The Fragments That Remain

by Tim Ellis

  ‘Yes.’

  Richards pulled a face. ‘Anyway, what about this woman?’

  ‘She’s not dissimilar to you.’

  ‘Do you think so?’

  ‘Lose a couple of pounds round the arse, get the right bra, dye your hair blonde . . .’

  ‘You’re a pig.’

  They reached the car, climbed in and Richards set the satnav up to take them to King George Hospital.

  Once they were on the A410 he said to her, ‘Well, we found your female killer.’

  ‘We did, didn’t we?’ She was silent for a while then she said, ‘It was too easy though, wasn’t it?’

  ‘There’s no pleasing some people.’

  ‘You think it was too easy as well, don’t you?’

  The corner of his mouth creased upwards. ‘Far too easy. At one point she glanced at the camera.’

  ‘I didn’t see that.’

  ‘You will when you look at the recording properly.’

  Richards’ brow furrowed. ‘I’m confused. If she knew she was being filmed, and that we would get a copy of the recording, wouldn’t that make it about her and not the murders?’

  He nodded. ‘It would, wouldn’t it?’

  ***

  The Acorn Lodge was located on Southway in Guildford, wedged between the University of Surrey, King’s College and the Royal Surrey County Hospital. There was also a supermarket over the metal bridge just across the railway track.

  The journey had taken them an hour and three quarters, but the forty-five minutes had been swallowed up with lunch in the services near Staines-upon-Thames.

  After visiting the toilets, Xena pointed to the Burger King. ‘There.’

  ‘Really?’ Stick said.

  ‘Don’t you like fast food, Stickymouth?’

  ‘I don’t mind, but there’s an Italian restaurant over there.’

  ‘You prefer Italian food to fast food?’

  ‘Definitely.’

  ‘So, I’m having the Texas Crunchy Whopper with fries and chilli cheese bites. To drink I’ll have a banana shake, and for afters a chocolate sundae. Have you got all that?’

  ‘You want me to order?’

  ‘The person who’s paying the bill usually orders in my experience.’

  He sighed. ‘What was it again?’

  She repeated her order. ‘What are you having?’

  ‘Probably a veggie wrap and a mineral water.’

  ‘No wonder you’re so stick-like.’ She pointed to a free table next to the walkway. ‘I’ll be sitting over there watching the plebs walk by.’

  ‘Okay.’

  Carrying an overflowing tray, Stick brought the food over. ‘I hope I got everything you wanted.’

  ‘So do I, otherwise I’ll leave you here.’

  ‘I’m driving.’

  She began unwrapping the burger. ‘That can soon change.’

  ‘We did a good thing today, didn’t we?’

  ‘I would say so.’

  ‘It’s not often we do something good, is it?’

  ‘Catching murderers could be classified as good work.’

  ‘Not like locking up that horrible woman and her boyfriend, and helping an old lady survive the winter.’

  ‘You should join the community policing team.’

  ‘Maybe I will.’

  ‘Anyway, stay focused. We have two double murders now.’

  ‘It looks that way.’

  ‘It is that way, numpty.’

  ‘Okay.’

  Acorn Lodge was a small guest house with ten rooms – two of which were single. The owner was a Mrs Amelia Bramley who met them in reception.

  ‘Let’s go through into the lounge,’ she said. ‘Can I get you any refreshments?’

  ‘No, we’re fine, thank you,’ Xena said.

  ‘And you want to know about this Lisa-Marie Ward?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can I ask why?’

  ‘We think she’s a murderer.’

  ‘Dear me. And that Mr Lloyd on the television is my Mr Lloyd?’

  ‘Yes. Also, there’s been a second murder this morning. Have you ever heard of an Ian Porter?’

  ‘I have a lot of guests here. If I do know a Mr Porter, he’s not a regular like Mr Lloyd.’

  ‘Did Miss Ward stay here when Mr Lloyd wasn’t staying here?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge.’

  ‘And you’re sure they weren’t a couple?’

  ‘Absolutely sure. Oh, they’d smile and say hello in passing, but you know – well, I do anyway – when two people know each other. It’s in their eyes, but Mr Lloyd’s eyes were blank when he saw Miss Ward.’

  ‘Could it have been an act?’

  ‘If it was, they must have gone to drama school.’

  ‘So, Mr Lloyd spent his days at the university . . . then what?’

  ‘He’d come back, study for a couple of hours, have his evening meal and then he’d retire to his room.’

  ‘He didn’t go out?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you have a bar?’

  ‘Yes, but Mr Lloyd never had a drink there.’

  ‘Any tell-tale signs in his room?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘In the waste bin – empty bottles, screwed up notes from Miss Ward, stained sheets, used condoms – that type of thing.’

  She half-smiled. ‘I certainly don’t rummage around in people’s waste bins. I do have a cleaner though. Had there been anything untoward in Mr Lloyd’s room, I’m sure she would have brought it to my attention. Mr Lloyd was the ideal guest.’

  ‘And what about Miss Ward?’

  ‘She’d go out about the same time as Mr Lloyd and return shortly after him.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why what?’

  ‘What was she doing here?’

  ‘That’s not information our guests are required to tell us.’

  ‘You had no conversations with her to find out why she was here?’

  ‘I recall engaging her in a conversation once. I did ask her if there was anything the staff at the hotel might be able to help her with, but she would not be encouraged to divulge her reason for visiting Guildford. As I said, I had noted that every time Mr Lloyd booked a room, so did Miss Ward. It did occur to me that they were meeting secretly, but I found no evidence of that. Also, if they had been meeting, why not simply book a double room?’

  ‘That was my thought,’ Stick said.

  Xena glanced at him. ‘It’s not like you to have thoughts.’

  ‘I know.’

  She addressed Mrs Bramley again. ‘Did Miss Ward ever leave anything behind?’

  The woman put a hand over her mouth. ‘Oh dear! And I forgot to return it to her.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘A scarf. The cleaner found it hanging on the hook behind the door in her room.’ She stood up. ‘I’ll go and get it for . . .’

  ‘No,’ Xena said. She turned to Stick. ‘Fetch an evidence bag out of the car and put the scarf in that.’

  Stick nodded. ‘If you can show me where it is,’ he said to the woman.

  ‘Of course.’

  Xena was left on her own. She wished she’d said yes to a cup of coffee now. Would the scarf help them? Probably not. Forensics might find some hair or DNA, but without a comparative profile on the database it wasn’t much use. She hated to admit it – even to herself – but Heffalump was right. Doc Paine hadn’t phoned, which meant that she hadn’t found anything useful during the post mortems. She had thought this lead would be the breakthrough they were looking for, but it was a dead end like all the rest. Once, just once, she’d like to get a case with nice easy stepping stones that led directly to the killer.

  Stick came in with a silk yellow and black Peacock scarf in a twelve by twelve inch clear plastic evidence bag.

  ‘Look.’ He thrust the bag at her.

  ‘Very interesting. It’s a scarf, and not a very nice one either.’

  ‘Not the scarf.’ He pointed to the
bottom of the bag. ‘There.’

  She squinted to see what he was pointing at. The light was bouncing off the plastic, making it hard to see. She took the bag and turned it at an angle. ‘What is that?’

  ‘A dry-cleaning tag.’

  The small piece of paper was pinned to the designer’s label at the bottom of the scarf. On the paper was a five-digit number and a set of three scribbled initials in black:

  01384

  CLY

  She looked up at the manager. ‘You’re sure this belonged to Miss Ward?’

  ‘Definitely.’

  ‘Thanks for your assistance, Mrs Bramley,’ Xena said. ‘Come on Stick, time to go home.’

  Chapter Eleven

  Doc Riley was sitting at a table dressed in a clean pair of blue scrubs underneath a white coat waiting for them.

  ‘I thought you’d forgotten.’

  ‘We’ve been busy,’ Parish said. He checked his watch. ‘Anyway, we’re only five minutes late, and that was down to Richards’ poor driving.’

  Richards screwed up her face. ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘That’s all right. I forgive you this time, but if there’s any more of it we might have to send you on an advanced driving course.’

  She ignored him. ‘Don’t listen to him, Doc. It’s been so long since he drove he’s forgotten how, and he wouldn’t know what bad driving looked like if it bit him on the bum.’

  ‘So, are we eating?’ Parish said, licking his lips and heading towards the end of the queue.

  The other two followed him.

  ‘You two had better go ahead of me seeing as you’ve conspired together to make sure I’m the one paying again.’

  Richards – as usual – had the chef’s salad; Doc Riley pointed to the sweet potato, chickpea and spinach curry; and Parish ordered the Lincolnshire sausages, mash and peas.

  Once they were settled at the table and lunch was well underway, Doc Riley slid a 2 x 2 inch evidence bag across the table towards him. Inside the sealed bag was a tiny heavily-stained scrap of paper. The creases suggested it had been folded over into four, but it was now opened up to reveal two numbers printed on it in a heavy black ink:

  31

  ‘If you recall, there was a puncture wound in the lower chest that had been made post mortem and directed towards the heart. At the time, I couldn’t determine whether the wound had pierced the heart or not. I can now tell you that it did. This piece of paper was inserted into the right ventricle.’

  ‘By accident or design?’ Parish asked.

  Doc Riley shrugged. ‘I’d say by design if I was forced to give you an answer.’

  ‘That must have taken some doing.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘How did they get the paper in there?’

  ‘I’m thinking a long-handled pair of tweezers or alligator forceps. They’re readily available from medical suppliers and other places.’

  ‘Other places?’

  ‘A hobby shop, for instance. They’re used by tropical fish enthusiasts, and to build ships in bottles.’

  ‘I always wondered how they did that,’ Richards said.

  ‘Well, now you know.’

  Richards craned her neck to look at the piece of paper. ‘What does it mean?’

  Parish pulled a face. ‘I think it means 31.’

  ‘Very funny! 31 what?’

  ‘Maybe this is the thirty-first victim?’

  ‘Unlikely.’

  ‘Maybe 31 is the first part of the killer’s address.’

  ‘Unlikely.’

  ‘Feel free to offer your own suggestions, Little Miss Naysayer.’

  ‘I haven’t got any.’

  He narrowed his eyes. ‘It could be related to the Tarot cards.’

  Richards’ brow creased up. ‘The Hanged Man card was number twelve in the pack. Which card is number thirty-one?’

  Parish thought for a moment. It had been a while since he’d read up on the Tarot cards. ‘There is no thirty-one.’

  ‘I thought you said there were seventy-four cards in the pack.’

  ‘There are, but if you recall, I also said there were twenty-two trump cards called the Major Arcana, and four suits of playing cards with fourteen in each suit called the Minor Arcana. Neither the trump cards nor the playing cards in the suits go up to thirty-one.’

  ‘So, the number isn’t related to the Tarot cards.’

  He shook his head. ‘I guess not.’

  ‘Have you any idea, Doc?’ Richards asked her.

  ‘None at all. Now, if it was a medical mystery, then I’m the person you’d come to . . .’

  ‘And wax fobs,’ Parish suggested.

  Doc Riley smiled, stopped eating her curry and pulled a gold necklace that had been hidden beneath her blue medical top to reveal a Victorian wax-seal fob dangling from it. ‘This particular fob has my initials – MR – engraved into the bloodstone. It cost me two hundred and fifty pounds.’

  ‘Really?’ Richards said. ‘There’s not much cause for using wax seals now though, is there?’

  ‘I use it for fun sometimes, but that’s not why I bought it. I have over a hundred in my collection now, and I wear some of them as necklaces.’

  Richards fingered it. ‘It’s unusual.’

  ‘Yes it is. Seals date back to the Old Testament, and an unbroken seal conferred authenticity on . . .’

  He wished he’d never mentioned her fob obsession now. ‘Can we get back to Patrick Carroll’s body, please? So, is there anything else you can tell us, Doc?’

  She slid the post mortem report towards Richards. ‘No, nothing else, I’m afraid.’

  ‘We found a CCTV recording of the killer,’ Richards said.

  Doc Riley raised an eyebrow. ‘Really?’

  Parish stopped eating. ‘You can’t say that, Richards.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because we don’t know that the woman in the recording was the last person to see Patrick Carroll alive. We have no idea when he was abducted; where he was abducted from; or where he was kept following his abduction. We can’t place the woman at the crime scene. He could have travelled to France, filled up a van with booze and cigarettes, and returned to the UK during the time we can’t account for his movements or whereabouts.’

  ‘Huh!’ She turned to Doc Riley. ‘But apart from all that, we think she’s the killer.’

  ‘And then there’s the male driver of the van who we can place at the crime scene – what about him, Richards?’

  ‘He must be an accomplice.’

  ‘Pure speculation. If anything, he’s more likely to be our killer.’

  ‘But how do you explain the prints from the female climbing shoes that were found on the Village Hall floor?’

  ‘I can’t, and I’m not going to make wild stabs in the dark in an effort to try and make the crime fit the evidence.’

  ‘Don’t listen to him, Doc. We both know who the killer is, we just have to prove it now.’

  ‘And then, of course, we have no idea who she is, who the male driver is, what the motive for the murder is . . . You’d be a fool to listen to Richards, Doc. She has this habit of pinning the tail on the donkey regardless of the evidence or where the donkey actually is.’

  ‘I have this habit of being right, you mean.’

  ‘Talking of suspects, I’m sure I saw a chocolate muffin in the serverie that deserves closer scrutiny. What about you two?’

  Richards shook her head.

  ‘Apple pie and custard for me,’ Doc Riley said.

  ‘Mmmm! That sounds homely.’

  ‘I can recommend it.’

  ‘Not lumpy custard?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Maybe I’ll release the chocolate muffin on police bail and take the apple pie into custardy instead.’ He smiled at his little joke.

  Richards rolled her eyes.

  He went back up to the counter and came back with two apple pies smothered in custard.

  ***

  Jerry and Joe caught
the tube from Hounslow East to Holloway Road. It was a straightforward journey on the Piccadilly Line and took them just under an hour to reach their destination.

  Throughout the journey, Joe kept looking at the faces of the other passengers, convinced that each and every one of them was following them.

  ‘What about her over there?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How do you know, Mrs K?’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘What do MI5 agents look like? Is there something that gives them away? How can you separate them out from normal passengers?’

  ‘You can’t.’

  ‘So everyone of these people could be following us and we wouldn’t know, would we?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘But they’re not, are they?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Aren’t you worried, Mrs K?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About being followed?’

  ‘No. If someone from MI5 was following us, then they’d know everything about us already. We’re going to an empty house in Holloway, which is hardly something worth killing us for. If I were you Joe, I’d just sit back and relax.’

  He half-smiled. ‘Yeah, I suppose you’re right.’

  But he didn’t. She saw his head jerk round every time someone new came into the carriage, and noticed his hands clenching and unclenching when people moved. He was like a nervous wreck who had been let out on licence for the day.

  They could have walked had they known where they were going. Instead, they jumped into a taxi outside the tube station. It cost her five pounds and took them less than five minutes to reach 17 Walters Road, which was adjacent to City and Islington College on the corner of Camden Road and Caledonian Road.

  Joe stared out of the rear window during the journey.

  ‘There’s no one following us,’ he said, after she’d paid the taxi driver and they were standing outside the address.

  ‘That’s good to hear. Can you relax now, Joe?’

  ‘I’m relaxed, Mrs K.’

  ‘Good.’

  Number 17 wasn’t empty at all, but then why would it be after forty-four years?

  She had no idea what to do next. Why were they here? Forty-four years was a long time ago. She hadn’t even been born then, and Joe wasn’t even a twinkle in his father’s eye.