by Ellis, Tim
Xena turned to Stick. ‘Anything else?’
Stick put his hand on Jessica’s arm and squeezed. ‘Look after yourself.’
‘Thanks,’ she said.
As they were heading towards the door, Xena said, ‘One last question.’
‘Okay.’
‘Do you have a walk-in freezer here?’
‘Yes – in the back.’
‘Can we take a look?’
‘I thought you only had one question.’
‘That was before we found out you had a walk-in freezer. Now, there’s going to be a lot more questions, and some of our forensic friends are coming for tea and biscuits.’
Jessica unhooked a key from a small key-press on the wall and showed them through into the main room of the industrial unit. It was full of stainless steel tables; two sinks; shelves with a mishmash of pans, dishes and containers; cupboards chock full of dry goods; a cooking range; a heavy duty microwave; two fridges and a walk-in freezer.
Xena whistled. ‘You could cook some serious meals in here.’
Breathing heavily, Jessica leaned on one of the tables and said, ‘They do.’
Stick held his hand out. ‘If you give me the key, we can take a look on our own. You don’t need to wear yourself out.’
‘You think I don’t know about the police planting evidence?’
Xena laughed. ‘The leukaemia hasn’t affected your imagination then?’
‘I watch the television.’
‘Real life is a bit different.’
‘Not that much,’ Stick said.
‘Whose side are you on? You’re meant to reassure members of the public, not tell them the police force is riddled with dirty coppers.’
‘Sorry – sometimes I forget about the public relations aspect of my job.’
Jessica passed Stick the key, he opened the door and walked inside.
Xena followed him, but Jessica remained outside.
There were a few cuts of meat hanging on a rail from S-hooks; boxes, tubs and bags of perishable food; butter; cheeses; vegetables; milk and ice cream. Also, there was a trolley full of metal shelves with delicious looking cakes on each shelf – chocolate, strawberry and cream, apple, pear . . .
‘I don’t know about planting evidence,’ Xena said. ‘I think I might have to consume some.’
‘We’ve just had lunch.’
‘You forget, I’ve been malnourished for weeks. One of these cakes – maybe the pear cake – would go some way towards improving my body mass index.’
‘And don’t touch the cakes,’ came from outside.
‘It wasn’t us.’
‘If you dirty cops aren’t planting evidence, you’re stealing stuff.’
Xena used her credit card to cut a slice from the pear cake.
‘What are you doing?’ Stick hissed.
‘I think that’s fairly obvious – contamination control.’ She stuffed half of the slice into her mouth. ‘Mmmm! No, I think this cake is all right.’
‘You’re crazy.’
‘Yes, I’ll use temporary insanity as my defence, and you as a witness to that effect.’
Stick pursed his lips. ‘This is not the place Clarice Kennedy was killed.’
‘No, but forensics will still have to come in and check everything out, which means that these cakes will be destroyed.’ She cut herself a slice of the strawberry and cream cake. ‘Are you not taking part in the cake destruction activity, Stickamundo?’
‘One of us has to remain unsullied.’
‘True,’ she said, and stuffed the slice into her mouth.
Chapter Seven
Peter Harris had wavy blond hair, teeth like tombstones and hairy forearms. He kept his sunglasses on as he sat down, and made a point of showing off the loose gold Rolex watch on his left wrist.
‘It’s about Paul, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ Parish said. ‘Can you remove your sunglasses, please? I like to see a person’s eyes when I’m interviewing them.’
‘Sure.’ He smiled, placed the sunglasses on the table and winked at Richards. ‘Am I a suspect?’
‘Should you be?’
‘I have an alibi for last night – her name is Diane French.’
‘We’ll check it out.’
‘You do that. I’m sure she’ll tell you I was there all night.’
‘What can you tell us about Paul Gifford?’
‘A good kid – tried real hard.’
‘Was he the next big thing?’
‘Too early to say, but he knew what he wanted all right.’
‘Did you know about his trips to the fourteenth green?’
‘Everybody knew – every Monday and Friday. When golfers hit a ball into the river at the fourteenth they’d say, “Another one for Paul.” It was a standing joke.’
‘Did he have any enemies that you know of?’
‘He was nine years old – hadn’t had the chance to get himself any enemies. As I said, he was a good kid.’
‘You don’t know of anyone who might have wanted to kill him?’
‘I repeat: He was nine years old – who would want to kill a nine year old boy?’
‘Somebody did,’ Richards said.
‘Obviously, but for the life of me I can’t think of why or who.’
‘You were his golf instructor?’
‘Yes.’
‘How long had he been coming to you?’
‘Eighteen months.’
‘Had his game improved?’
‘I’m obviously going to say yes, aren’t I? But that’s the truth. He knew what he wanted. He had a lot to learn, and I had a lot to teach him. He was a willing student. If I wasn’t teaching him what he wanted to know – he’d have gone somewhere else.’
‘Were you a professional?’
‘Still am. I play on the circuit now and again. I’m surprised you haven’t heard of me.’
‘I don’t follow golf.’
He looked at Richards. ‘What about you . . . ?’
‘My sport is catching murderers.’
‘Golf would take your mind off that. I could show you . . .’
‘I don’t think so.’
Parish interrupted his poor attempt at chatting up Richards. ‘When Paul had his lessons with you, did he talk about anybody in particular?’
‘Tiger Woods. The only thing Paul was interested in was golf. We talked about his swing, his putting, the best golf equipment to buy . . . that type of thing. Sometimes, he’d ask me about the golf courses I’d played on, the golfers I’d played with and the tournaments I’d played in and won. I was on the European PGA Tour you know, played in the Masters . . .’
Parish passed Harris a business card. ‘If you do think of anything that might be useful to our investigation, please ring me.’
‘Sure will. Here . . .’ He pulled out one of his own business cards from a trouser pocket and slid it across the table to Richards. ‘My number’s on there if you’d like a free golf lesson.’ He winked at her. ‘If you know what I mean.’
Richards pretended to yawn.
Harris stood up. ‘I take it I’m free to go?’ he said, but didn’t wait for an answer.
‘You didn’t fancy spending some time with a golfing has-been?’
‘I’d rather stick pins in my eyeballs.’
‘You’re too fussy.’
‘You said I had to be.’
‘There’s fussy, and then there’s fussy. You’ve gone from falling into bed with every Tom, Dick and Harry to . . .’
‘I never did.’
‘There was . . .’
‘I don’t think you need to remind me of my mistakes. Let’s talk about your mistakes instead.’
‘Now that you’re a Detective Constable we need to find you a man.’
‘We? I’m quite capable . . .’
‘I think we’ve established that you couldn’t find a decent man if he was standing in front of you with a sign round his neck.’
‘I’m not looking at the m
oment.’
‘You’re always looking, and you’re always complaining that there aren’t any decent ones about.’
‘Doesn’t Peter Harris kind of prove my point.’
‘There are lots of fish in the sea.’
‘Fish are slimy. So, you’re not going to entertain my theory about a female serial killer?’
‘There are rules . . .’
Richards blew a raspberry.
‘You can’t get your promotion and then start breaking the rules . . .’
She blew another raspberry.
He laughed. ‘Will you stop doing that?’
‘Stop talking about rules and procedures then.’
‘Let’s just follow . . .’ He saw her take a breath. ‘I wasn’t going to mention one of those offensive words. I was going to say, let’s just follow the leads, and then we’ll see what we’ve got. A female serial killer is sitting on the shelf with all the other theories. At the moment, we haven’t got enough information to pick any of them.’
‘But you won’t rule it out?’
‘No.’
‘Okay, where are we going now?’
‘Back to school.’
***
‘You’ve been eating the cakes,’ Jessica said as they walked out of the freezer.
‘Prove it,’ Xena challenged her.
‘You have chocolate and cream all over your face.’
‘They attacked me,’ she said in her defence, and used a tissue to wipe her face. ‘Things got a bit messy in there for a while, but I managed to overpower them.’
‘Mrs Lawson will kill me.’
‘You’re lucky, I know two very good murder detectives.’
‘Don’t worry, Jessica,’ Stick said. ‘Forensics will go in there and spray chemicals all over the freezer – the food will be ruined anyway.’
‘But . . . ?’
‘They’ll be able to claim compensation.’
‘But it’s my fault you’re here. They’ll blame me.’
He passed her a card. ‘Tell them to ring me, and I’ll explain the situation.’
‘What are you looking for in the freezer anyway?’
Stick pursed his lips. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t tell you that.’
‘You haven’t said how Clarice was killed.’
‘And we’re not going to either,’ Xena said.
‘Was she . . . ?’
‘Haven’t you got better things to think about?’
‘Oh, you mean like my drug regime, my hair falling out, whether make-up would make me look any better, how many days . . . ?’
‘Yes . . .’
A buzzer sounded in the reception.
‘Saved by the bell,’ Xena said. ‘That’ll be forensics.’
Jessica went and let them in.
After Xena had told the two forensic officers what she wanted, they said goodbye to Jessica and headed outside.
‘Don’t say anything.’
Stick pulled a face. ‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’
‘How was I to know she had fucking cancer?’
‘You could . . .’
‘I thought you weren’t going to say anything?’
‘I’m not.’
‘I could have sworn you opened your big fat mouth.’
‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘Keep it that way.’
‘Although, I’m pleased that you feel guilty.’
‘Who wouldn’t? Jesus, she’s not even out of her teens yet.’
‘You could say the same thing about Clarice Kennedy.’
‘Life sucks.’
‘Especially when somebody steals it from you.’
‘We’ll eventually find out who was responsible for stealing Clarice Kennedy’s life, but nobody will be looking for a culprit when Jessica Curry dies.’
‘Should we go and interview Charlene Kelly?’
‘Yes. Let’s get the hell away from here.’
Stick drove the short distance up the B180 – Hunsdon Road – to Abbotts Lane in Widford and parked outside number 51, which was a four-bedroomed semi-detached rendered house painted light pink.
‘It’s pink,’ Xena said.
‘Some people like pink.’
‘Which people?’
‘I don’t know – some people.’
‘You’re making it up. Nobody likes pink.’
‘The Kelly’s obviously like pink.’
‘Do you think that says something about them?’
‘Maybe Mrs Kelly likes pink.’
‘But Mr Kelly must have been an accomplice.’
‘Maybe he had no choice.’
‘Exactly. So, she wears the trousers, and he’s a wimp.’
They walked up the gravel path and knocked on the door.
‘Would you let Jenifer paint your house pink?’
‘My house is brick.’
‘Stop avoiding the question.’
‘If she wanted . . .’
‘I knew it.’
The door opened. A woman in her late forties or early fifties was standing there. Her short blonde hair was gelled and spiked upwards and outwards like someone who had been interrupted mid-brush. She wore large silver earrings with matching bangles on both wrists, a white blouse with the collar turned up, brown slacks with razor-sharp creases and bright red lipstick that made her mouth look like a knife wound.
‘Yes?’
Xena showed the woman her warrant card. ‘DI Blake and DS Gilbert from Hoddesdon Police Station. We’d like to speak to Charlene Kelly please.’
‘About what?’
‘And you are?’
‘I’m her mother.’
‘Your daughter was friendly with Clarice Kennedy at the Rhythm Stick Dance Studio . . .’
‘The girl who went missing?’
‘Yes.’
‘She’s the one they’ve found in Nine Acre Wood, isn’t she?’
‘Yes.’
‘I suppose you’d better come in then, but if you begin making any accusations I’ll ask you to leave before calling my solicitor.’
Even though there had been no rain for a month, they stepped inside and wiped their feet on the hall mat as a matter of courtesy. As usual, there was talk of hosepipe bans in drought-hit areas, the aqueducts being at their lowest level since Roman times, the scientific community shaking their collective heads in despair at the unremitting destruction of the ozone layer, Essex turning into a cracked and parched landscape, and mutterings of humanity reaching the end of a very frayed rope.
‘I’m sure there won’t be any need for a solicitor, Mrs Kelly,’ Xena said. ‘We’re merely here to ask if Clarice might have said anything to Charlene that could help us in our investigation.’
‘That’s fine then, but I’ll be staying with Charlene while you question her.’
‘Of course.’
They followed Mrs Kelly along the hall and into a dark and dingy living room. All the floors were wood, and very little light seemed to filter in through the patio doors and the windows. The two matching sofas were beige, and there was an overgrown rubber plant in the corner. On the mantelpiece was a collection of photographs. In the centre was a family portrait of Mrs Kelly with her husband and two children – a boy and a girl. On either side were pictures of the two smiling children – together and individually – at different ages.
‘Drink?’
‘No, we’re fine thanks,’ Stick said.
‘I’ll call my daughter down,’ Mrs Kelly said and left the room.
Xena was surprised. She’d expected the house to be bright and airy, full of feminine clutter, but it was dark and bare and resembled a man’s house.
Mrs Kelly returned with a tall slim blonde-haired girl of seventeen – the same age as Clarice Kennedy. With a flat nose and protruding chin, Charlene Kelly wasn’t particularly attractive.
‘Hello, Charlene,’ Xena said, introducing herself and Stick.
‘Hello.’
‘We’d like to ask you some questions about C
larice.’
‘Okay.’
‘Mrs Jodh said you and Clarice were friends.’
‘At the dance studio.’
‘Did you see her outside of classes?’
‘No. We used to chat during the breaks and I’d walk out with her, but she lived in Hadham Cross.’
‘Did she say anything to you about being scared? Whether anyone was following or stalking her? Anything along those lines?’
Charlene thought about the questions for a moment, and then shook her head. ‘No, nothing like that.’
‘What did you talk about?’
‘Dance mainly. Why we were there, what Mrs Jodh was teaching us, what we wanted to do in the future . . .’
‘And what did Clarice say she wanted to do?’
‘Be a professional dancer like you see on the X-Factor.’ She began twisting a few strands of her long hair between the thumb and forefinger of her right hand. ‘We both wanted to do that. Is she . . . dead?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
Charlene burst into tears. ‘She was really beautiful . . . and nice . . . to me. Why would someone kill her? They didn’t . . . ?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you anything like that. What do you do, other than attend dance classes?’
‘I’m between jobs at the moment.’
‘She should have stayed on to take her ‘A’ Levels, but no – she knew better. Now look.’
‘Mum!’ She turned her head back to look at Xena. ‘I was no good at the academic stuff . . .’
Mrs Kelly interrupted. ‘Do you know how hard it is for young people to get jobs these days?’ She didn’t wait for a response. ‘Hard isn’t the word. It’s impossible, that’s what. Those Conservatives have a lot to answer for. I voted Conservative because Labour had run the country into the ground, but now I wish I’d voted for the Monster Raving Looney Party, or someone like that. Let’s face it, they couldn’t do any worse . . .’
‘Mum!’ Charlene said. ‘Stop embarrassing me.’
‘Sorry, dear. It just makes me so angry.’
Xena stood up and passed Charlene a card. ‘Thank you for your time. If you do think of anything else, please call me.’
‘You know about her boyfriend, don’t you?’
Xena’s eyes narrowed. ‘Nobody’s mentioned a boyfriend before.’
‘I don’t think anybody knew.’