The Wages of Sin (P&R2)

by Tim Ellis

  Once they were seated by a window overlooking the Maternity Wing Parish said, ‘Is there some medical reason why women eat leaves all the time, Doc? Do you think they’re an offshoot of rabbits on the evolutionary ladder?’

  ‘I’m going to tell my mum you think she’s a rabbit, Sir.’

  ‘You’re turning into a right little blabbermouth, Richards. Do you know what they used to do to backbiters in the good old days?’

  ‘Reward them for being public spirited?’

  ‘Not even close – It was considered a sin, and they were put to death.’

  ‘You’re being mean, Sir, and it’s a bit too close to the case we’re working on to be funny.’

  ‘I know, that’s why I’m warning you to be careful about committing a sin.’

  ‘That’s what it’s all about is it, Parish?’

  ‘Yes, apparently the women are being punished for their sins – homosexuality, adultery, and bestiality up to now.’

  ‘God help all us sinners. Why only women?’

  ‘I asked the same question, Doc,’ Richards said.

  ‘And I’ll provide the same answer – you’re asking a rational question about an irrational act. It’s a man doing the killing, and he obviously has a thing about punishing women.’

  They focused on eating until Parish said, ‘If it’s not evolutionary, Doc… what do you know about snoring?’

  ‘Sirrr,’ Richards said trying to kick his legs under the table.

  ‘You’ll thank me in the end, Richards.’

  ‘Do you snore, Constable?’

  ‘It’s hardly a secret anymore is it, Doc? And he calls me a blabbermouth.’

  ‘It wouldn’t be ethical for me to examine you, or advise you on a course of treatment, Constable. But, I wouldn’t be surprised if your GP didn’t tell you that snoring is caused by an irregular airflow through the mouth and nose involving the uvula – the dangly bit at the back of your throat – and the soft palate on the roof of the mouth. After examination and diagnosis, she might recommend non-invasive remedies such as nasal sprays, nose strips or clips; a mandibular advancement splint to bring the tongue forward; or a mask, which pumps a stream of air and keeps the passages open. If these don’t work, she might then suggest surgical intervention…’

  ‘What… you mean they could cut me open?’

  ‘If you were to ask me as a friend, I would not recommend surgery until all other options have been exhausted, and even then I wouldn’t advise it. I suggest that you buy your sleeping partner earplugs.’

  ‘Some of us don’t have sleeping partners, Doc. Some of us have bosses who make us work twenty-seven hours a day. And some of us can’t find a man worth making into a sleeping partner, because they only meet lowlifes and criminals.’

  ‘You’re a young, beautiful and intelligent woman, Constable, you’ll find your ideal man before too long, I’m sure.’

  ‘Don’t start complimenting her, Doc, I’ll never hear the last of it. After her stint on the TV, she already thinks she’s a supermodel.’

  ‘I saw that. If you haven’t begun receiving fan mail yet, I’m sure you will soon.’

  ‘More like letters from a bunch of weirdo stalkers wanting her to pose naked for them, Doc.’

  ‘Stop being mean, Sir.’

  ‘Before we move off the topic of snoring, Constable, I can tell you that there are also over-the-counter pharmacological and natural remedies that you could explore.’

  ‘There you are then, Richards, take a few pills, wear a peg in bed, and you’ll be fine. Right, can we focus on to why we’re here now? Have you got anything useful to tell us, Doc?’

  ‘I’m doing the post mortem this afternoon, and I’ll send you the full report tomorrow. I did, however, carry out a preliminary examination before I came up here. I won’t go into details, but the wounds are the same as the other victims. I can confirm that there was considerable bruising between the victim’s thighs, but that penetration did not take place. It would appear that the killer is impotent.’

  ‘Thanks, Doc. Have you got any questions you’d like to ask before we leave, Richards?’

  ‘Me, Sir?’

  ‘Obviously not. Well, thanks for lunch, Doc, and for supporting my recommendation that Richards should get her arse to the doctors to sort out her snoring.’

  ‘You’re welcome, Parish. If there’s anything else I can do for you, Constable, just let me know?’

  Richards stood up, sighed, and hung her head and arms as she trudged towards the exit. ‘No, Doc, there’s nothing else. I’ve resigned myself to a life of misery and humiliation working for DI Parish.’

  Parish gave a laugh. ‘She does a good impression of a drudge, doesn’t she, Doc?’

  ‘Positively Shakespearean, Parish. She should be appearing in Hamlet at the Ivor Novello Theatre in London.’

  ‘Have a good one, Doc.’

  ‘And you, Parish. Goodbye, Constable?’

  ‘Alas, poor Yorick!’

  Parish shoved her in the small of the back. ‘Come on, Richards, we haven’t got time to be jesting in graveyards.’

  ‘Where are we going now?’

  ‘45 Canterbury Avenue in Redbridge.’

  ‘Tanya Mathews’ partner – Beatrice Nosworthy?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s been seven years, Sir.’

  ‘And your point is?’

  ‘We’ll be stirring up old memories and emotions.’

  ‘I can’t help that, Richards, we need to question her.’

  ***

  Canterbury Avenue in Redbridge was one of the more sought-after locations for house-buyers in the area. Instead of the detached houses and bungalows appearing to be squashed together, there were substantial gaps between each house for trees and fences. From what Parish had heard some of the properties boasted outdoor swimming pools, croquet lawns, and British Aircraft Association approved landing pads for microlights. The cheapest house was in excess of half a million pounds, and he knew he would never live there.

  Richards parked on the road over the drive. With the wind whipping them sideways, they walked up to the double uPVC white doors. Parish pressed the button on the doorbell.

  ‘I doubt they’ll be in the swimming pool in this weather, Richards.’

  ‘It could be heated?’

  ‘Still… a bit cold.’

  ‘They might have a Jacuzzi with lots of water jets and air buttons.’

  ‘How do you know so much about Jacuzzis? Have you ever been in one?’

  ‘Have you, Sir?’

  ‘Are you keeping secrets from me, Richards?’

  ‘What were you and Kowalski talking about before?’

  Parish laughed. ‘So, that’s what it’s all about?’

  The left-hand door opened. A beautiful woman with short grey streaked hair wearing a light grey dress appeared in the opening. Parish guessed she was in her early fifties, but she could have passed for forty.

  ‘Yes?’ she asked in a soft voice.

  ‘Miss Nosworthy?’

  ‘No, but Beatrice is in. Would you like to see her?’

  Parish thought it was a stupid question considering he’d just asked for her. He showed his warrant card. ‘Yes, please. We’d like to talk to her about Tanya Mathews.’

  ‘She said someone would appear after the murder of that Estate Agent, and now a Reporter has been… Please, come in.’ She stood to one side and called, ‘Bea, the police for you.’

  Beatrice Nosworthy looked nothing like a lesbian with her dark brown hair and matching eyes, a smattering of freckles across her nose, and perfect white teeth. She wore a white top that clung to her flat stomach and curvaceous breasts, tight jeans, and lambskin boots.

  What a waste, Parish thought.

  ‘You’d like to talk about what happened to Tanya?’

  ‘If we may, Miss Nosworthy?’ Parish said.

  ‘Of course. I still have my memories, but my life has moved on. As you see, I’m in another relationship now.’ S
he directed them into a large sitting room with a lacquered wood floor, white suite and rugs.

  Parish was attracted to a series of 6 x 9-inch framed pictures on the wall and drifted over to look at them – they were book covers with scantily clad men and women in sensual embraces: The Wayward Heart, The Broken Heart, The Tortured Heart… There were more than thirty covers, but not all the titles ended in Heart. He read what it said on one of the covers: Sins of the heart lead to passion, love and betrayal.

  ‘You write books?’ Parish said stating the obvious, although Beatrice Nosworthy was not the name of the author on the cover, it was Scarlet Phillips. He wondered how a lesbian could write about heterosexual romance.

  ‘Romantic novels… You probably guessed by the covers?’

  ‘Yes, a bit of a give-away.’

  ‘I use a pseudonym to protect my guilty secret, and I wasn’t always a lesbian if you were wondering? I was married once… to a bastard who thought he was a boxer and I was a punching bag.’

  The other woman brought a tray of drinks in, poured tea, and offered homemade honey and butter biscuits around. Parish took one, tasted it, and then helped himself to three more. He saw Richards giving him a disapproving look.

  ‘How can I help, Inspector?’

  ‘First of all, let me apologise that Tanya’s murder was never solved. Hopefully, we’ll find the killer this time around.’

  ‘I read that DI Lewin committed suicide?’

  ‘That’s another story entirely. His death certainly stalled the investigation, but the main reason there was no further progress was that the killer stopped killing. That sounds a bit harsh, but none of the evidence from Tanya’s murder pointed to a motive or a suspect – the trail simply ran dry.’

  ‘Are you any the wiser now?’

  ‘We have a motive, and a pool of suspects.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I can’t reveal any information on either at this point in time.’

  ‘I understand, and if the truth were told, I’m not sure I want to know.’ She took the other woman’s hand. ‘Sonia and I are very happy as we are, and it wouldn’t do any good to rake over old coals. So…?’

  ‘Did either of you receive any verbal or written threats?’

  ‘I suppose you mean about us being lesbians? No – As I recall, enlightenment had already occurred by 2003.’

  ‘Did Tanya say anything was troubling her at work?’

  ‘She devoted herself to the people that were allocated to her, she loved her work.’

  ‘What about her work colleagues?’

  ‘As far as I know, she got on with all of them. She never said she was having any problems with any of them.’

  ‘If this sounds indelicate, I apologise, but I have to ask. How was your relationship with Tanya?’

  ‘We loved each other.’ Bea began to cry, and she pulled a paper tissue from the sleeve of her top and dabbed her eyes. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Did you both get on with your neighbours?’

  ‘We hardly knew them, Inspector. Even now, I don’t think we could name any of them. Yes, we smile and say hello, but that’s all. Nobody knows their neighbours these days.’

  ‘Did she say whether she noticed anyone following her in the weeks prior to her death?’

  ‘Once or twice, she came home with the funny feeling she was being watched. That’s what she said, “I keep getting a funny feeling I’m being watched,” but as far as I knew she never saw anyone watching her.’

  ‘Do you think there was anyone in her past who could have killed her?’

  ‘She had worked in Social Work for twenty years and Mental Health for ten years. Her parents were dead, and she had a sister who never spoke to her. There were no ex-boyfriends, she’d known she was a lesbian since university. She had three previous relationships, but nothing for three years before me. No, I don’t think there was anyone in her past who could have ended her life.’

  Parish helped himself to another honey and butter biscuit as he stood up. ‘Thank you for your time, Miss Nosworthy, and I apologise for having to ask you to re-visit the past.’

  ‘I hope you catch him, Inspector.’

  ‘So do I.’

  Outside in the car Parish told Richards to head for Redbridge Council Offices.

  ‘Did you like the biscuits, Sir?’

  ‘They were disgusting, Richards.’

  ***

  They arrived at Redbridge Council offices at five to three, parked on the double yellow lines at the front of the building, and walked through the glass doors into the Reception. Without thinking, Parish flashed his warrant card at the plump ginger-haired receptionist, and asked for the Director of Social Services.

  ‘Oh, its you again,’ the Receptionist said. ‘Have you come to close the Council down and arrest everybody this time?’

  ‘It’s nice to feel appreciated,’ he said. ‘I can certainly arrest you for obstruction if you don’t find me someone I can speak to in the Social Services Department.’

  She ignored him and rang a number. ‘It’s that copper who called in the Fraud Squad, says he wants to talk to one of you lot again.’ She stared at him. ‘Someone’s coming down to collect you. Can you move away from the desk you’re frightening the children?’

  He looked around. Excluding himself, Richards and the Receptionist, he didn’t see anybody under fifty. ‘She certainly exudes friendliness,’ he said to Richards.

  ‘I expect they have people coming in here complaining all day every day. I doubt whether the voters pop in to say what a good job the Council is doing.’

  ‘Why would they? Our elected members don’t do a good job.’

  ‘How do you know, Sir, they might?’

  ‘Are there potholes in the roads, Richards?’

  ‘Well, yes…’

  ‘There you are then. Councils around the country are renowned for being rubbish that’s why the Government introduced targets…’

  ‘I didn’t know potholes were one of the Council’s targets, Sir.’

  ‘Most definitely. Zero tolerance on potholes.’

  ‘Detective Inspector Parish?’

  He turned to see an attractive black woman wearing a patterned sky blue suit. Light and dark brown curls fell onto her shoulders like a muddy waterfall.

  ‘That would be me,’ he replied, ‘and this is Constable Richards.’ He thought about saying how beautiful she looked, but he imagined it could be considered a sexist comment, because he wouldn’t tell a man how handsome he was. No wonder men were confused about their place in the world, and what they could and couldn’t do.

  ‘Please follow me,’ the woman said, but she didn’t introduce herself.

  As she led them through the foyer towards the lifts, Parish wondered if Carrie was still here, and if he’d see her. And then, as if the Gods were moving pieces on the board of life, the lift doors opened and there stood Carrie looking as beautiful as ever in a figure-hugging maroon dress that showed off her long slim legs.

  ‘Hello, Inspector,’ she said, but he could tell she was uncomfortable with his presence.

  ‘Hi, Carrie, how are you?’

  ‘I’m good. I’ve been watching you on the television. I hope you catch the madman soon.’

  The lift bounced to a halt on the third floor. Carrie, he recalled, worked on the fourth floor. ‘Thanks, look after yourself.’

  He stepped out of the lift.

  ‘And you, Inspector,’ she said as the doors closed.

  Richards didn’t say anything, but he saw her looking at him and he knew that she knew. It was before he’d met Angie, when he thought that sex was the way to a lasting relationship.

  ‘So, we’re following you, and you’re taking us where to see whom?’ Parish quizzed the black woman to break the awkward silence.

  ‘I’ve brought you here to see Jennifer Linden, the new Director of Social Services. That is what you wanted, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then we’ve succe
eded in our mission to satisfy one customer today.’

  He guessed she was being facetious.

  They went through a security keypad controlled door, and along a corridor with a sprung polished wood floor. Parish’s leather shoes made such a clatter that he wondered whether he should take them off and carry them.

  The woman knocked on a door at the end of the corridor, opened it and ushered them in.

  A woman came towards them. ‘Detective Inspector Parish and Constable Richards… Welcome. Please sit down. Would you like tea or coffee?’

  Parish nodded for coffee, but Richards shook her head. Maybe there was something wrong with her, he thought. He needed lots of fluids during the day, but Richards was like a camel that only took on water at the oasis.

  The woman before them was in her mid-fifties with short dyed dark brown hair brushed backwards and puffed up. Parish thought her face looked swollen, but maybe it was simply old age. He’d have to check to see whether his face was swelling up. She wore a matching green blouse and skirt with a dark brown scarf knotted around her neck. Behind her, on the wall, were the customary pictures and certificates detailing her professional life.

  ‘You’re here about Tanya Mathews?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You want to know about her cases, and whether any of them could be the killer you’re looking for?’

  ‘Yes.’ Maybe she was a clairvoyant, he thought.

  ‘I’ve been following your investigation with interest.’ She patted a twelve-inch stack of files. ‘I have them here. I’ve looked through them. Tanya had twenty-seven cases, but your killer isn’t here.’

  ‘Oh?’ Jennifer Linden was a detective as well.

  ‘There were fifteen females ranging between thirteen and fifty-seven. Another seven were ethnic minority males. The final five were white males between the ages of eighteen and forty-three. The cases covered agoraphobia, obsessive-compulsive disorder, schizophrenia, dementia, chronic depression, insomnia, and anorexia nervosa. You’re free to take a look through the files, I trust you not to breach confidentiality…’