by Tim Ellis
‘No wonder you’re a Detective Inspector, Sir. Do you think I’ll ever be as good as you?’
‘If you work hard, possibly, but first you have to pass your NIE. How’s your studying going?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll test you tonight.’
‘I might be too tired.’
‘You won’t be. You can walk Digby with me and I’ll ask you questions as we go.’
‘If I must.’
‘So, the link between the victims is the messages. Each woman was selected because they had sinned, but we’ve not examined this thoroughly, Richards.’
‘We haven’t?’
‘No, what else do we need to do?’
‘My stomach’s rumbling. Do you think…?’
‘No. What else?’
She got up and stretched. ‘What was the question again… Religion?’
‘Go on?’
‘Well… we don’t know what religion any of the victims were?’
‘And?’
‘Church… where they went to church, or if they went at all.’
‘Good. You can do it when you use that tiny walnut clattering about inside your skull – we’ll look into that tomorrow. The trouble is they all lived in different areas of Redbridge, so I can’t see all the victims belonging to the same church. Father Rosario said that the killer hung them upside down to indicate they were going to burn in hell.’
‘Do people still believe in that, Sir?’
‘Our killer obviously does.’
‘It’s…’
‘One last thing before we go to lunch, Richards. ‘Remember when we went to Planning at Redbridge Council?’
‘Yes?’
‘The man we spoke to…’
‘Roland Pettigrew, Head of Planning?’
‘Exactly… Well, he mentioned that their Archivist, who keeps the website on the abandoned buildings up to date, was off sick.’
‘And we should find out…?’
‘…Who it is, yes. He didn’t say if it was a man or a woman did he?’
‘No, Sir.’
‘Add it to the list for tomorrow.’
‘Done, Sir. Can we…?’
‘Where are we going to go?’
‘The canteen is close and cheap.’
‘It’ll be noisy and busy at…’ He checked his watch, ‘…five past one.'
'With people we know.'
'It'll save time, I suppose.'
***
After lunch they set off to interview the three suspects. Richards aimed the pool car toward the farthest suspect first – A Gerald Hornby who lived at 16 Sunnymede off Lambourne Road on the outskirts of Chigwell.
During the journey Parish read Hornby's case history that Richards had printed out from the Department of Health database – a schizophrenic with three arrests for unprovoked attacks on strangers who thought his ex-wife was plotting with MI5 to remove his personality. He could also feel a transmitter in his neck, and hear his wife whispering with the security services to drain his emotions. The concluding comment by the psychiatrist was that when he takes his medication he is able to manage his illness, but he keeps forgetting to take the drugs.
Parish shook his head. 'It makes you wonder why they let these people out to fend for themselves, Richards.'
‘It’s not their fault, Sir.’
‘Nobody said it was, but unless they’re closely monitored they can become a danger to society. Care in the community has failed so many times that it should have been abandoned long ago.’
‘Why aren’t they kept in hospital, Sir?’
‘Money, Richards.’
‘You always say that.’
‘I always say it, because it’s true. Everybody pretends that they're working in the best interests of the patient, but what they're really doing is trying to save money.’
'Do you think one day I'll become as cynical as you, Sir?'
'Cynicism is a pre-requisite for the job, Richards. Remember this as you stumble through life: Everybody lies, everybody is out for what they can get, and everybody wants to hurt you.'
'That's terrible.'
'But true.'
'My mum wouldn't hurt me.'
'You can exclude your mum from that mantra.'
'And loved ones?'
Parish made a sound with his lips. 'Loved ones are the worst.'
'You wouldn't hurt me, would you?'
'I'm nearly family now, Richards.'
'If you married my mum, you would be?'
'Let's not start that again.'
'What about the Chief?'
'The Chief has a job to do. If you get in the way of him doing that job, he'll sacrifice you.'
'Kowalski?'
'Don't get me started on Kowalski. He's out for what he can get, and he doesn't care who gets hurt in the process.'
'You don't like people much do you, Sir?'
'Not really, Richards. You never see the real people, they all walk round with masks on.'
'I don't wear a mask.'
'And that's what will get you into trouble. Without a mask people can see your vulnerability. You're like a Christian smeared in blood inside the lion's den.'
'We're here.'
Richards parked outside the terraced houses that had been converted into flats. Gerald Hornby lived in the end-of-terrace ground floor flat.
Richards walked round the Mondeo to stand next to Parish looking at the flat. 'All the curtains are drawn,' she said.
'God knows what we'll find inside, come on.'
They walked along the paving stone path to the door at the side of the house and Parish knocked – nobody came.
‘Say something through the letterbox, Richards.’
‘Me, Sir?’
‘I don’t see anybody else here called Richards.’
‘But…’
‘Say something soothing, make him trust you, do your reassuring voice.’
Richards squatted, pushed the letterbox open, and looked at Parish.
‘When you’re ready, Richards. We haven’t got all day, you know.’
‘Hello, Mr Hornby, it’s the police. Please open the door, we’d like to speak to you.’
There was no response, but Parish saw a movement beyond the pitted glass in the door.
‘I can see someone moving, Richards. Say something else, lay it on thick. Make him think he’s won a year’s free care in the private hospital down the road.’
After another ten minutes of coaxing, Richards managed to get Gerald Hornby to open the door. The smell of rotting food, body odour, urine, and something unrecognisable hit them as they walked into the hallway. Gerald had retreated into the darkness of the living room.
‘It stinks, Sir.’
Parish found the light switch, but when he flicked it on nothing happened. He looked up at the ceiling automatically and saw that there was no light bulb in the fitting.
‘You check the other rooms, I’ll speak to Gerald,’ Parish said.
‘He might not talk to you, Sir.’
‘Well, if he doesn’t, I’ll call for the cavalry.’
Parish edged into the living room. A sliver of grey light followed him down the hallway and into the room. He tried the light switch, but again nothing happened.
Gerald Hornby crouched on a chair with a torch looking around nervously. ‘They put bugs in the bulbs,’ he whispered. ‘I could see the wires, hear them buzzing. You’re not from the security services are you?’
‘No, I’m not. Does somebody come in to look after you?’
‘Security agents try, but I don’t let them in.’
‘Sir?’
Richards stood in the doorway.
‘Yes?’
‘I think we should call someone?’
‘Because?’
‘If he’s sleeping in the bedroom, he’s lying on a stained mattress with no bedding. There are no bulbs in any of the lights, and only cockroaches in the kitchen. I don’t think he’s had a wash for ages.’
‘No, Gerald,’ Richards said. ‘You need looking after.’
‘Do you know who to call?’ Parish asked.
‘An ambulance?’
‘Sounds like a good idea.’
‘He’s not a killer is he, Sir?’
‘No. It doesn’t look as though he’s been out of this flat for some time.’
Richards called for an ambulance on her mobile. They waited twenty minutes until it arrived and took Gerald Hornby away.
‘We’re running out of time aren’t we, Sir?’ Richards said as she drove the short distance to 57 Brocket Way.
‘Which is reduced even further when you interrupt me while I’m reading.’
She said, ‘Sorry,’ and stuck her tongue out.
‘I saw that,’ Parish grunted without looking up. He read the printout about Roland Winkler who was also a schizophrenic with a history of violence. When he was twenty-four he wandered off from his brother's house who then never saw him for seven years. His brother found him again purely by accident walking along the promenade in Southend, and followed him home. He was living in a tin-foil lined squat, and his last meal had been an unplucked, ungutted, uncooked pigeon, which he said he'd cooked for half an hour in the oven, but the squat had no electricity. Roland hadn't been drawing his unemployment benefit, because he said the money should be sent to the third world instead. He thought that God lived in the bathroom, and had told him that he should deny himself for the benefit of the third world. When he was interviewed in casualty he was dressed in a filthy boiler suit with a large pentagram painted on the breast pocket. He claimed to be a prophet of God, and that he had been chosen as God's first earthly disciple. God talks to him throughout the day.
'This one sounds promising,' he said when he’d finished reading.
Richards pulled up outside a small bungalow with grey net curtains at the windows. The front garden was overgrown, and there were weeds sprouting between the flagstones on the path. The surrounding houses also looked the worse for winter neglect.
Parish pulled his mobile out and phoned the Chief.
‘I’m not going to make the briefing tonight, Sir.’
‘I’d already reached that conclusion, Parish. It’s twenty past five, and I’m walking out of the station on my way home.’
‘Yeah, sorry Chief.’
‘You’ve got a press briefing tomorrow morning, haven’t you?’
‘Nine o’clock.’
‘I’ll come in at eight, so we can talk about where the investigation is going.’
‘See you then, Chief.’
Flakes of black paint scattered underfoot as they entered the property through a rusty metal gate. The front door opened before they reached it. A plump woman with straggly dirty-blonde hair hanging to her shoulders and grey-tinted glasses barred their way.
‘Yes?’
Parish revealed his warrant card, and introduced himself and Richards.
‘My Roland hasn’t done anything. Every time you lot want someone to blame, you come looking for Roland. Well, you can sod off.’ She stepped backwards and shut the door.
‘Was it something I said?’ Parish joked and banged on the door.
‘Sod off.’
‘You don’t want me to call for a bunch of uniforms to break down your door, tramp through your house and arrest Roland, do you?’
‘Do what you want, pig.’
‘Mrs Winkler, please be reasonable.’
The door opened and a giant appeared. ‘It’s all right, mum,’ he said, ‘I can deal with it.’ The heavy-set man was about six foot seven with a paunch and unkempt black matted hair. ‘Yes?’
‘Is it all right if we come in?’
‘No, say what you’ve got to say out here.’
‘Are you Roland Winkler?’
‘Yes.’
‘What’s your shoe size?’
‘Sixteen and a half.’
‘Where were you last night at eleven-thirty?’
‘In bed, and my mum can vouch for me.’
‘Are you taking your medication?’
Roland’s mother stuck her head through the small gap between her son and the doorframe. ‘That’s why I’m here, I make sure he doesn’t miss any of his pills, I’m his registered carer now.’
‘Thank you very much for your co-operation Mr Winkler, we won’t be bothering you anymore.’
‘Is that it?’ Mrs Winkler asked. ‘You’re not going to drag him away in handcuffs?’
‘I don’t think there’s any need for that. Goodbye.’
‘It’s probably a good job we didn’t have to arrest him, Sir.’ Richards said as they walked back down the path.
‘We? You were the one who put him on the list. I would have left it to you.’
They laughed.
‘And then there was one,’ Parish said climbing back into the car.
It was half past five as Richards turned left onto Romford Road and another left into Lambourne Road. She drove past Lodge Close on the left, and Grove Lane on the right to reach School Lane.
‘So what’s the story with this one, Richards?’ Parish said as Richards turned the engine off outside 18 School Lane.
‘He’s not a schizophrenic, but he may as well be. His name is Victor Risler and he lives on his own. He’s thirty-three, has a police record stretching over three pages, which you’ve got there, and he’s spent most of his life in and out of prison. What's interesting though is that he's a religious fanatic.'
'In what way?'
'In one incident he was in Chigwell Town Centre quoting from the Bible when he stripped off his clothes, pulled a red-hot branding iron from a brazier, and burnt a twelve-inch cross into his chest.'
Parish shivered. 'Bloody hell.'
'Needless to say, he was arrested and taken to the hospital.'
‘Arrested… What for?’
‘Indecency, I think.’
Parish scanned the list of offences and found the indecency charge. ‘He was released with a caution.’
‘And some painkillers, Sir.’
‘Oh yes, very funny, Richards. If it wasn’t nearly half past five on a Friday evening I might have laughed. Come on, let’s go and see if he’s the one.’
They knocked on the door of the semi-detached three-bedroom house. A thin wiry man with long dark brown hair, wearing jeans and a black T-shirt with I Am a Child of God emblazoned on the front came to the door.
‘Piss off,’ he said.
‘Is that how you always answer the door, Mr Risler?’
‘No, I only welcome coppers like that.’
‘Can we come in?’
‘What do you think?’
‘I’d like to ask you some questions.’
‘Ask away, I have nothing but time.’
‘How tall are you?’
‘Five ten.’
‘Shoe size?’
‘Are you measuring me up for a coffin?’
‘Just answer the question, Mr Risler.’
‘Ten.’
‘Where were you last night?’
‘I had friends round for a Bible Meeting, and then we all got pissed, and passed out.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Is that it? Aren’t you going to tell me what it’s…? Hang on, you’re the copper who’s investigating the murdered women, aren’t you? So, you think I’m a killer now?’
‘Enjoy your weekend, Mr Risler,’ Parish said as he walked back towards the car.
‘I should sue you bastards for slander,’ Risler shouted after them.
‘Feel free,’ Parish tossed back at him.
In the car, Parish felt drained of all energy. He leaned back in the seat and closed his eyes.
‘We have no suspects now.’
‘I love the way you state the obvious, Richards.’
‘Thank you, Sir.’
‘I was being sarcastic.’
‘I know.’
Richards pulled into the station
car park at twenty-five past six and dropped Parish off.
‘I’ll see you at the car in fifteen minutes, and be careful walking back in the dark.’
‘You look tired, Sir.’
‘I am. Fifteen minutes. If you’re not here I’ll go without you.’
‘As if.’
Chapter Eighteen
Gabriel saw Mary Richards drop off her boss in the police station car park and then drive to O’Flynn’s Garage. He had his collar up against the wind and his hands stuffed into his jacket pockets. He was ready, had been since arriving three hours ago. The van was parked so that the side door faced the pavement along which she would walk. There were no CCTV cameras that he could see, but he knew there would be one or two further along the road, so he had his pig mask to hand. The rag and the bottle of chloroform were in the back – all he had to do was unscrew the cap and pour the liquid onto the rag.
Yes, he was ready for the beautiful Mary Richards. His secret room had been prepared as well. He climbed into the driver’s seat and waited for her to walk out of O’Flynn’s Garage. Soon, she would be his, and then he would be a man. He would give her a baby, and become a father just like his father.
Then he saw her through the side mirror walking towards him. He scrambled into the back, put the pig mask on, and poured a liberal quantity of chloroform into the clean rag – Mary Richards deserved a clean rag. He had put oil on the runners to make sure the door moved effortlessly – and it did.
She looked surprised as he appeared in front of her and pressed the chloroform-soaked rag over her nose and mouth.
When she went limp, he caught her in his strong arms, then dragged her into the back of the van and closed the door.
It was so easy – all over in the blink of an eye.
His heart began to pound with anticipation as he pulled out into the busy Friday night traffic.
***
‘Parish, as I live and breathe,’ Kowalski said as Parish walked into the squad room. A typist’s chair sagged under his weight as he sat with his feet crossed on the desk reading. ‘Don’t tell me, you’ve solved the case, arrested the killer, the Chief Constable wants to give you a medal for bravery, and there’s a vacancy for an Assistant Commissioner?’