The Fragments That Remain

by Tim Ellis

  ‘It stopped being a course project when George Peckham was murdered. And if that didn’t convince you, then being molested and warned off by that thug should have done the trick.’

  ‘I guess you’re right.’

  ‘I am right. So, do you remember what was in the envelope the old man gave you?’

  ‘Yes. There was a 9mm bullet . . .’

  ‘. . . Which is about as much use as a blind lifeguard.’

  ‘Of course – sorry . . . An old blue English passport in the name of Jack O’Donnell with the number 3459 written on it.’

  ‘I can check that out online, but it’s probably an alias and won’t tell us anything useful.’

  ‘There was also a business card for a company who made Pace Sticks in York called DANCRAFT. Do you know what a pace stick is?’

  ‘Not a clue. I’ll leave you to check that out. If you’re going to make any phone calls from now on to do with the robbery – use one of the two phones I’ve given you.’

  ‘Okay . . . and thanks.’

  ‘All part of the service.’

  ‘Is that it?’

  ‘I have two friends going into the police evidence warehouse tonight. I’ll ring you tomorrow and let you know what was in Box 253.’

  ‘Two friends?’

  ‘Don’t worry, they don’t know anything other than what I’ve told them, which is fuck all. They’re doing it for the money, and because they hate the police.’

  Jerry reached across the table and squeezed her hand. ‘Thanks for coming all this way, Bronwyn.’

  ‘You don’t think I caught a train here because of you, do you?’ She half-laughed. ‘I came here to sign up for an origami course, but some idiot has decided they’re not doing them anymore. Apparently, the paper cuts were a health and safety hazard.’

  ‘I’m sure you would have been good at origami.’

  ‘I would have been fucking rubbish.’ She stood up. ‘Right, I don’t know about you, but I have to go.’

  ‘Should we walk to the station . . . ?’

  ‘No. You’ll only slow me down with those high-heels on. Speak to you tomorrow.’

  ‘All right.’

  She hurried outside and almost ran down the steps. The last thing she needed was another fucking mother. The last time she had one of those it had ended in disaster.

  ***

  ‘You’re quiet.’

  ‘I’m thinking,’ she said.

  ‘You’ll do yourself a mischief.’

  ‘Very funny.’

  ‘I have lots more where that came from.’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  They were walking back to the station. He’d thought the fillet mignon had been acceptable, but after Doc Riley’s phone call his mind hadn’t been on the food any more. He couldn’t understand how his DNA had been transferred to the victim. In all his years on the force, and as a detective, it had never happened before. Oh, mistakes were made, that was just the way it was – people were human, and humans weren’t perfect. But contaminating a corpse with his own DNA! He couldn’t wrap his head round that one. He’d been wearing full forensic protection, and hadn’t touched the body. As far as he knew, DNA wasn’t alive and it didn’t leap gaps. Was it possible that he’d transferred DNA onto the surface of the paper suit or the gloves, and then brushed the victim’s foot? He’d have to talk to Toadstone – that was the only answer. If it was true – as it seemed to be – then he needed to know how it could have happened to prevent it from ever happening again.

  ‘Do you need to go into the station for anything,’ he asked her.

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Toadstone wants to see you.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘And don’t you need to see him?’

  ‘I’m seeing him later.’

  ‘Are you going to break his heart?’

  ‘You make it sound terrible.’

  ‘It is terrible. You’re his great love. You’ve spoiled him for anyone else.’

  ‘I have not. I’ve made him a better person.’

  ‘Says you.’

  ‘Yes, says me.’

  ‘What about Interpol and Europol?’

  ‘The calls will be transferred to my mobile.’

  ‘We can go then?’

  ‘Yes. Although . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I probably need to go to the toilet.’

  ‘I thought things were too good to be true.’

  When they reached the station he went and sat in the car while she visited the ladies’ room.

  Two murders now, and a suspect who was as ethereal as a wraith. It was as if she was playing with them, daring them to catch her. Well, he would. It was simply a matter of time. They’d had complex cases before – lots of them. Sooner or later the pieces would meld together, they’d find out the who and the why.

  Time wasn’t always on their side though. They were quickly reaching the point where a review team would arrive like the Spanish Inquisition to find out what the hold-up in identifying and arresting a suspect was. What could he tell them? He knew exactly who the killer was, but he had no idea who she was. That about summed it up. And they’d get to the part where his DNA had been transferred to the victim and realise they were dealing with an incompetent of the highest order.

  The door opened. Richards slid into the driving seat, turned the key in the ignition and keyed Penny Sanderson’s address into the satnav.

  ‘You took your time.’

  ‘Are there European guidelines on how much time an employee can spend in the toilet during each visit?’

  ‘I’m sure there are – especially for women. Men go in there, do what they have to do, and get out. Women, on the other hand . . .’

  ‘How do you know what women do in the toilet?’

  ‘I’ve heard stories.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About what women do in the toilet.’

  ‘Who from?’

  ‘Whistleblowers.’

  Richards laughed. ‘You’re crazy.’

  It took them fifteen minutes to drive the four miles from the station to the late Penny Sanderson’s address at 37 Scotts Road in Ware.

  Parish knocked using the brass knocker.

  A completely bald and pale-looking middle-aged man appeared at the door. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Mr Ronald Sanderson?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  He produced his warrant card. ‘DI parish and DC Richards. Can we come in and talk to you?’

  ‘Of course.’ He led them into the living room. ‘Can I get you anything?’

  ‘No, we’re fine, thank you.’

  Parish and Richards sat on the three-piece sofa, Mr Sanderson sat in a matching chair with an oxygen bottle standing by the side of it.

  ‘Is your wife at home?’

  ‘Margery died of breast cancer two years ago.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘Thanks. Margery’s death hit me hard. I never thought I’d get through the grief. I did, of course, but now I have bowel cancer myself.’

  ‘You’re not having much luck, are you?’

  ‘No, not much luck at all, but I’m hoping that’ll change.’ He ran his hand over the smooth skin of his scalp. ‘I’m undergoing chemo- and radio-therapy – it’s soul-destroying. I understand now what they mean by: “The cure is worse than the disease”. So, why are two detectives visiting me?’

  He glanced at Richards, and wondered whether he should give Mr Sanderson more devastating news, but what choice did he have? He couldn’t keep the death of the man’s daughter from him. Sooner or later he would find out, and then it would probably be twice as worse. Although, the pain of finding out your daughter has been crucified in a church by a serial killer could hardly be twice as worse regardless of when or where you found out.

  ‘I’m sorry, but I have more bad news for you, Mr Sanderson. Is there anything you need to do before I tell you the news?’

  ‘It’s about Penny, isn�
��t it?’ He reached out, took hold of the oxygen mask, turned on the flow meter and put the mask over his nose and mouth. He struggled to breathe and began turning a ghostly white.

  ‘Is there anything we can do?’ he asked.

  Mr Sanderson shook his head. ‘Just give me a minute.’

  Richards stood up. ‘Would you like me to make you a cup of tea?’

  The man nodded.

  Parish told her to contact the station while she was in the kitchen and arrange for a Victim Support Officer to attend.

  After a while, Mr Sanderson pulled the mask from his face. ‘She’s dead, isn’t she?’

  ‘Yes,’ Parish said.

  ‘What’s it all been for eh? First Margery, and now Penny.’ He shook his head. ‘And I’ve not got long to go either. If there is a God . . . No, you probably don’t need to hear my thoughts on the subject.’

  Richards came in with the tea, and placed the cup and saucer on a small table next to a dog-eared copy of Deadly Revenge by DS Butler.

  ‘Thanks, love,’ he said. He looked at Parish. ‘Can you tell me how she died?’

  Parish described the circumstances of his daughter’s death. It was better coming from him before Sanderson read it in a newspaper or listened to it being described on the television.

  Ronald Sanderson didn’t speak, but tears fell from his eyes.

  ‘I know this is a difficult time, but is it all right if I ask you some questions?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When did you last see your daughter?’

  ‘Last night, before she went out.’

  ‘Did she seem okay?’

  ‘She was fine.’

  ‘Where was she going?’

  ‘The Pig & Whistle on the High Street. I imagined that she went home with a friend and then straight to work from there.’

  ‘Where does she work?’

  ‘She’s a window-dresser at that big department store – Lancaster’s – in town. It’s a while since I walked past there, but I felt proud when I saw what my Penny had done to their windows.’

  ‘Did she have any boyfriends?’

  ‘Penny? No – she didn’t like boys. It was a bit of a shock at first, but I suppose I got used to it over time. And it also meant coming to terms with the idea that I’d never have any grandchildren. She said there was a way, but I wasn’t holding my breath. Now . . . well, I suppose nothing matters anymore.’

  ‘Did she often go to the Pig & Whistle?’

  ‘A couple of nights a week.’

  ‘And did she often stay over at a friend’s house?’

  ‘Maybe a couple of times a month. An old school friend who lived just round the corner from the club. Her name was Sarah Young, but she always checked that I was okay first.’

  ‘Did she check on you last night.’

  ‘No, but I wasn’t worried. I guessed she’d just forgotten. I had her number. She knew that if I needed her I’d call. You don’t know who killed her then?’

  ‘No, not yet.’

  ‘Do you think you will?’

  ‘I hope so, Mr Sanderson.’

  ‘Do you have Sarah Young’s address?’

  There was a knock at the door.

  Richards went, and brought back a tall dark-haired man in his early twenties. ‘This is Donald Drewniak – he’s a Victim Support Officer. We didn’t want to leave you here on your own, so Donald’s going to stay here and make sure you’re okay.’

  ‘Can you play backgammon, young man?’

  ‘It depends whether I have to let you win or not.’

  ‘Let me win? More like, I’ll let you lose.’

  ‘Will you be all right, Mr Sanderson?’ Parish asked him.

  ‘Don’t you worry, Inspector. What goes around, comes around. Soon, we’ll all be together. I wanted to be with Margery, but I was worried about leaving Penny on her own. Now, it doesn’t matter. I can leave anytime I feel the urge.’

  Richards wrote down Sarah Young’s address, and then they left Ronald and Donald playing backgammon.

  ‘Some people don’t get any luck at all, do they, Sir?’ Richards said as they climbed in the car.

  ‘Luck! Superstitious nonsense, Richards. You’ll be telling me next you believe in Santa Claus.’

  She turned towards him, shock etched on her face. ‘Are you telling me Santa Claus doesn’t exist?’

  ‘Of course not. I was only joking.’

  ***

  Stick wasn’t at his desk in the squad room, so she shuffled along to the incident room.

  ‘How did it go?’ he asked her when she went in and sat down.

  ‘I thought it went very well.’

  ‘Now all we have to do is wait.’

  Xena rolled her eyes. ‘You’re like the Oracle of Hoddesdon.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘It wasn’t an endorsement.’

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘So, what have you been doing?’

  Stick pointed at the incident board. ‘You know, moving the pieces around the board to see if any of them fit together.’

  ‘And do they?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  She shook her head. ‘We have six murders . . .’

  ‘Three really – the wives are only killed because they’re in bed with their husbands.’

  ‘You say that as if it’s fact. It’s not fact. You’re only guessing that’s what happened. And not only that – are the wives dead?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did the killer murder them?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So therefore, we have six murders.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right.’

  ‘I’m the DI, I’m always right.’

  ‘Of course, I forgot. But the killer focuses on the males.’

  Xena’s eyes narrowed. ‘Why?’

  ‘A woman scorned?’

  ‘If that’s the case, why can’t we find any evidence that the male victims had an affair with the same woman?’

  ‘Maybe we haven’t been looking hard enough.’

  ‘Or maybe there is no evidence.’

  Stick stared at her. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Maybe we’re reading too much into it. Maybe this is simply a mindless serial killer who likes taking body parts.’

  ‘But what about the woman who stayed at the Acorn Lodge every time Peter Lloyd was there?’

  ‘Coincidence.’

  Stick grinned. ‘You don’t believe in coincidences.’

  ‘Maybe this is that one time it is a coincidence.’

  ‘You know it’s not.’

  She pushed herself up. ‘We’re running round in circles. I’m going home.’

  Stick looked at his watch. ‘It’s only quarter to four.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘We’re not meant to go home until five o’clock.’

  ‘What time are we meant to come on shift?’

  ‘Eight o’clock.’

  ‘So, we work from eight until five?’

  ‘We have a break for lunch as well.’

  ‘Let’s say an hour for lunch to be generous.’

  Stick nodded. ‘Okay.’

  ‘Are those hours maintained on a daily basis?’

  ‘Well . . .’

  ‘The answer you’re searching for is no. We get called out in the middle of the night, and we work until we can hardly stand up. Do murderers work eight till five?’

  Stick laughed. ‘I wish.’

  ‘Which means we can’t work eight till five?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘You suppose right. Well, you suppose right for me. Seeing as you questioned my right to go home, you can stay here doing the paperwork. If you think we work eight till five, then that’s exactly what you can do.’

  ‘But you’re going home?’

  ‘Do you think I’ve earned my wages this week?’

  ‘Definitely.’

  ‘Then yes, I’m going home.’

  ‘But I’m staying?’

  ‘Do you see a problem
with that?’

  ‘Absolutely not.’

  ‘Good. Call me if we get any good news.’

  ‘What about bad news?’

  ‘You can keep that to yourself.’

  ‘Have you got something to do?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I was merely wondering if you were going home early for a specific reason.’

  ‘Do I need a reason?’

  ‘I’d guess not.’

  ‘I’m a DI, aren’t I?’

  ‘Most certainly.’

  ‘I’m your DI, aren’t I?’

  ‘Definitely.’

  ‘So if I say you stay here . . .’

  ‘. . . I stay here.’

  ‘We’ll make a decent detective out of you yet.’

  ‘I’m grateful.’

  ‘So you should be. Is there anything else you’d like to ask me before I walk out of the door?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Good. Goodnight.’

  ‘Goodnight.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  Richards was about to put the car into gear and head towards the Pig & Whistle when her mobile phone vibrated. She already had it connected to the car’s Bluetooth and accepted the call.

  ‘DC Richards?’

  ‘Yeah. Hello, Detective Richards. I’m Chief Inspector Don Simpson – I work with Interpol at their headquarters in Lyon, France.’

  ‘Hello, Sir.’

  ‘You asked us to issue a Blue Notice to UN member states concerning the modus operandi of a murderer you’re looking for?’

  ‘That’s right, Sir.’

  ‘Germany have come back to us.’

  ‘Germany?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s right. There were three unsolved murders around Wuppertal between 1990 and 2000 – in the areas of Arrenberg, Brill and Kothen – which were similar to the modus operandi you sent us.’

  ‘That’s great, Sir.’

  ‘A Kommisar Erik Klein from Department 3 of the Landeskriminalamt will contact you tomorrow morning to provide you with further details of those murders.’

  ‘Thanks very much, Sir.’

  ‘You’re welcome, Detective. Another Interpol mission completed successfully.’

  The call ended.

  ‘Germany, Richards?’

  ‘I know, Sir. I wasn’t expecting that. What do you think it means?’