by Ellis, Tim
Now, the plane hit the ground like a meteor.
Everybody clapped with relief.
Except her. She didn’t clap. If it had been up to her, she would have thrown both the fucking pilot and the little rugrat in the seat behind her – who had been kicking the back of her seat for the whole journey – out of the door without parachutes. At least the little bastard wouldn’t be on the return trip.
There had been no time to visit the duty free shop at Heathrow. She arrived ten minutes before take-off, and after booking-in at the desk she’d had to hurtle like fuck to the other side of the airport to reach the boarding gate. She wasn’t used to running, and could hardly breathe when she was handing the woman her boarding card.
‘You just made it, Madam.’
‘Yeah,’ she said, leaning over with her hands on her knees.
‘Another minute and you would have missed it.’
‘Yeah.’
‘There we go,’ she said, handing the unwanted half of her boarding pass back. ‘Have a wonderful trip.’
‘Yeah.’
Then she had to stagger down the swaying connecting tunnel, do the dance of a thousand hands past rows and rows of oilrig workers to discover that she was within spitting distance of the toilets and squeezed into a middle seat between two fat, hairy guys who wanted to know if she’d seen the plane scene in Emmanuelle. She had, but she wasn’t going to fucking admit it to two ugly oilrig workers. Thankfully, they got off at Aberdeen, but this morning they were replaced by a fisherman who reeked of Omega 3 and a minister from the Church of Euthanasia who suggested that she should kill herself and save the planet.
Even though the free WiFi connection had been intermittent, she’d been able to use her laptop for most of the time on the two flights. She thought it was a strange paradox that the closer she flew to the communication satellites the worse the service became.
As it turned out – it didn’t matter. She’d tried everything she knew, but was still no nearer to identifying what the alphanumeric code was for. Like Jerry, she had assumed it was a bank account number, but what if it wasn’t? It certainly resembled an account number used by some of the banks. The main difference was the letters. It could hardly be called a bank account number if there were letters included in it.
JM19370/20004MC/14539DG/08070TS/SP00764
She followed the few passengers who hadn’t disembarked at Aberdeen down the steps and onto the tarmac, and it didn’t take long to walk to arrivals. Everything she’d brought was in her rucksack, and she wasn’t staying anyway, so she didn’t have to wait for her baggage. There was no passport control for domestic flights, so she walked straight through into Arrivals where she saw a woman in her early thirties with long dirty blonde hair holding up a piece of cardboard with BRONWYN written on it in thick black letters.
‘Sonya Tucker?’
‘Yes. How was the flight?’
‘On a par with watching paint dry.’
‘Yeah, it’s not much good, is it? I haven’t done it for a while, and I can’t say I ever look forward to it when I do have to do it.’
Sonya took her to the Airport cafe, and after they’d bought coffees, and Bronwyn had ordered four slices of toast, they sat at a table with wooden chairs outside on the concourse.
‘So, what do you do here all day?’ Bronwyn asked.
‘Much the same as you do in London, except I breathe fresh air while I’m doing it.’
‘Fresh air is overrated,’ she said, and took a slurp of her coffee.
Sonya passed an envelope across the table. ‘The key.’
Bronwyn opened the envelope and peered inside. ‘Nothing else?’
‘No, that’s all she sent me.’
The key had East Asia Bank and the safety deposit box number – two-two-five – engraved on it. She slipped the key into the pocket of her jeans. ‘Okay.’
‘You’ll let me know what’s in the safety deposit box?’
‘Of course. I’ll send you a PM on Facebook.’
***
She had to abandon the press briefing that she’d scheduled for nine o’clock.
Just when she thought everything was moving towards a neat final conclusion the search team at the railway sidings in River Meads found Billy Kelly dead in the back of his blue van, and five bloody bodies in a disused walk-in freezer.
‘Good morning, Di,’ Stick said.
Di Heffernan smiled. ‘Good morning, Rowley. How are you?’
‘Yes, I’m fine . . .’
‘Will you two shut the fuck up?’ Xena interrupted the pleasantries. ‘I’m beginning to think I’ve stumbled into an Old Pals’ Association get together instead of a crime scene.’ She peered into the back of the van. ‘I take it this is Billy Kelly?’
‘It’s lovely to see you as well, DI Blake.’
‘Well?’
‘You take it right,’ Di said. ‘William Kelly of 51 Abbotts Lane in Widford. He has a knife wound in his back that presumably pierced his heart.’
‘That’s probably why the phone call to Mrs Kennedy ended so abruptly,’ Stick suggested.
‘They should promote you to toilet cleaner,’ Xena said.
‘That would be a demotion, not a promotion.’
‘Really?’ She looked at Di. ‘Are we going to stand here pissing in the wind all day?’
Di jumped out of the van. ‘If you’d like to follow me, your ladyship.’
‘Is it much further?’ Xena complained as they made their way through the abandoned building.
‘Hundreds of miles,’ Di replied.
When they reached the walk-in freezer, forensic officers were swarming inside and outside the freezer like locusts picking the crime scene clean of evidence.
‘Bloody hell,’ Xena exclaimed.
‘Exactly,’ Di said.
Blood dripped from the ceiling and walls, and it would have been hard not to have sloshed about in the pools of blood on the floor if it hadn’t been for the tread plates located at appropriate intervals.
Xena pointed to an S-shaped meat hook hanging from a rail above them and said to Heffernan. ‘There would have been a woman hanging from that hook. Take photographs, and make sure it’s swabbed for DNA.’
Picking their way carefully along the trail of tread plates, they visually examined each corpse in turn.
Stick grimaced as he stared at the mutilated pubic area of one of the victims. ‘There doesn’t seem to be any confusion about the killer’s message.’
‘Let’s not beat about the bush,’ Xena said. ‘The Kennedy’s did this. The only way Lily Andrews could have escaped from this situation was if somebody set her free. I want a forensic team to go to the Kennedys’ dog kennels and . . .’
‘Are you sure you want to do that?’ Stick said to her.
The corner of her mouth went up. ‘There are five people dead in here, and another one outside . . .’
‘If Billy Kelly was on the phone to Mrs Kennedy when the call was interrupted, then they couldn’t have killed him,’ Stick pointed out.
Di nodded. ‘That’s true. In my opinion Billy Kelly has been dead longer than the others as well.’
‘As I was saying, there are five people dead in here. I don’t know what it says in your detective manual, but in mine it states that four or more dead people killed over a relatively short period of time is classified as mass murder. Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but don’t we arrest mass murderers and lock them away until the cows come home?’
Stick pulled a face. ‘This is different.’
‘In what way is it different, pray?’
‘You know in what way.’
‘Oh, you mean that these men raped, sodomised and murdered their daughter Clarice, and as such they’re entitled to act as judge, jury and executioner? It’s revenge – sweet and simple. And my detective manual also clearly states that taking the law into one’s own hands is not allowed, Stickamundo.’
‘I know, but . . .’
‘Do you feel sorry fo
r Mr and Mrs Kennedy?’
‘Yes. Don’t you?’
‘We’re not talking about me. What about these five men?’
‘No. I don’t feel sorry for them.’
‘Tell me if this oath sounds familiar to you in any way?
I, Stickybob Gilbert, do solemnly and sincerely declare and affirm that I will well and truly serve the Queen in the office of constable, with fairness, integrity, diligence and impartiality, upholding fundamental human rights and according equal respect to all people; and that I will, to the best of my power, cause the peace to be kept and preserved and prevent all offences against people and property; and that while I continue to hold the said office I will to the best of my skill and knowledge discharge all the duties thereof faithfully according to law.’
Stick remained silent.
Xena cupped a hand round her ear. ‘I don’t hear anything.’
‘I’m not familiar . . .’
‘You liar. These five men deserved to be treated the same as everybody else . . .’
‘Clarice Kennedy deserved to be treated as a human being.’
‘No one is disputing that, but these men were innocent until proven guilty. Last time I checked, the death penalty was still on the abolished list.’
‘You think it’s right that . . . ?’
‘Let’s not debate the issue of right or wrong, Sticky vicky. There’s no hint of a moral dilemma here. Killing people, for whatever reason, is wrong – are we agreed on that moral absolute?’
‘Possibly, but you can understand . . .’
‘Of course I understand. If it was up to me, I’d award the Kennedys medals, but it’s not up to me. And, neither is it up to you. All that’s required is for both of us to do our jobs. Unless, of course, you’re saying that this case has compromised your objectivity?’
‘No, I’m not saying that.’
‘Good.’
Doc Paine arrived. ‘Now this is what I call a crime scene,’ she said, looking round the freezer like an awe-struck child at the planetarium. ‘In my expert opinion, I’d say that all these five men died from loss of blood as a direct result of gunshot wounds.’
‘Very droll,’ Xena said.
‘Is there anything else you’d like to know, DI Blake?’
‘No, but I’d like swabs and DNA tests performed on each victim’s pubic area and genitals – if you can find any genitals, of course.’
‘I take it these are the men who murdered Clarice Kennedy?’
Xena nodded. ‘The very same. It appears that Clarice’s parents caught them raping another woman – who was abducted on Monday evening – by the name of Lily Andrews . . .’
‘They came prepared,’ Doc Paine said.
‘That’s a very good point, Doc.’ She turned to Stick. ‘Find out if Walter Kennedy is a registered shotgun owner.’
‘Which would make it malice aforethought.’
‘My point exactly, Doc. They came here with the intention of exacting revenge for their daughter’s rape and murder.’ She addressed Di Heffernan. ‘I shouldn’t have to tell you that I’d like ballistics to identify the shotgun that was used on these men.’
‘You know very well that it’s impossible to match the lead or steel shot to the shotgun, and without the ejected cartridges there’s no way of matching the firing pin to any marks left on the brass casing.’
‘Is that the best you can do?’
‘It’s the best that ballistic science can do.’
‘A lame excuse. Right, come on, numpty. Let’s go and arrest the Kennedys for mass murder.’
‘If we must.’
‘We must.’
***
Richards’ phone played a funeral dirge.
They were on their way to see the Giffords, and quiz them about the names on the list of golf club employees and members. Also, the VSO – Mabel Stafford – would have completed the Giffords’ biographies, which might have thrown up some leads. Then, they planned to interview Paul Gifford’s best friend – Tommy Kirtley – at Flamstead End Primary School on Dig Dag Hill, but it appeared that fate had other plans for them.
Richards was driving, so Parish answered the call and put it on loudspeaker.
‘Detective Constable Richards,’ Richards said and smiled.
‘This is Sergeant Thomas Sydney in dispatch.’
‘Hello, Thomas.’
‘Hello, Mary.’
Parish interrupted. ‘Why are you ringing, Sydney?’
‘Sorry, Sir. There’s been a murder.’
‘Any old murder, or a murder we might be interested in?’
‘A woman – Miss Sheila Flack – has been left in the praying position.’
Richards glanced at him, but didn’t say anything. Instead, she pulled into a bus stop and put the handbrake on.
‘What’s the address?’
‘Number 23 Beresford Crescent in Woodford Green, IG8 2JH.’ Richards keyed the postcode into the satnav as he said it.
‘Who reported it?’
‘She car-shares with a friend – a Mrs Pat Claws. Mrs Claws beeped her horn outside the address this morning. Usually, Miss Flack comes straight out and they drive to work together, but this morning she didn’t come straight out, so Mrs Claws went to knock on the door. There was no answer, so she looked through a window, and that’s when . . .’
‘Is this going to take much longer, Sydney?’
‘Sorry, Sir.’
‘After seeing her murdered friend through the window, she called 999. Two officers attended and were authorised to break down the front door. They confirmed that a suspicious death had occurred on the premises. Forensics were dispatched to the scene, and now I’m notifying you.’
‘Very generous of you, Sydney.’
‘I try my best, Sir.’
‘Have a good day, Constable.’
‘And you, Sir.’
‘Well, what are we waiting for?’ he said to Richards.
Due to the volume of traffic there was absolutely no chance of completing a U-turn, so Richards merged with the flow and carried on to the next roundabout to change direction.
‘Come on then, let’s have it,’ Parish said.
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘You’re struggling to speak because your mouth is full of, “I told you sos”, isn’t it?’
‘You don’t need me to remind you that I was the one who . . .’
‘No, I don’t. Did you look at that list of missing girls last night?’
‘Yes, I did.’
‘And?’
‘I found a girl who went missing from Saffron Walden three weeks before Christmas in 2012 called Annabelle Wishart.’
‘And?’
‘And nothing.’
‘Nothing?’
‘I haven’t had chance to check it out yet.’
‘And that’s your excuse, is it?’
‘Yes.’
He pulled a face. ‘Eighteen months ago is not 1966.’
‘I figured that out all by myself.’
‘In fact, Little Miss Know-it-all, if you’re right, the girl could still be alive now.’
‘I know.’
‘Mmmm.
‘What?’
’As the Senior Investigating Officer . . .’
‘No.’
‘No?’
‘No. I found the diary – the investigation is mine.’
‘And you think the Chief Constable will allow you to be SOI?’
‘It’s got nothing to do with him either. It’s my diary and my investigation.’
‘I see. So, because you bought the diary at a car boot sale, and then subsequently discovered that a crime might have been committed, you think you should be allowed to investigate it yourself?’
‘Yes.’
‘We’re not playing finders-keepers here, you know?’
‘I don’t see why not.’
‘A girl’s life could be at stake. How would you feel if Loveday died because you wanted
to keep the investigation to yourself?’
‘I hate it when you’re right.’
He called Toadstone on Richards’ phone.
‘Hello, Mary.’
‘Surprise!’
‘Oh! Hello, Sir.’
‘Disappointment is a sort of bankruptcy, Toadstone. The bankruptcy of a soul that expects too much in hope and expectation.’
‘I’m not disappointed that it’s you, Sir. And the quote was by the American philosopher Eric Hoffer.’
Richards grinned. ‘How does he do it, Sir?’
‘He cheats, Richards.’
‘No he doesn’t.’
Toadstone interrupted. ‘What do you want, Sir?’
‘You were going to decipher the indentations in the diary.’
‘And I did.’
‘Well?’
‘MY NAME IS ANNABELLE WISHART
HELP ME
MAN AND SISTER
ALFRED AND EDITH
LIVE ON FARM.’
‘And you didn’t think it was important enough to phone and let us know what the indentations said?’
‘Not really. The diary is from 1966, isn’t it? The girl of fifteen – if she was still alive – would be a middle-aged woman of fifty-nine now, wouldn’t she?’
‘Except that Annabelle Wishart went missing from Saffron Walden in December 2012.’
‘Oh!’
‘Oh indeed, Toadstone. Which means that the fifteen year-old Annabelle is only sixteen or seventeen now.’
‘How did you know it was Annabelle Wishart?’
‘That was me, Paul,’ Richards interjected. ‘I did a database search for all the fifteen year-old girls who had gone missing between 1966 and 2014, and Annabelle Wishart was abducted three weeks before Christmas 2012.’
‘Good job, Mary.’
‘And you, Paul.’
‘You two sound like fully paid-up members of the Mutual Appreciation Society.’