The Fragments That Remain

by Tim Ellis

‘I’m too physically and psychologically damaged to care.’

  ‘Oh well, when we get to the first address, which is on the way back to the station, I’ll interview her on my own.’

  ‘That suits me just fine. I said I was never going to speak to you again anyway.’

  ‘Did you forget?’

  She didn’t say anything.

  He keyed the address into the satnav himself and said, ‘Drive.’

  They followed the A406 from Ilford to White Hart Lane, and then took the A10 North to Cheshunt. Kerry Oliver lived in an apartment block at 43 King Arthur Close.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want to come in with me?’

  ‘Have you got a walking frame in the boot I could use?’

  ‘No, but I’m willing to give you a piggy-back.’

  ‘You’re determined to make a fool of me at every opportunity, aren’t you?’

  ‘I don’t think you need any help in that department.’

  ‘Sometimes . . .’

  ‘. . . You think I’m the best boss in the world?’

  ‘Not even close.’

  Parish pressed the bell on the intercom system.

  ‘Hello?’ said a female voice.

  ‘Police to see Miss Kerry Oliver.’

  ‘Have you got some form of identification?’

  He held up his warrant card towards the domed CCTV camera secured to the ceiling of the entrance porch.

  A buzzer sounded and the door clicked open.

  ‘Apartment C on the third floor,’ the voice said.

  ‘Should we walk up the stairs?’ Parish suggested.

  Richards half-laughed. ‘Very funny.’

  They caught the lift.

  Kerry Oliver was waiting for them in the doorway of her apartment. She was all skin and bone with dirty blonde hair and strange grey eyes like a cat’s.

  ‘What do the police want with a law-abiding citizen?’

  She didn’t invite them in.

  ‘You’re a climber?’

  ‘Yes, but how . . . ?’

  ‘You purchased a pair of Rosa Amento climbing shoes from Vista Climbing?’

  ‘That’s right. About six weeks ago. They’re very good. Is this a personal visit to find out what I think of them?’

  ‘Hardly. Where were you last night?’

  ‘When last night?’

  ‘All night. Between eight and six this morning?’

  ‘After work I went to the Laura Trott Leisure Centre – just off Windmill Lane – to do some climbing until nine o’clock . . .’

  ‘Can anyone verify that?’

  ‘About twenty people.’

  ‘Carry on.’

  ‘Christine Wells – my climbing buddy – and I went to the King James pub at around nine until ten-thirty, and then I came home and went to bed.’

  ‘Alone?’

  ‘That’s rather personal.’

  ‘I’m looking for a murderer, Miss Oliver. Personal doesn’t come into it.’

  ‘Well, if you must know, Billy Prentice came back with me and stayed until seven this morning.’

  ‘Do you own a vehicle?’

  ‘A Fiat 500.’

  He looked at Richards. ‘Anything you want to ask?’

  She shook her head. ‘No.’

  ‘Thanks for your time, Miss Oliver. Sorry to have bothered you.’

  ‘Okay.’

  She closed the door.

  They made their way downstairs.

  ‘What do you think?’ he said to Richards.

  ‘Cross her off the list.’

  ‘My thoughts exactly. How are you feeling?’

  ‘As if you care.’

  It was quarter to five when they reached the station.

  ‘Are we going home now?’ Richards asked. ‘I need to soak in a hot bath.’

  ‘In this weather? You’d be better in a bath filled with goat’s milk and ice cubes.’

  ‘Oh, so now you’re a muscle doctor?’

  ‘No, we’re not going home. If memory serves, you have a SCAS Questionnaire to fill in, and we also need to put what we’ve got so far on the incident board to get a head start on tomorrow.’

  ‘I can see I’ll have to re-file my complaint with the Court of Human Rights.’

  ‘While you’re thinking about the correct wording for that – make me a coffee, and don’t spit in it.’

  ‘You have some strange ideas.’

  While he waited for Richards to arrive with his coffee, he went into the incident room and began making notes on the whiteboard:

  Victim: Male, 35 – 45 years old. Time of Death: between 2 and 3 in the morning. Found naked, hanging upside down from metal beam to resemble The Hanged Man from pack of Tarot cards. No clothes or identity documents. Drugged and exsanguinated using medical equipment. Drag marks on back. Puncture wound in chest directed towards the heart (reason unknown).

  Killer: Possibly a woman; size 6 feet; wore a pair of Scalata Rosa Amento climbing shoes, and climbing gloves; experienced climber; used pulley, Mammut 10 mm climbing rope and tied professional knots (Clove-Hitch and Bowline) to suspend victim from metal beam. Experienced in picking locks.

  Suspects (Kerry Oliver from Cheshunt discounted):

  Jean Tallent – Waltham Abbey

  Petra Winter – Harlow

  Norma Hyde – Ware

  Judy Martin Goff’s Oak

  Crime Scene: Wormley Village Hall. Access gained by use of lock pick gun.

  Post mortem: Toxicology? Reason for puncture wound in chest? Identity? DNA match? Fingerprint match?

  Forensics: Analysis of rope and knots? Analysis of hair and fibres? Missing person report?

  Other: House-to-house? Local CCTV footage? Traffic CCTV footage? SCAS Questionnaire?

  Richards arrived with his coffee.

  ‘I thought you might have travelled to Brazil for the beans,’ he said.

  ‘As if. You’ve been busy without me.’

  ‘Unlike you. This is what hard work looks like – something that seems to be alien to you. So, while you’re filling out the SCAS Questionnaire . . .’

  ‘We haven’t got all the information yet.’

  ‘No, but filling in what you can tonight, will save us time tomorrow. We have to brief the Chief, give a press briefing, visit suspects, have lunch with Doc Riley, visit more suspects . . .’

  ‘And what are you going to do while I’m doing all the work?’

  ‘I’m going to do what you should have been doing earlier. But instead of focusing on the murder investigation that you’re being paid good money to investigate, you were half-way up a wall enjoying yourself.’

  ‘But you said . . .’

  ‘I say a lot of things, but you have free will . . .’

  ‘But you said . . .’

  ‘Are you a robot, Richards? A puppet with strings through your hands and feet? No, you’re a living, talking, walking human being, and human beings have choices to make. You chose to climb up a wall and neglect your work. Now I have to pick up the slack. You fill out what you can of the SCAS Questionnaire and send it off with a note saying you’ll despatch additional information as and when it becomes available, and I’ll do all the hard work, otherwise we’ll never get home.’

  ‘You’re a pig.’

  ‘A pig who still has his snout in the trough.’ He left the incident room, walked up the corridor and went into the squad room.

  He called Traffic first.

  ‘Sergeant Yeomans. How can the Road Traffic Policing Unit help you today?’

  ‘It’s DI Parish about . . .’

  ‘I was just about to call you, Sir . . . Well, DC Richards anyway.’

  ‘You’ve got something for us?’

  ‘We have cameras on Macer’s Lane and High Road in Wormley. You might want to come down and take a look at what we’ve found.’

  ‘On my way Sergeant.’

  He replaced the phone in its cradle and made his way down to Traffic on the ground floor.

  ‘’I hope th
is is good news, Yeomans,’ he said, taking a seat next to the Sergeant.

  ‘So do I, Sir.’

  He was watching an empty road at night on a computer screen. It was one forty-three in the morning on December 8 – today.

  A black van came along High Road, past Broxbourne Filling Station and turned right down Fairfield Drive towards Wormley Village Hall.

  ‘The same van makes the return journey at two fifty-seven,’ Sergeant Yeomans said. ‘We’ve checked the number plate. It was reported stolen two days ago from outside a house in Brookman’s Park, but that’s not what I wanted you to see – take a look at this.’ He rewound the recording to the point at which the van appeared on the screen, slowed it down to half-speed and then stopped it as the driver’s face came clearly into view – it was a man.

  ‘How do you know that this is the same van that went to the Village Hall?’

  ‘One of the officers on the house-to-house found this . . .’ He minimised one screen and maximised another.

  Parish moved his head left and right so that his brain could register what his eyes were seeing. ‘It that a number plate?’

  ‘It’s the tail-end of the van. The camera is on the side of a house at the back of the Village Hall, which takes in part of the fire door. It’s the same number plate as the one we’ve just seen on High Road.’

  ‘Can you see anything else?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why is the date-time stamp September 12, thirteen thirty-six?’

  ‘Yeah. A decent lawyer will use that if it ever gets to court. The owner of the house said they’ve been plagued with power-cuts, and he never bothered correcting the date and time after a while.’

  ‘Let’s go back to the other screen.’

  Yeomans switched screens.

  Parish stared at the bearded man with long straggly hair in the driving seat. ‘It’s meant to be a woman,’’ he said.

  ‘Maybe he’s the accomplice, and the woman is in the back of the van.’

  ‘Maybe. Can I take copies of . . . ?’

  Yeomans passed him a DVD.

  ‘Thanks. And a print . . . ?’

  A photograph slid across the table.

  ‘I see you’ve thought of everything.’

  ‘I like to be efficient.’

  ‘Thanks for your help, Sergeant.’

  ‘No problem, Sir.’

  He walked back up to the incident room.

  Richards was just finishing off what she could of the SCAS Questionnaire.

  He placed the photograph in front of her, slipped the DVD into the recorder and showed her what Sergeant Yeomans had shown him.

  Richards’ brow furrowed. ‘That can’t be right.’

  ‘You have the evidence in front of you.’

  ‘Maybe he’s just the driver.’

  ‘Maybe he is, but we found no evidence at the Village Hall that two people were involved.’

  ‘Maybe the driver just stayed in the van.’

  He shrugged. ‘Maybe we should stop speculating and work with what we’ve got. You add the new information to the SCAS Questionnaire, take a copy and send it off, and I’ll go up to see Jenny Weber in the Press Office and ask her to print off copies of the man’s photograph ready for the press briefing tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Can we go home then?’

  ‘Anybody would think you had a hot date.’

  ‘I do.’

  Chapter Seven

  ‘Well, besides a mouthful of illegal biscuits, what did all those interviews achieve?’ Xena said, as Stick headed back to the station for the press briefing at four o’clock.

  ‘Confirmation that Peter Lloyd is a saint.’

  ‘That’s for sure. We have no leads, no suspects, no light at the end of the tunnel. What am I going to tell the press?’

  ‘Mmmm!’

  ‘Very helpful. Maybe I should let you take the press briefing today instead of moi.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Well, you know how the case is going. You’re familiar with all the evidence we’ve amassed, the information we’ve compiled, the route we’re navigating through the investigation.’

  He pulled a face. ‘We’re staring at a brick wall wondering what to do next.’

  ‘There you are . . . you could tell the press that.’

  ‘I could, but you’re still the Senior Investigating Officer. They’d ask me if that was your view as well.’

  ‘I’ll just have to tell them the truth, won’t I?’

  ‘You could stretch it slightly by saying that we’re pursuing leads, tracking down suspects, analysing clues and piecing it all together.’

  ‘That would hardly be stretching it slightly – it would be a total fabrication. Tomorrow, or the next day, they’d want to know what happened to all those leads, suspects and clues. They’d want me to describe what the big picture looked like after we’d pieced it all together . . . I’m going to look like an idiot.’

  ‘Do you want me to come with you?’

  ‘You’re already an idiot, you don’t need to stand up there in front of them to prove it.’

  ‘I’m just trying to help.’

  ‘Throwing yourself on your sword is not going to help. Now shut up while I think.’

  She reclined the seat, closed her eyes and ran through the case in her mind. Peter Lloyd and his wife Rachel were murdered in the early hours of Monday, December 8 by an unknown assailant. The killer had focused on Peter by opening up his chest and removing his heart. She and Stick had focused on Peter as well, but what if the real target was Rachel? She shook her head. No, that didn’t reconcile with the evidence at the crime scene. Why remove Peter’s heart if the target was his wife? Rachel wasn’t the killer’s target. It had to be Peter. They had looked into his background, his home life, his medical history, his education, his work, his finances and his friends. There was no evidence of any infidelity. Could the killer be a man? No, it had to be a woman. Even looking in on the children after murdering Peter Lloyd was the action of a woman.

  Stick nudged her. ‘We’re here.’

  ‘Can’t you go round the block a few times?’

  ‘You could ring Jenny Weber and cancel the press briefing.’

  ‘I’d be in the same position tomorrow.’

  ‘Maybe . . .’

  ‘No, I’ll have to do it. Let me ask you this: Do you think that Peter Lloyd was the killer’s target?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Not his wife, Rachel?’

  ‘No. It was obvious from the crime scene that Peter Lloyd was the target.’

  ‘It was, wasn’t it? Then, why can’t we find anything?’

  ‘Maybe there’s nothing to find.’

  ‘Please expand on that stupid comment.’

  ‘Maybe it’s a motiveless random murder.’

  ‘You’re suggesting that a woman – looking for a heart to steal in the early hours of the morning – wandered in off the street to a random house, which just happened to be the Lloyd’s house, and helped herself to Peter Lloyd’s heart?’

  ‘It doesn’t sound very plausible, does it?’

  ‘Where do your ideas come from, numpty? You open your mouth and sewage is ejected like effluent from a drainage system.’

  ‘It was just a thought.’

  ‘That wasn’t a thought – it was a stream of consciousness that had no beginning, no middle and no end.’

  They climbed out of the car, crunched across the gravel car park and entered the station through the rear door.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t need my help?’ Stick asked.

  ‘You’re a pervert. I’m going to freshen up in the toilet first. What do you think I need help with in there?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe . . .’

  ‘I’d shut up if I were you.’

  ‘Probably a good idea.’

  ‘While I’m making a fool of myself in the press briefing room, you can go up and see Hefferbitch. Tell her that if she doesn’t find us something we can use I’m going to
“Name and Shame” her.’

  ‘You can’t do that.’

  ‘Since when do Sergeants tell Inspectors what they can and can’t do? I could hardly be blamed if her name accidently on purpose slipped out when I was discussing the lack of forensic evidence and who I thought was to blame for that situation.’

  ‘I’ll speak to her.’

  ‘Good idea, Stickleback.’ She reached the toilet door. ‘And don’t hang around out here like a pimp. Go to the incident room and find something we can use. After I’ve named and shamed Hefferbitch, I might do the same to you.’

  ‘You can blame me, if you want to.’

  ‘If I thought it would help, your name would be the first one I’d give them, but it won’t help. They want to hear about the progress we’re making, not who’s to blame for that lack of progress. And as you’ve quite rightly said – I’m the SIO. Now, are you waiting until I have an accident in the corridor, or are you going to let me go to the toilet?’

  ‘You should probably go.’

  ‘Very kind.’

  After she’d washed her hands and stared at herself in the mirror like an inmate with multiple personalities, she made her way down to the press briefing room and sat down.

  Eventually, the press realised she’d arrived and stopped jabbering to each other. Somebody’s mobile played: Who Let the Dogs Out?

  ‘Sorry,’ the woman called from the back of the room.

  Everybody knew that mobiles had to be switched off during a press briefing.

  The bigger question, she thought, was who let the dogs in? ‘I should arrest you and lock you in the cells for twenty-four hours,’ she said out loud.

  The woman tried to make herself invisible by sliding down in her chair, and hiding behind the man in front of her.

  ‘In the early hours of this morning, Peter Lloyd and his wife Rachel were murdered in their bed at 50 Trinity Road in Hertford Heath. An unknown person forced their way in through a rear door, went upstairs and murdered the couple while they were sleeping. The two children in the house at the time were left unharmed.’

  ‘Glynis Russell from the Estuary Telegraph,’ a tall thin woman with a hairy mole on her top lip said. ‘Do you have any suspects, Inspector?’