The Fragments That Remain

by Tim Ellis

  The Fragments that Remain

  (Parish & Richards 16)

  Tim Ellis

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  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright 2015 Timothy Stephen Ellis

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  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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  All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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  Books written by Tim Ellis can be obtained either through the author’s official website: http://timellis.weebly.com/ at Smashwords.com or through online book retailers.

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  To Pam, with love as always

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  A big thank you to proofreader James Godber

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  When they were filled, he said to his disciples, Gather up the fragments that remain, that nothing be lost.

  John (6:12)

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  Chapter One

  Monday, December 8

  “My heart is yours.”

  That’s what he’d said to her, but he hadn’t meant it. No, he hadn’t meant it at all.

  Tears dripped onto the shrivelled dark-red lump of cardiac muscle nestled in the palm of her left hand and ran along the arterial ruts and furrows.

  She looked at the body of Peter Lloyd, the gaping hole in his chest was filling up with blood, and she knew she’d done the right thing – he didn’t deserve to live anymore.

  Once, she had loved this man. Loved him more than life itself. And she thought he had loved her in the same way. He said he had loved her, but then he had gone and loved somebody else. What type of man would do that to another human being?

  After sliding the heart into a plastic bag, and that bag into a second one and folding it all up nice and neat as if it were a piece of meat she’d just bought from the butchers, she dropped it into the front pocket of her rucksack. She then wrapped the bloody mallet, chisel and knife in an old towel and put them into the main compartment of her rucksack.

  On her way towards the stairs, she checked on the two children. They were still asleep. She had nothing against the children, and hoped they slept the sleep of the innocent.

  The clock on the wall by the front door chimed two o’clock as she left.

  ***

  ‘So that’s it really, Chief. Not much has happened at all. What about you? How’s the leg?’

  A pair of crutches were propped up against the wall behind the Chief’s chair, and he had his left leg on a cushion on top of a cardboard box full of old files under the desk.

  Parish was sitting in a chair nursing his third mug of coffee, and had spent the last hour briefing the Chief on what had been happening during the previous three months while he’d been “acting up”.

  What had happened though, hadn’t amounted to a bag of beans. No murders – not a single one. He’d had DI Blake and DS Gilbert looking at cold cases in an effort to keep them occupied, and five of those cases had been solved, and thus contributed to an improved clear-up rate by a few percentage points, so it wasn’t all doom and gloom.

  ‘I’ve got more metal in my leg than a scrap yard. The doctors warned me to stay away from large magnets, and avoid running marathons for a couple of months.’

  ‘We should run the London Marathon for charity.’

  ‘With my heart.’

  ‘You’d certainly be better running with it than without it.’

  ‘That’s true. I hear Richards is back?’

  ‘Returned Friday.’

  ‘And Sally Prentice is still alive.’

  Parish nodded. ‘Thankfully – yes. Norton stabbed her in the neck, but thanks to Toadstone they got to her in time.’

  ‘Thanks to you disobeying orders, you mean.’

  ‘A habit I can’t seem to break.’

  ‘And she and Toady are an item now?’

  ‘So it would seem.’

  Kowalski rolled his eyes upwards. ‘What’s the world coming to?’

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine. Although, I did have a hand in arranging that.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘You know yourself that Richards attracts trouble like a ship attracts barnacles.’

  ‘But Toady.’

  ‘He loves her.’

  ‘She’ll die of boredom.’

  ‘There are worse ways to die.’

  ‘I suppose you know what you’re doing.’

  The corner of Parish’s mouth creased upwards. ‘I haven’t got a clue. All I do know is that it’ll either work or it won’t.’

  ‘Does Richards know you had a hand in it?’

  ‘No, and don’t tell her either.’

  ‘My lips are sealed. Although, now she’s back I don’t hold out much hope for her not finding out.’

  ‘I’ll play it by ear. How’s Jerry?’

  Kowalski smiled. ‘She’s fine. Back at university, up to her eyeballs in books, studying and telling anybody who’s willing to listen how the law ought to be changed for the better. She’ll be Attorney General within five years.’

  ‘Staying out of trouble then?’

  ‘As much as she can.’

  ‘What about Bronwyn?’

  ‘We’re keeping in contact. Like me, she’s still recovering. We’re monitoring what Fagin is doing, and watching the paedophiles fall like skittles. Fagin was true to her word. They’re nearly all ruined and the government is still intact.’

  ‘What about the money?’

  ‘Those Birmingham children had it. They found out about the money, decided to split it four ways and keep it all. Of course, once they’d made the decision to keep the money, it meant they couldn’t tell anyone about their father and about all the murdered children. They defended their actions by suggesting that if they had informed the authorities their lives would have been ruined. A bit late in the day, but their lives have been ruined now – theirs, their children’s and their grandchildren’s. None of them should benefit from the misery of others. They’ll have to work and survive like everybody else now.’

  ‘And you kept your job.’

  ‘Yes, but unlike the Birmingham children, I was willing to sacrifice it for the greater good.’

  ‘That’s what makes us different from them, I suppose.’

  The phone jangled.

  Kowalski picked up the receiver. ‘Yes, Lydia?’ He printed details of what she said on a pad. ‘Thanks.’ He put the phone back in its cradle. ‘What were you saying about there being no murders? Central dispatch must have known I was coming back to work today. They’ve been saving them up – we have two murders to keep us occupied.’

  Parish shook his head ‘Murders are like rickshaws. When you’re in desperate need of a rickshaw you can’t find one for love nor money, and then half a dozen shamble round the corner all at once.’

  ‘Very poetic, Parish. I thought it was “buses” or “police officers”. Where’s Richards?’

  ‘Rubbing her hands together with glee. She can’t wait to show me what she learnt during her secondment at the Serious Crime Analysis Unit.’

  Kowalski looked at the details of the two murders he’d written on the pad, tore them into strips, folded them over, and wrote PARISH & RICHARDS on one, and BLAKE & GILBERT on the other. ‘So that t
here’s no confusion about which case I allocated to which team.’ He slid the two folded strips of paper across the desk. ‘Give Blake and Gilbert theirs.’

  Parish opened up the folded strip of paper with his and Richards’ name on it.

  CORPSE HANGING UPSIDE DOWN

  DRAINED OF BLOOD

  WORMLEY VILLAGE HALL

  ‘Drained of blood! We must have had vampires move into the area. This should be easy enough to solve. We check the manifests of the boats from Transylvania that have docked in Tilbury recently, and follow Dracula’s coffin to its new destination.’

  ‘I hope it is that easy. Brief me first thing in the morning before you inform the press how you solved it. Right, bugger off. It’s been one a hell of a morning, and I need a power nap to recharge my batteries.’

  He wandered out of the Chief’s office, past Lydia O’Brien – who had now been made his permanent secretary – along the corridor and into the squad room.

  ‘There you are Blake,’ he said, passing Xena the scrap of paper with BLAKE & GILBERT written on it. ‘You’ll be glad to hear the Chief is back and you don’t have to call me Chief anymore.’

  ‘You’re right, Parish – I am glad. If anyone was going to stand in for the Chief, it should have been me. I’m much more suited to senior command than you.’ She looked over at DS Gilbert. ‘Isn’t that right, Stickamundo?’

  Gilbert’s brow furrowed. ‘Most definitely.’ He glanced at Parish and mouthed, ‘Sorry, Sir.’

  ‘What are you doing?’ Xena said.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘You’re a numpty. It’s no good agreeing . . .’

  He left them arguing and walked to his desk.

  Richards was busy tidying the mess on her desk, sorting through her emails, emptying her intray and generally trying to catch up on three months’ worth of communications.

  ‘Are you ready?’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘To show me what you’re made of?’

  ‘I think you already know what I’m made of: Sugar and spice and all things nice, and you’re made of . . .’

  ‘I hope you’re not about to suggest that a senior officer is anything to do with slimy snails?’

  ‘Did you miss me?’

  ‘I was glad of the respite.’

  ***

  ‘It’s no good agreeing with me and then saying sorry to Parish,’ Xena said to him after Parish had wandered off. ‘Who’s your boss?’

  ‘Mmmm! That would be you, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Damned right. And if I’m your boss, you agree with me – no one else. Is that crystal clear?’

  ‘Absolutely. I agree with you.’

  ‘So, do you agree with the fact that I should have been the Chief and not DI Parish during Chief Kowalski’s absence?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And do you think I would have done a better job of being Chief than Parish?’

  Stick looked round. ‘Indubitably.’

  ‘Why did you look round?’

  ‘Curiosity.’

  ‘You were checking to see if Parish was still about, weren’t you?’

  ‘I was not. Did we get a case?’

  ‘Don’t try and change the subject.’

  ‘I never would.’

  Xena looked at the strip of paper:

  DOUBLE MURDER

  MAN WITH HEART CUT OUT

  50 TRINITY ROAD, HERTFORD HEATH

  ‘A double murder in Hertford Heath.’ Xena’s eyes narrowed to slits. ‘Go and ask Parish how many bodies his murder has got.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, we’ve been working our fingers to the bone clearing up murders that other people were too useless to solve in the first place . . .’

  ‘Two of those murders were ours.’

  ‘Whose side are you on? The issue under discussion here right now is that while Parish has been sitting in the Chief’s office with his feet on the desk swilling coffee; and that airhead Richards has been sunning herself in Hampshire, we’ve been doing all the work. Well, I have anyway. So, it’s only fair that those two get the double murder, and we get the simple open and shut case.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’

  ‘Didn’t you just say that you’d agree with me come what may?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘So, why are you disagreeing with me now?’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘It seems that way to me.’

  ‘I’ll go and tell DI Parish that we want the easy case, shall I?’

  ‘Good idea.’

  Stick returned five minutes later. ‘Parish and Richards had already gone. I suppose we’ll just have to make do with the double murder.’

  ‘You think I’m stupid, don’t you?’

  ‘Am I meant to agree with you even when . . . ?’

  She moved two fingers towards her eyes, and then pointed them at Stick. ‘I’m watching you, Stickynuts.’

  A shadow of a smile crossed his lips. ‘I understand, boss.’

  It took them fifteen minutes to travel the three and a half miles to the crime scene. The area was typically suburban with a mixture of semi-detached and detached houses, as well as bungalows and small apartment blocks. The road itself was just wide enough for two cars to pass each other, but was made more difficult by indefensibly pathetic parking, the white forensic truck, blue and white crime scene tape stretched across the road and tied onto a privet hedge, groups of curious onlookers and the press. Number 50 was a three-bed semi-detached house.

  The press ran to meet them.

  ‘DI Blake. Can you give us any information?’

  ‘What information would you like? I have information available on where you can go for your winter holidays. Or, maybe you’d like to know what scintillating stuff we’ve been up to for the past three months while you’ve been sunning yourself in Rio de Janeiro . . .’

  ‘The murder! What about the murder?’

  ‘I’m sure you know more than me at this juncture. Especially as I haven’t even reached the crime scene yet because you’re blocking my way.’

  They parted like the Red Sea.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Do you have any information, DS Gilbert?’

  Stick gave half a laugh. ‘I have even less information than DI Blake.’

  At the front door they signed in and donned forensic suits, overshoes, gloves and masks.

  Di Heffernan was waiting for them in the bedroom.

  Xena made her opening gambit. ‘Doesn’t Toadstone have any other people in that cess pit he calls forensics who he could send out instead of you?’

  ‘You want the best – I’m the best.’

  ‘If you’re the best, God help us all. Well, what waffle are you going to palm us off with today?’

  ‘Forced entry through the patio door at the back. Opened with a chisel or something similar. All the rooms downstairs are undisturbed, which suggests that the killer knew exactly what he or she was doing . . .’

  ‘She?’ Stick asked.

  ‘I say “She”, because the main target was the man.’

  They all peered at the man.

  ‘From what I can see, although I’m not the expert on forensic pathology, the man – Peter Lloyd – had his throat cut first, followed by the woman – Rachel Lloyd. Shortly afterwards, the killer started work on the male’s chest . . .

  ‘What’s going on?’ Doc Paine said as she entered the room. ‘I’d like to make it clear that if you’re paying for a silk purse, you shouldn’t be satisfied with a sow’s ear.’

  ‘I hope you’re not referring to me as a sow’s ear?’ Di said.

  Doc Paine shrugged. ‘If the cap fits . . .’

  ‘It doesn’t.’

  ‘Well, stop trying to do my job then. In future, stay away from the body until I get here.’

  ‘Humph!’ Di said. ‘I’ll be downstairs directing forensic operations if I’m needed at all.’

  ‘Good one, Doc,’ Xena said. ‘Hefferbitch
definitely resembles a sow’s ear. Whereas, you’re the spitting image of a silk purse.’

  ‘I’m not in a good place at the moment . . .’ Doc Paine said as she slipped the straps of a head torch over her paper hood and switched the light on. ‘So apologies for any offence caused. I had a fiancé until last night. We’re three weeks away from the wedding and he decides to sleep with my best friend and maid-of-honour.’

  ‘Men!’ Xena said, and slapped Stick on the arm.

  ‘Present company excluded I hope,’ Stick said.

  ‘Oh yes, I forgot we could hardly call you a man – sorry.’

  ‘That’s okay.’

  ‘Anyway, enough of my problems,’ Doc Paine said. ‘Let’s see what problems Mr and Mrs Lloyd have got – besides being very dead, of course.’

  She spoke into a Dictaphone while her assistant strode around the bed like Ansell Adams taking photographs from different angles: ‘Male and female – I’d say mid-forties – lying in bed . . .’ She bent and examined the neck wounds. ‘Both victims have had their throats cut, and the wounds go from left to right, which suggests the killer is right-handed. Di Heffernan was right – the male first, followed by the female. Probably to disable the man, so that he was no longer a threat.’ She briefly examined the female first. ‘No other wounds on Mrs Lloyd.’ And then shifted round the bed to Paul Lloyd. ‘Unlike the Mr Lloyd, who seems to have been the focus of the killer’s attention.’

  Before examining the victim’s chest, she picked up the piece of his ribcage that had been removed and was lying on the bed between the two corpses. ‘Not pretty – not pretty at all. It’s easy enough to disguise the fact, but I’d say the killer really does have only a rudimentary knowledge of medical procedures. I think we’ve established that the murder weapon was a knife. Afterwards, I’m guessing at this stage, of course, but it looks suspiciously like entry into the thoracic cavity was gained by the use of a hammer and chisel . . .’ She pointed to the regular three-quarters of an inch jagged edges of skin around the wound, and the splayed ends of the costal cartilages. ‘The opening begins at the clavicular notch, encompasses the true ribs, the sternum and ends at the xichoid process.’