by Tim Ellis
‘No, he’s not involved. What did Toadstone say?’
‘He…’ Her mobile rang. ‘Hello, Paul. We were just talking about you.’
‘Of course it was all good, DI Parish thinks you’re wonderful.’
‘Huh,’ Parish grunted as he set off along the A12 toward Gants Hill roundabout and the Women’s Refuge Shelter in Chigwell.
Richards ended the call.
‘Well, what did Mr Wonderful say?’
‘Don’t be mean, Sir. He said that Marie Langley’s mobile is either switched off, or the SIM card has been removed.’
‘In other words, they couldn’t find a signal?’
‘No, Sir.’
‘What about The Chameleon Club?’
‘Apparently, the telephone number belongs to a Mr and Mrs Tobias Wesley, but it’s not registered as a club...’
‘What is it then?’
‘As far as he knows, it’s a farm – Friendly Farm in Little End, just before you get to Chipping Ongar on the London/Romford Road. They have cows, and pigs, and…’
‘I know what type of animals they have on a farm, Richards.’
‘Sorry, Sir… They also run an Animal Rescue Centre. Can we go there and see the animals, pretty please, Sir? I love hedgehogs, and badgers, and…’
‘Sometimes, I wonder whether you’re suited to this job, Richards. Ring Vice, and ask them if they know anything about The Chameleon Club.’
‘Sometimes, I wonder how you can be so cold-hearted, Sir.’
‘Huh.’
She rang Vice. ‘Oh hello, Inspector Ranger, its Constable Mary Richards… Yes, he’s as miserable as ever.’ She giggled. ‘Thank you, Sir.’
Parish elbowed her. ‘Get on with it.’
‘DI Parish wants to know if you’ve ever heard of The Chameleon Club?’
‘You have…? Really…? Oh dear. Well, thank you very much, Inspector… Peter.’ She giggled again.
Parish mimicked her giggle, and then her voice. ‘What did that nice Peter say, Mary?’
‘You don’t sound anything like me, Sir.’
‘Leave DI Ranger alone as well, Richards. He’s a dirty cop.’
‘I don’t even know him.’
‘Keep it that way. Well, what did he say?’
‘He said that The Chameleon Club is a bestiality club.’
‘A what?’
‘Where people…’
‘I know what bestiality is, Richards.’
‘Okay, Sir. Is it against the law?’
‘If it was, which new law do you think it would come under, and I’ve given you a clue there?’
‘Do I have to, Sir?’
‘No, you could go back to Cheshunt and help old ladies…’
‘You’re so mean, Sir. The Sexual Offences Act 2003?’
‘See, you do know something after all, Richards?’
‘If you say so, Sir.’
‘Anal and vaginal penetration of or by an animal carries a sentence of up to two years imprisonment.’
‘I was just about to say that.’
‘I thought so. What other laws do you think it would come under?’
‘I feel tired, Sir.’
‘Give me an answer, Constable?’
‘Religious?’
‘Good, and…?’
‘Animal welfare, health and safety, and pornography?’
‘You can go back to sleep now, Richards.’
‘Thank you, Sir.’
They were silent during the rest of the journey. Richards read Marie Langley’s two articles on domestic violence, while Parish wondered why an intelligent young woman would pay to go to a bestiality club, unless, of course, she was investigating their activities for another article – he hoped that was the reason.
Chapter Eight
Gabriel felt uncomfortable driving with a pig mask on, but he knew it was important to keep his face covered until he reached the abandoned Lido.
He came off Gants Hill roundabout onto the A12 and then after a short distance turned right into Perth Road with Valentine Park on his right. After nearly two miles, he turned right into Quebec Road and at the end of the road, instead of turning left into Brisbane Road, he took a right through an overgrown entrance leading into the Valentine Lido. It had been thirty years since his uncle had brought him here to swim. Well, Uncle Freddy wasn’t really his uncle, but he was the only one of his many uncles who seemed to care enough about him to take him swimming as a reward. The other uncles made him do things, and gave him sweets and money, but Uncle Freddy took him places – like the Lido.
Driving slowly, the bushes scraped the sides of the van and then sprang back into place as the Renault Master passed through the overgrowth, and into what was left of the Lido car park. He parked under the overhanging branches of a tall tree next to his Toyota Aygo, killed the engine, took the pig mask off, and climbed out of the driver’s compartment. Now he was going to get his reward before he had to punish Marie Langley for her sins.
He slid open the side door. The woman stared at him with terror in her eyes, clear snot dribbled from her nose as the hidden scream deep in her throat exited through the only clear orifice. She struggled against the tape securing her wrists and ankles.
Marie Langley was pretty. He jerked the door closed. It was a fairly new van, and it moved effortlessly on its runners until the locking mechanism clicked.
This time… this time he would have an erection, but when he took out his penis it was as flaccid as it ever was. He pulled up her dress, and yanked her tights and knickers down. Looking at the naked flesh bucking like a bronco he thought maybe that it would excite him, but it didn’t. He tore open the condom packet and rolled the latex onto his useless member. Surely, once he began to push into her he would have an erection like a giant, a monster, a… He put his arm under her stomach and lifted her up. Yes, she was ready for him, but it was as if he had no feeling down there. If only he could satisfy her, she would love him, think him a giant among men. Maybe it wasn’t his fault. Maybe it was her fault. With his other hand he tried to put his useless penis into her vagina, but she was wriggling like an eel.
‘Keep still, or I’ll really hurt you,’ he screamed, rage rising to the surface.
She went limp, but it was no good. He let the woman drop to the floor. She wriggled as far away from him as she could get. The condom fell off his withered penis and slopped on the metal. It was her fault that he couldn’t get an erection, and that he couldn’t satisfy her, or himself. It certainly wasn’t his fault. He had done everything his Father had once said to him.
‘I went with your Mother once, before I had to… Well, before she ran off and left us. I bent her over, pulled down her knickers, and shoved it in. I kept shovin’ it in until she bled and I ejaculated – Lord God that was something. Anyways, that’s what I did, and it seemed to work okay, because the next thing was you came along.’
Maybe he couldn’t get an erection because these women were sinners. Maybe God would never allow him to have sex with a sinner. He would just have to find a nice girl, one who hadn’t sinned. Yes, that’s what he had to do.
***
The Women’s Refuge Shelter was a large Victorian house set back from Great Owl Road, off Chester Road and the B170 in Chigwell. It stood behind eight-foot palisade galvanised security fencing, and the curtains at the windows were permanently closed.
After parking on the road, Parish pressed the button on the intercom attached to the palisade gates. He noticed the glass eye of a CCTV camera inspecting him.
‘Yes?’ a woman’s voice said.
‘DI Parish and PC Mary Richards to see Victoria Lampard.’
‘Do you have an appointment?’
‘It’s police business.’
‘We don’t let men into the refuge.’
‘I’m a policeman, a woman has been abducted.’
‘Thousands of women are being abducted all over the world as we speak.’
‘Two women have been murdered, and…�
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‘Two women are murdered every week by their current or ex partner – tell me something I don’t know.’
He was becoming exasperated, and the irritation was evident in his voice. ‘Are you going to let us in, or do I have to waste valuable time obtaining a search warrant?’
They heard the gate lock click.
‘Make sure you shut the gates,’ the woman said over the intercom. ‘We don’t want any more slimeballs getting in.’
‘She thinks you’re a slimeball, Sir.’
‘Thanks for that, Richards.’
‘I could vouch for you, if you want me to?’
‘I don’t think that will be necessary.’
They walked along the tarmac drive towards a set of concrete steps, which led up to double wooden doors. The left-hand door opened, and a woman with brown hair pulled back into a ponytail wearing a denim boilersuit stood waiting for them.
‘I’m Victoria Lampard, what do you want?’
‘Are we going to talk out here?’ Parish said.
The woman looked around as if she was seeking approval to let them in. ‘I suppose you can come in seeing as you’re a policeman… Show me your warrant card.’
He showed her.
‘Try to look inconspicuous inside… We don’t like men in here.’
‘I think that was fairly obvious from the welcome I received.’
‘Don’t start getting all prickly or we’ll throw you out on your backside. Men are responsible for so many abuses against women and children because of their superior physical strength, we have a right to hate men. So, before you start getting all prickly, you want to listen to some of the stories in here.’
He thought he might be thrashing about in quicksand. ‘I’m sorry if I came across as “prickly”, it certainly wasn’t my intention.’
Richards stepped forward. ‘DI Parish is one of the good ones, Miss Lampard.’
‘Thank you, Richards, I don’t need a spokesperson.’
‘That’s the trouble,’ Victoria Lampard said over her shoulder as she went inside, ‘they’re all good until things aren’t going their way, and then they turn out to be slimeballs.’
She showed them into a small sitting room with a television, easy chairs, and women’s magazines on coffee tables. Parish felt like a chicken in the fox’s lair.
‘We’re here about…’
‘Why do you have to speak? Let the woman speak.’
‘I’m the Inspector, she’s the Constable.’
‘Does that make her incapable of having an opinion?’
He gave up. ‘Go on, Richards.’
‘Haven’t you got a first name?’
‘It’s Mary,’ Richards said.
‘What can I do for you, Mary?’
‘Marie Langley from the Redbridge Tribune appears to have been abducted late last night, and we were wondering if you knew anything that might help?’
‘Poor girl, it’s bound to be a man who’s done it. God, I hate them all.’
Parish stood up and stared through one of the two windows, which looked out onto a large rear garden where at least fifteen women were busy digging and weeding, and half a dozen children of varying ages made a din in a fenced off play area. It looked as though ninety percent of the garden had been given over to growing vegetables, probably to make the Refuge self-sufficient, he thought.
‘Do you think her abduction and the newspaper stories might have been connected?’ Richards pressed.
‘I can’t imagine how. Marie was doing life-story work with some of our residents. Underpinning her research was the fact that the male-dominated police only ask women to report five occasions of domestic violence. Do you know that only a third of incidents are reported to the police? A woman is assaulted thirty-five times before she calls the police.’
‘No, I didn’t know any of that. Did you know, Sir?’
‘Yes, Richards, I did know.’
‘And what are you doing about it, Inspector? Sweeping it under the carpet the same as always – bloody bastards. If this were America, we’d all be carrying guns, and then the bastards would think twice about hitting a woman.’
‘I’ve read the two case stories, and I was wondering…’ Richards opened the file and checked the names. ‘Do you think we could speak to Abigail and Hannah?’
‘You can, but he can’t.’
‘I’ll wait in here, Richards. You go and talk to the two women. Get the names and addresses of their… spouses or whatever.’
‘You mean the bastards who abused them,’ Victoria Lampard said.
‘Could I get a coffee while I’m waiting?’
‘Do pigs fly?’
‘Make it quick, Richards.’
In the end, he fell asleep in one of the easy chairs. Richards didn’t return for an hour. Nobody brought him a coffee.
‘Sir,’ she said shaking him awake.
He woke up sweating. He’d had the same nightmare he always had, of being dragged along a dark corridor by men who wanted to abuse him. At least now he knew where the nightmare came from. He had the feeling of impending disaster, but didn’t know whether it was related to his nightmare. ‘What time is it?’
‘Quarter to ten, Sir.’
‘Shit, we’re late.’
‘Sorry, Sir, it took longer than I expected.’
He stood up, angry with himself for falling asleep and angry with Richards for taking so long. ‘What did? You only had to get the names and addresses of two people?’
‘I had to listen to Abigail and Hannah, I couldn’t just go in and get them to give me what I wanted without listening to their stories. That wouldn’t have been very nice.’
‘Right, thanks very much for your help, Miss Lampard,’ Parish said moving towards the door.
‘We’re all Mizz in here, Inspector. The less we have to do with men, the better.’
‘Whatever. Come on, Richards, let’s go.’ The sooner he got some fresh air the sooner he’d feel human again.
As they walked down the driveway back to the gate Richards said, ‘Do you want to hear what the women said, Sir?’
‘No, I want to get back to the station. I want a coffee, I want the toilet, but most of all, Richards, I want time to wake up.’
‘Do you want me to drive?’
‘No, I want you to keep quiet.’
‘Did you have a nightmare, Sir?’
‘Stop talking, Richards.’
‘Sorry…’
***
When they reached the station Parish sent Richards to look after Amanda Sprinkles until he’d been to the toilet, washed his hands and face, and drank some strong four-sugared coffee. He felt like shit.
At ten past ten he stuck his head round the incident room door and said good morning to Dan Jeffers.
‘I heard on the news that another woman has gone missing.’
‘We don’t know whether it’s connected yet, but it’s looking more likely as the day progresses. Any luck with the message?’
‘As you say, it’s looking more likely as the day progresses.’
‘I’ll leave you to it then,’ but Dan’s mind had already wandered away from the conversation and back to his work.
He eventually found Richards and Amanda Sprinkles by accident in a side room with a round pine conference table and ten matching chairs. Miss Sprinkles had long crimped black hair, a chubby face, and a gap in her front teeth. When he was younger, he’d read that a high proportion of famous people had gaps in their front teeth. He’d realised then – as he searched in the bathroom mirror for a gap that didn’t exist – that he would never be famous.
He introduced himself. ‘I’m sorry I’m a little late, Miss Sprinkles, Constable Richards forgot to tell me where she’d hidden you. I felt like Indiana Jones searching for the lost Ark of the Covenant.’
‘We were only here, Sir.’
‘That’s all right, Inspector, I’m not in a hurry.’
‘Is it Miss, Mizz, or Mrs, I’m not in the mood for any
more mind games this morning?’
‘Mrs, but call me Amanda.’
‘Tea, coffee, bacon sandwich?’
‘A cup of tea would be lovely.’ She rummaged in an extraordinarily large red leather bag and withdrew a clear plastic container with a Snap-On lid. Passing Parish a sachet from the container she said, ‘Hibiscus Ginger and GojiBerry tea.’
Parish held it gently between his thumb and forefinger as if it were alive, and passed it to Richards.
‘The Hibiscus stimulates the intestinal and kidney functions, and combats colds and flu; the Ginger helps with nausea, stomach and menstrual cramps, chills, colds and poor circulation; and the GojiBerry supplements energy by nourishing the liver and kidneys, adjusting the Yin/Yang balance, improving eyesight, reducing inflammation and helping enhance resistance to wind and humidity.’
Parish had a long list of things he didn’t believe in, and homeopathy – like Feng Shui, Crystals, and Divination – was at the very top of that list. ‘I much prefer roasted coffee beans myself,’ he said.
‘What about you, Mary, would you like to try it?’
‘Yes I would, Amanda, thank you very much. Excuse the Inspector, he’s in a grumpy place this morning.’
Amanda passed Richards another sachet from her container.
‘While you’re out there, get grumpy a strong coffee with four sugars, and two bacon sandwiches from the canteen.’
‘Sirrr.’
‘I need energy, Richards, go.’
Richards pulled a face and left.
‘I’m sure you didn’t come here to drink herbal tea and watch me eat bacon sandwiches, Amanda?’
She delved into her bag again and withdrew a typewritten report, which she placed on the table in front of him. ‘I’ve wordprocessed my analysis of the two samples of handwriting that were faxed to me, which you can read at your leisure. Now, I can give you a summary of my findings. Should we wait for Mary?’
‘No, I’ll brief Constable Richards later. Now that a third woman has gone missing we haven’t got time for hanging about.’
‘Let me tell you very briefly what I do. The basic idea of graphoanalysis is that every stroke of handwriting has a meaning, which can be understood only within the context of the other strokes present in the handwriting. Basic personality traits are derived from the frequency and intensity of the stroke structures, but the graphoanalyst uses the meanings ascribed to clusters of individual stroke structures. These clusters indicate how the trait is made manifest in the personality.’