by Ellis, Tim
‘That should take all of five minutes then. Apparently, nursing is a vocation, and people who work in a vocation don’t need to eat, clothe themselves or pay their bills. The government believe that because you love your job you can survive on fresh air and love.’
‘My heart’s pumping purple custard. Now, will you get the fuck out of here while I talk strategy and tactics with my solicitor?’
‘Five minutes.’
‘Ten?’
‘Nine.’
‘Fifteen?’
‘Seven. The doctor will be with me, so the tramp you call your solicitor had better be gone by then.’ The door closed.
‘As I was saying, before Staff Bitch James poked her snout in here. . . We can use this room as the centre of operations. I’ll get the incident board . . .’
‘Are you sure they won’t mind?’
‘Other people do cross-stitch, read or play Tetris, my hobby is directing police operations. They know that if they don’t let me do what I want I’ll discharge myself.’
‘If you’re sure?’
‘I’m sure. Push your hand in my bedside cabinet.’
He opened up the small door. ‘What am I looking for?’
‘Keys.’
‘Okay.’ He dangled a set of keys on his little finger.
She took them off him, removed one key and held it out to him. ‘Flat 4c, 12 The Springs in Wormley. I’m in here. It’s been lying empty for a few weeks. You can stay there in the spare bedroom until they let me out of here.’
‘That’s very kind of you . . .’
‘Two hundred pounds a week.’
He smiled. ‘And I thought . . .’
‘What? That I was Mother fucking Theresa? And keep the place clean and tidy, and stay out of my . . .’
He held up a hand. ‘Don’t worry, your dirty little secrets are safe with me.’
‘And clean yourself up. The lease clearly states that I’m not permitted to keep animals.’
‘I’ll try not to look like a mongrel.’
‘We’ll meet back here at two o’clock tomorrow afternoon during visiting hours.’
‘That works for me.’
‘Mobile number?’
They swapped numbers.
‘One last thing, Charlie Baxter,’ Xena said. ‘Keep your head down. Whoever’s behind this has killed four police officers, and possibly other people as well. They won’t think twice about killing a grubby second-rate homeless solicitor with no dress sense and no office.’
‘I’m touched by your concern.’
***
They called in at the Fat Fox pub on the way to Broxbourne for lunch. Richards had the Chicken Caesar wrap and a pineapple juice, Parish ordered the Hot Mexican wrap and a shandy.
‘What do you think?’ Richards asked once the waitress had brought their drinks.
‘Very nice. I’ll have to bring your mother here.’
‘That’s not what I meant, and why do you say, “Your mother” instead of, “My wife”?’
‘Because she is your mother not your wife.’
‘Stop being obtuse.’
‘You don’t even know what that word means.’
‘I do too.’
‘If I was talking to Kowalski I’d say, “Angie”. If I was talking to a stranger I’d say, “My wife”. I’m talking to you, so I say, “Your mother”. Does that make it any clearer?’
‘Never mind. And when I asked you what you thought, I meant about the case.’
‘Ah! Well, you should make it clear what you mean. There’s enough confusion in the world without you adding your two-penny-worth.’
The dumpy waitress brought their food. ‘Can I get you any sauces?’ she asked.
Richards shook her head.
‘No thanks,’ Parish said.
‘There should be guidelines on what police officers can eat and what they can’t eat.’
‘Only guidelines?’
She grinned. ‘To start with, but if said police officers don’t adhere to the guidelines voluntarily, then the government would be free to adopt more Draconian methods.’
‘You’re obviously referring to my choice of wrap?’
‘I’m glad I don’t have to kiss you.’
‘Some women like to French kiss a hot man.’
‘That may be so, but not with stinky breath.’
‘How’s your evidence folder going?’
‘Don’t change the subject.’
‘I think that you should use your little grey cells first, and tell me what you think, nearly Detective Richards.’
She squealed, then self-consciously glanced around the pub.
‘Yes, everyone is staring at you.’
‘I get so excited. Detective Mary Richards – doesn’t it sound brilliant?’
‘Do you think you deserve it?’
‘Do you think I deserve it?’
‘I think people get what they deserve.’
‘Then I deserve it.’
‘I’m glad we both agree on what you deserve. So?’
‘The killer is not one of the family.’
‘Just like that?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘Why steal a car? Why wrap her in cling film? There’s something more to this.’
‘Like what?’
‘We haven’t got all the facts yet.’
‘Meaning?’
‘I know what you want me to say.’
‘I want you to say only what you want to say.’
‘I bet there’s been others.’
‘I knew you were going to say that.’
‘I knew you knew. That’s why I said it.’
‘What has led your convoluted mind to the possibility that there might be others?’
‘Why wrap the body in cling film so we can’t see it?’
‘You’ve asked that already.’
‘I think it’s hiding something.’
‘Define?’
‘Just something, but you’ll see I’m right tomorrow at the post mortem.’
‘Will I?’
Her eyes narrowed to slits. ‘You were thinking the same thing, weren’t you?’
‘Was I?’
‘I knew it. You’re just seeing if we’re both singing from the same hymn sheet.’
‘You know I’m tone deaf. Are you ready to go?’
‘I’ve been waiting for you.’
‘Let’s go then.’
They made their way out to the car.
‘What’s your favourite hymn?’ Richards asked him.
‘Home from the Sea.’
‘I don’t know that one.’
It was five to two when they arrived at 17 St Michael’s Road in Broxbourne to interview Michael Fishlock about his stolen Volkswagon Polo. After contacting his workplace, they’d discovered that he’d taken the day off sick.
And he was sick.
‘Can we come in, Mr Fishlock?’ Parish said.
Fishlock sneezed into a paper towel. ‘Are you sure you want to do that?’ He was in his early thirties, unshaven, with dishevelled hair and bloodshot eyes. All he had on was a pair of boxer shorts and an open blue and black striped dressing gown that had seen better days.
‘We’ll stand out here.’
‘Hurry up then. I’m freezing and I feel like shit.’
‘Have you been watching the news this morning?’
‘I’ve been in bed.’
‘Your car has been found.’
‘The insurance company have already paid out.’
‘It had the body of a young woman in the boot.’
‘Jesus . . . I hope you don’t think . . . ?’
‘You reported the car missing on Wednesday, January 22?’
‘Yeah.’
‘That was two days before . . .’
‘If you’re going to make a meal of it, I’m going inside.’ He left them standing on the doorstep.
‘You go in and ask him some questions,’ he said to Richards. ‘I�
��ll be right behind you.’
‘I’ve heard about bosses like you.’
‘Good looking? Kind? Generous? . . .’
‘You want to take a hard cold look at yourself in the toilet bowl.’
‘I think you need a lot more training in the chain of command.’
‘I’ve been on to the Court of Human Rights, and they say I have a strong case.’
‘Get in there and stop being a wimp.’
They followed Mr Fishlock into his terraced two-bedroom house.
‘Anyone for LemSip?’ he called through from the kitchen.
‘Very kind,’ Parish replied. ‘But we’ve just had lunch.’
Fishlock came through into the Spartan living room and stood by the window sipping his steaming medication. ‘Yes, I reported my car missing on January 22. I parked it outside when I came home from work, and I was due to pick up my girlfriend and take her out for a romantic meal, but when I went outside the car was gone.’
‘And you reported it stolen at twenty past eight that night?’
‘Yeah, but nobody came round to look at the empty space, take fingerprints, photographs, or do a house-to-house.’
‘But they provided you with an incident number for the insurance?’ Richards chipped in.
‘Too true. Otherwise I’d have been up shit street without a paddle.’
‘What work do you do?’
‘Fibre-optic cabling engineer.’
‘You squirm through holes with cables between your teeth?’
‘Sometimes, but it’s a lot more complicated than that.’
‘And the girlfriend you were picking up?’
‘You think . . .’
Parish held up his hand. ‘We have to eliminate all the possibilities, Mr Fishlock.’
‘. . . Until whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth?’
‘You’ve been watching Sherlock Holmes?’
‘Yes, but I’m not keen on that Benedict Cumberpatch as Holmes though. You know, when I close my eyes and think of Sherlock Holmes, I can’t get Basil Rathbone from the old black-and-white movies out of my head.’
‘The girlfriend?’
‘Oh yes. Sheila Cooper. It’s funny, I don’t even like the name Sheila, but you can’t choose the names of those women you’re attracted to, can you? Anyway, I didn’t pick her up, she went clubbing, found another guy and now he’s getting what I should be getting – if you get my meaning?’
‘Do you get his meaning, Richards?’
‘It’s hard not to. Address of the lucky escapee?’
‘Very funny. Downfield Road in Cheshunt, number 52.’
Richards wrote the name and address in her notebook.
Parish continued. ‘Have you any idea who might have stolen your car?’
‘If I had, I would have killed . . . No, I have no idea.’
‘I think you can go back to bed now, Mr Fishlock.’
‘Thank God for that.’
‘But don’t leave the country.’
‘More hilarity. They say that laughter cures all ills. Close the door on your way out.’
Outside, Richards said, ‘I don’t feel too good.’
‘You think that’s going to work? We’re the only detectives left standing. If we go off sick, the psychopaths will crawl out of the woodwork and have a celebration parade through Hoddesdon.’
‘I don’t think Essex is that bad.’
‘Do you want to put that theory to the test?’
‘I suppose not.’
***
He should have done this in the first place, he thought. Now, he could sit at his desk and shoehorn the Red Spider into the spaces in-between his paper shuffling. Not that there were any legitimate spaces, but he’d just have to carve some out by the judicious use of delegation to Carrie, putting off until tomorrow what should really have been done today and ignoring the things he ought to have done where the consequences weren’t life-threatening.
In the end, it was just a simple matter of re-prioritising his workload to fit in something that really needed his attention.
Opening the bottom drawer of his desk about three inches, he balanced his crossed feet on the front edge, leaned back in his chair and examined what he’d written on the whiteboard.
What had triggered the first attack on seventeen year-old Lia Armitage on May 8, 1983? A mother, wife or daughter’s death? Rejection by a similar looking woman? How old was the killer when he started? Usually, the average age of a serial killer at first kill was 27.5 years old, but that was an average. It didn’t exclude a younger killer.
Why did he continue to kill after that first one? All the victims were raped first, but then he went on to mutilate and murder them. Many serial killers reported an urge that couldn’t be ignored. Brutalising and killing their victims fulfilled them emotionally. They had no inner cage to contain their monsters and demons.
Was he insane?
How could a normal person slaughter another human being for the sheer pleasure of it? Can a mind be cold, calculating and evil without being abnormal?
He got up and made himself the coffee he’d forgotten . . . an hour and a half ago! No, that can’t be right, but it was. The time had been swallowed up. Well, he’d stopped thinking of Jerry. Of course, she was still there hogging his thoughts, but now he had something else to think about as well.
Why were these particular women targeted? He’d already identified the similarity in physical traits: Young, blonde, thin and attractive.
Was that it?
Did all the victims look like someone the killer knew? Someone he wanted revenge on? Someone he wanted to make suffer? Was he a sexual sadist? Did he get sexually aroused by the physical and psychological suffering and helplessness of his victims?
In four out of the six cases, there was a frenzied and sustained attack on the victims’ lower abdomen and genitalia with the clear intention of destroying the female reproductive organs. In the other two cases the killer had a similar focus, but the attack was not as manic. However, disembowelment and pushing a metal spike into the victim’s vagina achieved the same results.
The killer was organised with above average intelligence. He was methodical and cunning, and the crimes were well thought out and carefully planned. He was mobile and owned a car, which was in good condition. The crimes were committed away from his area of residence or work. He was socially adept, and used his verbal skills to manipulate the victims and gain control over them. He knew exactly what he was doing, and took pride in his ability to thwart the police investigation. He followed the news reports of his crimes, and took souvenirs . . .
Kowalski stood up and looked through the files. There was no mention of souvenirs, but it seemed likely that the Red Spider took a lock of each woman’s hair – something the previous team appeared to have missed? He checked the post mortem reports – there was no mention of a lock of hair being removed, and yet he had supposedly received a lock of Kim Jacob’s hair from the killer.
He took his own weapon to the crime scene – a knife. Is familiar with police procedures, and left very little evidence behind. He taunted the previous investigative team by sending the newspapers messages, leaving the bodies in plain sight, or informing them where they could find his handiwork.
Finally, there was no remorse or shame, and he lacked any empathic response to his victims and others.
Although his profile suggested that the killer had committed the crimes away from his residence or work – had he? One thing that kept nagging at him was the two attacks at train stations. How had the killer identified his victims? Was it possible that he could have been a railway worker? It was not beyond the bounds of probability that all the victims had crossed paths with the killer at train stations, or – more likely – on trains. If the killer identified a potential victim, then he had to have the freedom to follow them home, or to their place of work – such as a ticket inspector moving from train to train, and unsupervised by others.
O
n those two occasions though, maybe he’d been unable to follow his chosen victims, maybe he’d seen a window of opportunity and taken it while he could.
He checked the case files again. Yes, the investigative team had interviewed all train station workers, but he couldn’t find any mention of the train drivers, ticket inspectors, guards or conductors. What staff did they have on trains in 1983 – 1986? He made more notes on the whiteboard, and while he did he thought of his own monsters and demons. If Rose Needle had been in the cottage when he’d found Jerry, he would have torn her limb from limb.
Chapter Five
Cookie didn’t mind the one hundred and thirteen offers of marriage on her Facebook page, or the messages of support and congratulations, but there was other stuff on there that was disgusting – she’d have to be a contortionist to do some of what they were suggesting.
She closed her account.
The one thing she didn’t need in her line of work was fame. She already had the fortune thanks to the government donating some of their loose change to Cookie’s rainy day fund, but the fame could get her in deep shit, and she’d had enough of that lately.
She’d already decided that she needed to become someone new – online and offline. Susan Bunyan had enough money in the bank now to live a normal life in a normal house, but she couldn’t be who she was now after her name was plastered all over the newspapers, television and internet.
After she left Kowalski’s house, she sat and posed for photographs in a kiosk at Wanstead tube station, and then she caught a train to Mile End to buy a new identity. There were people out there who could give you back your life in the blink of an eye – Lizard was one of those people. Of course, Lizard wasn’t his real name, but it was as close to his real name as anyone was ever likely to get.
‘Name?’ he’d asked her.
He wasn’t bad looking, but he was closer to fifty than he was to forty, had messed up grey hair with a goatee beard that needed some urgent attention, and wore jeans, flip-flops and a blue Transformers t-shirt.
‘What name?’
‘Have you got a name in mind?’
‘No. Does it matter?’
He gave a laugh. ‘Hell yeah. Cool names like Elvis, Pippa or Ozzy cost more.’