veranda have a “Reserved” sign on them?’ she asked the barman.

  ‘Committee members.’