Silent in the Grave (9781311028495)

by Ellis, Tim

  ‘Aye.’

  He slid off the wooden barstool and made his way out of the pub. A suspect wasn’t much use without the evidence to arrest and charge him. Now, he needed to accumulate that evidence. Without looking at the list in his pocket, and as far as he could recall, there was no one on – or attached to – the task force by the name of Pylster. His plan now was to visit Andrew Pearson at the care home. Between them, they should be able to reduce the thirty-seven people on the list to a more manageable number.

  ***

  After Richards had made the coffee they went into the incident room.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want me to ring round all the suppliers of cling film?’

  ‘It’s too late for that.’

  ‘But you said . . .’

  ‘We need to find a new approach.’ He sat down, crossed his ankles on the table and nursed his coffee. ‘Start a new board.’

  She found a board they hadn’t used. ‘Shoot.’

  ‘If I had a gun . . .’

  ‘The mood you’re in today it’s a good job they don’t arm police in this country.’

  He ignored her. ‘We have four murders. Jade Williams was left in the Marin supermarket car park in the boot of a stolen car, which led us to Hoddesdon Cemetery where we unearthed a second body that has yet to be identified. The clue on this body led us to Haystack Grove where Toadstone’s people dug up a third body that we also have no identity for. Now, we have a possible fourth body at Hamlet Hill.’

  Richards listed the locations of the bodies on the board, and with the exception of Jade Williams’ name, scrawled three question marks.

  ‘We have four crime scenes – the boot of a car, two shallow graves and an unknown one at Hamlet Hill. What does that tell us?’

  She pulled a face. ‘I don’t think the crime scenes are important in themselves, but only as location markers in his game?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘I mean, he chose them because he could construct clues from the names. On Jade Williams there was the postcode of Hoddesdon Cemetery and he used the Hyde gravestone as a location marker, on the second victim he used Haystack Grove, and for the third – Hamlet Hill.’ She listed each clue on the board:

  135, EN11 9AE, HYDE

  A NEEDLE IN A HAYSTACK

  FRAILTY, THY NAME IS WOMAN

  ‘The first clue is literal,’ he said. ‘Whereas the other two are cryptic. In fact, there’s a number of things that are different about the Jade Williams’ crime scene. We know her name, but we don’t know the names of the other victims. She was left in the boot of a car – the others have been buried in shallow graves. We were meant to find Jade Williams. He made the clue easy, so that we’d get drawn into the game right from the start.’

  ‘Yes, but what else can we do?’

  ‘You’re not being very helpful.’

  ‘What about the cling film?’

  ‘He could have bought it anywhere.’

  ‘But you said . . .’

  ‘That’s because it’s the only piece of evidence we have. I was clutching at cling film, but it’s a dead end. ’

  Her brow creased. ‘What about the victims?’

  ‘If you recall, they all deteriorated before our very eyes.’

  ‘They’re all of a similar age.’

  ‘Keep going.’

  ‘Well . . .’

  ‘We have nothing.’

  ‘Maybe the Doc will find something.’

  ‘Maybe, maybe, maybe! Is that what we’re left with?’

  ‘What about the nec . . . ?’

  ‘. . . . rophilia?’

  ‘Yes, that disgusting thing he does with their bodies. Why would anyone do something like that?’

  ‘A study was carried out in 1989 . . .’

  ‘A study? You mean, lots of people do this?’

  ‘No, not lots. It was a small study . . . of thirty-four necrophiliacs.’

  ‘Thirty-four! That’s nearly an epidemic.’

  ‘Hardly. The researchers found that sixty-eight percent wanted to possess a non-resisting and non-rejecting partner; twenty-one percent were reunions with a romantic partner; fifteen percent were attracted to corpses; fifteen percent were for comfort and to overcome feelings of isolation; and finally, twelve percent were seeking self-esteem by expressing power over a murdered victim.’

  ‘I never thought . . . Do you think he’s doing it for one of those reasons?’

  ‘If he is, does it help us in any way?’

  ‘Maybe we should call in a profiler.’

  ‘If I wanted the Chief to sanction a waste of money, I’d ask for a forensic anthropologist to reconstruct the faces of our victims.’

  ‘Can’t we ask for both?’

  ‘Do you think the Chief is made of money?’

  ‘I don’t know. I wonder if he’s opened that box yet.’

  ‘Forget about the Chief’s box, Richards.’

  ‘It’s so hard.’

  ‘Focus on our investigation.’

  ‘We haven’t got anything to focus on.’

  He stood up. ‘Come on, let’s go to the hospital.’

  ‘It’s a bit early isn’t it?’

  ‘We’ll grab lunch in the hospital restaurant when we get there.’

  ‘Before a post mortem? That’s not a very good plan.’

  ‘If you can’t stand the heat, get out of the kitchen.’

  ‘Is that a Chinese proverb?’

  ‘Most definitely.’

  ‘I thought so.’

  His phone vibrated.

  ‘Have you got news for me, Toadstone?’

  ‘I’m at Hamlet Hill.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘We’ve found the fourth body.’

  ‘Same as the others?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Has Doc Riley cut through . . .’

  ‘Yes. The clue is:

  GINGERBREAD AND CAKES

  Parish’s brow furrowed. ‘Any ideas?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Okay, keep at it, Toadstone.’

  He ended the call.

  ‘Put on the board: GINGERBREAD AND CAKES.’

  ‘Is it me, or are the clues getting harder.’

  ‘It’s a game, Richards. In a game, the clues start off easy and then they get harder. That’s the way it’s supposed to work. If they were all easy it wouldn’t be worth playing the game, would it?’

  ‘Maybe we need help.’

  ‘Help? Help from where?’

  ‘We could ask the Chief. Maybe he’s in his office. I could . . .’

  ‘No.’

  ***

  They arrived at King George Hospital at twenty past one. Forty minutes before Doc Riley was due to commence the post mortem of the second victim, and time enough to eat lunch – just.

  He always liked to arrive at restaurants early, but twenty past one wasn’t early. The tell-tale signs of being late were clearly evident: No seats, dirty tables, splodges of food on the floor, staff at the end of their tether, dry and shrivelled food on the hotplate, no trays, no cutlery, no sauces, empty salt and pepper pots on the tables – it was like the film set of “The Day After Tomorrow”. He wouldn’t have been surprised to discover that it had started snowing. The post apocalyptic survivors would have felt right at home.

  ‘What do you want?’ he asked Richards.

  ‘I don’t know what I want until I find out what there is.’

  ‘I’m only asking, so that you can go and find an empty table.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Did you have someone else in mind?’

  ‘You.’

  ‘I’m in the queue for the food.’

  ‘So am I.’

  ‘But I’m before you.’

  ‘Is that relevant?’

  ‘We should stick to what we’re best at.’

  ‘And I’m better at staking claims on empty tables?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You have certain . . . advantages.�
��

  ‘I do? And what advantages would they be?’

  ‘Are you going to stand here arguing all day? What I don’t want is to have paid for my food and then have nowhere to sit. Do you want to stand up and eat your lunch? Look . . .’ He pointed to a table near a window. ‘There’s a couple leaving over there . . .’

  ‘I don’t know what I want yet.’

  ‘Never mind that. You always have the same rubbish anyway. I’ll get you a lettuce leaf and a carrot cake. Hurry, get over there.’

  ‘And a bottle of water.’

  ‘Are you still here?’

  He chose a jacket potato with chilli con carne. It wasn’t his usual fayre, but it looked the most edible from the available options. And seeing as he was being particularly adventurous with his food, he helped himself to a bottle of pineapple juice and a chocolate caramel slice. He got Richards a rocket salad and a bottle of water.

  ‘You owe me ten pounds,’ he said.

  She laughed.

  ‘Being in debt isn’t funny, Richards.’

  After they’d eaten, they walked down to the mortuary. He’d wondered if Doc Riley would make it back in time, but she was there waiting for them.

  ‘The body at Hamlet Hill is no different from the others.’

  He nodded.

  ‘And I have good news for you.’

  ‘It’s about time. We’re running on empty, aren’t we, Richards?’

  ‘No we’re not, we’ve just had lunch.’

  He shook his head. ‘Carry on, Doc.’

  ‘She wasn’t frozen before he buried her.’

  ‘There you are, Richards. Take note that the boss is always right. Was that the good news?’

  ‘No. We found a familial DNA match.’

  ‘Brilliant.’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Don’t do that, Doc. Don’t give it to me with one hand, and then snatch it back with the other.’

  ‘Philip Newey.’

  ‘Never heard of him.’

  ‘He raped and killed a woman in Warrington, and while on remand at HMP Risley was then killed himself.’

  ‘Is he the victim’s father?’ Richards asked.

  ‘So it would seem.’

  Parish scratched his head. ‘I’m a bit confused, Doc. Is he? Or, isn’t he?’

  ‘There’s a familial match, but when I checked Newey’s record – his marital status was single, and he had no children.’

  ‘Which is clearly incorrect.’

  ‘It could have been a one-night stand,’ Richards suggested.

  ‘What do you know about one-night stands?’

  ‘I know . . .’

  ‘This is exactly the type of thing that happens on one-night stands.’

  ‘That’s what I was going to say.’

  ‘Yes well . . . you just stay away from them, that’s all.’

  ‘To have one-night stands a woman has to meet men – when do I ever meet men?’

  ‘And keep it that way.’

  She sighed.

  He turned back to the Doc. ‘Did you print . . . ?’

  Doc Riley handed him four sheets of paper stapled together.

  Four sheets was two more than most criminals had. ‘He was no saint then?’

  ‘A train wreck that someone should have seen coming. He started off slow, and built up a head of steam to commit rape and murder.’

  Parish pursed his lips. ‘Usually the way, Doc. Well, he’s parked up in the terminal now.’ He glanced through the computer-generated report and noted that Newey’s last known address was in Warrington: 3a Thorn Road, Paddington WA1 3HQ. ‘Looks like one of us will have to go to Warrington, Richards.’

  ‘Ooh! Me?’

  ‘You?’

  ‘Yes, me.’

  ‘You’re not even a Detective Constable yet.’

  ‘But I will be – soon – very soon.’

  ‘So you say, but how do I know you won’t get involved in a one-night stand?’

  She laughed. ‘You know I’m not that type of girl.’

  ‘The evidence says otherwise.’

  ‘No, no. I’ve learnt my lesson. I’ve changed. I’m more cautious now. I don’t believe everything they say anymore. Please . . . please let me go.’

  ‘We’ll see. After the post mortem we’ll go and talk to your mother . . .’

  ‘Your wife?’

  ‘And Digby.’

  ‘Digby?’

  ‘He’s part of the family. He’ll miss you.’

  She hugged him. ‘You won’t regret it.’

  ‘I’d better not. Well, what are you waiting for?’

  ‘You want me to go now?’

  ‘On the train.’

  ‘The train?’

  ‘Sometimes, Digby makes more sense than you. Get a taxi home, pack an overnight bag, get to the train station, travel to Warrington, find a hotel and then ring me for further instructions.’

  She turned to go.

  ‘Have you got money?’

  ‘Mmmm.’

  He took out his wallet and gave her his emergency two hundred and fifty pounds.

  ‘Ooh! Can I . . . ?’

  ‘No.’

  She turned to go again.

  ‘Haven’t you forgotten something?’

  ‘Oh yes.’ She hugged him. ‘See you tomorrow. Bye, Doc.’

  ‘Bye, Mary.’

  He waved Newey’s criminal record in the air.

  She grinned. ‘I was just coming back for that.’ She took it off him.

  ‘And remember . . .’

  ‘No one-night stands?’

  ‘Or any type of stands for that matter. And ring me when . . .’

  ‘I’m going now.’

  ‘You’re a bit over-protective, aren’t you?’ Doc Riley said.

  ‘It’s the first time I’ve let her out on her own.’

  ‘She seems competent enough.’

  ‘That’s what worries me.’

  He stayed while Doc Riley completed the post mortem. There was nothing new, and he left with the PM report for Jade Williams tucked under his arm.

  Chapter Nineteen

  As soon as she walked into the bungalow and shut the front door she knew someone had been inside.

  The place hadn’t been ransacked, but she knew – she just knew. There was the smell of a man’s aftershave, the feeling that everything had been moved, examined and repositioned. She hurried into the kitchen. Her laptop was still sitting on the table where she’d left it. She opened it up, squatted and looked sideways across the keyboard.

  Yes, there were fingerprints on the keys that weren’t hers.

  She sat down in the chair and pressed the “ON” button.

  When she’d told Chloe what was happening to Gilbert, and assured her that she was there as a friend, Chloe had told her as much as she knew – which wasn’t a lot.

  One day – four years ago – Gilbert had turned up at her door in London and told her that she’d have to leave.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘My name is Rowley Gilbert. I’m with the police.’ He showed his warrant card. ‘That’s all I can tell you.’

  ‘I don’t understand?’

  ‘We haven’t got time for questions. All you need to understand is that if you stay here, you and your daughter will be killed.’

  ‘Why? By whom?’

  ‘I can’t tell you.’

  ‘You expect me to walk away from my life, and come with you without any explanation?’

  He shrugged. ‘You have to decide whether to trust me, or not.’

  ‘But . . .’ She looked around. ‘I need . . .’

  ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Leave everything. From this point on, you’re no longer Chloe Jackson. You have the clothes on your back, your life and your daughter – that’s all you need.’

  She’d grabbed her one-year old daughter Poppy, and followed Gilbert to a black van.

  ‘And he brought you here?’

  ‘No, not at first. We came here three years ago.
Before that, he’d move us – at first every week, but then every three or four months.’

  ‘Do you know what it’s about now?’

  ‘No. I keep asking him, but I get no answers.’

  ‘Did he say how long you have to live like this?’

  ‘I ask him that as well, but all he says is, “For as long as it takes”.’

  ‘For as long as what takes?’

  Chloe shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I’m surprised you’ve put up with it for so long.’

  ‘He’s made it quite clear that if they find me, they’ll kill both me and Poppy. What choice do I have?’

  ‘If who finds you?’

  She shrugged again.

  ‘Gilbert’s not very forthcoming, is he?’

  ‘No.’

  A bad feeling slithered down her back as she began connecting up the dots: Honey, knocking on her door as soon as she arrived here with her apple pie, and who always seemed to know what she’d been doing; her sluggish laptop; the twitching net curtain in Honey’s house; all the questions . . .

  Honey was part of it, whatever “it” was. The son – John – who had come for a quick visit . . . She examined the computer, found a slim plastic connector in one of the USB ports at the back that hadn’t come with the laptop, and removed it. Next, she logged on, hacked into her bank account and moved her money into another account five numbers away under the name of Jane Lee. The transaction was untraceable, but the name needed some work.

  After removing the hard drive, she put it in the sink with half a bottle of cooking oil and set fire to it. She slid the laptop and power connector into her rucksack and headed for the back door. So much for a new life in rural Essex, she thought.

  As she hurried down the garden path, she heard the familiar “Yoo-hoo!” drifting through the bungalow from the letterbox. At least there was one thing she’d be glad to leave behind.

  Who were these people? And what did they want? What concerned her most, was that she might have led whoever was after Chloe and Poppy directly to them – fuck!

  She found a two year-old Hyundai Tucson three doors away. It wasn’t the type of car she would normally have stolen, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. She hot-wired it, put the accelerator to the floor, and headed back to St Margaret’s Road in Chelmsford.