A Time to Kill (P&R14)

by Tim Ellis

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I suppose I am, but it would be a lot simpler if Beasley was the killer.’

  ‘It’s not looking promising though, is it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What about the sperm?’

  ‘Well, if he was at the hospital under anaesthesia, then someone else must have put it there.’

  ‘The real killer?’

  He nodded. ‘That would be my guess. How do you think he obtained Beasley’s sperm?’

  ‘I can think of some ways, but I’d rather not say them out loud if you don’t mind?’

  ‘Let’s go and ask Mr Beasley, shall we?’

  Beasley was returned to the interview room, and the duty solicitor – Colin Sims – a spotty-faced young man barely out of university was called.

  ‘Interview resumed at three thirty-five,’ Richards said. ‘Can I remind you that you are still under caution, Mr Beasley?’

  He nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘We have confirmed that you were at the hospital undergoing a surgical procedure during the period that the murder of Catrina Golding took place.’

  ‘I had every confidence you would. I may be a lot of things, but I’m not a murderer.’

  ‘We do, however, have a small problem, Mr Beasley.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Your sperm, and as such – your DNA, was found inside the victim.’

  He glanced at the duty solicitor. ‘That’s not possible.’

  ‘I’m afraid that it is. What we need to know is, who has had access to your sperm recently?’

  ‘Access to?’

  ‘I’m sure you understand me perfectly, Mr Beasley.’

  ‘Ah! You mean before last Friday?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How long before?’

  ‘Let’s say a week.’

  ‘Including the previous Friday?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He rolled his eyes upwards, and his lips moved silently. ‘That would have been Friday, July 25?’

  Richards waited.

  ‘On Friday I went to the late-night screening at the Back Street Independent Cinema on Canal Street in Hoddesdon – it was a bit of a free-for-all.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Meaning – I have no idea who the lucky recipients of my sperm were. It was dark, and I recall ejaculating three times that night. Early on, someone gave me a hand-job, then someone else was kind enough to put old one-eye in their mouth and suck it dry, and finally . . . Well, as I said – it was a bit of a free-for-all.’

  ‘What was the film they were showing?’

  ‘Sorry. People don’t go to the late-night screening to watch the film.’

  ‘Were there both men and women there?’

  ‘Yeah. Except . . . I’m not interested in the women, but some of the men obviously were. The late-night screening is not just for homosexuals.’

  ‘You don’t recall any names?’

  ‘Names aren’t provided or expected in the late-night screening.’

  ‘Would you recognise any of the men who . . . you went with?’

  ‘As I said – it was dark.’

  ‘Please go on.’

  ‘So, that was Friday. On Saturday I went to the Berlin Bar in Hertford on Railway Street . . . I met someone.’

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Dougie.’

  ‘Last name?’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Have you seen him since that night.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But you’d recognise his if you saw him again?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘We’re not getting very far are we, Mr Beasley?’

  ‘Sorry. This is the way my life is.’

  ‘Were you out having sex every night?’

  ‘What do you take me for? I stayed in on Wednesday night and watched that dog show about Battersea Dogs’ Home. Also, I didn’t have sex again until Friday afternoon. That was in the shower just before my painful little accident, and the unplanned trip to the hospital.’

  ‘Did you ejaculate?’

  ‘Yes, but it swilled down the plughole.’

  Richards looked at Parish and shook her head. She slid a sheet of paper across the table and said to Beasley, ‘I’d like you to write down when, where and with whom you had sex between July 25 and July 31.’

  ‘Including what I’ve just told you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Am I free to go then?’

  ‘Yes, but stay where we can find you. Interview terminated at three fifty-two.’

  Outside in the corridor Parish said, ‘While I’m at the press briefing contact Doc Riley and tell her what’s happened.’

  ‘Okay. Is that it, then?’

  ‘For arguments sake, let’s say that the real killer was one of the people Beasley had sex with in the previous week. How do you suppose the sperm was transferred from A to B?’

  ‘That’s disgusting.’

  ‘That may be so, and yet . . .’

  ‘In a handkerchief?’

  ‘That’s one possibility, but the sperm could also have been captured by . . .’

  ‘. . . Hand?’

  ‘And?’

  She pulled a face. ‘Mouth?’

  ‘Yes. Which would mean what?’

  ‘I’d be sick.’

  ‘We’re not talking about you. What about the sperm?’

  ‘Mmmm! It would be contaminated, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Possibly. In what way?’

  Her eyes opened wide. ‘With the DNA of the person who captured it?’

  ‘That’s right. Now, I recall reading an article on a speculative procedure for identifying DNA profiles from co-mingled samples. If forensics are only looking for one DNA profile, then that’s what they’ll find from the dominant contribution . . .’

  ‘Beasley?’

  ‘Exactly. But if we tell them there is more than one contributor in the sample, they’ll use the speculative test and look for other profiles.’

  ‘Why didn’t they do that in the first place?’

  ‘We didn’t ask them to. And, of course, the speculative procedure costs an arm, a leg, three donkeys and a camel. And is only carried out in a few laboratories around the country.’

  She clenched her hands into fists and grinned. ‘We’re going to get him, aren’t we? He thinks he’s fooled us, but he hasn’t.’

  ‘Let’s not count our chickens . . . Right, I have to go, and you have to make a phone call.’

  ‘I could come to the press . . .’

  ‘No. Also, phone your paramour Mr Marmite, and ask him whether he’s made any progress in identifying Catrina Golding’s photographer.’

  He hurried up the stairs to the press briefing room, sat at the table, poured himself a glass of water and drank most of the contents. Behind him hung the red and white Hoddesdon coat of arms: COR UNUM VIA UNA: One heart, one way.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming today. As you know, I’m here to discuss the murder of Catrina Golding who lived at 34 Plomer Avenue in Hailey. Following the post mortem new information has come to light. We now know that Miss Golding was murdered between the hours of six and midnight on Friday, August 1.’

  A woman with frizzy hair and a monocle spoke first. ‘Clair Ross from NBC Europe. Are you now saying that she wasn’t murdered on the Saturday, Inspector?’

  ‘That’s correct, Miss Ross.’

  ‘So the description you gave us of the person you considered a suspect in the murder is not relevant anymore?’

  ‘Also correct.’

  ‘Helen Adams from the Chigwell Herald,’ a short dumpy woman with a moustache said. ‘Our understanding is that you’ve arrested someone today?’

  ‘We brought a person in for questioning, but have now released him.’

  ‘Can you tell us why you brought him in for questioning?’

  ‘To eliminate him from our enquiries, which we have now done.’

  A young woman with spiked short black hair, a ring in her nose and a t
ie-dyed t-shirt stood up. ‘Abigail Thorpe from the Redbridge Camera. You said yesterday that you would know once the post mortem had been carried out whether Miss Golding was sexually assaulted or not. Can you provide us with any more details on this, Inspector?’

  ‘Yes, Miss Golding was sexually assaulted.’ He might have said that it was a bit more complicated than that. He might also have mentioned the necrophilia, or the discovery of semen that belonged to a man who was never there, but if he had it would have generated a lot more questions and a lot more speculation.

  ‘Deborah Christie from the Mission Daily,’ said a pale-looking woman with a scarf tied on her head like a pirate. ‘Have you discovered who the father of the baby is yet?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Raffi Wilson from the Identity Channel. Rumours have been circulating about Miss Golding’s lifestyle. Would you care to comment on that, Inspector?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Other than the man who you’ve questioned and released today, do you have any other suspects?’

  ‘It’s early in our investigation, Ms Wilson. There are still a number of people that we wish to eliminate from our enquiries. Also, following the post mortem, we have new leads that are being pursued.’

  ‘Becky McKeever from U>Direct. Have you given any more thought to the possibility that Catrina Golding was the victim of a serial killer?’

  ‘No.’ She was like a dog with a bone. If you said something enough times people might begin to believe it.

  ‘Have you stopped the lovely Detective Richards attending the briefings, Inspector?’

  He saw fisheyes duck down. If it hadn’t been so crowded he might have leapt over the table and arrested him, but he decided that the best course of action would be to simply ignore the lunatic. So, Richards had some admirers. It was only natural that men would find her attractive. Just so long as they kept to their side of the electric fence everything would be hunky-dory. He stood up. ‘There’ll be another briefing at the same time tomorrow afternoon.’

  He walked up to the squad room.

  ‘How did it go?’ Richards asked.

  There was a steaming mug of coffee on his desk. ‘Who’s been sitting in my chair, Goldilocks?’ he said as he sat down.

  ‘No one. That’s for you?’

  He took a slurp. ‘Very kind. The briefing went fine, but it was a bit brief.’

  ‘Maybe tomorrow will be better.’

  ‘They ask about you at the briefings, you know?’

  ‘Who do?’

  ‘The crazy people.’

  ‘You had to go and spoil it, didn’t you?’

  ‘Well, did you ring Doc Riley?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And described what had happened?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘She’s going to talk to the people in the laboratory and see what they can do.’

  ‘Is that it?’

  ‘What did you expect?’

  ‘Answers.’

  ‘She said that she might have some answers tomorrow.’

  He sighed. ‘Tomorrow!’

  ‘And Josh found the name of the photographer for us.’

  ‘Josh! I don’t know anyone called Josh.’

  ‘The computer technician.’

  ‘You’re not talking about that ugly guy from this morning who wants to play with your mouse, are you?’

  ‘Don’t be disgusting.’

  ‘Disgusting is as disgusting does, Little Miss Marmite. Remember that tonight when he’s sticking his tongue down your throat, and trying to put . . .’

  ‘There’s something seriously wrong with you.’

  ‘Me? I’m not the one going on a date with a jar of yeast extract.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  ‘Okay, Sergeant,’ DI Tubman said. ‘Tell me what’s been going on.’

  They were sitting in the incident room. Stick had added the details of the second couple – Alice Wheatley and Brandon Yagin – to the whiteboard. He had listed the clues, if they could be called clues, of the hooded man: possible limp, maybe drives a motorbike, wore a blue and white checked shirt and black for second murder. None of the so-called clues offered a path to follow. Most times, one single clue would lead – like a spider’s web – to any number of other destinations, but not today.

  ‘You know what’s been going on, Sir.’

  ‘You talk through the case, and I think about where and how you’ve fucked up.’

  ‘Ah, I see. Would you like me to make us a coffee first?’

  ‘No. A coffee can be our reward for working out where to go next.’

  ‘DI Blake and I were called to King George Hospital because Giselle Hamill had been found in shock wandering along the A10 near Cheshunt.’

  ‘Who found her and conveyed her to the hospital?’

  ‘No idea, Sir.’

  ‘No idea? Isn’t it possible that it could have been the killer?’

  ‘Unlikely, Sir. He did a good job disguising who he was at the crime scene, why would he then inveigle himself into the investigation by pretending to be a good Samaritan?’

  ‘Isn’t that what killers do?’

  ‘Sometimes, but he’s not a killer.’

  ‘Stop hair-splitting, Sergeant.’

  ‘Also, if he is riding a motorbike . . .’

  ‘If! Not only did you not know that at the time of the first murder, but he may not be riding a motorcycle at all.’

  ‘I suppose that’s a possibility.’

  ‘Write that down. We need to find out who the good Samaritan was. Doesn’t it strike you as odd that, instead of phoning the police or an ambulance, he put her in his car and then drove . . . How far is it from Cheshunt to King George Hospital?’

  Stick took out his phone, found the route planner and typed in the two locations. ‘Twenty-five miles would have taken approximately thirty-five minutes.’

  ‘An hour and ten minutes there and back. Do you think that makes sense, Sergeant?’

  ‘Probably not, Sir.’

  ‘Probably not! Don’t be stupid, man. Definitely not. Do you know that an American called William James Siddis had the highest IQ ever, which was estimated at between 250 – 300. The average person – like you – has an IQ of around 110, but yours is probably quite a bit lower from what I’ve seen. Anyway, you’ll be pleased to know that I’ve estimated my own IQ to be above 400. How much above that figure is open to debate. So, a man picking up a strange woman in shock on the A10, driving thirty-five minutes to the hospital with her, depositing her at A&E and then driving another thirty-five minutes back to where he started from makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up like soldiers on parade outside Buckingham Palace. So, tonight before you go home, you can find out who that good Samaritan was.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘Carry on, Sergeant.’

  ‘We had a bit of a problem when we did get there because she’d been given a sedative in A&E and then taken up to the ITU. She was asleep and they refused to wake her up so that we could question her.’

  ‘Incompetents, subversives, seditionists. They wouldn’t get away with it in Russia.’

  ‘We’re not in Russia.’

  ‘Which is exactly the problem. Did you tell them you were trying to solve a murder?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Russia has Siberia – what have we got?’

  ‘The Isle of Wight?’

  ‘No comparison really, is there?’

  Stick pulled a face. He had no idea what Tubman was talking about, but it didn’t do any harm to humour him.

  ‘What happened next?’

  ‘We waited, but then we received a phone call stating that the body of Robert Vines – Giselle’s boyfriend – had been found.’

  ‘Who by this time?’

  ‘A woman and her dog. The dog got there first and took a liking to the meat on offer.’

  ‘If you were employed to tell jokes, Sergeant, you’d starve.’

  ‘Thank you,
Sir.’

  ‘Well, go on then. At this rate, we’ll be here all night.’

  ‘We arrived at Theobald’s Lane. Robert Vines had been garrotted, and his genitals – having been sliced off – were lying on the ground.’

  ‘No forensic evidence?’

  ‘No. It’s likely that he wore gloves this time as well, and the bag on his head would have prevented any escape of hair or fluids.’

  ‘And he didn’t have sex with the woman?’

  ‘No. He masturbated into her panties as she was killing Mr Vines.’

  ‘And took the panties with him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It beggars belief what goes through some people’s minds, Sergeant.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘Carry on.’

  ‘Well, that’s it, Sir. He didn’t leave any physical or forensic evidence behind him.’

  ‘So you went back to the hospital?’

  ‘Yes. We questioned Giselle Hamill, but she couldn’t tell us anything of any use.’

  ‘Maybe there’s something wrong with your questioning technique.’

  ‘DI Blake was there as well, Sir. In fact, it was she who questioned the woman.’

  ‘Mmmm! It’s easy to blame other people, Sergeant.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘And then you had a second murder.’

  ‘Brendon Yagin. The same MO as the previous murder.’

  ‘And this was witnessed by two men who thought our hooded man had a limp and drove a motorcycle?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘All I can say is that it’s a good job I was available and amenable, Sergeant.’

  ‘I’m very grateful, Sir.’

  ‘I know you are. “Where do we go from here?” – that’s the question. You find out who that good Samaritan was before you knock off, and tomorrow I think we’ll focus on the victims.’

  ‘What do you mean, Sir?’

  ‘The majority of murders are committed by a person the victim knows. I think we should focus our efforts in that direction.’

  ‘It’s funny you should say that, Sir.’

  ‘It is?’

  ‘When I interviewed Alice Wheatley she said that the hooded man knew both their names.’

  ‘There you are then. They need to invent another term for me, Sergeant. “Genius” isn’t really an adequate description of someone with my mental abilities.’

  Stick’s phone vibrated.

  ‘DS Gilbert . . . Oh! I’m sorry to hear that . . . Yes, I understand.’