by Ellis, Tim
A white van with blue writing! He wrote: What type of van? A Ford Transit? A VW Camper? A Landrover?
‘Good morning, Sir.’
He turned to find DS Gilbert in the doorway. ‘Oh! Hello, Gilbert.’
‘Are you on this case now as well?’
He felt as though he’d been caught with both hands in the cookie jar, and put the marker pen down surreptitiously. ‘No. I forgot Richards and I weren’t in this room. I wandered in by mistake and sat down, and then began looking at the photographs and reading the details of the case when I realised my mistake.’
‘And on your way out, you thought you’d leave your graffiti tag on our whiteboard?’
He laughed. ‘The detective in me took over.’
‘I see. It’s a good job DI Blake didn’t find you scribbling on the board.’
‘Yes, I know. I’d be dead meat by now. I’ll go before she gets here.’
‘There’s no rush, Sir. She has a press briefing in a couple of minutes.’
Gilbert stepped fully into the room. The door shut behind him. ‘So, what have you been writing on the board?’
‘As I was reading what you’d written I began asking questions.’
‘I see.’ Gilbert turned his head sideways to read what Parish had scribbled. ‘No, we don’t know what type of van it is.’
‘Do you have a witness?’
‘Yes, but she only caught a glance of the van.’
‘If you knew what type, it would narrow the search down.’
Gilbert rubbed his freshly shaven chin between thumb and forefinger. ‘That’s true.’
‘My suggestion is to put pictures of the different types of white van on a card – much the same as you would for a suspect array – and . . .’
‘. . . Show it to the witness to see if she can pick out the van she saw?’
‘Exactly.’
‘Good idea, Sir.’
‘It was just a thought.’
‘You’ll understand if I tell DI Blake it was my idea. If she knew you’d been in here writing . . .’
‘Of course. I never came in this room, I never wrote on the board, and we never had this conversation. Have a good day, Gilbert.’
‘And you, Sir.’
He walked to Incident Room 2, realised he’d forgotten his coffee, but decided not to go back for it.
Richards was in there waiting for him.
‘Did you get lost?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh!’
‘I stumbled into our usual incident room.’
‘Stumbled?’
‘Walked in then, and sat down . . . before I realised I was in the wrong room. Did you give the diary to Toadstone?’
‘Yes, and you do know I’ll have to use CrimInt to find out the names of all the fifteen year-old girls who went missing between 1966 and 2014?’
‘It’s a legitimate query. Nobody’s going to report you for misuse of police resources with a database query like that. Okay, enough about the diary, let’s focus on this investigation.’ He looked at what Richards had put on the incident boards. ‘Where are we going with this?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, we need a direction. At the moment, I feel as though we’re flailing about in the dark. Write the suspect list on the board.’
‘It’s hardly a suspect list.’
‘What would you rather call it?’
‘Maybe . . .’
‘Write.’
Richards began writing names on the board. The Giffords were local to Flamstead End, and Linford Gifford had two brothers – Freddie and George – both of whom were well known to Essex police and Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs for alcohol smuggling, drinks duty fraud on a considerable scale and their links to organised crime.
Forgetting that he’d left his mug of coffee on the table in the other incident room he reached out a hand, but it came back empty. ‘Is Paul Gifford’s murder anything to do with organised crime?’
‘No.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Too elaborate.’
‘Maybe it was a revenge killing.’
Richards shook her head.
‘Maybe the killer was sending a message to one or other of the Gifford brothers.’
‘What message?’
‘Don’t mess with us or we’ll kill all your family.’
‘No – too complicated. People in organised crime send obvious messages. You know, like a horse’s head in someone’s bed, a bullet in the back of a witness’s head, concrete overshoes . . .’
‘You’ve been watching the Crime Channel again, haven’t you?’
‘You have no evidence to support that wild accusation. I should sue you for slander.’
‘Mmmm!’
‘I’m sure that the killer has sent a message, but what it is and to whom we don’t know yet.’
‘So we should ignore Freddie and George?’
‘Yes.’
‘Has Annette Gifford got any family?’
‘Her maiden name is Pallister. She comes from Horsham in Sussex, and that’s where her mum and three sisters still live.’
‘Anything on them?’
‘Nothing – law abiding citizens.’
‘You’re so naive. Law abiding citizens are fictional characters from a book by Shelagh Keogh called Mumbo Jumbo.’
‘And you’re so cynical.’
‘How did Mrs Gifford end up in Flamstead End?’
Richards checked her notebook. ‘She was a student nurse at King George Hospital, met Linford, got married after she qualified, took time off to have children, went back to work – now she’s employed on the Adult Surgical Day Unit.’
‘Maybe your mother knows her.’
‘Your wife?’
‘That’s the one. What does Mr Gifford do?’
‘Landscape gardener.’
‘Does he employ people?’
‘Someone else owns the business – he’s an employee.’
‘What about them?’
‘No.’
‘No?’
‘One of them – Lee Boydell – has a juvenile record for theft, but nothing since.’
‘That we know of. Who else have you got on that list?’
‘We should probably go and talk to Tara Goble – she was Paul’s Financial Advisor.’
‘A female! You’re thinking that she embezzled his money, and when he found out she killed him?’
‘No, I was thinking that we should just talk to her, obtain Paul’s financial records and eliminate money as a motive.’
‘You’re not being very helpful.’
‘None of the people on this list killed Paul Gifford.’
He stared at the list of names and all the other information on the incident boards. ‘It would help my thought processes if you made me a coffee.’
‘I’m sure,’ she said, but she didn’t move.
‘All right, let’s say it was a woman . . .’
‘Really?’
‘Never let it be said that I don’t listen to the mutterings of my minions.’
‘You’re so generous.’
‘Less enlightened people might call it a weakness.’
‘One day, they’ll erect a statue of you outside the police station and make a documentary of your life.’ With one eye closed, she began looking at Parish through a square aperture constructed with the thumb and forefinger of both hands.
He pursed his lips and nodded. ‘It seems a logical conclusion to my greatness.’
‘And if it is a woman?’
‘A coffee would loosen up my speculating cells.’
She moved towards the door. ‘Don’t think you can fool me. If the speculating isn’t up to standard you might end up wearing the coffee.’
‘I understand.’
She left and clip-clopped down the corridor to the kitchen.
Could the killer be a woman?
He stood up, picked up a marker pen and began to list the behavioural
traits of psychopaths on the whiteboard.
Maybe Toadstone and Richards were right, maybe it was a woman. Why? What would make a woman kill a nine year-old boy? He was well aware that some women showed the classic symptoms of psychopathy:
Enduring antisocial behaviour;
Diminished empathy and remorse; and
Disinhibited behaviour,
But, he could count on one hand those women who had killed more than once. As such, there had been no valid or reliable research carried out on female psychopaths. What limited anecdotal evidence there was suggested that:
Similar to male psychopaths, women have a background of neglect and abuse;
They have an introverted family life and suffer a sense of isolation;
The killing is largely about control and power;
The psychopathy manifests itself as a histrionic pattern – behaviours and/or speech for effect, insincere or exaggerated expressions of emotion, overly dramatic and operatics; and
Internalising of behaviours such as: eating too much or too little, feeling depressed, abusing substances and cutting themselves.
How that profile – if it was a profile – helped them, he had no idea. Many women met some or all of the criteria, but they weren’t serial killers.
Richards came back with two mugs and put one down in front of him.
He took a long drink. ‘Ah! That’s better. Okay, convince me.’
‘You’ve been writing on the board.’
‘Doodles while I mulled – nothing more.’
‘Very detailed doodles.’
‘I like to make the effort.’
Richards began trying to convince him that the killer was a woman. ‘We have the shoeprint. Yes, it could be a man’s or a teenager’s shoeprint, but if we add it to the other evidence that Paul found at the crime scene, it clearly points to an adult and a woman. For instance . . .’
He took out his Blackberry and began searching his phonebook.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Making a call to my accountant.’
‘You . . . you don’t have . . .’
‘Shush.’
‘Megan Riley.’
‘Hi Doc, it’s your friendly neighbourhood detective inspector.’
‘You’re early.’
‘I know. I have a question.’
‘Go on.’
‘Do you know what the boy was injected with yet?’
‘Fentanyl – a potent, synthetic opioid with rapid onset.’
‘And where might I obtain some of this Fentanyl?’
‘You’d like me to say that it can only be obtained from one place in the UK, wouldn’t you?’
‘You know me too well, Doc.’
‘Unfortunately, I’m going to disappoint you. It can be purchased on the internet with a prescription, and they’re easily obtainable. It’s also used as a recreational drug and is available – for a small handling charge, of course – through your local drug dealer.’
‘Someone could also obtain Fentanyl if they worked in a hospital, couldn’t they?’
‘Yes and no. It’s a controlled drug, and as such it’s subject to the Standard Operating Procedures for all controlled drugs. The SOPs cover storage, prescription, record-keeping – everything from receipt to disposal – a bit like your chain of evidence. There are record books, weekly checks, monthly audits and any discrepancies must be thoroughly investigated. If you really wanted some, I’d go and buy it from a drug dealer – a lot less complicated.’
‘Thanks, Doc. See you later.’
He ended the call and placed his phone on the table.
‘Well?’ Richards asked.
‘No help really. I had the idea that the drug used to paralyse the boy would help us identify a suspect. We still need to check the supplies of Fentanyl on the Adult Day Care Unit though.’
‘I thought you didn’t believe the killer was a member of the family.’
‘I don’t, but we have to eliminate all possibilities. Annette Gifford is a nurse, and the killer knew enough about Fentanyl to know that it was a fast-acting paralytic drug. What do you think would happen if we ignored the possibility that it could be her, and then later she was found to be the killer?’
‘You’d get the sack and I would be promoted to DI?’
‘Something like that. So, tell your friend Paul to carry out a physical check of the Fentanyl stocks and paper/computer records on the ward where Mrs Gifford works.’
‘Okay.’
‘And while we’re on the subject – what else should we check?’
‘I’m already a detective – you don’t have to test me anymore.’
‘In which case, you’ll know the answer.’ He took a sip of his coffee. ‘Feel free to utter your words of wisdom at any time in the next five seconds.’
‘You think I don’t know, don’t you?’
‘I think that you think that I think you don’t know.’
‘Well I do know. She might have access to other stocks of Fentanyl.’
‘Very good, detective. Have I told you about the requirements of the CPD program?’
‘No – what’s that?’
‘You don’t pass your National Investigator’s Examinations and that’s the end of it, you know.’
‘You’re making it up.’
‘I blame myself as your tutor. I should have explained to you that there is an ongoing requirement to continually update your skills and knowledge in order to remain professionally competent and achieve your true potential.’
‘I’d like to see that in writing.’
‘Have you never heard of CPD?’
‘Civilian Personnel Directorate? Central Postal Directory?’
‘Continuing Professional Development.’
‘You’ve just invented it.’
‘I’d be a billionaire if I had. You have to maintain a record of your CPD activity.’
‘I’m not going to fall for one of your tricks.’
‘I was simply going to say that you could use our question and answer session as an instance of CPD.’
‘The fact that I know something?’
‘Yes. Okay, enough about you . . . and stop shifting the focus of our discussion onto topics that only interest you.’
‘Me?’
‘See! It’s not all about you, Richards. Right, what else have you got?’
‘I should . . .’
‘Well?’
‘The injection, the suffocation, the praying position and the child’s prayer – they’re the actions of a woman.’
‘You don’t know that. As you’ve said yourself – there’s a message to it all. Even though we don’t know what that message is yet, either gender could have sent it.’
‘I don’t think so. There’s a feminine quality about the way the message was arranged. If a man had sent the message he would have left marks on the boy, and there are no marks. They would have used a more masculine and direct way to communicate the message.’
‘Such as?’
‘Carved a cross into the boy’s torso – a woman wouldn’t have done that, just as a man wouldn’t leave a child’s prayer in the boy’s hands.’
‘Let’s say you’ve convinced me – how does it help us?’
‘Well, instead of looking for a man, we look for a woman.’
‘Have you got any particular woman in mind?’
‘Well, no.’
He looked at the list of names. ‘Point to the woman most likely to be the killer.’
‘The killer isn’t one of those people.’
‘So, it doesn’t help us really, does it?’
She put her hands on her hips. ‘You can be so negative sometimes.’
‘I see. Can you say that the killer was definitely a woman?’
‘You know I can’t.’
‘But didn’t you just say that we should look for a woman instead of a man?’
‘You’re twisting my words.’
He laughed. ‘I quote: “Instead of
looking for a man, we look for a woman.” Those were your exact untwisted words.’
‘That’s not what I meant.’
‘Ah, so now you’re saying things you don’t actually mean?’
‘I’m not talking to you anymore.’
‘And that’s something else you don’t mean, isn’t it?’
***
‘How did the press briefing go?’ Stick asked, as he squirmed into the incident room with two steaming mugs of coffee and placed one in front of Xena.
‘It went very well, thank you, Stickamundo. I made a public appeal for the driver of the rusty white van with light blue writing on the side to make himself known to us, and I also mentioned the walk-in freezer to see if it generates any leads. What have you been doing while I’ve been subjecting myself to public scrutiny?’
Stick smiled. ‘The results came back on the CrimInt query. There have been two other victims – Michaela Parsons and Joyce Lipton. One went missing in March, and the other in May. No bodies have been found, but look at their pictures.’ He pointed to the photographs on the incident board.
She took a sip of the steaming coffee – just how she liked it. Stick had put the three pictures next to each other. Each woman was blonde-haired, blue-eyed and very attractive.
‘There’s clearly some disadvantages to being beautiful,’ she said. ‘A condition I don’t suffer from, thankfully.’
‘I think you’re beautiful.’
‘You’ve been nibbling at those magic mushrooms again, haven’t you?’
‘How are you and Tom Dougall getting on?’
That was something she didn’t want to talk about. They were between a rock and a hard place at the moment. He was still in Barking & Dagenham, and she was here in Hoddesdon. And because of the long hours they both worked, they were limited to seeing each other at weekends – if neither of them had a case on the go, which was rare. In other words, they were like ships passing in a dense fog and a quote from Henry Longfellow’s poem Tales from a Wayside Inn came to mind:
Ships that pass in the night and speak to each other in passing;
Only a signal shown and a distant voice in the darkness;
So on the ocean of life we pass and speak to one another,