by Ellis, Tim
Ask parents about Carl.
‘Also, we’ll go and talk to DI Diane Haxell in Missing Persons who was responsible for the case and the reconstruction when Clarice was simply a missing person, and see if the name Carl cropped up during her enquires.’
Stick added that to the list:
Speak to DI Haxell in Missing Persons about Carl;
Attend post mortem at 2 p.m. Tuesday, July 16;
Acquire any additional evidence from forensics;
‘I also want you to check CRIMINT to see if there’s been any unsolved murders that could be linked to this one.’
‘Okay.’ He added it to the list:
Check unsolved murders that might be linked to this one.
Xena swung her feet off the chair. ‘Anything else you want to add?’
‘I think we’ve covered everything.’
‘I’m going home then.’
‘Good idea.’
‘You’re not going home.’
‘I’m not?’
‘No – you’re going to stay here until your eyeballs fall out.’
‘I see. But you’re going home?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you want me to stay here?’
‘Is that a problem, jailbird?’
‘I don’t think so. You’re going home. I’m staying here to do all the work. It sounds simple enough.’
‘Exactly.’ She stood up. ‘Any questions?’
‘No, I think I’ve got it. I stay here. You go home.’
‘See you tomorrow.’
‘Okay. Good night.’
‘Good night, Stickleback.’
***
Mrs Traskett lived at 27 Poynters Lane on the outskirts of Flamstead End in the Linkage estate. In fact, a section of Poynters Lane was actually in Broxbourne, but not number 27.
The houses were terraced, and although there were grassed areas, which could have passed for front gardens, there were no separating walls or picket fences. School was out, and six or seven children – both boys and girls under the age of eleven – were playing football across the frontage of gardens, three others were sitting with their backs to the wall of number 25 smoking, watching the game and shouting abuse at the players. While others just seemed to be hanging about in groups doing nothing in particular.
On the road was the rusting wreck of a Ford Mondeo. It had been stripped of everything useful, and was covered in graffiti.
‘We should have come with a police escort,’ Richards said.
‘We are the police escort.’
Parish knocked on number 27.
‘Wrong house,’ came from inside. ‘Fuck off.’
He knocked again.
The door flew open and a putrid stench wafted out.
A tall fat woman with a broken nose, rotting teeth and biker tattoos round her neck and down her arms filled the doorway. She wore a sleeveless brown tank top over enormous pendulous breasts, a long grey skirt, odd black socks and lime green plastic clogs. ‘What the fuck . . . ?’
Parish held up his warrant card and opened his mouth to speak.
‘Piss off.’
‘We can talk here or down at the station, Mrs Traskett?’
She swivelled round, walked back into the house and threw over her shoulder, ‘You’d better come in then, and wipe your fucking feet.’
He didn’t really want to go inside the house. In fact, he’d much rather have walked barefoot through a pit of burning coals, but what choice did he have?
‘Do we have to?’ Richards asked.
‘You can stay out here and guard the car if you want.’
She looked at the children who had stopped playing football and were now gathered in a menacing group watching them. ‘I think I’ll come inside.’
‘Leave the door open,’ he instructed her.
Mrs Traskett was sitting in the living room watching a shopping channel on a fifty-inch television screen and eating popcorn from a family-sized bag.
‘Well, what’s the little bastard done now?’
She didn’t turn the sound down on the television.
‘Where were you between the hours of three and six this morning?’
She looked at him as if he’d slithered up through the drains. ‘Are you from this fucking planet? I was in bed with a stonking hangover from last night’s session down the Jabberwock.’
‘Is there anyone who can verify that?’
‘No. I gave Brad Pitt the night off.’
‘Is there a Mr Traskett?’
‘Yes there’s a Mr Traskett, but you bastards put him in the slammer three years ago for an armed robbery he didn’t commit.’
‘I see.’
‘I swore in court that he was in bed with me at the exact time of that robbery, but you dirty bastard cops paid a witness to point the finger at him.’
‘What about Augustus? Where was he?’
‘Let me see – three years ago he was . . .’
‘Between three and six this morning.’
‘In his fucking bed. What kind of mother do you take me for? I make sure he’s in before midnight every night on school days.’
‘And he didn’t go out early this morning?’
‘What the fuck for? Why are you so interested in what me and Augie were doing this morning?’
‘I understand you went to the school on Friday afternoon to complain about . . .’
‘Too fucking right. Those bastards accused my Augie of bullying. A nicer boy you couldn’t wish to meet. If anyone was doing any bullying it was that Gifford kid . . .’
‘He was murdered on the golf course in the early hours of this morning.’
Mrs Traskett laughed, and her whole body wobbled like a plate of jelly. ‘So that’s what it’s all about. You think me or Augie – or both of us together – went out early this morning and killed that snot-nosed teacher’s pet. Well, you can fuck off and close the door on your way out.’
‘Nice talking to you, Mrs Traskett,’ Parish said, and headed towards the front door and some fresh air. He could have told her not to leave the country, but he had a feeling it wasn’t necessary.
‘She didn’t do it, did she?’
‘I never thought she did, but we had to eliminate her as a suspect.’
‘What about sweet little Augie?’
‘No, he didn’t do it either.’
‘Back to the . . . ?’ She stopped talking when she saw the group of children. ‘What are they staring at?’
‘I don’t suppose they’re used to seeing police officers without riot gear on and aiming water cannons at them.’
As they approached the car they realised why the children were staring at them – to gauge their reaction to the artwork etched into the car’s paintwork. PIGS had been scratched on the roof, the doors, the bonnet and the boot – the car would need a complete paint job.
‘What . . . ?’
‘Ignore it,’ Parish said. ‘They’re waiting for us to chase them, and we have absolutely no proof they did it.’
‘But . . .’
‘Get into the car and let’s go back to the station.’
They climbed into the car and Richards set off.
‘Bob in the garage is going to kill me.’
‘No he won’t – these things happen. Only last week Norfolk police had a panda car stolen. They found the burnt-out wreck five hours later on a bit of waste ground.’
‘Really?’
‘Don’t you listen to the news?’
‘Sometimes, but they never have anything good to say – it’s always so depressing.’
‘That’s what people want to hear. They want to know that there are others out there a lot worse off than them. Good news is bad news.’
‘You’re so cynical. People aren’t like that.’
‘People are exactly like that.’
‘I’m not.’
‘That’s why you’re my partner.’
‘I’m people.’
‘No you’re not.’
> ‘Oh!’
They arrived back at the station ten minutes before the press briefing.
‘You set up the incident room, I’ll brief the press.’
‘Okay. What about briefing the Chief?’
‘No time now. We’ll see him in the morning.’
He went to the toilet and then headed to the press briefing room. It was as hot as a sauna and standing room only. Two fans had been brought in and switched on, but they made little difference.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he said as he sat down, poured himself a plastic beaker of ice-cold water and took a long swallow. ‘As you may now know, Paul Gifford – a gifted nine year-old boy from Flamstead End – was murdered on the fourteenth green of the Paradise Golf and Country Club in Broxbourne between three and five o’clock this morning.’
As usual, he kept certain details to himself, such as: the injection of a paralytic, the positioning of the body, the copper wire and the partial shoeprint. Copycats contaminating an investigation were always a concern for murder detectives.
A ginger-haired woman was the first to stand up. ‘Clare Tindle from the Redbridge Camera. What was the boy doing at the golf club at that time of the morning?’
‘Collecting golf balls from the river intersecting the fourteenth green and the fairway. His parents told him not to go, but he went anyway. Everybody who knew Paul was familiar with his nocturnal jaunts to the fourteenth green on Monday and Friday mornings – it was something he’d been doing regularly for eighteen months.’
‘Mark Horton from the Mission Daily. You say he was gifted – in what way?’
‘He played golf, and his golf instructor has said that he could have been as big as Tiger Woods. Also, he ran his own online golf equipment business and donated ten percent of his substantial earnings to Flamstead End Primary School – he was an entrepreneur and a philanthropist.’
‘Steve Bamping from NBC Europe. Do you have any suspects yet?’
‘No obvious suspects.’
‘Raffi Wilson from the Identity Channel. We’ve heard rumours that his death was unusual. Would you care to comment on that, Inspector?’
‘Unusual in what way, Miss Wilson?’
‘I was hoping you would enlighten us.’
‘My suggestion is not to listen to rumours – it could get you into serious trouble.’
‘Becky McKeever from U>Direct. I understand that you have to keep certain details of the murder from the press, but can you tell us anything about the way he died?’
‘The cause of death was suffocation, and it’s our understanding that he didn’t suffer in any way.’ He looked around, but they seemed to have run out of questions. ‘Thank you all for coming. I’ll be providing a further update at the same time tomorrow.’
He caught a fleeting glimpse of fisheyes, but then he was gone again. As he stood up, someone shouted: ‘Where’s Constable Richards?’
‘Busy, but for those that don’t know I can tell you that she’s now a Detective Constable.’
‘Can we get some photographs to go with the story?’
‘Call the press office and they’ll provide you with copies of her official photograph.’ He knew that’s not what they wanted, but it was all they were going to get.
Chapter Nine
From the cab of his old white van that he’d bought at the car auctions in Ware and recently painted dark blue, he watched as she walked out of Widford train station and headed left towards the bus stop on Hunsdon Road. This was the woman they wanted – she was so fucking pretty with her long blonde hair and slim body that it made him want to get on his knees and worship her.
The Muslims had the right idea – women should be forced to wear masks and those shapeless tents so that men couldn’t look at their beauty and the contours of their bodies – women’s bodies brought nothing but trouble.
His heart began racing.
She was wearing a sleeveless white linen top that barely covered her fabulous breasts, a frayed denim mini skirt that just managed to hide her arse if she didn’t move too quickly, and a pair of slip-on shoes. There was very little left to his imagination.
He licked his lips. Of course, he wanted her – who wouldn’t? He adjusted himself as he thought about pushing into her, feeling her tits – it was those tits that had sealed her fate.
‘Look at them,’ Joe had said to him last Wednesday night when he’d pointed her out. ‘If there’s a better pair than that I’ve yet to see ‘em.’
‘Yeah, she’s certainly been blessed.’
‘Blessed! We’re the ones who’ve been blessed – you, me and the others. We’re gonna get our laughing gear around her nipples, suck ‘em until they’re red raw, squeeze ‘em as we . . . Fuck me! I’m getting a hard-on like a virgin. Are you gonna snatch her next Monday night?’
‘May as well.’
‘Yeah, Monday night – the sooner the better. I’ll just have to re-acquaint my meat thermometer with the five-fingered widow.’
‘I worry about getting caught, Joe.’
‘Too late for that, Billy boy. I didn’t hear you worrying too much about getting caught when you were shooting your load into that Clarice bitch – and the other two as well.’
Joe was right. He didn’t worry about getting caught while he was screwing them – it was just before and after that the panic set in. What would happen to him if he got caught – a lifetime in prison without parole? He was only twenty-five. Joe was in his forties, and the others were between thirty and sixty – he was the youngest.
‘I just don’t like killing them, that’s all.’
‘It’s the only way, Billy boy. We all agreed – pick ‘em, snatch ‘em, fuck ‘em, kill ‘em and dump ‘em. They won’t catch us, we’re too fucking smart for the old bill.’
‘Yeah, I know. It’s just . . .’
‘Just what? You’re not having trouble sleeping, are you? You don’t see their faces in your nightmares . . . ?’
The corner of his mouth went up. ‘No, nothing like that.’ But it was exactly like that. Every night he woke up in a cold sweat staring into the darkness like a ventriloquist’s dummy. Their cries haunted him – ‘Help us, please help us.’
He covered his ears, but he could still hear them. ‘Leave me alone.’
‘Please help us.’
‘I can’t help you. You’ve come to the wrong man, I can’t even help myself.’
Soundless screams came from their dark hollow mouths. Tears of black slime slithered from their eye sockets. It was as if they had come back for him, come back to drag him to the pits of hell.
Even though it was hot enough to fry an egg on the bonnet of his van, a cold shiver ran down his back.
Joe and the others had got him drunk one night, and it had gone downhill from there. He’d taken his turn with the first one – Michaela Parsons – and in the process made a pact with the devil. Now, there was no turning back. If he didn’t take part they’d kill him, and he didn’t want to die.
He drove past the bus stop, glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, and then carried on along the B180 towards Hunsdon where he turned into Tanners Way and followed the road round to Tudor Close.
She’d get off the bus at Walker’s Garage, walk through the winding path that emptied out into Tudor Close – and where he’d be waiting for her.
After he’d parked up, he climbed out of the cab, opened the back doors ready and then hid behind a tree.
It wasn’t long before he saw her walking along the path. She had wires protruding from ears that ran down inside her top and connected to the iPod tucked into the waistband of her skirt. Her mouth mimed the words to a song he could only guess at.
He stepped out behind her as she walked past, put his left hand over her mouth, looped his right arm around her tiny waist, scooped her up like a mannequin for a window display he was arranging and deposited her in the back of the van.
‘Make a noise and I’ll cut your face,’ he whispered in her ear.
She sobbed softly. ‘Please don’t.’
He stuck duct tape over her mouth, wrapped it round her wrists and ankles and was about to climb out of the back of the van when he had the urge to look at her breasts. Oh, he’d see them soon enough, but here – on his own – it would be a private viewing, before the others had mauled them.
He lifted up her white linen top.
She had no bra on.
Her breasts were so beautiful.
He bent down, put his mouth over the areola of her left breast and ran his tongue around the nipple.
Involuntarily, it became erect just like his penis.
She smelled and tasted of strawberries.
He wanted to take her there and then, to fill her up with his sperm, but he knew he couldn’t.
She wasn’t his. He’d have his turn with her soon enough, but Joe had chosen her.
Lily Andrews belonged to Joe.
After Joe had finished with her, the others would get their turn.
There’d be lots of turns, and he was looking forward to the first time with her.
He pulled her top down, climbed out of the van, banged the doors shut and leaned against the cool metal.
Yes, Lily Andrews would be special, and the nightmares would soon go. There weren’t many men who could take their pick of beautiful women and have sex with them whenever they wanted. He was sure it was what every man dreamt of – he was lucky. It was just a shame that they had to die afterwards, but rather them than him.
***
After the press briefing he’d gone to the Chief’s office and arranged with Carrie to brief the Chief at eight-thirty in the morning.
‘Are you okay?’ he’d asked her. ‘You seem distracted.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘And the children?’
‘They’re fine as well.’
‘How’s it going with Mr Mottram?’
‘Yes . . . we’re fine. A few teething problems, but nothing serious.’
‘It seems as though everything’s fine then, but you should know that Kowalski and I have prior experience of sorting out teething problems. We could come round and explain the error of his ways.’