In the Twinkling of an Eye (9781311593672)

by Ellis, Tim

  She rolled back the sheet covering Clarice Kennedy and the assistant put it in a linen skip. Then, she switched on the hanging microphone and began speaking into it.

  ‘The body is identified by toe tags as that of Clarice Kennedy, a seventeen year-old well-nourished female who was found in Nine Acre Wood on Monday July 16, 2014 at approximately 0600 hours. When she was found she was wearing the remnants of a yellow summer dress, which has been removed and sent for detailed analysis. She has blonde shoulder-length hair, blue eyes, all her own teeth and pierced ears. She weighs a hundred and nineteen pounds and is five feet nine and a half inches tall. There is a small butterfly-shaped scar on the inside of her right wrist, and another pencil-thin S-shaped scar on her left knee. There are no tattoos, and no external evidence of disease, such as abnormal skin colouring, lumps or bumps. The early stages of rigor mortis and lividity are evident.’

  Doc Paine took a deep breath. ‘The head is normocephalic. The oronasal passages are unobstructed. The neck is straight and without hypermobility. The skin has been hosed with bleach to destroy evidence and that is the overriding smell emanating from the body. External injuries consist of strangulation marks on the neck, deep lacerations and blood clots around the wrists; evidence of bite marks and bruising on the breasts, neck and shoulders. There are a variety of skin tears in the labia majora and minora. The vaginal opening is also cracked and split. There are scratch marks and bruising on the inside of the thighs. The anus is torn, and the looseness of the sphincter is consistent with anal penetration.’

  She moved up to the eyes and lifted each of the eyelids one at a time. ‘There are petechial haemorrhages in the bulbar and palpable conjunctiva suggesting terminal asphyxia, which is consistent with the strangulation marks on the neck.’

  Picking up a scalpel, she began opening up the cadaver. ‘The Y-shaped incision across the upper chest and down the abdomen to the pubis has been completed, and I am now peeling back the skin and underlying tissues to expose the rib cage and abdominal cavity, cutting through the ribs, and removing the front of the chest plate to expose the neck and chest organs. An in-situ examination reveals that the organs of the chest are normal, but . . . Dear, God!’ She looked up at them.

  ‘Xena’s brow furrowed. ‘What?’

  ‘The cervical spine is examined by palpation and reveals no fractures or dislocations. The larynx and hyoid bone are intact, which suggests that the strangulation must have been part of the rape and torture and not what killed her. Her insides have been ripped apart with bleach from a high-pressure hose.’ She shook her head. ‘I can’t say I’ve ever seen anything quite like this. It’s what killed her for sure. She was literally pulverised from the inside out. I would say that the nozzle from the hose was inserted into her vagina and turned on at full pressure – the organs fragmented and shredded. I thought I’d seen everything, but clearly not. She must have suffered terribly.’

  Starting at the neck and working downward, she began removing, examining and dissecting the organs one at a time – the trachea, thyroid gland, parathyroid glands, oesophagus, heart, thoracic aorta and lungs. As she held each organ in her hands she described the shape and size of them relative to each other, weighing them and indicating whether they were within normal parameters for the age and size of Clarice Kennedy. She took small samples of each organ, and collecting samples of blood and other fluids for blood cultures and toxicological analysis. Then she went through the same process with the organs of abdominal cavity – the intestines, liver, gallbladder and bile duct system, pancreas, spleen, adrenal glands, kidneys, urinary bladder, abdominal aorta, reproductive organs and uterus . . . ‘Dear Lord!’

  Xena and Stick peered at her.

  ‘Pieces of a tiny foetus.’

  ‘Jesus!’ Stick muttered under his breath.

  ‘She was pregnant?’ Xena said.

  ‘Yes. I’d say about twelve weeks.’ She dissected the uterus and rummaged in the empty abdominal cavity until she eventually found the whole three-inch foetus. ‘A boy.’

  Stick said, ‘Was it . . . ? Did they . . . ?’

  Doc Paine nodded. ‘Yes. I’d say that, not only did they murder Clarice Kennedy, but they also murdered her unborn child.’

  ‘Is it possible to obtain the father’s DNA from the foetus?’ Xena said.

  ‘Possibly.’ She cut the umbilical cord, placed the lower half of the foetus into a stainless steel kidney dish and passed it to one of her assistants. ‘You know what to do?’

  The man nodded and hurried off.

  ‘It’ll take about three hours to obtain a DNA profile, and then you’ll obviously need something to compare it with. We’ll look for a match on the national database, but if you have someone else in mind . . .’

  ‘The Carls?’ Stick suggested.

  Xena nodded. ‘Arrange to have them taken to the station to provide samples. If they refuse, arrest them.’

  ‘What about Clarice’s father?’

  Doc Paine interrupted. ‘We’ll be able to tell you through the DNA profile if the father of the child is related to Clarice.’

  ‘Okay,’ Stick said, moving out of the mortuary through the swing doors and into the corridor to make the call.

  ‘I hope you’re going to catch the men who did this, Inspector,’ Doc Paine said.

  ‘So do I.’

  The pathologist finished her post mortem of Clarice Kennedy. ‘I’m now making an incision around the back of the head, moving the skin backwards and forwards . . .’ She picked up her vibrating saw and cut off the top of the skull cap to gain access to the brain which she then removed, weighed, examined in detail, took a sample and put back. ‘I’ll arrange for the full post mortem report to be sent to you tomorrow. In the meantime, I’ll phone you if and when we obtain any DNA results.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Stick came back into the mortuary. ‘Done.’

  Xena twirled her finger, indicating he should about turn. ‘We’re done here as well.’

  As they walked along the corridor towards the main exit and the car park Stick said, ‘We have to catch them, don’t we?’

  ‘That was always the case.’

  ‘Yes, but even more so now.’

  ‘You don’t think we should hand the case over to Senior Inspector Parish and know-it-all Richards then?’

  ‘No, I don’t. You and I are the best detectives in Essex.’

  ‘Well, I certainly am. But you’re still a lot rough round the edges.’

  ‘Oh, okay.’

  ***

  Before meeting Toadstone in the incident room at three o’clock, they decided to make two stops on the way back to the station. The first was to Silver Cloud, a data storage hosting company located at Percival Business Park in Harlow.

  At the top of the five steps up to the entrance, Richards pressed the doorbell. The glass was clouded and they couldn’t see through into the interior of the warehouse-sized building.

  ‘Maybe no one is in,’ she said. ‘Maybe this whole cloud storage thing is just a giant computer. Maybe there’s no people involved at all. Maybe . . .’

  The door opened and a black security guard built like an Olympic weightlifter filled the entrance.

  Richards showed her new warrant card. ‘Detective Constable Richards and DI Parish. We’re here to see someone about one of your clients.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Someone.’

  ‘Anyone in particular?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you make an appointment?’

  ‘We’re the police.’

  ‘So you’ve said.’ He shut the door.

  ‘Do you think he’s coming back?’

  Parish pulled a face. ‘I got the impression that he’d eaten police officers with barbecue sauce before and they weren’t his favourite meal.’

  ‘If he decides not to let us in we’ll have to call for back-up won’t we?’

  ‘You will.’

  ‘Where will you be?’

  ‘In the
cafe along the road watching it all on television.’

  ‘Oh no you won’t.’

  ‘Oh yes I will. You’re a Detective Constable now. You have to take responsibility for your actions. I did notice that you referred to yourself first instead of me, and that you called me a DI instead of a Detective Inspector. Also, you must have said something or looked at him in a funny way for him not to have let us in. So far, I’ve had no input. If you’re in charge, you’re also in charge when things go wrong.’

  ‘You wouldn’t leave me.’

  ‘I . . .’

  The door opened again. A slim woman in her late twenties with ginger hair scooped back into a ponytail with a wooden comb, an outbreak of freckles, and a willow-green skirt and jacket peered at them and said, ‘Hello.’

  Parish stepped forward. ‘Hi. I’m DI Parish and this is DC Richards from the Murder Investigation Team at Hoddesdon.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘We’d like to speak to someone about one of your clients.’

  ‘We don’t normally talk to people.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘We do everything online.’

  ‘Can we come in?’ Richards asked.

  The woman screwed up her face. ‘I suppose you can if you must.’ She stood to one side. ‘You do know we have over fifteen million clients, don’t you?’

  ‘Is that relevant?’

  ‘Well yes, especially if you just want to talk about one of them.’

  Parish said, ‘And you are?’

  ‘Mitzee Shenton – I’m the client account manager.’

  ‘Do you manage all the client accounts?’

  ‘No, only five million of them.’

  ‘Who else works here?’

  ‘There are twelve software and hardware technicians – six on the day shift, and six on the night shift. Three account managers, and of course, you’ve met Sydney.’

  Richards’ brow furrowed. ‘What exactly do you all do here?’

  ‘Store data, but it’s a bit more complicated than that.’

  ‘Oh, okay.’

  ‘So, who’s this one client you want to talk about?’

  ‘Paul Gifford,’ Richards replied.

  ‘The name doesn’t ring any bells.’

  Richards glanced at Parish. ‘Don’t you watch television?’

  ‘Ancient technology. I’ll obviously have to access a terminal, so I suppose you’d better follow me.’ She led them along a corridor to a huge office with one desk, a chair and a computer. ‘You’ll have to stand. This is a data storage warehouse not a meeting place. The building wasn’t designed for people to drop in any time they felt like it. Who did you say you were looking for?’

  ‘Paul Gifford,’ Parish said.

  She keyed in the name. ‘We have seven Paul Giffords. Where does he live?’

  ‘Longfield Lane – Number 37.’

  ‘Okay. He’s nine years old, runs a tiny online golf accessories outlet from his home. What else do you want to know?’

  ‘He was murdered yesterday morning,’ Richards said.

  ‘That’s unfortunate. Do you know who’s paying for the account now?’

  ‘Is that all you care about – money?’

  ‘A child’s death is always sad, but I didn’t know him. And, to be perfectly honest, it’s just one death. Do you know how many children have died since we’ve been talking?’

  ‘That’s not the issue.’

  ‘Fifteen die every minute. You’ve been here about ten minutes, so a hundred and fifty children have died while we’ve been doing nothing about it. Before the day is over 21,000 children will have died around the world, and still we’ll have done nothing about it. So, excuse me if I’m not devastated by one child’s death, there are greater issues at stake in the world.’

  Richards narrowed her eyes. ‘I don’t like you.’

  ‘You don’t even know me, but that’s your prerogative.’

  Parish stepped between them. ‘We’re actually doing something about one child’s death. Now, who in your company has access to Paul Gifford’s account details and data?’

  ‘Everyone.’

  ‘Everyone?’

  ‘Yes. Oh . . . except Sydney. He doesn’t need computer access.’

  ‘How many employees?’

  ‘About twenty in total, but you’re climbing up the wrong banana tree.’

  ‘Why?’

  She moved her fingers over the keys. ‘Okay, I can tell you that no one here has accessed Paul Gifford’s account or data since the account was initiated eighteen months ago.’

  ‘What about people elsewhere?’

  ‘Only Paul Gifford.’

  ‘No unusual activity?’

  ‘Nothing out of the ordinary.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘We’re only interested in maintaining our clients’ availability and accessibility to their data, and keeping that data physically and electronically secure. None of our employees has the time or the inclination to access a client’s data. Not only that, the data is encrypted and sits behind multiple layers of security. If anyone began taking an interest in a client’s data, we’d know about it within seconds.’ She sat back, looked up at them and smiled. ‘Anything else I can help you with?’

  Parish shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. Thank you for your time, Miss Shenton.’

  ‘I’m sure.’ She stood up and escorted them into the lobby.

  Sydney opened the door, grunted and closed it behind them.

  ‘That was hardly worth the effort,’ Richards said, as they walked to the car.

  ‘Yes it was.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Imagine if you will that we never came here, and then three months down the line we find out that Silver Cloud is the front for an international child trafficking business.’

  ‘Oh yeah! And where does Paul Gifford’s death fit into that scenario?’

  ‘He found a wormhole in their security program and discovered what they were doing.’

  ‘And they had to silence him?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘You’re crazy.’

  ‘It was another lead investigated and eliminated. That’s what we do – we keep following the leads until we find the killer. As they say in the building trade: “No job is too small.”’

  ‘How is that relevant?’

  ‘No lead is too small. You have to follow up everything, because the one time you don’t, is the time you hand in your detective’s warrant card and begin stacking shelves in the local supermarket.’

  ‘Again? It’s hard work stacking those shelves, you know.’

  Next, they travelled to Broxbourne High Street to see Paul Gifford’s bank manager – Bruce Walker. He was a small round man with a shiny bald head, a nose like Chuckles the Clown and a tie that deserved to be sacrificed to Satan at a lavish midnight ceremony.

  ‘Come in, come in,’ he said.

  They followed him into his office and sat in the easy chairs curved round a corner behind the door.

  ‘Tea, coffee, or something a little cooler?’

  ‘Cold water would be lovely,’ Richards said.

  Parish nodded. ‘And for me.’

  ‘This heat is a killer,’ Walker said. He stuck his head out of the door. ‘Three cold waters with ice please, Leah.’

  He sat opposite them. ‘Now, what can I do for you?’

  ‘You’ve heard about Paul Gifford?’

  ‘Of course. A tragedy to lose one of our clients with an account in credit.’

  A woman in her early twenties with long dark hair braided on one side, bright red lipstick and an azure blue strapless dress that clung to her body like a second skin, brought in three glasses and a jug of water with ice chinking in the top.

  ‘Thank you, Leah,’ Walker said.

  Richards elbowed Parish as Leah sashayed out as if she was on the catwalk in Milan.

  He closed his mouth.

  Walker poured them each a full glass of water. ‘Leah’s lovely
. She’s Spanish, you know. Leah Lopez – I’ve taken her under my wing, and I’m training her personally in the complexities of British and international banking.’

  ‘Really?’ Parish said, taking a long swallow of water.

  ‘One has to do one’s bit to improve Anglo-Spanish relations, especially after that fracas in Gibraltar. Now, what can I do for you two upstanding officers of the law?’

  ‘Paul Gifford’s bank account,’ Parish said.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘We’re still looking for a motive for his murder. Has there been any unusual movement of funds in or out of his account in the past month?’

  Walker shook his head. ‘No. Paul did have over four hundred thousand pounds in his account, and most of those funds were invested in various high-interest savings accounts, tax-free ISAs, and blue-chip stocks and shares.’

  ‘Meaning he couldn’t touch a lot of the money?’

  ‘Not without significant penalties.’

  ‘Nothing else that you think might be useful?’

  ‘No.’

  Parish stood up and offered his hand. ‘Thanks for your time, Mr Walker. We won’t waste any more of it.’

  ‘You’re welcome, Inspector.’

  Outside, as they walked back to the car, Richards said, ‘You should be ashamed of yourself.’

  ‘Is that right?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. You’re married with a child – two children. In fact, counting me – three children.’

  ‘And that’s made me incapable of appreciating beauty when I see it, has it?’

  ‘Is that what you call it? I call it letching like a dirty old man.’

  ‘I’m thirty-two.’

  ‘Too old to be letching at young women. You’ll soon be hobbling about with one of those wheelie-walkie things, have those disgusting skin threads all over your flabby body and slobber food all down the front of your cardigan.’

  ‘So that’s what I’ve got to look forward to, is it?’

  ‘Sooner than you think.’

  ‘Walking frames are on special offer on eBay at the moment.’

  ‘Maybe you should get one while they’re cheap. From what I’ve seen, those things are a Godsend.’