by Ellis, Tim
‘You have a dirty mind.’
‘Did she ask you for any money, sticky wicket? I bet she’s heard that you’re a multi-millionaire and . . .’
‘Weren’t you going somewhere?’
Xena stood up, opened the door and said over her shoulder as she left, ‘Maybe I’ll ask her myself.’
She smiled and headed for the stairs. If there was one thing worth getting up for in the morning, it was to wind up Stick like a clockwork orange.
Missing Persons had been redesigned. It was no longer a one-person closet reeking of body odour, which was stacked full of paper files and a stand-alone computer. Now, it was an L-shaped room next to the ladies toilets boasting a DI, a Constable and two networked computers.
Some bright spark on the university graduate program had put forward the idea – backed up with pages of mathematical formulae, statistical computations and some nifty-looking charts – that addressing the ever-growing missing persons’ problem would have a domino-effect on all other crimes, so it was being touted as the holy grail.
Unfortunately, although significant inroads had been made into the escalating missing person numbers, there had been no corresponding reduction in other crime statistics. But, as everyone kept saying: “It was early days yet.”
She was about to knock on the door, but before she could a tall thin PCSO she didn’t know came out of the toilet, and a putrid mix of beer and vindaloo wafted out into the corridor with her. Xena gave her a dirty look, but the PCSO simply ignored her. What, in the name of Lucifer and all his legions, had happened to respect and discipline? The police force was going to hell in a handcart.
Holding her breath she burst into Missing Persons and closed the door quickly behind her. ‘Jesus, I don’t know how you pathetic has-beens can work down here,’ she said to no one in particular.
Diane Haxell stopped working and spun round on her chair. ‘Hello, Blake. I’d heard you were back and that the personality transplant hadn’t worked. To what do we owe the pleasure?’
‘Sometimes it works, but it’s a bit hit and miss at the moment. Take this morning as a case in point. Stick and I were discussing the merits of supplementing a DI’s income by working overtime . . .’
‘What do you want, Blake?’
‘You’ve heard about Clarice Kennedy?’
‘Of course.’
‘During the course of your investigation, and I use that term in its loosest sense, did the name “Carl “ crop up at all?’
‘In what context?’
‘As Clarice’s boyfriend.’
‘She didn’t have a boyfriend.’
‘And that didn’t strike you as odd? She was a beautiful woman – why wouldn’t she have had a boyfriend?’
‘Men aren’t the be-all and end-all, Blake. Sometimes it’s good to have nothing to do with them.’
‘We’re not talking about your grubby experiences with men.’
‘I wasn’t, I was talking about women in general. If this job has taught me anything, it’s that men are our enemy.’
‘That’s one thing we can agree on,’ Xena said, thinking of that bastard Tom McDougall.
‘Anyway, who told you she had a boyfriend?’
‘Charlene Kelly.’
‘From the dance studio?’
‘Yes.’
‘We interviewed her. She never said anything about Clarice having a boyfriend.’
‘It was a confidence. At that time, everybody thought Clarice might still be found alive, and Charlene didn’t want to betray a confidence.’
‘About a boyfriend?’
‘Apparently, this Carl is much older than she was. Clarice didn’t want her parents finding out.’
Haxell shrugged. ‘There’s your answer then.’
‘You didn’t come across any other Carl?’
She shook her head. ‘No, but don’t forget that a missing person investigation is a whole lot different to a murder investigation. There’s only so far you can go before you find yourself tiptoeing through a legal minefield.’
‘Yeah – the fucking bastards. They tell us to keep everybody safe in their beds at night, but then they tie our hands behind our back, hobble our ankles together with manacles and chains, stuff a gag in our mouth and put a blindfold on us.’
‘We should go out for a drink sometime,’ Haxell said. ‘Maybe we could solve the world’s problems over a beer or three.’
Xena’s eyes narrowed. ‘I don’t think I could afford you.’
Haxell’s lip curled up. ‘Maybe we could work out a payment plan.’
‘I’ll give it some thought.’
‘Well, if there’s nothing else . . . ?’
Xena opened the door a crack and gently sniffed. ‘No, nothing else,’ she said, opening the door wide enough to make a run for the stairs.
Chapter Twelve
After Richards had input the CrimInt database query relating to 15-year old girls that had gone missing between 1966 – 2014, she walked to the garage to pick up a pool car.
Parish met her in the car park.
‘What’s this?’ he asked her through the open driver’s door window as he walked round the car.
‘A Vauxhall Corsa.’
‘Yes, I can see it’s a Corsa, but why are you driving it? And why are you expecting me to be a passenger in it?’
‘Bob said I have to build up my points again.’
‘Points? What points? Bob didn’t say anything to us last night about points.’
‘Are you getting in?’
He looked around, but apart from driving his own car he didn’t see any other alternative. Feeling like a sardine, he slid into the passenger seat and stretched out a hand.
‘Where’s the air conditioning?’
‘He said I didn’t have enough points to get a car with air conditioning.’
He rolled down the window, put the blowers on maximum and said, ‘Drive, before we become fried delicacies.’
She drove out of the station car park, joined the A1170 and headed towards Broxbourne. The next person on their list was Tara Goble – Paul Gifford’s financial advisor. She worked out of an office on Station Road wedged between the railway lines and New River. The twenty-mile artificial waterway hadn’t been a new river since 1613 when it was built to supply London with fresh drinking water from the River Lea and various other natural springs along its course.
Richards broke the silence. ‘I didn’t know there was a points system in operation, but I thought you would have known.’
‘Why?’
‘You’ve been at Hoddesdon since the dinosaurs became extinct.’
‘Is that right?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘Well, for your information Little Miss Pointless, I’ve never had a partner who turns cars into scrap metal the way that you do.’
‘I don’t . . .’
‘Oh, I’m sure you’d like to blame me, but I don’t sign them out, I don’t drive them and I’m not responsible for them, which only leaves little ole you. Couldn’t you transfer . . . ?’
‘No, he said that there was no facility for transferring points from one person to another, but you haven’t got any points anyway.’
He turned his head to stare at her. ‘No points! Surely I must have more points than . . .’
‘Because you leave me to sign out and drive the cars, you’re not accumulating any points.’
‘No, that can’t be right. Before you started driving, I was doing the driving. I don’t think I destroyed one single car. I must have a million points – give or take a hundred or two.’
‘Non-transferrable between years apparently. He said you lost all your points eighteen months ago.’ She smiled. ‘Now, you have nul points like Jemini achieved in the Eurovision Song Contest.’
‘Nul points!’
‘Don’t shoot the messenger.’
‘I’ll have to have words with Bob.’
‘He said you’d say that, and he also said not to bother bec
ause he wasn’t going to change his mind.’
‘It’s all your fault.’
‘I knew you’d say that.’
Fogwill, Jones & Goble Asset Management Ltd sounded impressive, but the company was located on the middle floor of a run-down flat-roofed building. The view of the New River was accompanied by the sound of Great Anglia trains arriving and departing from Broxbourne Railway Station. On the top floor of the building was a call-centre sweat shop, and underneath was an ironing sweat shop.
They walked through the glass panelled door and up the wooden stairs. A dozen pedestal and desk fans were humming in the open-plan room.
A young overweight man with short cropped fair hair and a worn-out smile said, ‘How can I help?’
Parish produced his warrant card. ‘Tara Goble, please.’
‘One moment,’ he said to Parish, but he was giving Richards the once-over and licking his lips. He dialled an internal number.
They could hear the phone he’d dialled ring.
‘There’s two coppers here to see you.’
A woman’s head popped up above a divider screen further along the room. She waved at them to come over.
‘Hello,’ she said, shaking each of their hands and pointing to two hard-back chairs. Tara Goble was thin – bordering on anorexic, with short dark hair and very little make-up. ‘I’ve been expecting you. Paul’s father rang me, but I’d already heard what had happened on the radio in my car. What a terrible tragedy. He was such a lovely boy. I had high hopes for him. I used to imagine I was providing financial advice to the next Richard Branson. And to think, he was only nine years old. Who would do something like that? Do you have any idea who killed him? Would you like a tea or coffee?’
‘No, we’re fine,’ Parish said, getting a word in a last. ‘We’d like to ask you some questions, if we may?’
‘Of course, anything I can do to help.’
‘We know Paul had over four hundred thousand pounds in his account, what happens to that now?’
‘As I said, Mr Gifford rang me earlier to let me know about Paul. He said that he was going to continue with Paul’s online business in memory of his son.’
‘And the four hundred thousand?’
‘Well, of course, that belongs to Mr and Mrs Gifford. Paul’s father had to act as “consignor” and take legal responsibility for the account by linking his bank account to his son’s. Paul had no legal financial status until he reached eighteen years of age.’
‘Has anything unusual happened recently?’
‘Unusual? In what way?’
‘Not usual.’
That’s helpful.’
‘With his account, or in his behaviour?’
‘No.’
‘Did he confide in you?’
‘About what?’
‘Anything unusual?’
‘No. We spoke about his money – investments, saving accounts, the poor interest rates, tax liabilities, pension provision . . .’
‘He understood all of that?’
‘I made it simple for him, but he was unusually intelligent. Also, his parents were always in attendance when I met with Paul.’
‘Was there ever any disagreement about the money?’
‘His father didn’t want him to give ten percent of his earnings to the school, but Paul said that it was his money and that’s what he wanted to do.’
‘Could his father have stopped him from giving the money away?’
‘Yes, but he didn’t. He respected Paul’s wishes.’
‘Do you think . . . ?’
‘No. Both of his parents were thrilled with his entrepreneurial spirit and wanted only the best for him.’
‘What about you?’
‘What about me?’
‘Where were you in the early hours of yesterday morning?’
‘In bed.’
‘Can anyone . . . ?’
‘It’s none of your damned business. If I miraculously become a suspect then you can ask that question, but otherwise keep your nose out of my private life.’
Parish stood up and passed her a card. ‘Thanks very much for your co-operation. If there’s anything else you think of that could help in our investigation, please give me a call.’
‘Anything else? Anything unusual, you mean?’
‘Exactly.’
***
‘Shall we continue, Sergeant?’ Gollum said.
Foster didn’t answer, but he appeared to have found a backbone from somewhere. Instead of giving the impression that he’d been defeated, he was standing straight and tall with his shoulders pushed back. Someone – probably Dryden – had obviously had a word in his ear. Jerry wondered how long it would last under Gollum’s soul-destroying questioning.
‘Before the break you stated that the police did not possess any evidence that my client knew his wife was having an affair, and as such he had no motive to kill her. Would that be an accurate assessment of your previous testimony, Sergeant Foster?’
‘Yes, my Lord.’
‘Excellent. Now, I’d like to go back to you putting plastic gloves on and pushing the door fully open. You also stated that you had given no thought as to the reason the door was partially open, other than to assume Mr Naseby had left it open because he wanted to surprise his wife in bed with her lover.’
‘Yes.’
‘Does the front door make a noise when it is closed?’
‘I . . .’
Jerry smiled. Gollum had him by the short-and-curlies again. She watched as Foster glanced at Dryden and then visibly wilted in the witness box again like a deflated dummy.
‘Yes, Sergeant?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘So, let me get this right. You’re saying that my client left the door open because it made a noise, but you actually have no idea whether the door does make a noise, or not?’
Foster didn’t respond.
‘Do you need a few seconds to compose yourself, Sergeant?’
‘No.’
‘Is it possible that Mr Naseby did shut his front door as he has stated, but then it was left open by somebody else?’
‘Such as?’
‘To prevent any further confusion on your part Sergeant, I’m the person asking the questions, and you’re the person who is required by law to answer them.’
‘Yes, my Lord.’
‘Good. Is it possible that Mr Naseby did shut his front door as he has previously stated?’
‘Yes.’
‘If that’s the case, then it’s not outside the bounds of probability that someone else left the door ajar, is it?’
‘No, my Lord.’
‘I leave it to your overactive imagination as to who that person might be, Sergeant.’
Jerry wondered why Gollum didn’t ask the judge for the case to be dismissed. She had certainly destroyed the foundations of the police case against Manning Naseby, and made DS Foster look like a bumbling incompetent. The only reason she could think of was that Gollum wanted to twist the knife some more.
‘What reason did my client give as to why he had returned to the house?’
‘He said that he’d forgotten an important file.’
‘I see . . .’
Jerry – and the whole courtroom for that matter – knew what was coming. Gollum paused, and if a snail had been slithering along an oak beam, they would have heard it.
‘You have a record of the file he said he’d forgotten?’
Foster didn’t answer.
‘My Lord,’ she addressed the judge. ‘I would be grateful if you could instruct the witness to answer . . . even though he has no answer.’
‘Sergeant, please answer, Mrs Ferguson.’
‘No, we have no record of the file Mr Naseby said he went back to the house to collect.’
‘Oh dear! You do know that my client is an architect?’
‘Of course.’
‘And that he was designing a substantial extension to the property tycoon – Maurice Chuka’s – Pa
rk Lane residence?’
‘No, but . . .’
‘And that it was this file he had returned to the house to collect, which he had been working on the night before and had left in his study.’
‘No.’
‘And that he had scheduled a meeting with Mr Chuka for later that day, so it was important that he had the file to hand?’
‘No.’
‘Did you check that the Chuka file was in my client’s study?’
‘No.’
‘I see. So, you don’t know whether my client was telling the truth or not?’
‘He was covered in blood, and had the murder weapon in his hand.’
‘All right, I know you’re eager to tell me what you saw when you entered the house, so let’s continue with your so-called evidence.’
DS Foster referred to his open notebook. ‘Mr Naseby was sitting on the stairs covered in blood and holding the murder weapon – a ten-inch carving knife.’
‘And where was Mr Naseby’s wife?’
‘Sprawled on the bed in the master bedroom. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so much blood.’
‘Who reported the murder?’
‘An anonymous 999 caller.’
‘Male or female?’
‘Male.’
‘And have you identified this anonymous caller?’
‘No, my Lord.’
‘Even after repeated requests for the caller to come forward?’
‘Yes.’
‘What time was this anonymous call logged?’
‘Eight thirty-five.’
Gollum looked at the judge. ‘With your permission, my Lord, I would like two mobile whiteboards wheeled in?’
The judge nodded.
Two of her assistants wheeled the two boards in and placed them side by side facing the jury, but far enough away so that the judge and the prosecution barristers could see what was on them.
‘This is something I prepared earlier.’ She pointed to the first time on the timeline of events she’d created. ‘Mr Naseby left home to drive to his office at 0805 hours, and returned to find his wife dead . . .’
Dryden stood up. ‘My Lord! The defendant is on trial for murder, not for coming home and finding his wife already dead.’
‘Quite right,’ the judge said. ‘Please keep to the facts of the case, Mrs Ferguson.’