The Fragments That Remain

by Tim Ellis

  ‘How odd.’

  ‘There were two witnesses to his murder.’

  ‘Witnesses?’

  ‘Yes. A middle-aged woman and a young man – both students at King’s College Law School.’

  ‘I can explain.’

  ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘Not now – I’m late.’

  ‘You can’t help yourself, can you?’

  ‘Stop worrying. I’ll be all right.’

  ‘I want to know everything about what you’ve been up to when you come home tonight.’

  ‘Everything?’

  ‘Everything.’

  She picked up her bag, kissed him again and said, ‘I have to go now.’

  ‘Everything,’ he called after her.

  If she told him everything he’d be angry. He wanted to wrap her in cotton wool and keep her safe. She could understand how he felt after what had happened to her, but treating her like a piece of fragile porcelain wasn’t the answer. She’d spent years living her life for everyone else – her parents, him and the children – now, she was living life for herself and he’d just have to get used to it.

  She hurried onto the platform just as the train pulled in. Thank goodness she had an Oyster card, and didn’t have to queue for a ticket. Because she’d been late, the car park had been full. She’d had to find a space on a side road, then make a dash to the station. Now, she was behind a million other passengers and had to stand by the door holding onto a handrail. Oh, she’d get a seat before too long, but still it would have been a lot simpler if she’d arrived early as she normally did.

  The journey usually took her just under an hour. She caught the train to Mile End on the Central Line, switched there to the District Line and disembarked at Temple. Then, it was just a short walk along Savoy Place to the Law School.

  Today, she had two lectures, which would take her up to coffee break at eleven o’clock: International Law and Armed Conflict; and Comparative Human Rights. Then, she was free until the last lecture on International and European Employment Law. She had no idea what Joe and Shakin’ were doing all day, but she planned to travel to Cardigan Street in Lambeth to see if she could trace GE Harbottle & Son – Joiners and Undertakers.

  ***

  ‘History never looks like history when you’re living through it, Toadstone,’ Parish said as he jiggled into the paper suit at the entrance to the sixteenth century church of Saint Godfrey in Goff’s Oak..

  ‘The American statesman John W Gardner said that.’

  Richards looked at him. ‘He did, didn’t he?’

  ‘I don’t recall. It was just something that popped into my head, but I’ve forgotten who said it now.’

  ‘I don’t know how you can stand there and tell such lies with a straight face.’

  ‘There’s a lot you don’t know, Little Miss Cheerleader.’

  They walked into the church. Above them was a hammerbeam wooden roof. White-suited forensic officers were crawling all over the Jacobean pews, raised pulpit and benches looking for anything that might be considered evidence. There was a painting of the Last Supper over the chancel arch, stained glass in the windows depicting the Catholic saints, thick wooden stanchions holding the roof up and an open trapdoor that led down to a buried Sarsen stone.

  With sadness etched on his face, Parish stared up at the half-naked body that had been nailed to the wooden cross located in an alcove with a vaulted ceiling at the far end of the central aisle. ‘It’s a crucified woman, Toadstone.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Throughout history, both women and children have been crucified in the name of religion.’

  ‘That’s disgusting,’ Richards said.

  ‘This particular one is a recreation of the crucifixion of Saint Julia of Carthage, who was crucified on the island of Corsica in the 6th Century for refusing to take part in a pagan ritual.’

  The woman had brown curly hair to her shoulders, a thin smooth face and full sensuous lips. She was naked from the waist up, which revealed her small firm breasts and pink areolae. She wore a light grey flowing skirt that looked as though it had been purposely arranged into folds and creases. Square-headed nails had been hammered through each palm and one through both of her feet.

  She would have been beautiful, but the exsanguination had left its mark. Her skin was stretched tight over the bones like sun-parched leather and had a bluish tinge to it. There were dark sunken hollows around her eyes and in her cheeks. They could see each sinew, muscle and tendon in her neck, and count the ribs one-by-one – it was a pitiful and terrible sight.

  ‘Any idea who she is?’

  Toadstone shook his head. ‘No idea at all, Sir.’

  Doc Riley arrived and crossed herself. ‘My God! I’m not normally a religious person, but some things could be classified as evil, and this is one of them. What’s going on, Inspector?’

  ‘I wish I knew, Doc.’

  She turned to Toadstone. ‘I hope you have a plan for getting her down from there?’

  ‘Some people will be arriving in due course with specialised equipment.’

  Doc Riley stared up at the corpse. ‘What I can tell you Inspector, is that it’s the same killer. She was drained of blood somewhere else. The cannula marks on her neck and arms are the same, and there’s also a small penetration wound to her lower chest, which suggests there’ll be another note inserted into her heart.’

  ‘That I’ll have to wait until tomorrow for?’

  ‘Maybe this afternoon. If we can get the body down from the cross and back to the mortuary this morning I’ll make it a priority.’

  ‘Thanks, Doc.’

  ‘I’d say she was about twenty to twenty-five years old. You’ll have to wait for time of death, but at a rough guess I’d say it was sometime last night. Any idea who she is, Dr Toadstone?’

  ‘No. There’s nothing here to identify her.’

  Parish rounded on Toadstone. ‘What have you got for us?’

  ‘The killer entered the church through an underground tunnel . . .’ He pointed at the open trapdoor. ‘Down there is a Sarsen stone and a tunnel that leads to a crypt in the graveyard.’

  ‘What’s a Sarsen stone, Paul?’ Richards asked.

  ‘Sorry, Mary. It’s a pagan stone. They were used throughout England to build megalithic monuments such as Stonehenge and Avebury.’

  Richards’ eyes narrowed. ‘And Saint Julia was crucified because she refused to attend a pagan ritual.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Mmmm! Do you think there’s a connection?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Was the crypt locked?’ Parish asked.

  ‘According to Father Martin – yes. I have my people analysing the lock, but it’s looking as though it was picked in the same manner as the back door at Wormley Village Hall.’

  ‘Who does the crypt belong to?’

  ‘The Drayton family.’

  ‘Who are?’

  ‘I’ve not had chance to investigate who they are yet.’

  ‘What about the priest?’

  ‘Father Martin doesn’t know the family.’

  Parish nodded. ‘Can we take a look in the tunnel?’

  ‘I’d rather you didn’t at the moment, Sir. It’s a bit tight down there, and my people are still conducting a search for evidence.’

  ‘Did you hear that, Richards? He doesn’t want us trampling all over his crime scene.’

  Richards glanced at Toadstone. ‘Take no notice of him, Paul.’

  ‘Whose side are you on?’

  ‘I’m on no-one’s side, I’m the umpire.’

  ‘You don’t even know what an umpire is.’

  ‘I do too.’

  ‘Go on then, tell me what an umpire does?’

  ‘An umpire . . . Well, you’ll just have to trust me, won’t you? Anyway, there’s something about the murder I don’t understand.’

  Parish stared at her. ‘I thought not.’

  ‘How di
d one female manage to lift the victim up and nail her body to the cross?’

  ‘Tell her, Toadstone,’ Parish said.

  ‘Rope and pulley again,’ he said, pointing to a hole in a wooden roof beam slightly in front of the vaulted alcove. ‘A pulley was probably screwed into the beam.’ He pointed to another hole in one of the vertical stanchions. ‘I expect a hook was screwed in here to tie off the rope when the body was at the required height. Then, the killer pushed the woman backwards, nailed her in place and removed the rope and the pulley.’

  ‘You make it sound so simple.’

  ‘It’s anything but, Mary. I would imagine this needed a lot of organisation and planning.’

  ‘Which suggests that the killer would have needed to come here before last night and carry out a reconnaissance,’ Parish said. ‘She would have needed to work out how she was going to enter the church, and then nail the victim to the cross. Is the tunnel and trapdoor common knowledge, Toadstone?’

  ‘There’s a pamphlet available for fifty pence, which describes the history and unusual features of the church.’

  Richards swivelled her head to look around the church walls. ‘I don’t see any CCTV cameras.’

  Toadstone shook his head. ‘There aren’t any. This church dates back to 1590 – CCTV cameras don’t belong here.’

  ‘I bet there’ll be cameras in the village,’ she said.

  Parish’s brow furrowed. ‘When for?’

  ‘Well . . . yesterday, I suppose.’

  ‘Maybe she visited a week ago, or last month . . . or six months ago. I’m not saying we shouldn’t check the CCTV footage, but let’s not get too optimistic.’

  ‘We’ll find what we can and check it, Sir,’ Toadstone said.

  ‘Good . . .’

  Just then, two men arrived with a mobile A-frame, a mechanical hoist and a machine for extracting nails from wood.

  While they manhandled the machinery into the church, forensic officers – in an effort to safeguard any latent evidence – covered as much of the corpse as they could with plastic sheeting and duct tape.

  ‘Right Richards,’ Parish said. ‘You’re in the way here. Let’s go and talk to the priest.’

  ‘Aren’t you in the way as well?’

  ‘Have you learned nothing? DIs are never in the way. Only DCs get underfoot and clutter up the place.’

  ‘You’re such a wonderful tutor. I’ve learned so much from you.’

  ‘And don’t you forget it.’

  They shuffled out of the church, stripped off the forensic suits and other paraphernalia, and walked to the priest’s small house on the opposite side of the road.

  Father Peter Martin was sitting on a bench to the right of his front door, and looked as though he was at the very least a hundred and fifty years old. His face sagged like the underbelly of a sow, his white silky hair desperately needed a trim, and the hair sprouting from his ears and eyebrows was just as long as that on the top of his head.

  ‘Terrible business,’ he said. ‘Who would do something so obscene in the House of God?’

  ‘That’s what we hope to find out, Father,’ Richards reassured him. ‘Can you tell us if you heard anything during the night?’

  He cupped a rather large ear with a wrinkled hand speckled with liver spots and said, ‘What did you say was happening tonight?’

  Richards raised her voice slightly. ‘No, can you tell us if you heard anything last night?’

  ‘I have hearing aids, you know. I put them down somewhere, but I’ll be bothered if I know where.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘When what?’

  She was shouting now. ‘When did you put them down?’

  ‘Oh, maybe six months ago.’

  ‘Come on, Richards,’ Parish intervened. ‘We’re wasting our time here.’

  ‘Thanks for your help, Father,’ she said, and patted him on the shoulder.

  ‘I’m always happy to help distinguished visitors.’

  ‘We’re not getting far, are we, Sir?’

  ‘Not very far at all, Richards.’

  ***

  They stood at the end of the bed and stared at Oscar Donald’s body.

  She’d set the alarm, but when it didn’t go off she thought that maybe the killer had finished her gory collection of body parts. Then, just before she was due to leave for the station she received the usual phone call from Central Despatch.

  ‘Another one, Inspector,’ the male Constable said.

  ‘How can you be so sure?’

  ‘You asked me that yesterday, Ma’am.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I said exactly the same thing.’

  ‘Which was?’

  ‘A body part has been taken.’

  ‘You’d better be right, otherwise you’ll be shovelling pigshit.’

  ‘I didn’t expect promotion so quickly, Ma’am.’

  ‘What’s your name, Constable?’

  He’d laughed and put the phone down.

  She phoned Stick.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Are you on your way?’

  ‘To the station.’

  ‘What’s the point of going there when we have another murder?’

  ‘Nobody told me.’

  ‘I’m telling you now.’

  ‘Then I’ll come and get you.’

  ‘Good idea. Don’t be long.’

  Now, they were at 14 Mosaic Road in Hailey – the home of Oscar and Patricia Donald and their two children Mirabelle and Oscar Junior.

  ‘No hands, Doc?’ Stick said.

  Doc Paine looked up at him. ‘No hands, Detective.’

  Xena glanced at Stick. ‘Since when did you become so observant, numpty?’

  ‘I think it’s fairly obvious that there are no hands.’

  ‘You don’t say?’

  ‘What is obvious,’ Doc Paine said. ‘Is that the same person who killed the Lloyds and the Porters killed Mr Donald and his wife. Throats have been cut – the husband first, and then the wife. The killer then detached both hands with a hacksaw. I’ve also found particles of wood, which suggests that a piece of wood – possibly a chopping board – was used under the wrists to make the task of sawing that much easier.’

  ‘And the hands have been taken?’ Stick asked.

  ‘Like the heart and the eyeballs of the previous victims, Detective. The killer certainly has a good collection on the go. At this rate, they’ll have a whole body in no time.’

  ‘I hope that’s not a dig at our diligence, Doc?’ Xena said.

  ‘It’s merely an astute observation.’

  ‘Because I could throw it back at you, and ask why I’m not getting any support from forensic pathology. We arrive at the crime scene merely for you to tell us what we could have found out by reading our horoscopes. Where’s the forensic evidence, Doc?’

  ‘I can only find what’s there, not what isn’t there.’

  ‘Is that so? Yeah, I’ve noticed how you and that Hefferbitch use the same excuses to gloss over your incompetence. Well, Stick and I don’t have that luxury. It’s about time that both of you started earning your extortionate salaries and found me something I can use to catch this crazy bitch. We’re meant to be a team, but I feel as though I’m dragging two dead weights behind me.’

  She turned on her heel and walked out of the bedroom. ‘Stick!’ she threw over her shoulder.

  Stick followed her.

  ‘I hope you weren’t about to apologise for my behaviour in there?’

  ‘Absolutely not.’

  ‘Do you agree with what I said?’

  ‘Most definitely. All for one and one for all.’

  ‘You’re a numpty.’

  They were on the landing looking over the banister into the hallway.

  ‘HEFFERBITCH?’ Xena shouted.

  Di Heffernan appeared beneath them and craned her neck upwards. ‘What?’

  ‘Do you want to try walking up the stairs?’

  ‘Not really. I’ve only just come
down here.’

  Xena leant on the banister, stared at her and waited.

  Eventually, Di Heffernan clumped up the stairs. ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’d like to know what you’ve found. If you tell me you’ve found nothing I’m going to throw you over the banister. Well?’

  ‘A UPVC panel was removed from a side door. It was an old-style door that lacked current security features. The killer came straight upstairs, killed the adults and helped herself to Mr Donald’s hands. On her way out she looked in on the two children, which is evidenced by the bloody handprint on each of the door handles, and then left through the front door.’

  ‘And which part of what you’ve just said is evidence that I can use to identify the killer?’

  ‘Well, none of it really.’

  ‘None of it really,’ she mimicked. ‘Do you think that fat and thin people drop at the same rate? Didn’t Isaac Newton have something to say on the subject? When you hit the ground, do you think you’ll splatter like a tomato or bounce like a blow-up-doll?’

  Stick stepped between them.

  Xena stared at him. ‘Look, here’s a volunteer to act as the thin person.’

  ‘I can only find . . .’ Di Heffernan began.

  ‘If you finish that sentence, I really will push you over the fucking banister. Find me something I can use Hefferbitch, or there’ll be one less BMI-challenged person in that cess-pit you call forensics.’

  Her head swivelled like the head of a ventriloquist’s dummy to look at Stick. ‘What about you?’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘You didn’t think I’d forgotten about you, did you?’

  ‘What have I done?’

  ‘That’s exactly what I’d like to know.’

  ‘I haven’t done anything.’

  ‘Didn’t I leave you going through the Porter paperwork last night?’

  ‘Oh, you mean that?’

  ‘Yes, numpty. I mean that.’

  ‘I didn’t find anything useful.’

  ‘You’re saying that, because in the back of that peanut you call a brain, you’re wondering if Isaac Newton was right, aren’t you?’

  ‘I didn’t finish until nine o’clock last night, but then I had an idea . . .’

  ‘This is not the time for jokes, Stickleback.’