“So what did you do about it?” Owen asked.
“When my parents separated, I never spoke to the bastard again. I was determined to be better than he. I matched his qualifications, in fact I bettered them. I gained a first in my degree and a distinction in my Masters. Whenever we met, and that was only occasionally, I was usually leading the conference. It gave me a great deal of satisfaction. I would imagine him sitting there surrounded by colleagues and beneath the façade, beneath the suit and tie would be lingerie.”
“And your mother?”
“She was weak too, would never stand up to him. She knew that I was being honest about the abuse but she couldn’t upset my father. Amazing how your upbringing either makes you weak or makes you stronger and more determined.” He drank the last of his coffee.
“Have you ever met Samuel Dixon since that time?”
Smyth shook his head. “Neither Samuel nor Pamela. Yes I’m aware of the Janus face of my abuser. It all became disgustingly clear once my father left.”
“You could still seek justice irrespective of the passage of time. The police will look into the matter. Sexual impropriety with a minor carries a long custodial sentence, let alone a stigma.”
“Life is too short. I’ve moved on. I seek neither justice nor revenge, what was in the past can now stay in the past.”
Smyth looked at his watch. “Where does the time go? If there’s nothing else?”
“I believe you’re not married? Do you have a partner?”
“I’m sure as a busy policeman you know that permanent relationships and a busy work schedule are incompatible. Are you married Chief Inspector?” He watched Cyril’s shake of the head. “And you sergeant? I rest my case, gentlemen.”
Cyril stood and shook Smyth’s hand. “One last thing. Your father has a large tattoo on his arm, seems rather incongruous that a man of science would have a tattoo of that nature.”
“What my father does with his body ceased to interest me when I was fourteen, Chief Inspector, when he betrayed me. He could tattoo War and Peace over every inch of flesh for all I care. Now, if you’ll please excuse me.”
Dr Smyth left the room and Cyril sat down.
“Direct and to the point wouldn’t you say? The good doctor used some strong language to express some vivid, emotional memories, Owen. Anything from Forensics?”
Owen downloaded the waiting mail before reading the report he’d received on his iPad. DNA for both boys found at Jenkins’ garage, honey matches that found in the other jars, labels, pen all match. They’ve recovered a mobile phone from the house but no sim card. They’re conducting a more thorough search. Phones not registered to either; it’s a throw away. Forensics suggest that the house has been searched. Our killer was looking for something, probably the sim card. Liz’s and my DNA has been found at the scene; they’re on the ball.”
“What of the box?”
Owen scrolled down the page.
“It was a piece of human tongue found in the jar. The tattoo ink is identical but there’s no DNA match to any of the deceased. Tattooed post mortem as with the others,” Owen looked at Cyril. “Does that mean we’ve another body somewhere?”
Cyril put his hand to his face and rubbed his chin. “Looks that way!”
“Give Liz a call. In the light of the latest revelation regarding Samuel Dixon, I want to pay Pamela a visit. He checked his watch. Tell her first thing tomorrow morning. And I mean first thing.”
“Were you not meeting the Chief Constable, Sir?”
“I have that pleasure pencilled in for this afternoon, Owen, and that will come soon enough, believe me! If the meeting doesn’t go well, the way I feel right now, you might make Inspector sooner than you’d hoped.”
***
Cyril was not a happy man after his meeting with the Chief Constable, even though his boss had appreciated the complexity of the case. The key points of the one sided meeting tumbled in his head as he stared at the car park and breathed fresh air. The general public want things boxed and ticked quickly. That’s your job, you wanted this, you pushed for it. They’ve had few answers. I know you’ve managed to return one child but that was more good luck than judgement. We need a man in custody, Cyril, and we want it to happen quickly so that we can all move on, particularly those unfortunate to have lost a child.
***
“Did you know Alan Titchmarsh comes from Ilkley, Sir?” Liz felt as though she had to say something. Cyril had said nothing for most of the journey; he simply blew vapour from his nostrils and looked at the view.
Cyril said nothing in reply. He looked across the fields as the mist wrapped around the lower part of the trees. After a while he broke his silence.
“It’s my favourite time of the year. Such a delicate season, balanced between the heat of summer and the onset of winter. Its like the year has suddenly realised it’s the beginning of the end.”
“Or to be more optimistic and quote Churchill, Sir, …’the end of the beginning’.”
Cyril turned to her and smiled. “Yes, you’re right…’the end of the beginning’, we’ve only just got into our stride.”
Owen had informed her of Cyril’s meeting the previous day with the Chief Constable and she realised he was now carrying the weight of the investigation heavily. She took a quick glance at him. He looked tired and she had to admit it, old for his years. “Summer every time for me, Sir and preferably summer along the Mediterranean.”
“So how shall we find Pamela this morning, Liz? Stressed and surprised or pleased to see her new best friend?”
“You can’t read her, that’s for sure. There’s something not right though. Call it female intuition, but there’s something.”
Liz parked the car lower down the road than usual.
“A bit more of a surprise for her today, Sir.”
“I take it you’ve informed the local force of our intentions?”
Liz simply smiled.
There was no answer when Cyril knocked. He tried again, nothing.
“She’d never leave her aunt alone.”
“Check next door.”
Liz walked up the next path and knocked. She smiled at Cyril and waited for the door to open. An elderly man opened the door slightly. Liz saw the security chain. She presented her ID. “Do you know if Pamela Shepherd is in next door?”
“Not seen her today. Heard the old lady calling out but then all went quiet, nothing strange in that though. It’s a shame when they become so confused. Sometimes she thinks I’m her father when I pop round. I’m younger than her too and have known her for nearly five years now! Comes to us all.” He opened the door fully. “He a copper too?”
Liz nodded, “My boss.”
Liz returned. “Nothing, Sir. The gentleman says he’s not seen Pamela. I’m concerned.”
“Ring her mobile.”
Liz dialled. There was no answer. Cyril opened the letterbox and heard a mobile ringing.
“Phone’s inside I can hear it.”
She then rang the house phone and let it ring. “Nothing, Sir. Please, I’m concerned.”
“I’ll get the local lads to force entry, life and death, Liz. No need for a warrant.”
Liz held up her hand. “One minute.” She turned back to the neighbour’s house and knocked again.
“Do you know if one of the neighbours has a key?”
“A minute, lass.”
Liz returned with a key. “Worth a try and bingo!” She smiled at Cyril.
Both put on gloves and overshoes. On entering, Cyril put his hand to his nose “Goodness me, that’s strong.”
“Lavender, Sir. Always smells of lavender, even stronger in the lounge. I’ll go and check on the aunt.”
Liz moved cautiously up the stairs looking in each room she approached.
“Is that you Pamela?” the familiar, feeble voice called out.
A sudden flush of relief flooded her stomach. The old girl was alive at least. She popped her head round the door. The old l
ady smiled. Liz realised that she thought she was Pamela.
“Is Samuel with you? I heard his voice.”
“No, it’s a friend, that’s all. Do you need anything?”
The old lady simply smiled.
Liz picked up a photograph frame from the dressing table. It was clearly a picture of Pamela, her mother and aunt. The Cow and Calf rocks stood in the background. It had been taken when times were better. She then picked up another frame. This one was taken not long ago, there was a date in the bottom left corner and an inscription: To my beautiful aunt. All my love, Pamela xx. Liz looked more carefully, taking the picture to the window. This was certainly not the Pamela she’d met
Liz went back down the stairs carrying the photograph and entered the kitchen. Cyril was looking into what was the larder. What appeared to be silicone strips seemed to be hanging from the door edges and the architrave like thick, cream-coloured spaghetti.
“Sir, this is a photograph of…” she didn’t finish. The stench seemed to overpower the Lavender, assaulting her nasal passages. She turned her head away. It was then that she noticed that Cyril was holding a handkerchief to his nose.
“That’s the reason for the lavender!”
Cyril pointed inside. At the far end, bagged in polythene like the boys’ corpses, sat another.
“Door was sealed with silicone making it air tight. It took some opening. Body is double bagged. It looks like the skin’s smeared with honey, and a lot of it by the look of it, but it’s run off parts of the face.”
“What’s that?”
Liz held the photograph for Cyril to see. “This is Pamela Dixon but it’s definitely not the Pamela I spoke to here, or had coffee with. Definitely not.”
Cyril just pointed to the recumbent figure. His hand found the light switch. “Is that the person in the photograph?”
Liz turned slightly as the smell hit her again.
“You’re not going to be sick are you, Liz?” Cyril’s expression had changed. The last thing he needed was vomit.
She simply looked back and smiled. “I’m fine, honest.”
Checking the photograph again, she then inspected the facial features as best she could, considering the opacity of the polythene and the honey layer. The face was gaunt, but even the stretched flesh trapped within the enclosed bags could not conceal the likeness. “It’s the person in this photograph. We can presume it’s Pamela Shepherd, she’s been dead a while.” Liz came back into the kitchen and looked at Cyril. “So if that’s Pamela Shepherd, who the bloody hell have I been talking to?”
Cyril didn’t need time to think. The interview he had held in Leeds had haunted him all night and he had been mulling it over for most of the morning’s journey.
“I know the killer’s name, I know who your Pamela is.”
“Well, Sir.”
“It’s Dr Adrian Smyth, that’s to whom you’ve been talking. You’ve seen Smyth’s image on the Incident Board, does he resemble the Samuel you spoke here with the other day?”
“No, Sir, but to be honest, I was rather taken aback when he opened the door. I was expecting Pamela.”
“Call Murder in and get an arrest warrant for both Dr Adrian and Dr Brewster. I’ll call for SOCO and Social Services for the lady upstairs. I’ll lay you five to one that there’s a DNA match with the tongue delivered to the Headteacher and the bagged corpse in the cupboard.” Cyril felt no sadness for the bagged corpse. “Then I want you to pay a visit to our friendly Neighbourhood Watch bully. He might know more than he lets on. Take a photograph of that image and let’s see if it rings any bells. Also get him to take you into Pamela’s house. Take Owen with you, it will help convince him.”
***
Liz and Owen crunched their way down the gravel drive. Hampsthwaite was quiet for early afternoon, but as if on cue, the blind moved slightly and Liz informed Owen that they were being watched.
Owen, deciding as usual to grasp the bull by the horns, pushed his way through the privet hedge and strode up to the door, banging his fist against the glass centre panel. Liz watched.
“Who the bloody hell…” The door swung open and Melville stood looking up at Owen who seemed to fill the space where the door should be. Owen’s ID was held out directly into Melville’s line of vision.
“John Melville. Please step outside, now!” Owen stood to one side as Melville moved quickly onto the drive. He glanced across at Liz who couldn’t help but smile.
“Morning, Mr Melville. Brought my own Rottweiler today. How are we apart from the usual? Please bring the key to Pamela’s and pop round or through the hedge, which ever is the more convenient.”
“I can’t just let you go into that house. You’ve no warrant or anything.”
“If you don’t co-operate with the police, I’ll have to inform you that Sergeant Owen there will go into your property to search for the key. I must warn you that because of his ‘delicate’ build he does tend to be rather clumsy. Should he fail to find the said key, we’ll arrest you and take you to the station for hindering a police enquiry. Now, Mr Melville, the choice is yours.”
Melville’s face reddened and he blew out his lips. “What about Sam? What about the dog?”
“You’ll take him for a walk whilst Sergeant Owen and I look around the property, but before that I want you to tell me who this is.”
Covering up the inscription, Liz held up the photograph.
Melville took it. “I’ll need my glasses.” He went into the house returning with half-moon glasses lodged on the end of his nose. He handed Owen the key. He also held the dog’s lead.
“That, I think, is Pamela.”
Liz was taken aback. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. Look, she lived here with her mother, I should know.”
It was then that Liz tried one question that she believed might throw him.
“Did you ever meet Samuel?”
Melville laughed. “Is that a trick question, Sergeant?” He didn’t wait for her to reply. “Of course I met Samuel, nice lad.”
“Did you ever see Samuel and Pamela together, in the garden or with their mother?”
“No, only saw Samuel recently, he’d been working away. He just called to leave money for the dog. The dog seemed to know him, never any trouble.”
“Did you speak to him at all?”
“Funny that, no. Just left money and notes, usually early in the morning. A car would drop him and collect him.”
“Have you kept any of the notes, Mr Melville?”
He simply nodded and went back into the house.
“He knows nothing, he’s all wind.”
Owen smiled.
Melville took the dog up the drive and Owen, followed by Liz, entered the property. It was as Liz had imagined, ordered, a little dusty but organised. Framed photographs lined the mantelpiece. She picked them up one at a time; they showed a chronological history of a disparate family. To one side was a photograph of Samuel Dixon with a class of children, the date and school name printed along the mount base. One of the boy’s faces was circled and then she noticed Samuel. The same red ink had added Satanic horns to his head. There were other scribbles obliterating two boys’ faces. She assumed those to be the boys who failed in their support. She then noticed the halo, only small, but carefully added above the head of one boy. The whole tragic story was there on this one photograph.
“Liz, upstairs.”
Liz put the photograph down and went upstairs.
“In here.”
The lock from the bedroom door lay on the carpet alongside splinters of the wood architrave. Owen stood in the front bedroom. Writing was scrawled over the wall in thick, red felt tip pen:
Those who lie shall be made to tell the truth.
Revenge shall make the bitter become sweet.
Honey is nature’s way of cleansing the body, spirit and soul.
Human kindness will reap true rewards.
Beneath the writing, a spider’s web of drawn lines linked phot
ographs and strange, doodle-like drawings. Owen moved closer and studied the images. He identified Tony Thompson, but he didn’t recognise the name written beneath. He knew Carl Granger too but the name written below didn’t match the image. He then looked at the photograph of Norman. The word Norman was written beneath as if to invalidate the accuracy of the other two. Further web-like lines had been drawn to connect the boys’ images to an early photograph of Samuel Dixon, next to which was positioned a photograph of Pamela. To the left was a print of his father; this too had been embellished with the devil’s horns and a small, satanic goatee beard. Owen tapped the beard and raised an eyebrow. Away from the web were two separate images, the first of Bruce Jenkins, the second of his wife. One showed Bruce with Pamela in what could only be described as an extremely compromising sexual position and the other, his wife in a similar position but with Samuel.
“Bloody hell, Liz. It’s like the tomb of the pharaoh with the doodles and images. Looking at these, I reckon he manipulated each and every one of his victims. Do you think these two knew they were shagging one and the same or did they believe them to be two different people?”
Liz only lifted her shoulders and then pointed to the boys. “The names under the pictures of Tony and Carl are those of the boys who betrayed him. Thomas, was the boy who supported him and continued to believe him, that’s why he let Thomas go, not, as we believed, because we were closing in. Everything was planned; there’s a timescale, a schedule. There appears to be a sequence; our man hasn’t finished. This is just another part of his game.” She looked at the photograph of Dr Brewster Smyth. “He has unfinished business there.”
“Look here!” Owen picked up a photograph that had fluttered from the wall, leaving only small pieces of blu-tac, as evidence of its exact position. They cornered the end of a drawn line from Pamela’s photograph. Before handing it to Liz, Owen held it up, it was an image of John Melville with a younger man.
Flesh Evidence: a heart-stopping crime thriller Page 19