by Ellis, Tim
‘As soon as we have anything definite, we’ll let you know,’ Stick said.
Xena stood up. ‘We’ll find our own way out.’
Outside, Stick said, ‘That was even worse than the last time.’
‘Yes . . .’ Her mobile vibrated. ‘Blake.’
‘It’s PC Brian Taylor-Lawson from dispatch, Ma’am.’
She hated being called “Ma’am”. It made her feel a hundred years old, and put her in more of a bad mood than she was already in. After what she’d been through she didn’t really want to feel any older than twenty-one.
‘Yes?’
‘A young woman called Lily Andrews has gone missing from Hunsdon.’
‘Attractive with blonde hair and blue eyes?’
‘Yes, Ma’am.’
‘Fuck! Address?’ She signalled to Stick to get his notebook out and write the address down.
‘Number 16 Tanners Way,’ she repeated for Stick’s benefit. ‘Postcode?’
‘SG12 8PQ,’ Taylor-Lawson said.
‘Who reported her missing?’
‘Her mother.’
‘When?’
‘About two hours ago.’
‘What the fuck have you been doing with it for two hours?’
‘I haven’t been doing anything with it, Ma’am. I was passed the information about five minutes ago and told to notify you.’
‘Good job as well.’ She ended the call. God, she was fucking knackered. Her whole body was racked with pain, and she was sweating like a knocked-kneed mule. All she wanted to do was go home and soak in a bath of goat’s milk. ‘What the fuck are you looking at?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Keep it that way. Well, what are we waiting for – a fucking invitation? Let’s get going.’
***
He was sitting on the loading bay facing the railway track smoking and worrying.
The police had mentioned his van on the news in connection with Clarice Kennedy’s murder.
Somebody was bound to remember that the van used to be white with blue lettering on the side. It had belonged to: Chuck Munster: Specialists in all Types of Flooring. He should have got rid of it instead of painting it dark blue, but he needed it to get to work. Now, he was sitting on a time bomb waiting for it to explode. The trouble was, if he got rid of it now it would probably look too suspicious.
The nightmares were getting worse too.
He’d delivered Lily Andrews to Jenson’s Slaughterhouse at River Meads, next to the railway track in Stanstead Abbotts yesterday evening, strung her up in one of the disused freezers and left her there in the dark.
She’d pleaded with him to let her go, not to hurt her, that she’d never tell another living soul what he’d done to her already, and – if he was being honest – he felt sorry for her, but she had such a whiney voice, so he’d stuffed a rag in her mouth to shut her up.
The others had arrived shortly after their shift in the slaughterhouse and found him dozing in his van. Joe had banged hard on the door to wake him up, and he’d nearly had a fucking heart attack.
‘Come on, Billy boy,’ Joe had said. ‘Anybody would think you weren’t getting your eight hours.’ Joe had laughed at his own joke, and the others had joined in.
No, he wasn’t getting his eight hours. In fact, he was in arrears by a good country mile.
The six of them had gone into the freezer.
Joe had taken his time.
The others were quicker.
He went fourth this time. Yeah, while he was shagging her it was the best feeling in the whole world. He didn’t like having an audience, but Lily Andrews was so beautiful that he barely noticed they were there until he shot everything he had into her and the others began cheering, clapping and dragging him off her so that Bob could have his turn. Then, even before he’d zipped himself up, the guilt began seeping into his brain like a virus.
Last night had been the worst night ever. He’d arrived home shortly before midnight and crawled into bed bone tired, but he couldn’t sleep. As soon as he closed his eyes he saw them – they were waiting for him as they were every night. Lily Andrews wasn’t there with them yet, but he knew she soon would be. Their decaying porcelain-white skin hung in strips from emaciated bodies, their blonde hair was lank and lifeless, their eyes were black holes that sucked in all the light and their maggot-infested mouths called his name silently.
‘You look like the ghost of Christmas past,’ his sister Charlene had said to him, when she came into the kitchen in her skimpy t-shirt and shorts this morning. She had the face of a boxer and the body of a whore. When he was younger and they lived in a different house, he used to watch her through a spy-hole in the attic and masturbate like a demented loser. He would imagine her undressing and touching herself just for him.
‘Having trouble sleeping at nights,’ he said. ‘I keep thinking of you sucking my cock.’
‘You’ve changed, Billy Kelly. I never liked you much as a brother anyway, but now you’re just a sad loser. And don’t think I won’t tell mum what you’ve just said to me. God knows why she doesn’t throw you out into the gutter like the filthy pervert you are.’
When he saw her with hardly any clothes on he had the urge to rape her. God, how awful was that? Did other guys have thoughts of raping their own sister? Or was it just him? Was there something seriously wrong with him? He had a hard-on just looking at her, so he supposed there must be.
A goods train stacked with containers rumbled by.
He sat back against the wall and closed his eyes. He thought it would get easier, but it hadn’t. He thought he would be able to live with what he’d done, but he couldn’t. He knew what he had to do to make it better. He knew what he had to do if he was ever going to sleep again at night.
‘She was as good as I expected, Billy boy,’ Joe said, nudging him and sitting down beside him. ‘Those tits . . . I spanked the monkey this morning thinking about those beautiful fucking tits.’
‘Yeah, she’s definitely beautiful.’
‘You sound like a fucking recruiter for a model agency.’
He laughed, but he didn’t think Joe was funny anymore.
‘Are you ready for shag number two?’
‘Am I?’
‘I might take the back route this time.’
Billy couldn’t see the point in having anal sex with a woman. In fact, the whole notion of anal sex made him feel sick. ‘Not me. I much prefer going in the front entrance like a normal person.’
‘Like a boring person, you mean. Anal sex is all the rage. Women like it up the arse.’
‘I’ll take your word for it, Joe. Listen, I need fags. I’m going to walk round to the shop. I’ll be back in about fifteen.’
‘Sure thing, Billy boy. I’ll try not to start without you, but the others might not hold that view, so you’d better put a spurt on.’
He wandered off nonchalantly, as if he really was going to the convenience store for cigarettes. When he reached the old red telephone box, he propped the door open with his foot, because the enclosed space reeked of urine, and called directory enquiries.
‘What number please?’
‘Malting’s Dog Kennels.’
‘Would you like us to put you through?’
‘Yes, please.’
It rang for an age. He was just about to give up when someone picked the phone up.
‘Yes?’ a woman’s voice said.
‘Mrs Kennedy?’
‘Who’s this?’
‘My name’s Billy Kelly. My sister . . .’ He felt a sharp pain in his back that took his breath away.
The line went dead.
‘Anyone I know, Billy boy?’ Joe whispered in his ear.
He felt his life ebbing away, and the last thing he saw before the darkness swallowed him whole were decomposing hands reaching out to drag him into hell.
Chapter Eighteen
With the television lights, and all the other electrical equipment in the press briefing room switched on, th
e temperature was at least ten degrees higher in there than it was outside. As a matter of etiquette he had his suit and tie on, but he’d have been more comfortable in shorts, a pair of flip-flops and slurping a Bahamas Mama.
When was the last time he’d had a holiday? The busman’s holiday to Cyprus didn’t count. It must have been the honeymoon. That long ago? Time to take a break. He’d speak to Angie and organise something.
The Chief hadn’t been happy. They had nothing. Forty-eight hours since Paul Gifford’s murder and all the leads had petered out. They had the killer’s DNA, but nothing to match it to. They now knew the killer was probably a woman, but no idea who. They had eliminated the likely motives – money, online predators and sexual abuse. He wasn’t even going to mention the handwriting analysis – bunkum. The press would think they were desperate and bordering on the insane if he mentioned that. They’d checked all the stocks of Fentanyl throughout the hospital – every last vial was accounted for.
One of the clerical staff was running the list of golf club employees and members through the database, but the results wouldn’t be ready until tomorrow morning, and he wasn’t hopeful it would provide anything useful – he was simply tidying up a loose end.
They still had Tommy Kirtley – Paul’s school friend – to interview tomorrow morning, but again he didn’t hold out much hope that it would produce the major breakthrough they needed.
After that, they really did have nothing, and would have to lock themselves in the incident room and examine everything again.
A reconstruction was always a last desperate attempt to generate new leads, but they didn’t even have that option available. With the exception of Paul Gifford and his killer, there was no one else about at that time of the morning to remember something they might have forgotten.
Another desperate measure was an appeal by the parents, but then the whole world would know they were scraping the bottom of the barrel. He sighed and poured himself a plastic beaker of water.
The three elements of a murder ran through his mind. Had they drawn all relevant inferences from the available evidence? The killer selected the fourteenth hole at the golf course to murder Paul Gifford because she knew he went there at that time of the morning on Mondays and Saturdays, and that information was known to most people. The victim had travelled on foot to the crime scene, but how did the killer get there and leave? He made a note to re-check the CCTV around that area at the time of the murder.
Paul Gifford knew the golf course very well, but did the female killer? Was she a member of the club? Had she played golf there? Without some way to connect victim and offender they were merely names on a list. And maybe there was no connection. Although there seemed to be some logic in Paul Gifford being chosen as a victim, maybe he was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time after all. He added a note to his very short “to do” list to show the names of golf club employees and members to the Giffords.
They’d covered all the features of the victim – his routine; his lifestyle; his relationships with family, friends, acquaintances, and teachers; links to the golf course; personality; and precursor incidents. If it was about Paul Gifford, then they were yet to uncover what it was that made him a victim.
Lastly, there was the killer. They had examined the different motives – gain, jealousy, revenge, eliminating Paul Gifford as a witness to another crime, sex, thrill, or hate. None of them could be established as a motive for the murder. If it wasn’t about Paul, maybe it was about one or both of the parents. He made another note to examine the parents more closely.
He had three more loose ends to tie up, and then what? He’d solved every case he’d been given, but many detectives hadn’t. He was well aware that history was riddled with unsolved murders: The Whitechapel murders attributed to the infamous and unknown Jack the Ripper; the green bicycle case; the Brighton trunk murders; Roberto Calvi hanging under Blackfriars Bridge; the torso in the Thames . . . and they were some of the more notorious murders, but there were many, many more. Was this going to be the albatross hanging round his neck for the rest of his life? Would the case become his obsession, the one that kept him awake at nights and consumed his every waking moment?
He held up his hand for quiet.
It took a while, but eventually there was a semblance of order in the press room.
‘The investigation into the murder of Paul Gifford in the early hours of Monday July 15 is ongoing. It is still only the second day, and we continue to collect and collate an abundance of information. Let me also take this opportunity to thank members of the general public for their continued assistance in phoning the helpline with anything they think might be helpful.’
Hands shot up when they thought he’d finished.
He pointed to a bald-headed man with dark-rimmed glasses in the front row.
‘Gerry Greene from Scene One. Has any of the information provided by the public been of any help to the investigation yet, Inspector?’
‘No, but remember that it could only take one snippet to tie all the pieces together, so people should keep phoning in if they think they might have information that could help us.’
The hands went up again. He pointed to a square-jawed woman wearing bright-coloured earrings and a flat cap.
‘Myriam Berger from the Estuary Telegraph. Do you have any suspects yet?’
‘The simple answer to that question is no. I can, however, confirm that we are now looking for a woman.’ He had the urge to say, “an average woman with size 5 feet”, but they’d have thought he was desperate. He was desperate, but he didn’t want the whole world to know it.
An attractive woman with crimped hair and heavy blue eye shadow who he hadn’t seen before jumped in. ‘Suzanne Carey from the Hoddesdon Sentinel. Our understanding is that when the groundsman at the golf club found Paul Gifford the boy was in a praying position. Would you care to comment on that, Inspector?’
‘No.’
‘You don’t have any theories as to why he was left like that?’
‘No.’ It was all part and parcel of the who and the why?
‘Kay Johnstone-Brown from Essex Life. Do you think you’ve missed your window of opportunity now?’
He was well aware of the “Golden Hour” principle, and how it was important to gather information, forensic evidence, CCTV data and eyewitness testimony while it was still uncontaminated and available. ‘No, I do not. As I said at the outset: The investigation is ongoing, information is still being collated and forensic evidence is still being analysed.’ He stood up to leave. Any further questions would have been a waste of time. He had nothing. They knew he had nothing. They could ask as many searching questions as they liked, but he was never going to admit he had nothing on camera. ‘Thank you all for coming. We’ll hold another briefing at the same time tomorrow.’
‘How did it go?’ Richards asked.
‘Don’t ask. What are you doing?’
‘Nothing much. I have the results of the database search into the missing girls between 1966 and now – there’s a lot of them. I’ll go through them tonight. Do you want a coffee?’
‘No, I’ll make my own.’
‘Are you ill?’
‘Go down to Traffic and speak to Inspector Jean Corp. Ask her if you can take another look at all the footage from the CCTV cameras on the roads around the golf course and the Gifford’s house two hours either side of the murder.’
‘What am I looking for?’
‘The murderer – we might have missed something first time round.’
‘I don’t think we did.’
‘You won’t know until you do it.’
‘That’ll take a while.’
‘Have you got a hot date?’
‘No, but . . .’
‘But nothing. Is the Victim Support Officer still at the Gifford’s house?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who is it?’
‘Mabel Stafford.’
‘Before you go to Traffic, call Mabel an
d tell her I want a complete history of both Annette and Linford Gifford. I want to know everything about them, and I want it by tomorrow morning first thing. Also, send her the list of golf club employees and members and ask her to get the Giffords to look at it. I want to know if they recognise any of the names on the list and why.’
‘We’re scratching at the bottom of the barrel, aren’t we?’
‘As the Americans say: We’re covering all the bases.’
‘And what are you going to be doing while I’m working my fingers to the bone?’
‘Making myself a coffee. You wouldn’t want your superior officer to die of dehydration now, would you?’
‘Of course not. I’d have no one to tell me what to do, would I?’
***
They arrived at number 16 Tanners Way at quarter to five, walked down the cobbled path and knocked on the door of the three-bedroom mid-terraced house.
A stooped old man with a head of sparse grey hair was conveniently weeding his window box next door.
Xena showed her warrant card to the woman.
‘Thank God,’ a woman in her late thirties with bleached blonde hair said. ‘You’ve found her?’
‘No, we’re here to find out what happened.’
‘Oh God!’ Mrs Andrews said. ‘You’re the police officer off the television who’s investigating the murder of that Clarice somebody-or-other, aren’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you think . . . ?’
‘Should we talk inside?’ Stick said.
The woman began crying as she led them into the living room and sat down on the dark-brown leather sofa. ‘You think she’s been taken, don’t you?’
Because of the oblong shape of the room there were no easy chairs, and Xena and Stick had to sit on the sofa next to Mrs Andrews, perch on the edge and then turn sixty degrees so that they were facing her. All Stick could see was Xena’s back, so he stood up.
‘We don’t know whether your daughter has been abducted or not, but it’s better to err on the side of caution, don’t you think?’
‘My Lily looks like that Clarice. I said as much to Lily at the time – beautiful, blonde hair and blue eyes. I said, “You be careful until they’ve caught whoever murdered that Clarice.” Now look. You’ll find her, won’t you?’