The Fragments That Remain

by Tim Ellis

  ‘That’ll be fine,’ Stick said. ‘I’ll have the Venison and Sloe Gin Pie, please.’

  Stick and the waitress both looked at Xena.

  ‘You’re willing to put up with any old crap. If it was up to me . . . All right, I’ll have the Slow-Braised Pork Belly. But you’d better tell the chef to pull out all the stops. If I find one thing . . .’

  ‘Thank you, Sir . . . Madam. I’ll bring your drinks presently.’

  After the waitress had left Stick said, ‘Why do you have to be so confrontational all the time?’

  ‘Why do you have to be such a wimp?’

  The waitress brought their drinks.

  A barge with a family of gypsies and a white bulldog wearing the Captain’s hat chugged past.

  ‘Well, what have we got so far, Stickleback?’

  Stick pulled out his notebook and opened it up to the pages where he’d copied down the information they’d compiled on the incident board. ‘Peter Lloyd was born on January 7, 1977 at 56 Hollycross Road, Easneye, which made him thirty-seven . . .’

  ‘It also made him local. Remember, constructing a victim profile will also help us to develop a profile of the killer.’

  He made a note on a separate page. ‘So, you think the killer lives locally as well?’

  ‘It’s possible, but I don’t think we can draw that conclusion yet.’

  ‘Okay. His parents were Roger and Miriam Lloyd. Miriam’s maiden name was Rochester and she worked in Insurance. His father was a graphic artist.’

  ‘Have we heard of him?’

  Stick shrugged. ‘I haven’t.’

  ‘Nor me. Obviously, not a very good graphic artist. Are they still alive?’

  ‘No. He died of a heart attack in 2001, she died of complications following a stroke in 2004.’

  ‘Siblings?’

  ‘A sister in Australia.’

  ‘Okay, carry on.’

  ‘He went to Forrest Primary School and then onto Pinewood Secondary School. He didn’t excel at either school, but did enough to earn himself a place at Hertford College on an Electrician’s course, which came with an apprenticeship. After his apprenticeship, he was employed by Minster Electronics in Ware, where he remained throughout, and rose up the ladder to become a Director.’

  ‘He was a Director?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No wonder he got paid so much.’

  ‘He married Rachel Caruthers on July, 15 2000 and they went on a two-week honeymoon to Tenerife. They had two children: David who’s seven years old, and Molly who’s five.’

  ‘Did he live at home in Easneye until he got married?’

  ‘Yes, and then he and Rachel took out a mortgage on 50 Trinity Road.’

  ‘Criminal record?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Friends?’

  ‘I have three names and addresses.’

  ‘They should be able to give us the juicy bits.’

  ‘You think there’ll be juicy bits?’

  ‘There has to be. No one can be this boring.’

  ‘I think they can. People navigate through life any which way they can.’

  ‘You’re being philosophical again, aren’t you?’

  ‘Do you know why we’re here?’

  ‘I’m beginning to wonder, that’s for sure. By the time we get our food we’ll be . . .’

  ‘No, I don’t mean here in the pub. I mean here in the world?’

  ‘Oh, you want to know why God put little ole you on this green planet, right here in Hoddesdon, at this point in time with me as your partner in crime – is that it?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Not a clue. What else have you got?’

  ‘They both voted Liberal. I know that because there was a sign in the front window saying: We Vote Liberal. Their two children – David and Molly – have both been christened Church of England, but none of the family went to church on a regular basis. Peter Lloyd fancied himself as a bass guitarist in a band, but he wasn’t very good.’

  ‘What’s the band called?’

  ‘The Sparkies.’

  ‘They’re all electricians then?’

  ‘Except the drummer – he’s a plumber.’

  ‘Did they play gigs?’

  ‘No, they hadn’t got that far yet.’

  ‘Are those the three friends?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Carry on.’

  ‘He drove a two-year-old black VW Golf, she drove a red four year-old Mazda 3.’

  ‘What we’re really interested in is other women?’

  ‘I can’t find any.’

  ‘We’re not talking about you, we’re talking about Lloyd.’

  ‘I know.’

  The waitress brought their food.

  ‘About time,’ Xena said. ‘Another five minutes and they’d have had to carry me out on a stretcher.’

  ‘Madam does look a bit peaky.’

  ‘Madam will give you a smack round the chops in a minute.’

  ‘Can I get you any sauces?’

  ‘Apple,’ Xena requested. ‘And more orange juice.’

  ‘Of course. Enjoy.’

  ‘Finances?’

  ‘Struggling like most people.’

  ‘Any medical issues?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What about her parents – they should be able to tell us what was going on?’

  ‘The children were being placed with them. Both are still alive. Alan and Janice Caruthers – they live in Waterford.’

  ‘So, all we have are three friends and Rachel Lloyd’s parents?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you go through the photographs?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No lap-dancers, pole-dancers or strippers?’

  ‘None that I noticed.’

  ‘What have you still got to look at?’

  ‘The bag of receipts and papers.’

  Xena stuffed a fork full of pork belly, carrots and apple into her mouth. ‘Maybe the killer is not a female who he promised his heart to in the past. Maybe you’ve got it wrong.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘You’re not suggesting that I might have got it wrong, are you?’

  ‘Absolutely not.’

  ‘In which case, it must be you.’

  ‘Agreed.’

  ***

  ‘Well, how’s the big romance going, Toadstone?’

  ‘Why are you asking?’

  ‘Aren’t I your mentor in all matters romantic?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ He looked at the floor and shuffled his feet. ‘Don’t think I’m ungrateful, but it doesn’t feel right somehow.’

  ‘Oh, I see. It doesn’t feel right now, but when you went to Paris it was all right then.’

  ‘That was different.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘I didn’t know what to do.’

  ‘And now you do?’

  ‘I have a pretty good idea.’

  ‘Well, I’m happy for you.’

  ‘And I’m afraid of Mary finding out that none of it was my idea.’

  ‘I see. Okay. Well, if you do need my help you know where I am.’

  ‘Thanks, Sir.’

  ‘What do you think is going on here?’

  ‘You’re asking me?’

  ‘You have an opinion, don’t you?’

  ‘Not really, that’s your job.’

  ‘Try.’

  ‘Well, I suppose I’d have to ask myself some questions.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Why was the body naked?’

  ‘Shock value.’

  ‘Yes, but why not leave the clothes in a pile here on the floor? Why take them?’

  ‘Okay – maybe the clothes would have given us a clue as to who the victim is.’

  ‘And his identity papers and personal possessions? He has nothing on him – why?’

  ‘If we knew who the victim was, we might be closer to finding out who the killer is.’

  ‘Possibly, but then there are other questions
I’d ask myself.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Why go to all this trouble? I mean, hanging him from a beam that’s nearly impossible to reach without an extendable ladder or a scaffold? Arranging him to look like The Hanged Man from a pack of Tarot cards? Draining the body of blood using specialised equipment?’

  ‘The killer has left us a message?’

  ‘I’m usually fairly good at deciphering messages, but I can’t see one here.’

  ‘Keep going.’

  ‘I’d have to ask myself if this was a one-off.’

  ‘And what would your answer be?’

  ‘That it wasn’t. I think this is just the start.’

  ‘So, you’re of the opinion that we’re dealing with a serial killer here?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ve been working on him, Sir,’ Richards said, as she came back into the Village Hall.

  ‘So it would seem. Haven’t you got an original thought of your own, Toadstone?’

  ‘Mary and I are of like mind,’ he said, and wandered off to talk to one of his team.

  ‘Well Richards, what’s your view on this?’

  ‘It’s a message.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘There’s four parts to this murder. First, there’s the identity of the victim, but we don’t know who he is yet. Second, there’s the location – why hang him up in a Village Hall? Third, there’s the way the killer arranged the victim as The Hanged Man – what was the reason behind that? And fourth, there’s the blood – why drain the victim’s blood?’

  ‘Is that it?’

  ‘Did you want more?’

  ‘Infinitely more. What do these four parts mean?’

  ‘I have no idea. If I knew, I’d be able to tell you who the killer was.’

  ‘Did you get all the information from the Caretaker?’

  ‘Yes, he was very helpful.’

  ‘I’m always suspicious of people who are too helpful. Could he be our killer?’

  ‘He’s fifty-nine with arthritis and a dodgy back.’

  ‘You’re saying he’s not the killer then?’

  ‘Yes, I’m saying that. He gave me the list of twelve people who have a key to the front door; the three names of people who have a key to the back door; the names of nine previous caretakers going back to 1976; and he can’t think of anyone else who might have gained access to the Village Hall last night, although they have been having trouble with a group of teenagers.’

  He called Toadstone over again. ‘I need to know whether a key was used to enter and leave, Toadstone. It’s no good us spending hours . . .’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No? No, what?’

  ‘No, a key wasn’t used. I’ve just learned that my people have found evidence that a manual pick gun was used on the pin-tumbler lock on the back door. The striking of the pick gun needle against the bottom pins causes very clear forensic evidence, and there are impact marks that resemble the spokes of a bicycle wheel along the circumference of the pin. There’s also very clear markings from the pick needle on the cam of the lock. We’re in no doubt that the lock has recently been picked.’

  ‘Recently? You mean you can’t definitely say that it was picked last night?’

  ‘No, but if we factor in that the fire doors on the right were opened last night as well . . .’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘My people found traces of skin and blood on the bottom of the metal framework beneath the fire door where the deadbolt goes in, which will almost certainly match the scratch marks that Doctor Riley found on the victim’s back. Also, the reason that we found the back door locked when we arrived was that a key was kept in the kitchen drawer next to the door.’

  ‘Very security-conscious.’

  Toadstone shrugged. ‘That’s what people do.’

  ‘Well, thanks for that, Toadstone. You’ve just wiped out our complete suspect list.’

  ‘Sorry, Sir.’

  ‘I didn’t think it was any of those people anyway,’ Richards said.

  ‘Twenty-twenty hindsight is a wonderful thing.’

  ‘I thought it before. I just didn’t say it.’

  ‘Of course you did.’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Well, whether you did or not is irrelevant. If one of them didn’t do it – who did?’

  ‘Someone else?’

  ‘We’ve spent hundreds of thousands of pounds training you, and that’s the best you can come up with?’

  ‘We? You didn’t contribute any of that money to my training.’

  ‘I pay my taxes, which pay for your police training. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if the government re-directed all of my taxes to pay for your training. And if that’s the case, I want my money back.’

  ‘You don’t think you’re getting value for money?’

  ‘Definitely not.’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s non-refundable. You’re stuck with me.’

  He shook his head. ‘Isn’t that always the way?’

  ‘What are you going to tell the press?’

  ‘We could sneak out the back way.’

  Richards laughed. ‘That could work. I can just see you running down the road with a crowd of press chasing after you.’

  ‘You’ll be there as well.’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. While they’re pursuing you, I’ll walk to the car and drive back to the station.’

  ‘Thanks for nothing.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  They made their way out through the main doors. The press were waiting for them beyond the crime scene tape.

  He held up his hands to stop the outpouring of questions. ‘Ladies and gentlemen – if I can be so bold. Please refrain from shouting out.’ He pointed to a woman with a red and gold headscarf on.

  ‘Yasmin Ahmad from the Estuary Telegraph. What can you tell us about the dead body, Inspector?’

  ‘Not a lot really. We have no idea who the victim is, and as you very well know – as soon as we do, we’ll need to speak to the family before releasing any details to the press.’

  He pointed at another woman with a collection of brown moles and cysts on the left side of her face and large thick gold earrings in her ears.

  ‘Angela Thomas from the Hoddesdon Harbinger. How did the victim die?’

  ‘Loss of blood, I’m afraid. He bled out.’

  ‘What about the murder weapon?’

  ‘We believe it was something sharp.’ He was stretching the truth completely out of shape, but he really didn’t want to go into the gory details of how the victim had been exsanguinated. It was the best he could come up with under the circumstances.

  ‘Like a knife?’

  ‘That has yet to be verified by the pathologist.’

  A man in his late twenties with a crew cut and large black gauges fitted in his earlobes spoke next. ‘Colin Sims from the Thurrock Sentinel. Do you have any suspects, or anyone you’d like to eliminate from your enquiries?’

  ‘Not yet, but it is very early in the investigation, Mr Sims.’

  A young black woman with an Afro style haircut that obscured two other people’s view said, ‘Eilidh Grant from Five News. We’ve heard that the victim was found naked and hanging upside down by one leg. Would you care to comment on that, Inspector?’

  How had they found out? There were net curtains up at all the windows. Nobody had seen the body other than Louise Gillespie . . . ‘No, I wouldn’t like to comment at this stage of the investigation, and I think we’ll leave it there for the moment. There’ll be another press briefing at nine o’clock tomorrow morning at the station – thank you.’

  When they were in the car Richards said, ‘Do you think Miss Gillespie said something to that reporter?’

  ‘I would imagine she probably held out for at least a thousand pounds.’

  ‘We should arrest her.’

  ‘For telling the truth? I should have told her not to speak to the press.’

  ‘We should go to lunch then.�
�

  ‘That’s a much better idea.’

  Chapter Four

  ‘That’s a lovely dress . . .’ Joe Larkin said to the pretty bank employee who was sitting across the table from them. He leaned forward to read her name badge. ‘. . . Lucinda – and a pretty name as well.’

  ‘Thank you, Sir. The dress is an Anna Sui original. A copy, of course, but you’d never know unless you looked at the label.’

  ‘I was just thinking how beautiful that dress would look hanging over the end of my bed.’

  Lucinda’s face reddened slightly. ‘Do lines like that really work?’

  ‘You tell me, Lucinda.’

  ‘No, they don’t work on me, I’m afraid, Sir. What can I do to help you today, besides taking my clothes off?’

  ‘There was a robbery here in 1971 . . .’

  ‘I’m afraid I didn’t start working here until 2009.’

  ‘My name is Paul Willis . . .’ He swept his arm to indicate Shakin’. ‘And this is my researcher – Milton Dewbury. I’m a reporter making a television documentary about the 1971 robbery, and wondered if I could get the bank’s perspective on what happened?’

  She smiled at Joe as if he were a picnic hamper short of a sandwich. ‘I’m simply a customer manager, Sir. You really need to be talking to someone a lot higher up than me. I’ll see if the manager . . .’ She began to stand up, but Joe put his hand over hers.

  ‘And I think you’d be perfect as the face of my documentary.’

  ‘You’re teasing me, Sir.’

  ‘Absolutely not. I don’t think you realise how beautiful you are. You’d be fabulous. People would watch the documentary just to see you. Obviously, we’d have to run a screen test, to see if you and the television cameras were compatible, but I think that would be a formality.’

  ‘You really think so?’

  ‘Definitely.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have to take my clothes off, would I?’

  He smiled his best smile. ‘Not unless you wanted to, but you’d be expected to sleep with the director.’

  She laughed. ‘I see. And I suppose that would be you?’

  ‘Did I not make that clear?’

  ‘And what laws do I have to break to avail myself of this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity?’

  ‘As I said, I need the bank’s perspective on the robbery. I’m sure that there are files, records, documents in your archives . . .’