by Ellis, Tim
‘Why?’
‘She said his name was Carl, but she wouldn’t tell me his last name. He was older than her. She didn’t say how old, but I got the impression he was a fair bit older. That’s why she couldn’t tell her mum and dad, or anyone else for that matter.’
‘But she told you?’
‘Clarice made me promise not to tell anyone, but now . . .’ She shrugged. ‘. . . there doesn’t seem to be any point in keeping the secret to myself anymore. Is she really dead?’
‘I’m sorry – yes.’
‘I can’t get my head round it. I thought maybe she’d been kidnapped because her mum and dad had a bit of money, but murdered . . . I don’t think I’ll ever dance again.’
‘Don’t be too hasty, dear,’ Mrs Kelly said. ‘These things happen all the time. We . . .’
‘Not now, mum.’
‘Thank you, Charlene,’ Xena said. ‘You’re mum’s right. These things happen. You have to come to terms with what’s happened, and get on with your life. I’m sure that’s what Clarice would have wanted.’
Mrs Kelly showed them out. ‘I hope you find the person who killed Clarice,’ she said. ‘If I had any say in it . . . well, my views are probably a bit beyond far right to state in public, but you wouldn’t go far wrong with a branding iron and a pair of secateurs.’
Xena smiled. Not too far away from her own views. ‘Thank you for letting us speak to your daughter, Mrs Kelly. What does your husband do – if you don’t mind me asking?’
Mrs Kelly shrugged. ‘You mean who does he do? Well, it just so happens that he does his dental nurse and pays me a lot of money for the privilege. We’ve agreed that I won’t castrate him or take him to court as long as he doesn’t show his face round here ever again.’
‘Men are pigs.’
‘You took the words right out of my mouth.’
As they walked down the gravel path back to the car Xena said, ‘What have you got to say for yourself?’
‘I don’t think I have anything to say.’
‘Good job as well.’
***
Linda Kenneally BSc, PGCE, NPQH was the Headteacher of Flamstead End Primary School, which was located further along Longfield Lane on Dig Dag Hill.
As soon as he met her, Parish was in no doubt she was the Headteacher. She had shoulder-length brown hair with a fringe, black-rimmed oblong glasses and her mouth was turned down at the corners in a permanent grimace. If there were laughter lines she hid them well. She wore a dark green skirt and a green flowery blouse.
She invited them into her office and they sat down around a coffee table.
‘Refreshments?’
Richards shook her head. ‘No thank you.’
‘We’re all devastated,’ Kenneally said.
Parish couldn’t see any obvious signs of devastation, but then he knew that death affected people in any number of different ways.
‘What can you tell us about Paul?’
‘Bright – very bright. Did you know that he donated ten percent of all his earnings to the school?’
‘No.’
‘He was a Richard Branson in the making – we’ll all miss him.’
‘No enemies?’
‘Some of the other children – boys – were jealous of his obvious talent and success and used to pick on him, but they wouldn’t have killed him, for goodness sake.’
‘Did he get on with all the teachers?’
‘Yes. His class teacher was Miss Shelley Sullivan-Sloggett, one of our younger and more dedicated teachers. Would you like to talk to her?’
‘Please.’
She stood up, walked to the half-open door and told her secretary to ask Miss Sullivan-Sloggett to come to her office now.
‘Did you know that Paul went to the golf course during the early hours of the morning on Mondays and Fridays?’
‘Officially no. Unofficially yes – everybody knew. If I’d known officially, I would have had to have done something about it – wrote a letter, notified Social Services – something. Now, I wish I had. The problem, of course, is that Paul was a well-adjusted child, and Mr and Mrs Gifford were good parents, which is something of a rarity in this day and age.’
There was a knock on the door.
‘Come.’
A woman in her late twenties appeared in the doorway. She had straight brown hair, a multicoloured top over slacks and bloodshot eyes.
‘Ah Shelley,’ the Headteacher said. ‘Come and sit down.’
Shelley came in and sat down next to Kenneally.
‘This is Detective Inspector Parish and DC Richards. They’re here about Paul.’
She dabbed at her eyes. ‘He was such a beautiful boy. Who could possibly have wanted to kill him?’
‘That’s what we’re trying to find out,’ Richards said. ‘Can you think of anything at all that might help us?’
Shelley shook her head. ‘Nobody here . . .’ She glanced at the Headteacher. ‘You’ve told them about Wayne Riley and Augustus Traskett?’
‘I didn’t mention any names.’
‘Sorry.’
‘These are the boys who picked on Paul?’ Parish asked.
‘Yes,’ Shelley said. ‘Letters were sent to their parents about a week ago explaining our bullying policy, and threatening them with permanent exclusion if the bullying continued. Only . . . on Friday last week, Mrs Traskett came to see me . . .’
The Headteacher looked at her. ‘You never mentioned that.’
‘Sorry. It was late on Friday. You were away in London most of the day. This morning, well . . . it’s not exactly been a normal day, has it?’
‘No, I suppose not. What did Mrs Traskett say?’
‘What didn’t she say? A horrible and nasty woman. She said that Paul was the problem, not her little Augie, and that if the school didn’t do something about him – she would.’
Parish’s brow furrowed. ‘What do you think she meant by that?’
‘Oh, I’m sure she didn’t mean that she’d resort to murder, but . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘She’s just a nasty woman, and . . . I shouldn’t say this, but her son isn’t much better either.’
‘I’ll need Mrs Traskett’s address,’ Parish said.
The Headteacher nodded. ‘Of course. My secretary will give you the address on your way out.’
He looked at both women. ‘And there’s nothing else?’
‘No,’ the Headteacher said.
‘He got on with all the teachers . . . the other staff?’
‘Yes.’ Sullivan-Sloggett half-smiled. ‘He used to walk round the school shouting “Fore” – you know when a golfer hits a ball all wrong. He made people smile, and we’re going to really miss him.’ She burst into tears.
The Headteacher comforted her.
Parish stood up. ‘We’ll see ourselves out. Thanks for your help.’
‘You’ll find who killed him, won’t you?’ Shelley said.
‘That’s our intention,’ Richards replied.
On their way out, they obtained the address of Mrs Traskett from the Headteacher’s secretary.
Chapter Eight
‘We’ll take this one,’ Xena said.
‘You can’t help yourself, can you? You know very well Parish and Richards use this incident room.’
‘Fuck ‘em.’ She pointed at the outside of the door. ‘What does that say?’
‘Incident Room 1.’
‘Not: “This Incident Room belongs to Parish and Richards”?’
‘No.’
‘There we are then – finders keepers, losers weepers. We’ll occupy it, write all over the incident boards, spread our papers and case files everywhere, and put a sign on the door that makes it quite clear that this room is being used by you and me.’
Stick placed the case files on the table. ‘You already took their case.’
‘I took our case. The Chief offered us first choice of two unallocated cases – I chose the case we now have. Would you rather I’d have chos
en the child murder case instead?’
’No, but . . .’
‘But what? You think we should roll over and let them have all the best cases?’
‘Well no, but . . . Parish is the senior DI.’
‘Is this the face of concern?’
‘And he’s been here the longest.’
‘Let me reiterate my position on the matter – fuck ‘em.’
‘I’d go so far as to say this is a declaration of war.’
‘If I take Parish, do you think you can handle Richards?’
‘Handle Richards? What does that mean exactly?’
‘You’re a pervert. If anyone was going to think about handling Richards – it was going to be you.’
‘I never would.’
‘Are you a man or a mouse?’
‘Are those the only two choices?’
‘I despair of you sometimes, Stickleback. Make a sign for the door. Write on it: In use by Blake and Gilbert.’
‘Are you sure? What about: In use by order of DI Blake?’
‘You think they won’t know that you’re in on it as well?’
‘Maybe I could . . .’
‘I should trade you in for a bag of jelly babies. Write the fucking sign before I have a relapse.’
After the sign was taped to the outside of the door, Stick closed it and began writing down the details of the case on the incident board:
Clarice Kennedy caught the bus home from the Rhythm Stick Dance Studio in Widford, and arrived at Malting’s Lane at 6 p.m. on June 13;
‘Did anyone get off the bus with her?’ Xena asked.
Stick opened up one of the files. ‘The details of the televised reconstruction doesn’t mention the bus driver or any of the other passengers.’
‘Surely they spoke to the driver and the passengers on the bus?’
He rifled through the other files. ‘Ah yes – here they are. The driver’s statement says that Clarice Kennedy was the only one who got off the bus at Malting’s Lane, which is supported by a Mrs Maureen Abernathy and a Mr Tyler Green.’
‘Okay.’
Jessica Curry saw Clarice walking up Malting’s Lane towards her house as she passed on her scooter. She also noticed a white van with blue writing on the opposite side of the road, which was indicating to turn right into Malting’s Lane.
Xena interrupted. ‘If the white van was on the opposite side of the road, it couldn’t have been following Clarice home.’
‘Which could mean that it’s not connected to the case, or the driver already knew where Clarice lived.’
‘And what time she arrived home.’
Stick nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘And . . . if it’s not connected to the case – why hasn’t the driver come forward?’
‘Good point.’
She took out her notebook and began a list on a blank page. ‘I’ll make a request at the press briefing tomorrow morning at nine o’clock for the driver of the white van to make himself known to us.’
‘Oh!’
‘What?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Ah! You’ve had a taste of the spotlight, and now you want to join Equity, apply the face paint and bask in the warm glow of being a celebrity some more?’
‘I just thought . . .’
‘Keep writing, numpty. Next, you’ll be volunteering for Big Brother and I’m a Celebrity Get Me Out of Here just to get your ugly mug on the television.’
Clarice was found in Nine Acre Wood by Jacob Trengove – a mountain biker who works as a teacher at Puckeridge First School – at 6:35 a.m. on Monday July 15;
‘Do you think he’s involved?’ Stick asked.
‘No. What do you want to do: Go up to forensics to get the crime scene photographs? Or, make the coffees?’
‘I think it would be safer if I went up to forensics.’
‘Safer? In what way?’
‘In no particular way. I was thinking of your condition and all those stairs.’
‘If someone gave you a million pounds to lie – you’d still be useless at it. All right, I’ll make the coffees. I’m not really in the mood for a return bout with Heffernan just yet – I have to pace myself.’ Her insides were still battered and bruised. She’d taken two painkillers, but now she felt sleepy. A coffee would see her through to the end of the day – getting back on the horse was easier said than done.
Stick nodded and left.
She trudged up the corridor to the kitchen.
When she got back with the two mugs of coffee, Stick had nearly finished sticking a selection of crime scene photographs up on a separate whiteboard.
‘No problems?’ she asked him.
‘Di was as nice as pie.’
‘I’m sure.’
‘She asked after you.’
‘I can imagine.’
Clarice was frozen and thawing out when she was found, and it’s been suggested that she was hung up and kept for a month in a walk-in freezer;
Xena added to the list in her notebook to mention the walk-in freezer to the press. ‘It can’t be a commercial one that’s in use,’ she said.
‘What about out-of-use ones?’
‘Something you can check. I wonder if anyone has a list of walk-in freezers.’
Stick started a LEADS list on the board. ‘Maybe there’s a requirement to have them checked out once a year – you know, like boilers or something.’
‘Environmental Health?’ Xena said.
‘Yes, they might know.’
Her wrists had deep wounds from a thick wire, and a tiny piece of green plastic was found embedded in the wound of her right wrist;
‘I don’t think there’s any point in tracking down shops that sell wire covered in green plastic. Those bicycle chain locks are too common and sold in hundreds of outlets.’
Stick nodded. ‘I agree.’
Damage to her vagina and anus suggest she was raped and sodomised by a number of men over a sustained period of time;
‘A number of men . . .’ Xena mused. ‘What does that mean exactly?’
Stick opened his mouth to respond.
‘And before you start explaining what a number of men might mean – it was a rhetorical question.’
‘I knew that.’
‘I’m sure you did. Usually, a gang-rape takes place over a sustained period of time, but this was more than that. Rub “a sustained period of time” out and change it to “three to four weeks”. Until Doc Paine gives us a window for the time of death, we won’t know whether it was closer to three weeks or four.’
Stick did as Xena asked him. ‘You’re thinking that a gang-rape usually occurs over hours to days – not weeks, aren’t you?’
‘Yes. From what I know about gang-rapes – which isn’t very much I might add – everybody has a turn, and then they let the victim go.’
‘Unless they have a second turn?’
‘Yes, but a gang keeping a woman prisoner over a number of weeks . . .’ Lines and furrows appeared on her forehead. ‘I can’t say I’ve ever heard of that, which means that we’re not dealing with a crazed bunch of teenagers, but something far more sinister.’
‘A group of adult men?’
‘Possibly. I think Clarice was targeted. They knew exactly when and where to abduct her without being seen. Also, teenagers don’t have access to a walk-in freezer . . .’
‘A lot of businesses have gone to the wall over the past few years. Maybe a gang of boys have found a walk-in freezer and worked out a plan on how to make the best use of it.’
‘Unlikely.’
‘Okay.’
Xena put her feet up on another chair, stretched out and made herself comfortable. ‘She was gang-raped.’
‘I think we’ve already established that.’
‘I make the point again because gang-rape cases in this country are quite rare.’
Stick took a sip of his coffee. ‘And the women are not usually killed afterwards.’
‘That’s because the crimes are ca
rried out by gangs of young men, which reinforces my suggestion that we’re dealing with a group of adults in this case. Here’s what I know about gang rape: It’s typically carried out by at least three violators; it invariably involves drug use and alcohol; it’s so rare in this country that the police don’t separately collect data on gang rapes; and the last gang rape I recall in the UK was in 2008 – a fourteen year old schoolgirl was gang raped and nine boys were convicted. The more we find out about this case, the more I’m convinced we’re dealing with a group of men.’
Stick wrote the next point on the board:
Clarice Kennedy’s body had been washed with bleach to destroy the DNA evidence;
‘Teenagers wouldn’t know about the effects of bleach on DNA. Something else that supports my theory. Killing Clarice Kennedy after they’d finished using her was all part of the plan.’
‘They’re going to do it again, aren’t they?’
‘It could have been an isolated incident, but I don’t think it was. They’ve done it once and got away with it – why stop now? Think of the power these men have over women. They chose Clarice because of her looks, snatched her off the street, did what they wanted with her and then threw her away like a piece of unwanted rubbish. Yes, I think they’re going to do it again. They know they can have any woman they want.’
‘I feel sick.’
‘And so you should. Okay, what leads have we still got to follow up on?’
Sticks added points to the LEADS list:
Old rusty white van with light blue writing on the side;
List of Rhythm Stick Dance Studio clients;
Is there a list of out-of-use walk-in freezers?
Contact Environmental Health about walk-in freezers;
Visit Ware College to talk to teachers;
Clarice had a boyfriend called Carl.
Who is Carl?