by Ellis, Tim
‘But they’re not here.’
‘If they do come into the bar, they like to sit outside and watch golfers on the eighteenth green. One of the perks of being on the committee.’
‘So, where are they now?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘Are they here in the club?’
‘They don’t usually attend on a weekday unless it’s a special occasion.’
‘So those tables are “Reserved” for people who aren’t going to use them?’
‘Yes.’
‘What about all the club members and people like us who want to sit outside?’
‘They can’t – they have to sit inside. But as you can see, on sweltering days like today, we have the doors open.’
‘What would happen if somebody decided to sit outside?’
‘I’d have to call security and the person would probably be evicted from the club.’
‘Just for sitting at a table that nobody uses?’
He shrugged and said, ‘Club rules, I’m afraid.’ He put their drinks on the bar. ‘That’ll be eighteen pounds thirty, Sir.’
Parish gave him a twenty. ‘Keep the change.’
‘Very generous. Where will you be sitting?’
‘Outside,’ Richards said.
Parish nudged her. ‘No we won’t.’
Richards grabbed her drink and said, ‘Yes we will. Come on.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Are you scared of breaking the rules?’
‘They have rules for a reason.’
‘Not as far as I can see. The “Reserved” signs are just so that the stuck-up committee members can have the best seats on the rare occasions that they do come in.’
‘That’s a reason, isn’t it?’
The barman cleared his throat. ‘I’ll have to call security, Miss.’
‘You do that,’ she said with an air of nonchalance, and then strode outside and parked herself at a table.’
Four golfers had reached the eighteenth green. One of them was making a putt, but overshot the hole by a good three feet.
Parish stood with his back to the veranda wooden railings. ‘Why did you have to do it? We could have had a lovely quiet lunch inside. There would have been a cool Atlantic breeze whistling through the bar, and we could have talked about the case . . .’
‘We still can. I just don’t see why . . .’
‘Now you’re in trouble.’ He nodded towards two burly men in tight blue shirts clomping through the bar.
‘I’m afraid these tables are reserved, Sir.’
‘I’m not sitting at a table.’
‘No, but your . . . lady friend is.’
He took out his warrant card. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Parish, and my “lady friend” that you’re referring to is Detective Constable Richards. We’re investigating the boy’s murder on the fourteenth green.’
‘You still can’t sit at these tables, Sir.’
Richards picked up the plastic “Reserved” sign and tossed it along the veranda. ‘I’m staying here.’
One of the security men moved towards her. ‘Then I’m afraid I’ll have to . . .’
‘If you touch me, I’ll arrest you for assaulting a police officer.’
He stopped and looked at his mate.
Parish took a slurp of his orange juice and then said, ‘My advice is to talk to Mr Hunter the manager before you do something you might regret. Not only will you two be spending time in the cells at Hoddesdon Police Station for obstructing two police officers in the performance of their duties, but I might have to shut down the whole golf club and call in the Fraud Squad.’
‘We’ll be back,’ the wider and uglier of the two said.
Mr Hunter arrived shortly afterwards. ‘You’re determined to make my life miserable, aren’t you?’
‘It’s not about you, Mr Hunter,’ Richards answered him. ‘It’s about human decency, equality and a classless society.’
His brow furrowed. ‘I thought it was about the murder of a little boy on the fourteenth green.’
‘Well yes . . . it’s about that as well.’
Parish chipped in. ‘We simply want to sit here and talk in private about the case. Is that all right with you, Mr Hunter?’
His lips became pencil-thin across his face. ‘I suppose so.’
‘There we are then – all sorted.’
As Hunter walked back through the bar, they saw him explain the situation to the barman, shrug and head for the door.
‘You . . .’ Parish aimed at Richards.
‘Yes?’
‘. . . Are a Detective Constable.’
She grinned. ‘I know. I love being . . .’
‘. . . You are not a freedom fighter for the rights of women, humanity in general, or the Workers Party.’
‘But . . .’
‘We’re here to investigate the case of a murdered child, and we need people to cooperate. Stomping all over their rules like Che Guevara is not the correct way to go about improving public trust in the police.’
‘But . . .’
‘No buts. Here’s our food coming. Let’s enjoy our meal while you dissect the case.’
The waiter put the plates down on the table.
‘Knives and forks, condiments, napkins?’ Richards asked him.
He pulled a face, turned on his heel and returned shortly afterwards with the items. ‘Bon appetite,’ he said and left.
‘Why is it always me who has to dissect the case?’ Richards said.
‘Do you see anybody else here?’
‘You?’
‘Ah! You think the Detective Inspector, the senior officer, the big cheese should do all the work while you sit around improving your tan?’
‘That seems like . . .’
‘You think you have nothing else to learn just because your professional development portfolio met the minimum standards and I signed off on it because I felt sorry for you, don’t you?’
‘Minimum standards?’
‘Barely.’
‘You’re a liar. I bet it was the best . . ..’
‘I’m sure there are rules about Detective Constables . . .’
She blew a raspberry through her lips. ‘You know what I think of rules.’
‘I see. Well young lady – if I should still call you that after what you just did – your learning has only just begun. If you want to become even a half-decent detective you need to knuckle down, buckle under, put your nose to the grindstone . . .’
‘Is that right?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘Who was Che Guevara?’
‘A Victorian who invented chocolate ice cream.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. So, tell me about the case.’
‘Paul Gifford – a nine year-old boy – crept out of his house at three o’clock this morning . . .’
‘Did his parents know?’
‘Yes, they knew he regularly went to the river at the fourteenth green to collect golf balls.’
‘Why did he do that?’
‘He was golf mad.’
‘And?’
‘He sold the used balls online.’
‘Okay. Do you think the killer targeted Paul Gifford specifically?’
Richards screwed up her face. ‘It’s definitely a possibility. I mean, why him? I can’t imagine that he was a random victim at three in the morning on the fourteenth green of a golf course. Somebody knew that he came here on Monday and Friday mornings. They were waiting for him, and came prepared with a needle and syringe, the paralytic drug, the copper wire and the prayer written on the piece of paper – it was a planned murder.’
‘You ask, “Why him?” Could money have been the motive?’
‘No.’
‘Why not? He could have refused to pay, and . . .’
Richards shook her head. ‘No. He would have told someone – his mum, dad or older sister. He was an intelligent boy.’
‘Was it someone he met on
line?’
‘Possibly, but we have to ask ourselves – who knew he came here on Monday and Friday mornings?’
‘And what’s the answer?’
‘Maybe he let someone know online that he came here.’
‘Or he told his friends and they told other people,’ Parish suggested.
‘His schoolteachers might have known.’
‘Or his relatives, which brings us to the list you made. Who’s on it?’
She produced her notebook, opened it up at the two pages of names that she’d written and passed it to him.’
He glanced down the list and each person’s relationship with Paul Gifford. ‘These are our suspects. The killer could be one of these people.’
Richards didn’t say anything.
‘You don’t think so?’
‘I keep thinking about the motive. Why kill Paul Gifford? All right, he was an unusually talented boy, but why would someone want to kill him? And then if they did, why make his murder so elaborate? I mean, the killer could have taken his life anywhere, and simply left the body where it dropped.’
‘You think it’s a serial killer, don’t you?’
‘Yes. The murder has some of the characteristics of an organised serial killer – it was planned, the victim was vulnerable, the crime scene was arranged, and the killer appears to have a knowledge of forensics.’
‘You think you’re so smart, don’t you? Well, you skipped over some characteristics. The killer didn’t abduct the victim . . .’
‘They didn’t need to.’
‘The body wasn’t disposed of . . .’
‘I think that’s because the killer is sending us a message.’
‘Such as?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Something you don’t know – I’m shocked.’
‘I could speculate. I know you don’t want to believe that the killer might be a woman, but there was a gentleness in the way that Paul Gifford was murdered. He wasn’t sexually assaulted, nor was he physically abused after death in any way.’
‘That could be explained by the perpetrator being someone who was close to Paul – such as a relative. The position he was left in and the prayer between his hands might be a way of the killer trying to atone for the sin of murder, or mitigating their guilt.’
Richards massaged the gold stud in her right ear. ‘Maybe we need the help of a psychological profiler.’
‘Or . . . maybe we need to keep our feet firmly on the ground. Do you know how much those people cost? I know you’d like every case to involve a serial killer, but sometimes murders are simple, textbook, open and shut. As it stands, we have one murder . . . all right, I’ll agree that it’s slightly unusual, but it’s one murder – not two, not three – one. Here comes the Chief Constable . . .’
She looked round. ‘Where?’
‘Metaphorically speaking.’
‘You’re trying to give me a heart attack, aren’t you?’
‘Statistically, there’s more chance of you being hit by a meteor made of strawberry cheesecake from outer space than you having a heart attack at twenty-two years of age. So, the Chief Constable is here, and he wants to know why you’re not following basic detective procedures, DC Richards.’
‘I am.’
‘You have one victim, and yet you’re ignoring a comprehensive list of suspects to search for a serial killer. You haven’t received and assessed all the forensic and other available evidence yet, but you’ve made up your mind that the perpetrator is a serial killer . . .’
‘Yes, but . . .’
‘I haven’t finished yet.’
‘Sorry.’
‘. . . There’s been no post mortem, you haven’t interviewed any possible suspects, you haven’t begun to explore the background or the circumstances surrounding Paul Gifford’s death, you haven’t even given this case a crime reference number for goodness sake, and yet you want to cast all that aside to hunt for a female serial killer – a being so rare that you’d have more luck tracking down a yeti in Tibet. The Chief Constable is waiting for an answer, DC Richards. He has your promotion to Detective Constable in one hand, and a number for the Job Centre queue in the other hand – what do you tell him?’
‘How many people are there before me in the Job Centre queue?’
‘One. No . . . they’re standing up . . . your number is flashing in green on the LED screen. The woman looks tired and impatient, she hasn’t had any lunch – it’s now or . . .’
‘Is now a good time?’
Parish stood up and offered his hand. ‘Mr Harris – take a seat.’
***
Jessica Curry lived in Much Hadham, but worked as a receptionist and general dogsbody at Country Mile Catering on Drury Lane in Hunsdon.
The industrial unit had a flat roof, vehicular loading access, and an orange and silver colour scheme. As they walked up the three concrete steps and pressed the intercom button next to the door, they noticed a red 50cc sports scooter parked outside.
‘Yes?’
‘Detective Inspector Blake and DS Gilbert to see Jessica Curry.’
The door clicked open and they shuffled into the reception.
Xena showed her warrant card to the young woman. ‘Anyone else about?’
‘No, just me. The company is owned and run by a Mrs Mary Lawson and her daughter Lulu, but they’re out seeing clients.’
‘We’d like to talk to you about your sighting of Clarice Kennedy on June 13.’
‘Is that who you’ve found in Nine Acre Wood?’
‘Yes.’
‘Was she . . . ?’
‘We’d like you to go over your statement again.’
‘How many times do I have to tell the story?’
‘Is that what it is – a story?’
Jessica Curry was nineteen – only two years older than Clarice Kennedy – but she looked at least ten years older. As well as being dry and brittle, her shoulder-length hair was falling out – Xena could see bald patches on her scalp. She also had a grey tinge to her skin, and there were dark rings under her eyes.
‘It’s what I saw.’
‘Then you won’t mind telling your story again, will you?’
‘I was going home after slaving away here all day . . .’
‘On your red scooter?’
‘Yes – the one outside.’
‘Carry on.’
‘I reached Malting’s Lane and saw Clarice as I drove past, and then I carried on home.’
‘What time did you get home?’
‘About twenty past six.’
‘Can anyone verify that?’
‘My mum.’
‘Okay, let’s go back to your sighting of Clarice. How fast were you travelling?’
‘Forty miles an hour.’
‘And the rest?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘You must have seen her for all of two seconds. How did you know it was Clarice?’
‘I know her.’
‘In what way?’
‘In no way. I just know her. We went to the same school.’
‘She’s two years younger than you.’
‘It was a small school – everybody knew everybody.’
‘And you didn’t stop?’
‘No, I didn’t stop.’
‘Did you see anybody else?’
‘No.’
‘No vehicles?’
‘No.’
‘No one on a mountain bike or walking their pet snake?’
‘No.’
‘Shall I tell you what I think happened?’
‘Nothing happened except what I’ve already told you.’
‘I think you sold Clarice for a fix.’
Jessica half laughed. ‘I can see how you might think that, but if you’d done your homework you’d know I have T-cell prolymphocytic leukaemia – T-PLL for short.’
Xena hadn’t expected that answer. Now, she felt like a fool and didn’t know what to say.
‘It’s a rare form o
f leukaemia, aggressive and the survival rate is poor. The chemotherapy is responsible for the way I look, and this . . .’ She pulled a clump of hair out of her head and put it on the counter.
‘We’re sorry to hear that,’ Stick butted in. ‘We hope the chemotherapy works and you recover.’
‘Of course,’ Xena agreed. ‘So, you’ve got nothing else to add to your story?’
‘No. I drove past Malting’s Lane, saw Clarice out of the corner of my eye and carried on home.’
‘And you definitely didn’t see anyone else?’
Jessica yawned.
‘What about on the main road?’
‘It was going-home time – people were going home. There were quite a few vehicles on the road.’
‘I thought you said you didn’t see any vehicles.’
‘On Malting’s Lane, but there were vehicles on the main road.’
‘Any that stood out?’
Jessica’s eyes narrowed. ‘Now I think about it, there was a white van on the opposite side of the road that slowed down, and indicated to turn right.’
‘Into Malting’s Lane?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Just a white van? Do you recall the number plate?’
‘Sorry.’
‘Was it a new or an old van?’
‘Old. There was rust on the bottom of the door, and the wheels were dirty.’
‘Were there any markings on the side of the van?’
‘Blue writing I think.’
‘Which said what?’
Jessica shook her head. ‘Sorry.’
‘Large or small blue lettering?’
‘Large.’
‘What type of blue?’
‘Light blue.’
‘Was it all blue? Or, was there another colour?’
‘All blue.’
‘No picture or logo?’
‘No . . . I don’t think so.’
‘Did you see the driver?’
‘No. Remember, I was looking down Malting’s Lane, doing around forty miles an hour and the white van was a blur in my other eye.’
‘Okay,’ Xena said. ‘Thank you for that, and . . . I’m sorry about your leukaemia.’
‘Yeah, you and me both.’
‘If you’re so ill, why are you sitting here on your own?’
‘Because I don’t want to sit at home waiting to die with my mum weeping and wailing around me.’
‘You could go bungee jumping, hang gliding or something.’
‘I just want to work and be normal.’