In the Twinkling of an Eye (9781311593672)

by Ellis, Tim

They headed down the A406 and joined the A12 to 54 Albert Road in Ilford.

  Two uniformed officers were waiting for them outside the property.

  ‘Nobody in, Sir,’ a tall constable with a broken nose said.

  ‘Name?’

  ‘I’m Peter Moore and this is Brian Johnson,’ he said.

  ‘Request permission for a forced entry, Moore.’

  ‘On what grounds, Sir?’

  ‘On the grounds that we need to get inside.’

  He nodded.

  ‘Do you think she’s in there?’ Richards asked.

  ‘My ability to see through walls doesn’t work in Ilford.’

  ‘What if . . . ?’

  ‘We’re on, Sir,’ Moore said. He strolled up to the front door and shouldered it open as if he did it for a living. ‘Do you want me to go first?’ he asked.

  ‘Go upstairs with DC Richards, I’ll look downstairs.’

  On a worktop in the kitchen he found an empty vial of Fentanyl with Cyrillic writing on the label, but there was nothing else to suggest that Sandra Higgins might be the killer they were looking for. He slipped the vial into a plastic evidence bag and left it where it was for forensics.

  The rooms were spotless. He looked at the family pictures on the walls and on a cabinet with glass shelves. He had the feeling that it used to be a happy home, but now it felt cold and empty.

  Richards and Moore came down the stairs.

  ‘Anything?’ he asked.

  ‘The boy’s bedroom is a shrine,’ Richards said. ‘There’s a prayer book open on the bed, and the two prayers that were on the bodies have had the page corners turned down . . .’

  ‘I found an empty vial of Fentanyl in the kitchen,’ he said. ‘I think we’ve found our killer.’

  ‘I don’t think she’s finished yet.’

  ‘Because?’

  ‘There’s a third page corner turned down.’

  ‘Oh?’

  He followed her upstairs. On the bed was an open prayer book as if someone had been kneeling on the rug at the side of the bed praying. There was a small white pad on the bed as well.

  ‘That’s what she wrote the prayers on,’ Richards said.

  He found a pencil in a Rupert the Bear pencil case on top of Michael Higgins’ chest of drawers, and ran the lead over the top page to reveal a prayer:

  God in Heaven hear my prayer,

  Keep me in thy loving care,

  Be my guide in all I do,

  Bless all those who love me too,

  Amen.

  ‘Why has she . . . ?’ Richards started to say. ‘Oh God! She’s going to kill someone else, isn’t she?’

  ‘I don’t think she’s been back here since she killed Sheila Flack, so the question is: Where’s she gone?’

  ‘You mean: Who’s she going to kill?’

  ‘Did Annette Gifford say there was anyone else there?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Ring her.’

  Richards called the VSO – Mabel Stafford.

  ‘Hello, Mabel . . . Yes, I’m fine . . . Yes, he’s fine . . . No, I don’t watch QVC . . .’

  Parish took the phone off her. ‘Stafford?’

  ‘Hello, Sir. How are you?’

  ‘Put Mrs Gifford on the phone.’

  ‘She’s in the bathroom, Sir.’

  ‘Well drag her out of the bathroom – it’s life and death.’

  ‘Will do, Sir.’

  He heard Stafford climb the stairs, knock on the bathroom door and tell Mrs Gifford to open it because she had . . .

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘It’s Inspector Parish.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Was there anyone else involved in the care of Michael Higgins?’

  ‘Anyone else?’

  ‘Like who?’

  ‘You tell me. Who was he seen by?’

  ‘I saw him. He had a terrible chest infection.’

  ‘Did you give the penicillin injection?’

  ‘Yes, but Dr Gupta . . . of course, Dr Gupta examined him and prescribed the penicillin, and then he pronounced Michael dead.’

  ‘Do you know Dr Gupta’s first name?’

  ‘Sanjay.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  He passed the phone back to Richards. Phone the Personnel Department at the hospital, we need to know where Dr Sanjay Gupta lives.’

  ‘He might be at the hospital.’

  ‘Check.’

  He paced up and down by the side of the car.

  ‘Got it.’

  ‘He’s not at the hospital?’

  ‘Day off. He was on duty over the weekend.’

  ‘Let’s go.’

  Dr Gupta lived on the other side of the A12 at 15 Mendip Road.

  ‘Would you like us to clear the way on a blue light, Sir?’ Constable Moore asked.

  ‘Kind of you to offer Moore, but it’ll be less complicated if we use our own blue light. You stay here in case Mrs Higgins returns.’

  ‘And arrest her.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No problem.’

  ‘You’d better drive,’ Richards said.

  ‘Of course, you haven’t done the advanced driving course yet, have you?’

  ‘No.’

  They swapped seats.

  He put the blue light and siren on, and set off along the A118 towards Ley Street. He’d never forgive Bob. If there was one thing he enjoyed more than anything else, it was haring-scaring through the streets at a hundred miles an hour with the blue light flashing and the siren blaring. A Vauxhall Corsa ruined everything. He felt like Noddy driving around Toyland in his red and yellow taxi: “Parp, Parp” went the horn; “Jingle, Jingle” went the bell on his little blue hat.

  ‘Maybe you can take the advanced driving course while your mother and I are away on holiday in . . .’

  ‘I can’t believe you’re taking one child, but leaving the other one at home alone to fend for herself.’

  ‘Jack’s a toddler.’

  ‘So, because I’m slightly older that your son and heir, I’m treated like an outcast, an unwanted child, an ugly duckling . . .’

  ‘Twenty years older.’

  ‘Age shouldn’t matter.’

  ‘And somebody’s got to look after Digby.’

  ‘That’s what boarding kennels are for . . . There’s a truck coming, you know.’

  He swerved round the truck. ‘Have you seen the price of boarding kennels for two weeks?’

  ‘Two weeks! What am I going to do on my own for two weeks?’

  ‘Digby will keep you company.’

  ‘You’re a pig. Where are you going?’

  ‘Bora Bora in Tahiti.’

  ‘I’m never going to speak to you again.’

  ‘Starting when?’

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Dr Sanjay Gupta was sixty-three years old and had lost his wife to cancer three years previously. He now lived a solitary life, working on the Acute Geriatric Ward at King George Hospital and doing one weekend shift in the A&E department every three months. He liked his work, but he enjoyed seeing his grandchildren more. He also looked forward to the time he would retire and enjoy the remaining years of his life.

  ‘You live on your own?’ Parish asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  The five-bedroom house was clearly too big for one person. Although, from what they’d seen of it, Dr Gupta – or a cleaner – kept it in good condition. Sheesham furniture, Persian rugs, brightly-coloured silk cushions, and ancient pictures of elephants, tigers and the goddess Lakshmi dominated the rooms.

  ‘Children?’

  ‘Three – two boys and a girl. I say a girl, but Yana is a grown woman with three children now.’

  ‘What about your sons?’

  ‘Sidhant is in America at the University of South Carolina. I wanted him to be a doctor, but he had other ideas. He is completing a research degree in nuclear physics. Rishabh is in India finding himself. I have told him he is looking in the wrong place, but he won’t listen t
o an old man anymore. It is as if the young now know everything, and the old and wise know nothing.’

  ‘What about your daughter Yana?’

  ‘She is married to Rajet Tamboli who is a dentist in private practice. They have given me three beautiful grandchildren, but why are you asking me all these questions?’

  ‘Do you remember the boy – Michael Higgins . . . ?’

  ‘Anaphylactic shock from a penicillin injection?’

  ‘You have a good memory.’

  ‘I remember him because it was a terrible tragedy.’

  ‘We think the mother is killing the children of those who were involved in her son’s death.’

  ‘I remember that she had not long suffered the loss of her husband, as I had my wife. And then to lose her only son as well.’ He shook his head. ‘We can only imagine what she must have gone through.’

  ‘Can you ring your daughter and check that she’s all right?’

  ‘Surely you don’t think . . . ?’

  ‘We’re erring on the side of caution.’

  ‘Of course.’ He went to the phone and rang his daughter’s number. ‘That’s odd. The children are off school now, and she is usually home at this time.’

  ‘Can we have her address?’

  He wrote it on a piece of paper and gave it to Richards.

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ he said.

  ‘I’d prefer it if you stayed here, Dr Gupta,’ Parish said. ‘She might ring, or come round.’ He passed the old man a business card. ‘My mobile number is on there.’

  They made their way out to the car.

  Richards keyed the postcode into the satnav, and Parish drove again.

  ‘I have a bad feeling about this, Sir.’

  ‘Don’t say that, Richards. Think happy thoughts. And while you’re doing that call Operations and request forced access, just in case there’s no answer.’

  ‘We should have brought Peter Moore with us.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You won’t be able to force the door open.’

  ‘Brute force and ignorance isn’t the only way to open a door, you know.’

  ‘Shush.’ She spoke to Inspector Threadneedle and gained authorisation. ‘My heart starts to pound when I’m speaking to the Gorgon.’

  ‘The Gorgon?’

  ‘That’s what we call her.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘All the lower ranks.’

  ‘What do they call me?’

  She looked out of the side window. ‘I don’t think they call you anything.’

  ‘Is that right?’

  ‘Mmmm.’

  Yana Tamboli lived at 33 Wanneth Hall Road in Clayhall. It took them twelve minutes to get there with the blue light and the siren. Parish screeched to a halt outside, squeezed out of the car, ran to the front door and banged on it.

  They waited.

  Nothing.

  He banged again.

  Nothing.

  He lifted the letter box flap and shouted, ‘Yana?’

  Nothing.

  Richards moved back to look up at the bedroom windows. ‘There’s someone up there,’ she said.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Someone.’

  ‘Okay.’ The door was uPVC. He tried kicking it in with the sole of his foot, but it barely trembled. Next, he tried to shoulder it open, but he nearly dislocated his shoulder.

  ‘Move aside, Sir,’ Richards said. She’d been to get a tyre-iron from the boot of the car, wedged it in-between the door and the frame and forced the door open. ‘That’s how you do it.’

  ‘At some other time, you and I will need to have a discussion about how you knew to do that.’

  ‘Yana?’ They both shouted.

  No one answered.

  They took the stairs two at a time.

  Yana Tamboli and her three children were lying on the bed.

  ‘Oh God, Sir,’ Richards said, turning away.

  He moved to the bed and felt for a pulse on the neck of the youngest child of about two years old. He did the same with the two other children, and then the mother. ‘Call an ambulance, Richards. They’re all still alive.’

  ‘I thought . . .’ She pulled out her phone and called 999.

  He searched the other rooms and found Sandra Higgins lying in a bath of blood – she’d cut both her wrists and the carotid artery in her neck as well.

  ‘The ambulance is on its . . .’

  ‘You’d better ring for a second ambulance.’

  He returned to the bedroom and turned Yana and her three children onto their sides, and sat in a chair until the ambulances arrived.

  ‘I’ve phoned Dr Gupta and told him that his daughter and grandchildren are on the way to the hospital.’

  ‘Good work, Richards.’

  ‘We got here just in time, didn’t we?’

  ‘Yes.’ But he was also conscious of the fact that they hadn’t reached Paul Gifford or Sheila Flack in time. He loved his job, but he hated the fact that an investigation always began with somebody’s death.

  Richards had been right, but she’d also been wrong. Sandra Higgins had a motive for murder – the basic and timeless thirst for revenge. In her mind, Annette Gifford and Sheila Flack had received their just desserts. And he was also aware that if they’d taken any longer in reaching Yana and her children, Sandra Higgins would have murdered them as well.

  ***

  When they arrived back at the station they went up to the canteen for lunch. Most of the uniformed officers about to change shift were crowded in there, as well as some of the civilian support staff, and they were all gathered round the television screen in the corner cheering and clapping.

  Richards had to stand on tiptoes to see. ‘Why is Paul on the television, Sir?’

  ‘He found Loveday.’

  ‘No, that can’t be right. We found Loveday.’

  ‘His version of events is slightly different.’

  ‘He can’t do that.’

  ‘He already has done that.’

  ‘You said he’d let us know when he’d found something.’

  ‘I was obviously wrong.’

  ‘I think I love him.’

  ‘You don’t mean that, Richards. He’s got the morals of an alley cat. He stole your investigation, and then he said he’d worked it all out by himself.’

  ‘I never thought he would ever do something so . . . so manly.’

  ‘Manly? Underhand, more like. What type of person steals another person’s investigation?’

  Annabelle Wishart had given birth to a baby boy. They also found a thirteen year-old runaway called Beverley Simmonds who was seven months pregnant and nobody knew was missing. In a field where pigs were kept, forensic officers found human remains they were unable to identify. Alfred and Edith Monkton were arrested for a variety of offences including murder and child abduction, but neither of them ever spoke to another person.

  ***

  Thursday, July 18

  ‘What do you think?’

  Jerry sat down opposite her in the Ritz Snack Bar. ‘I think you’re charging me too much if you can afford to have breakfast at the Ritz.’

  ‘I stayed the night.’

  ‘I feel as though I’ve been robbed.’

  ‘You won’t when you know what I’ve got for you.’

  ‘You look different, as well.’

  ‘I thought I’d pamper myself.’

  ‘With my money?’

  ‘With my money, if you must know. I’m a woman of means. What you pay me is a pittance.’

  ‘It’s nice of you to say so.’

  The waitress arrived with a pot of tea for two, and toasted teacakes with cream and a varied selection of preserves.

  Jerry poured the tea. ‘So, what have you got for me?’

  ‘I haven’t found any evidence that he killed his wife yet, but I have a lead.’

  ‘That’s not really what I expected to hear.’

  ‘I’ve got something much better.’

  ‘Oh?
’

  She took out the five tube tickets and the plastic envelopes, and spread them out on the table. ‘I found a friend of Heidi Naseby’s who lived on the Shetland Islands. Heidi had sent her a key to a safe deposit box that she’d rented at the East Asia Bank on Shaftesbury Avenue to look after. I flew up there to get it.’

  ‘That you’ll charge me for?’

  ‘Of course, but if you wait a minute you’ll realise it was worth it.’

  ‘Go on then.’

  ‘I opened the box yesterday. Inside were these.’

  ‘You’ve got me really excited.’

  ‘Sarcasm doesn’t become you, Jerry Kowalski.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Each ticket and lock of hair represents a rape and murder – they’re trophies. Are you excited now?’

  ‘A bit.’

  Bronwyn smiled, and stuffed a teacake with a dollop of cream on top of it into her mouth. ‘The date and destination on each ticket corresponds to an unsolved murder in that location.’ She re-arranged the tube tickets into date order:

  10 May 08 – Heron Quays

  14 Jun 09 – Forest Hill

  16 Sep 10 – Elephant & Castle

  12 Feb 11 – Gospel Oak

  14 Mar 12 – Hatch End

  ‘I’ve looked, and the police haven’t connected the rape and murders together because they’re all different.

  ‘You’ve lost me,’ Jerry said. ‘What’s all this got to do with Manning Naseby killing his wife?’

  ‘This is your motive, not the so-called affair. There never was an affair, that’s why it all appears so confusing. Here look . . .’ She put each lock of hair against a ticket. ‘Joyce Mathews was raped and strangled in Heron Quays on May 10, 2008; Melinda Cripps was raped and stabbed in Forest Hill on June 14, 2009; Denise Gainsford was raped and beaten to a pulp in the Elephant & Castle on September 16, 2010; Tamsyn Smith was raped and decapitated in Gospel Oak on February 12, 2011; and finally, Suzy Pollock was raped and had her neck broken on March 14, 2012.’

  ‘Why did the killings stop?’

  ‘We don’t know that they have stopped. Heidi Naseby found the trophies from five murders, put them in a safety deposit box and sent the key to Sonya Tucker in the Shetlands. For all we know, Naseby might very well have been out collecting more trophies while he’s been out on bail.’