by Ellis, Tim
She laughed. ‘It’s kind of you to offer, but we’ll be fine.’
‘I’m a phone call away.’
She smiled. ‘I know, and thanks.’
He’d found the first incident room was in use by a person or persons unknown. Richards was in the second incident room filling up the whiteboards with the information they’d acquired throughout the day.
He double-checked the sign on the door to make sure he hadn’t walked into the wrong room. ‘What are you doing in here?’
‘DI Blake and DS Gilbert are in the other room. DS Gilbert offered to move all their stuff into this one, but they’d written all over the whiteboards, had their crime scene photographs stuck up and annotated, and there were papers and case files strewn everywhere. It was a bit of a mess and would have taken him ages to move rooms, so I said we’d use this one.’
He smiled. ‘Blake took the room on purpose to make a point.’
‘What point?’
‘That the room doesn’t belong to us.’
‘But we always use it.’
‘Exactly, but it’s not our room, is it?’
‘But we always use it.’
‘Is there an echo in here?’
‘Maybe there is, and that’s why they don’t want to use this room.’
After a summer lull it was good to get back to solving a few murders, but now he felt bone weary. ‘Let’s go home.’
‘I thought we were . . .’
‘In the morning. You’ve still got to take the car back to the garage’
‘I thought you were coming with me.’
‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world. I’m going to enjoy watching you explain to Bob how you turned another one of his precious cars into a pile of junk.’
‘It wasn’t my fault. You said that it happened all the time, and that he’d understand.‘
‘Did I?’
‘You’re just teasing me.’
‘Am I?’
He was.
Bob was fine with her explanation, but she had to fill out a three-page accident report form about what had happened.
‘I’ll be here all night,’ she said to Bob. ‘Can’t I take it home and bring it back tomorrow?’
Bob Hunter had white hair and stood six foot three, but was shrinking by the day as he galloped towards retirement. He smiled like the doting grandfather he was. ‘You must think I fell out of a coconut tree and landed on my head, Mary Richards. Do you want to know how many times I’ve heard that story?’
‘It’s me, Bob. You know me. I won’t let you down.’
‘Do you want to know . . . ?’
‘So, you’re not going to let me fill the form in at home?’
He screwed up his face and stared at her as if she was a naughty child. ‘Do you want to know how many people come in here and throw a tantrum because they can’t get their own way?’
‘I don’t think so.’ She stomped off to find a flat surface so that she could fill out the form.
‘How long until you retire now, Bob,’ Parish asked.
‘The dreaded “R” word. Yeah, nobody uses that word round here, Inspector Parish. Do I look like I’m ready for retirement?’
‘I thought you’d be looking forward to it.’
‘What am I going to do all day?’
‘Gardening, grandkids, guitar lessons . . . those type of things.’
‘I don’t like gardening, the grandchildren drive me crazy, I’m tone deaf and have hands like shovels. All I want to do is work on my cars, but they say I’m too old.’
‘How old are you?’
‘Sixty nine – seventy in September. They’re telling me I can’t work past seventy – those are the rules apparently.’
‘You’ve had an extra five years.’
‘And I’m grateful, but I want to die with a spanner in my hand.’
Richards brought the form back after twenty minutes. ‘There’s your precious form,’ she said thrusting it at him. ‘Can we go now?’ she aimed at Parish.
‘Not until you’ve apologised to Bob.’
‘I will not.’
‘Do you want to spend the night here?’
She hugged Bob. ‘Sorry, Bob. A child was murdered today. I hate child murders.’
‘You don’t have to say sorry to me, Mary Richards. Out of all of my police officers you’re by far the nicest. You should hear how some of them speak to me when they don’t get their own way.’
‘Well, I am sorry. Goodnight, Bob.’
‘Goodnight you two.’
Outside Richards said, ‘I’m glad you made me apologise.’
‘I know.’
***
Why hadn’t she mentioned her concerns to Jed? Maybe because she didn’t know what he could do. Oh, he could come round to the house with Chief Kowalski – her boss – and teach Grant a lesson. But a lesson about what? Grant hadn’t actually done anything. According to Jed he was as innocent as a newborn baby. Yet why did she feel so nervous?
She should ask him to leave. As soon as she plucked up enough courage, that’s exactly what she’d do. The longer she left it, the harder it would become.
Enter by the narrow gate. For the gate is wide and the way is easy that leads to destruction, and those who enter by it are many. For the gate is narrow and the way is hard that leads to life, and those who find it are few. Mathew 7:13-14.
Grant finished the reading.
She opened her eyes, unlocked her hands and lifted her head.
‘Can we eat now, mum?’ Howard asked.
She smiled at him. ‘Of course you can, darling.’
‘Don’t they teach you about the Lord’s work at school, Howard?’ Grant asked him.
Her son pursed his lips and looked Grant straight in the eyes. ‘Mrs Mulley tells us interesting stories from the bible. She doesn’t use big words like you do, and her stories make sense.’
‘Howard!’ she reprimanded him. ‘Don’t be so rude.’
‘It’s all right, Carrie,’ Grant said. ‘Howie and me . . .’
‘Don’t call me that,’ Howard said.
Grant’s face and neck became red and blotched. ‘Howie and me haven’t exactly hit it off yet.’ His eyes narrowed to slits. ‘But rest assured – we will.’
‘What do you mean, darling?’ she asked him.
‘I’m working on a plan to bring us all closer together.’
‘Oh?’
‘Not yet. It’s a surprise. I’ll tell you nearer the time.’
After the evening meal he locked himself in his studio as usual to work on his photography. That’s what he said, but she wondered if that’s what he really did in there, or whether he had some other reason for locking the door. There was no spare key for emergencies, even though she’d suggested that it might be a good idea if he kept one in the kitchen. The only key to the connecting door was on his key ring which he kept that with him all the time. If she knocked on the door, he would come out to her. She hadn’t been inside his studio since he’d moved in there.
While the children were getting themselves ready for bed, she filled up the dishwasher, put it on a heavy wash cycle and tidied up the kitchen. Grant liked to see everything in its proper place, and the kitchen and dining room clean and tidy when he’d finished in his studio.
She climbed the stairs to say goodnight to the children. Melody was already fast asleep in her cot thank goodness.
Howard was sitting on Sarah’s bed.
‘Have you forgotten where your bedroom is, Howard?’
‘I . . . we don’t like him, mum.’
Sarah nodded her head up and down on the pillow.
‘He’s a good man, you just have to give him a chance.’
‘I . . . we’ve given him lots of chances. I’ve asked him not to call me Howie, but he still does it. We don’t like the bible readings every night . . . and I’m not going to that stupid church ever again . . .’
‘Do you want me to ask him to leave?’
Immediately H
oward said, ‘Yes.’
Sarah held her rag doll up to her ear. ‘Polly says: “Yes please, mummy,”.’
Maybe she’d made a terrible mistake. If the children didn’t like Grant there wasn’t much point in carrying on with their relationship. It wasn’t all about her needs. It wasn’t all about the physical attraction she felt for him. A large part of the reason for asking Grant to live with her was so that the children would have a father figure. Howard especially needed a strong male role model, and she wanted both of her children to feel part of a stable and loving family.
She didn’t like being a single mother – it was hard work. Having Grant around took some of the responsibility off her shoulders – physically, financially and emotionally. For her, he was someone to hold onto during the difficult times, and didn’t every woman need a man to hold onto? She thought – for a fleeting moment in the basement archives of Redbridge Council – that it might have been Jed Parish, but she’d been grasping at straws. She’d felt vulnerable, and thought that sex with a stranger would fill the void that her husband’s betrayal had left, but it hadn’t.
‘All right,’ she said. ‘I’ll ask him. Now, I want both of you in your own beds and asleep within five seconds.’
Howard ran into his own bedroom.
She kissed them both and headed downstairs.
‘What will you ask me?’ Grant said, moving from the shadow of the stairs.
‘Oh! You frightened me half to death.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Have you finished in your studio?’
‘No, I just came out to get something. Well, what are you going to ask me?’
‘Will you please stop calling him Howie?’
He kissed her on the cheek and said, ‘Of course.’
‘Thank you, darling.’
‘Anything for you, Carrie,’ he said, and returned to his studio.
***
Once he’d played with Jack, walked the dog, eaten the evening meal and washed the dishes, he made himself comfortable with a coffee in the living room. Angie was putting Jack to bed and then going for a long scented soak in the bath after a hectic day on the Intensive Care Unit at King George Hospital. Digby was lying stretched out on his back on the sofa as if he owned the place. Richards had given him the 1966 diary to read. She was up in her room looking on the internet for any fifteen year-old girls who might have gone missing during that historic year.
He made notes as he read. Every page was completely filled with a childish print – not writing, but print. Loveday had printed the diary in pencil, and in some places the writing was barely legible. Even the margins had been filled up with print – sideways or upside down – to separate it from the rest of the page and fill up every available space.
As he read, he began to get a feel for who Loveday was – a fifteen year-old girl – yes, but he guessed Loveday was merely a name she wished she’d been called, it wasn’t her real name. Her abductor would never have allowed her to use her real name. So, if she wasn’t Loveday – who was she?
Wednesday, February 9, 1966
Dear Angel,
How are you? I’m all right I suppose. I’m trying to keep track of the days, but it’s so hard when I never see the sun or the moon, and I never know what time of day it really is. How long have I been here? It was a Friday night – three weeks before Christmas – when Daddy took me. From the first day I started making marks on the skirting board in this room – there are 103 marks now, but I can’t work out how long my day is. I thought I would be tired at night and wake up in the morning as I used to do, but I seem to be tired all the time and I take lots of naps, so the marks probably don’t represent my days. If that’s true, then I have no idea how long I’ve been here – it could be one or three months, or anywhere in-between. Anyway, enough about me. How’s Ricky getting on with his new motorbike? Has he found someone to replace me yet? I miss him terribly. I miss you and the others as well. Did it snow over Christmas? Did your dad get you the puppy you wanted? I’m crying while I write this, because I know I’ll never see you again. Isn’t it strange that we never seem to run out of tears?
Sunday, November 27, 1966
Dear Angel,
How are you today? I hope Paris is treating you well? Ha, ha! Remember how we used to dream of falling in love with someone who would take us to Paris? It doesn’t look as though that’s ever going to happen now, Angel. Me? Yes, I suppose I’m fine. Daddy was here yesterday. I have the feeling he doesn’t like me anymore – now that I’m fat and ugly-looking. He says he won’t have sex with me because he doesn’t want to hurt the baby growing inside me, but I think it’s more than that. Lately, I’ve been hearing someone crying softly. It’s very faint, and I have to press my ear to the door. I think he’s got someone new, someone who isn’t fat and ugly like me. Another month and the baby will be here – then what? I asked Daddy what would happen to me and my baby then, but he didn’t give me an answer . . .
He went upstairs and tapped on Richards’ door.
‘Hello?’
‘It’s the bogeyman.’
‘I knew there was something spooky about you.’
He stuck his head inside. ‘Did you know he got her pregnant?’
Richards was sitting cross-legged on her bed wearing a zebra-striped onesie, and her laptop open in front of her. ‘Yes.’
‘And you didn’t think that was relevant?’
‘In what way?’
‘Well . . .’
‘If we ever find out who Loveday and Daddy really are, then it might be relevant, but it’s not relevant now. And . . . I didn’t mention it because I didn’t want to think about what might have happened to Loveday and the baby. Do you think . . . ?’
‘Speculation is the root of all evil, Richards.’
‘I thought that was money?’
‘Have you found anything on the internet?’
‘No.’
‘You’ve checked for someone who went missing on December 3, 1965 – three weeks before Christmas?’
‘Yes.’
‘What about from 1966 to now.’
‘But the diary . . .’
‘. . . Might simply be an old empty diary that Daddy gave her.’
‘Bloody . . . sorry! You mean this could have happened last year?’
‘Or this year?’
‘Bloody . . .’
Chapter Ten
Tuesday, July 16
‘Can we get back to briefings in the afternoon?’ Kowalski said. ‘Contrary to popular belief, my day does not revolve around you two.’
Parish grunted. ‘It’s Richards’ fault.’
The Chief pulled a face. ‘I expected as much.’
‘She trashed another car yesterday, so we had to . . .’
‘Don’t listen to him, Sir.’
‘I don’t see why not. In all the time I’ve known Inspector Parish I’ve never known him to tell an untruth.’
‘You men just stick together.’
‘Tell me about Paul Gifford,’ the Chief directed at Parish.
‘Go on, Richards,’ Parish said. ‘Seeing as you’ve got so much to say for yourself you can tell the Chief what we were doing yesterday.’
Richards described what they’d found at the crime scene, their visit to the Gifford’s house, and then their interviews with the boy’s golf instructor and schoolteachers . . . ‘But then we went to the Linkage Estate to see a Mrs Traskett and her son Augustus – sweet little Augie – about some bullying.’
‘Something tells me that little Augie isn’t very sweet?’
‘Sadly, we didn’t get to meet him, but if his mother is anything to go by, I would think not. Anyway, when we came out of Mrs Traskett’s house, a group of children had scratched the word PIGS all over the car’s paintwork.’
‘The visit wasn’t completely wasted then?’
Richards half-smiled. ‘I suppose not.’
‘So, what’s next?’
Parish took over. ‘We’re still l
ooking for a motive . . .’
‘Although there might not be one,’ Richards chipped in.
‘She has this crazy idea we’re dealing with a serial killer . . .’
Kowalski rolled his eyes. ‘Again?’
Richards chipped in. ‘And Paul thinks the killer is a woman.’
‘A female serial killer?’ The Chief said. ‘They’re like . . .’
‘DI Parish has been good enough to explain to me how rare female serial killers are, which was something I already knew anyway, but that’s what I think.’
‘There’s no telling her,’ Parish said. ‘Anyway, we’re still interviewing the people on the list who are connected to the boy in some way that Richards obtained from the parents. Doc Riley is doing the post mortem this morning and we’re meeting her for lunch to get a full report. This afternoon, Toadstone will fill us in on any evidence found at the crime scene, and then we’ll come up here and brief you at three-thirty before the press briefing at four.’
‘Sounds like a plan.’ He stood up and moved back to his desk. ‘I’ll see you both this afternoon then.’
They shuffled out.
Parish said good morning to Carrie, but Richards ignored her.
‘I wish you’d be more pleasant to Carrie.’
‘Who?’
‘Right, you . . .’
‘I’m going up to forensics to give Paul the diary.’
‘I’ll be in the incident room then. Don’t be long.’
‘I’ll try not to be.’
He went via the kitchen to make himself a coffee, and then headed to the incident room that he and Richards usually occupied. It was only after he was sitting at the table absently looking at the crime scene photographs stuck on the whiteboard that he remembered they weren’t in this room. He stood up, and had every intention of leaving, but then got distracted by the details of the case.