The Fragments That Remain

by Tim Ellis

‘What people?’

  ‘Oh, you know – people.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Oh, you know – this and that.’

  ‘So, as I understand it, you’ve been gone half an hour, talking to nobody in particular about nothing in particular while I’ve been sitting here waiting for you?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘And all this when we have a case involving eight murders, eight orphans, no suspects, no clues, no leads, no significant lines of enquiry . . . ?’

  Stick stared at the floor and shuffled his feet.

  ‘Did you actually speak to the Duty Inspector?’

  ‘Oh yes, I nearly forgot. They’d had three phone calls.’

  ‘And did these phone calls relate to the case we’re working on?’

  ‘Dry-cleaning shops.’ He put a crumpled piece of paper on the table. ‘And I had an idea while I was walking up the stairs.’

  ‘Another idea? I don’t know if I can stand the excitement. What?’

  ‘Maybe we should plot the victim’s addresses and the dry-cleaning shops on the map, and see if any of them intersect.’

  ‘Or, we could just go and visit these dry-cleaning shops?’

  ‘We could do that, I suppose.’

  ‘But I can see that there might be a tiny particle of logic in your idea.’

  ‘You can?’

  ‘Yes, I can. So, what are you waiting for?’

  She pushed him into the Chief’s office first.

  ‘Ah, DS Gilbert,’ the Chief said. ‘Is that DI Blake hiding behind you?’

  ‘Do you want me to tell him you’re here?’ Stick squeezed out of the corner of his mouth.

  ‘You’re a numpty,’ she said. ‘Yes, I’m here as well, Chief.’

  ‘I hope you’ve got some good news for me, Blake? Parish and Richards are running on empty, and you know the Review Team is due in on Monday morning.’

  ‘How can I forget, Sir? Thirty minutes ago you’d have been disappointed, but since then we’ve found out that the public request for assistance seems to have reaped rewards.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it.’

  ‘We have three dry-cleaning shops to visit this morning, and one of those looks like it might intersect with the addresses of all four victims.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘It was DS Gilbert’s idea to plot everything on the map.’

  ‘Well done, Gilbert.’

  ‘Thank you, Sir.’

  ‘Also, we have a witness.’

  ‘A witness? Things are looking up, Blake.’

  ‘I know. It makes a nice change. Although, I don’t want to count my chickens before they’re hatched.’

  ‘Quite right. But there’s no harm in being cautiously optimistic.’

  ‘No, Sir.’

  ‘Thanks for coming in, you two. It makes a pleasant surprise to hear some good news for a change.’

  They shuffled out.

  ‘Did you hear that, Stickamundo?’ she said as they made their way back to the squad room.

  ‘About Parish and Richards running on empty?’

  ‘Yes. Ha! I’ll love it if we beat them – love it.’

  ‘It’s not a competition, you know.’

  ‘Are you stupid, or what? In fact, don’t answer that. If you don’t think it’s a competition, of course you’re stupid. Ever since we came here it’s been a competition, but Parish has had his hand in the Chief’s trouser pocket . . .’

  ‘What’s he got his hand in the Chief’s trouser pocket for?’

  ‘I have a good idea, but without proof . . .’

  ‘Well, if it is a competition, it looks like we’re winning at the moment.’

  ‘Things can quickly change though. One minute you’re winning, and the next you’re up to your neck in alligators.’

  ‘Where did the alligators come from?’

  ‘South Africa.’

  ‘South Africa?’

  ‘Well, stop asking stupid questions then.’

  ‘Sorry. Are we going to the dry-cleaners that intersects the victims’ addresses now?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. We’ll stay here while you think up some more stupid questions to ask me.’

  ‘I’ll get the car, shall I?’

  ‘You’re on form today, Stickynuts.’

  ***

  They’d been to the greasy spoon opposite the station, but the fry-up hadn’t helped. He was now sitting on the raised platform with the Hoddesdon Coat of Arms hanging as a backdrop behind him.

  The press were staring at him expectantly.

  Normally, he had a good idea of what he was going to say, but this morning he was bereft of ideas. He couldn’t tell them about the positions the victims had been found in; he couldn’t tell them about the exsanguination they’d been subjected to; he couldn’t tell them about the numbers inserted into the victim’s hearts; and he couldn’t tell them that they were probably looking for a female vampire who wore expensive 24 Faubourg perfume by Hermés.

  He held up his hand and said, ‘Please.’ Please what though? Please go home I have nothing to say. Please ignore me I’m just sitting here taking a rest. Please don’t ask me any questions, because I have no answers.

  A pin could have dropped and they’d have heard it in China.

  ‘As you know, another body was discovered in Hillyard’s supermarket in Woodford Green this morning . . .’

  A tall thin woman with a hairy mole on her top lip stood up. ‘Glynis Russell from the Estuary Telegraph, Inspector. That’s three bodies now.’

  ‘I can count, Ms Russell.’

  Looking like a terrorist, a woman in her mid-twenties with long plaited black hair, a desert baseball cap and a Shemagh scarf round her neck stood up. ‘Dani Vincent from the Hoddesdon Harbinger. ‘Do you have any suspects, Inspector?’

  Did he have any suspects? ‘Yes, we have a suspect.’

  ‘Can you give us any details?’

  ‘All I can say is that we’re pursuing a number of leads.’

  ‘You said that last time.’

  ‘And I’m saying it this time, as well, Miss Vincent.’

  A man in his fifties – dressed as though he was the leader of an expedition to the North Pole – spoke next. ‘Stanley Mellor from the Thurrock Sentinel. Have you identified what the motive for the murders is yet, Inspector?’

  ‘No.’

  A young Chinese woman with a colourful Tibetan hat on stood up. ‘Amy Yu from Five News. It’s been nearly a week now since the first murder, and what you’re telling us is that you haven’t made any progress, Inspector.’

  ‘Is there a question in there, Ms Yu?’

  ‘Aren’t you worried that they’ll replace you with someone more experienced?’

  ‘No.’ He stood up. ‘Thank you all for coming. I hope to have more for you tomorrow.’

  He made his way back up to the squad room. He felt tired, but then it was hardly surprising because he’d been up since three-thirty. Richards was speaking on the phone when he got there, so he shuffled along the corridor to the kitchen and made himself a coffee. It was nine thirty-five, and they were due to meet Toadstone in the incident room at ten o’clock. Would he have anything for them?

  ‘Who were you talking to?’ he asked Richards when he got back to his desk.

  ‘Did you make me a coffee?’

  ‘No. I could see that you had a bottle of water on the desk and I made the executive decision not to make you a coffee.’

  ‘I would have liked a coffee.’

  ‘Well you didn’t get one. Who was on the phone?’

  ‘No one. I was ringing Europol to remind them that we still had an outstanding database query.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘The woman said we’re next.’

  ‘Next?’

  ‘Yes. And she’ll ring us back in the next couple of hours.’

  ‘That’s something I suppose.’

  The phone rang.

  Richards picked it up. ‘DC Richards? . . . J
ust a minute, Sir. I’ll put you on the loudspeaker because Kommisar Parish is here as well.’

  ‘Kommisar Parish!’

  ‘Okay, Sir.’

  ‘Good morning. I am Kommisar Erik Klein from Department 3 of the Landeskriminalamt stationed in Wuppertal.’

  ‘Good morning, Erik,’ Parish said. ‘My name is Jed, and the young lady is called Mary. Thanks very much for calling us.’

  ‘You are welcome. You have had three murders in England?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. Which part of the MO is similar to the three murders in Germany?’

  ‘The taking of the blood. As soon as I saw that blood had been taken I knew.’

  ‘Knew what?’

  ‘Israel Voss was the murderer. He was living here in Wuppertal, but I could not prove it was him.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Each time there was an alibi.’

  ‘We know of Israel Voss, Erik, but we heard he had died when his plane crashed into the sea.’

  ‘Yes, I have also heard that he is dead.’

  ‘And our killer is a woman.’

  ‘That is why I am calling you. Voss had a daughter in 1990. There was no wife, but he had a daughter. She was maybe eight or nine years old then.’

  ‘Which would make her around thirty-five now?’ he said.

  Richards stared at him. ‘You don’t think our killer is Voss’ daughter wanting revenge, do you?’

  ‘I’m too tired to think anything at the moment, Richards.’ He addressed Erik again. ‘Do you know what his daughter’s name was?’

  ‘No, there is no official record of him ever having had a daughter in Germany.’

  ‘Any photographs of her?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you have any other suspects at the time?’

  ‘Some people were of interest, but they were soon not considered suspects. The only real suspect we had was Israel Voss, but we couldn’t prove he had murdered anyone. He and his daughter left Germany in 2000 and never came back. We never found any more bodies while they were here, but people continued to disappear. When they left the disappearances stopped.’

  ‘Do you know anything else about his daughter?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Is there anything you want to ask, Richards?’

  She pursed her lips and shook her head. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Thanks very much for ringing, Erik. You’ve been very helpful.’

  ‘It is my pleasure. I hope you catch this crazy person.’

  ‘So do we.’

  Parish ended the call.

  Richards was busy scribbling on a piece of paper.

  ‘Note to your hairdresser?’

  ‘You know I don’t have a hairdresser.’

  ‘Your memoirs?’

  ‘On one sheet of paper?’

  ‘Of course, a post-it sticker would probably be enough.’

  ‘Ha, ha.’

  ‘So, what are you writing?’

  ‘Something.’

  ‘Very helpful. Did you know Voss had a daughter?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Is that it? Aren’t you just a teensy-weensy bit curious about her?’

  ‘After Doc Riley has told us the number in the heart of the last victim, I’ll show you what I’ve written on the piece of paper.’

  ‘Or, you could show me now.’

  ‘Afterwards. We have to meet with Paul in the incident room now, don’t we?’

  ‘You make the coffees and . . .’

  Richards laughed. ‘You have as much chance as mum having another baby.’

  They stood up and headed towards the incident room.

  His eyes opened wide. ‘Your mother’s pregnant?’

  ‘No, I said . . .’

  ‘Why didn’t she tell me?’

  ‘She’s not . . .’

  ‘It’s no good trying to hide it from me now, Richards – you’ve let the ferret out of the bag.’

  ‘It’s a cat.’

  He swivelled round. ‘Where?’

  ‘I’m not talking to you anymore.’

  ‘An early Christmas present – how lovely.’

  Toadstone was waiting for them.

  ‘To know, is to know that you know nothing, Toadstone. That is the meaning of true knowledge.’

  ‘Socrates.’

  Richards stifled a laugh.

  They sat down.

  Toadstone began by showing them the CCTV footage from the supermarket security system.

  An old woman dragged in the impaled victim using one of the supermarket’s own trolleys, and began suspending him from the ceiling using ropes and pulleys. She looked like the old witch from Hansel and Gretel, or any number of other fairy stories, but she scrambled up and down the shelving like a cat with her nine lives intact.

  It occurred to Parish that they still had no idea what this woman looked like – nothing they had labelled as “Evidence” would prove anything in a court of law. Was it Israel Voss’ daughter? Had she come back to seek revenge? Revenge for what though? They hadn’t caught her father. True, they’d forced him to take the flight that had eventually killed him, but it was a bit of a stretch to blame them for his demise. But if it wasn’t revenge, why was she here in Hoddesdon killing people?

  ‘What about the Pig & Whistle footage?’ he asked.

  ‘Too dark,’ Toadstone replied. ‘We tried to clean it up, but no luck I’m afraid. And based on what you’ve seen here, it probably wouldn’t help you much anyway. She’s using prosthetics like a professional to disguise who she is. None of the CCTV footage would be considered proof in a court of law.’

  ‘I don’t suppose I need to ask whether you’ve examined all the footage?’

  ‘Every frame. There’s no rings, no jewellery, no scars or birthmarks and no tattoos – it could be anyone beneath the silicon. She knows exactly what she’s doing.’

  ‘But why?’ Richards said. ‘Do you remember Israel Voss, Paul?’

  ‘From Butterfield Spires in Hainault?’

  ‘Yes. We’ve just had a phone call from a police officer in Germany who told us about three similar murders between 1990 and 2000 in Wuppertal, and that Voss had a daughter.’

  ‘Interesting. And you think this woman is her?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Parish said. ‘I hate to be the voice of reason, but we have no proof of anything yet. So, anything else for us, Toadstone?’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Okay, thanks for trying.’

  ‘You’re not going to blame me for your lack of progress on the case?’

  ‘Do you want me to?’

  ‘You usually do.’

  ‘I think we both know that there’d be no point in that, but don’t think I’m going to let you off so lightly the next time.’

  ‘A one-off? An aberration? A stay of execution?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘I’m grateful.’

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The round trip to the shops took her half an hour, but it was a success – she had a pack of 2B pencils in her rucksack. That wasn’t the only thing she had in there either. She knew from experience that leaving things lying around was just asking for trouble. Those MI5 cockroaches crawled through the tiniest of cracks, so she’d brought the pad of statements with her just in case.

  She opened the front door. Everything looked as though it was where she’d left it. The bungalow smelled the same – no male body odours or cheap aftershave. She checked the windows, the doors and inside the cupboards. Then she examined the ceiling lights and inside the telephone. There didn’t seem to be any hidden cameras or listening devices.

  After visiting the loo, washing her hands and making herself a mug of coffee, she got down to making the illegible legible. But, like everything else in life, it wasn’t that simple.

  She rubbed the 2B pencil over the indentations, but she could only read the odd word because of the existing writing on the page. She had a brilliant idea. Turned the page over, and te
sted her brilliant idea by pressing the point of the pencil down hard onto a reverse indentation on the back of paper and transferring the letter rubbing onto another blank sheet of paper. The letter was back to front, but at least she could read it. She transferred the rest of the message onto the blank page:

  £20,000 in notes

  A diamond necklace valued at £35,000

  An emerald ring valued at £5,000

  A key

  Copy of a last will and testament

  Property deeds

  Rare coins valued at £10,000

  Copy of insurance for property

  Savings bonds

  Stock certificates

  She was surprised that there was no address for the property deeds or the insurance. In fact, it was just a stupid list with no detail to explain any of it. What was the key for? What did it look like? She glanced at the bunch of fifteen keys sitting in an evidence bag that she’d found in one of the black sacks, picked them up and flicked through them. The key on the list could be any of the keys on the key ring.

  Another brilliant idea came to her. She scrambled on all-fours across the room to the photographs of the bank vault and searched through them. Eventually, she found a photograph of Box 253 lying upended on the floor with a key not too far away – or what looked like a key. It was half-hidden under some papers, and the more she squinted at it the less she could see. She searched through the other photographs, but there were no others with the key in the photograph. There was nothing for it – she needed a magnifying glass.

  ‘Crap! Another trip to the shopping centre.

  She put the bunch of keys and the photograph into her rucksack, finished off her coffee, and set off back to the mall.

  ***

  Xena had an idea.

  Stick could just sit in the car and wait for her.

  She walked up to forensics and was happy to learn that Di Heffernan was still at the crime scene, but that the E-fit specialist – Marcus Newton – had returned after working with nine year-old Judy Lundy to construct an E-fit picture of the woman she saw in her bedroom.

  ‘Is that it?’ she said, staring at the picture of what might have been a female in a black hoodie. The woman had a thin, skeletal-like face and if she’d had her mouth open, she might have been mistaken for the androgynous person in the painting The Scream by Edvard Munch