by Tim Ellis
CO19 had arrived at the church. John Watson – the tall angular-faced Commander of the Armed Response Unit – wasn’t happy.
‘You should have waited, Parish.’
‘A serial killer has had my partner for over twelve hours, Sir, I’ll do what’s necessary to get her back.’ He recognised Roland Pettigrew. ‘Please excuse me, I have to speak to someone. Thanks for coming anyway, Sir.’
He shook hands with Mr Pettigrew. ‘Tell me about Ruben Millhouse?’
Sergeant Jackson put a coffee in front of him. ‘Thanks, Kristina.’
‘Ruben has been with us for over ten years. He maintains our database, and generally keeps himself to himself. He’s classified as disabled because he has autism.’
‘Does he suffer from diabetes?’
‘Why yes, but…’
‘Any friends?’
Pettigrew said, ‘No,’ as if Parish had asked him whether Ruben could fly. ‘He arrives on time, locks himself away in his room, eats the sandwiches he brings in for lunch, goes home on time. Very rarely does he speak to anyone. In the ten years he’s worked for me, I’ve had ten conversations – if you could call them that – with him at his annual appraisal. He arrives, reads and signs the form, and leaves. As a worker, he’s no trouble at all, but as a person he leaves a lot to be desired.’
‘I wish you’d said something about him when we came to talk to you?’
‘It never occurred to me. As far as I’m aware he’s harmless.’
‘Have you noticed any change in his behaviour over the last couple of weeks?’
‘Not really, but then I very rarely see or speak to him. The only odd thing was that he took a day off sick on Thursday, the day that you paid us a visit. That’s the first day he’s taken off sick in ten years. Whether your visit and his day off are connected I don’t know.’
‘Is there anything unusual in his personnel file?’
‘In what way?’
‘A connection to Social Services, a psychiatric report…?’
‘Nothing, except… it was probably about seven years ago. A Social Worker came into the office to see him, and he lost his temper with her. I went to see what the commotion was, but it was all over by the time I got there, and he said it was a private matter.’
‘And shortly after that, the Social Worker went missing?’
Pettigrew shuffled defensively on his chair. ‘Yes, I did hear about that, but I didn’t connect the two events. By the time she was found dead I’d forgotten all about the incident with Ruben.’
Parish realised that Ruben maintained a mask of sanity, and that Pettigrew knew very little about him outside of the working environment.
‘What about staff parties, Christmas, other celebrations?’
‘Oh we have them, but Ruben is never invited, and he never comes to one. As I said, he keeps himself to himself.’
Parish stood up and offered his hand. ‘Sorry to have dragged you out of bed so early, Mr Pettigrew, thanks for coming. Sergeant Jackson will arrange for you to be taken home.’
‘Sorry I couldn’t be of more help, Inspector.’
Constable Palgrave came up and handed Parish his front door key back.
‘Thanks, Palgrave, how’s Digby?’
‘He looked a bit sad, but I took him for a long walk and he’s okay now, Sir.’
‘Sorry to have asked that of you, but…’
‘It’s fine, Sir, I like dogs.’
‘Okay… Well, thanks again.’ He wondered when he’d next get home. Maybe he should have got Palgrave to bring Digby here instead of leaving the dog on its own. He noticed that Commander Watson had gone.
‘What next, Parish?’ the Chief said. ‘I’ve cancelled everything else. We need to focus our resources on finding Millhaven and Richards now.’
‘I’m waiting for a call from DS Gorman, Sir. If he finds an abandoned building that Ruben was looking at recently on his computer at work then we can get people over there. Toadstone is in the bungalow looking for evidence and clues, and two Constables are questioning Ruben’s neighbours.’
‘You say the blue car is in the garage?’
‘Yes.’
‘I thought…’
‘I had the same thought, Sir. If his car is here, where’s the van?’
‘You think he’s somewhere near?’
‘I don’t know, Sir, but we need to find the van.’
Chapter Twenty-Three
His phone vibrated. It was Ed Gorman.
‘What have you got, Ed?’
‘The last thing he was looking at was an abandoned train station between Grange Hill and Chigwell called Hycliffe station.’
‘Have you been to Social Services yet?’
‘I’m on my way now.’
‘Forget it, that information isn’t going to help us find Richards. Get over to the abandoned station and find out if he’s there.’
‘Okay, Gov. I’ll ring you when I get there.’
Before he could brief the Chief, the Constable who had wielded the hand-held battering ram appeared and said, ‘Sir, we’ve done the house-to-house, and unusually people were most helpful.’
‘Oh?’
‘The occupants of No. 7 Lodge Close were not well liked by anyone on the road. They were happy to tell us what they knew.’
‘Which was?’
‘The Millhavens kept themselves to themselves. There used to be lots of people coming and going – mostly men apparently, but that stopped about seven years ago when the old man had a stroke.’
‘I don’t suppose they knew that the old man had died?’
‘No, Sir.’
‘Is that it?’
‘Well, the neighbour on the left at No. 5, who can see into the rear garden of 7 Lodge Close if she looks through her daughter’s bedroom window, said the son spent a lot of time in the potting shed.’
‘So, he was a gardener?’
‘I went and had a look in the shed, Sir, and there’s no evidence of any potting or planting going on. In fact, there are cobwebs everywhere and no place to sit down.’
‘So, what are you saying, Constable?’
‘Well, I’m not really saying anything except, what was he doing in the shed?’
‘Maybe he went down there to smoke, or masturbate, or…’
The Constable interrupted him. ‘According to the same neighbour – who had video footage to support what she was saying – in the past the men who visited the bungalow were taken into the shed and they stayed there for a long time.’
‘Video footage?’
‘She showed me one tape. It had a date-time stamp of nine years ago. It wasn’t very exciting, but a man went into the shed, and came out three-and-a-half hours later.’
‘Three-and-a-half hours? What in hell does a man do in a shed for three-and-a-half hours?’
‘Well, that’s why I mentioned it, Sir.’
‘There’s something else in that shed, isn’t there?’
‘I looked, but I couldn’t see anything unusual.’
‘Well, we need to take another look. Good job, Constable…?’
‘…Musgrove, Sir.’
‘Come on Musgrove, let’s go and take another look in this potting shed and see what we can find.’
It was light outside. The church car park was full, and there were more vehicles arriving all the time. He noticed a white Mercedes van in a corner under a hanging branch that he hadn’t spotted before in the dark – although he hadn’t been looking for a van.
‘Listen, I can deal with the shed, Musgrove, what I want you to do is to go back inside the church and ask Sergeant Jackson to find out who this white van belongs to.’
‘If you’re sure, Sir?’
‘I’m sure.’
He left Musgrove writing down the registration number and walked back to 7 Lodge Close.
Forensics had put clear plastic sheeting throughout the bungalow to safeguard any evidence, and a female officer stationed at the door wouldn’t let him in until he’
d donned a paper suit, mask and gloves.
‘I’m Detective Inspector Parish.’
‘I don’t care, Sir. If I let you in, later you’ll say it was my fault that the evidence was contaminated because I let you in.’
He had no choice but to put the articles on. Inside he said to Toadstone, ‘There’s a Rottweiler on the door, Toadstone.’
‘I know, Megan’s great, isn’t she?’
‘Have you been in the shed yet?’
‘I didn’t know there was one.’
‘According to Constable Musgrove, who did the house-to-house, there’s been some strange goings-on in there.’
He stood to one side and made a sweeping gesture with his arm. ‘Lead the way, Sir, let’s take a look.’
Parish walked down the hall and into the living room. He opened the patio doors, stepped outside onto a small crazy-paving patio, and followed the flagstone path to the green mouldy shed.
Parish opened the door and stopped. ‘Have you got a torch, Toadstone?’
‘No.’
‘Well?’
‘I’ll go and get one should I?’
‘That would be good. I’ll wait here until you get back.’
He peered into the darkness. What the hell was he hoping to find? The only thing it could be was a door to a secret underground room. What else would be in a potting shed at the bottom of a garden? Why did his cases always end with him descending into dark underground tunnels and confronting his nightmares?
‘Okay,’ Toadstone said when he returned carrying a torch. ‘Do you want me to go first, Sir?’
‘You think I’m scared?’
‘I don’t think anything, I was merely offering to go first.’
He took the torch from Toadstone. ‘I’ll go first.’ He didn’t want to, but neither did he want to appear afraid in front of Toadstone, even if he was. He felt his heart rate increase and the saliva disappeared from his mouth as he stepped inside the shed.
‘Do you see anything?’
‘Give me a chance, Toadstone.’ He shone the light all around, but Musgrove was right there was nothing in there except cobwebs, rusty gardening tools, old plastic and ceramic flower pots, and a dirty wheelbarrow. ‘I can’t see anything, what about you?’
‘Just a minute.’ He went back outside and Parish followed him.
‘What?’
‘The outside is bigger than the inside.’
Parish moved between the door and the side to compare the depth of the shed then said, ‘You’re right, Toadstone, well done.’ He went back inside and examined the back wall. The tools had been fixed in place on the wall, and in the left-hand corner was a wire loop that he put his hand through and pulled. The wall moved towards him, and seemed to be hinged in the right-hand corner. He removed the Glock 17 from his pocket and released the safety catch. ‘Stay behind me, Toadstone.’
***
The light came on.
Richards screwed her eyes shut, but then she heard footsteps coming towards her and unscrewed them again.
A large muscular man wearing dark green corduroy trousers with a brown belt, and a checked shirt open at the neck stood outside the cage watching her. He had close-cropped hair like a soldier, a high forehead and a long square chin, bushy eyebrows that met in the middle, ears pressed close to his head and the strangest mouth she had ever seen. The lips were thick and didn’t seem to come to a point in the corners, but what she found most disconcerting was the fact that the lips drooped downwards in a permanent frown. If he stood on his head his mouth would be smiling.
‘Can I have some water, please?’
Now that the lights were on, she saw where she was for the first time. It was a long thin room with a low ceiling. Her cage had been built at the end opposite the entrance. Against the left-hand wall was a single bed, the mattress covered with a hairy grey blanket, beyond that a worktop with cupboards below it, and a small white fridge with a television perched on top. Along the right-hand wall were an old threadbare sofa, a table and chairs, and a camcorder on a tripod.
Her captor went to the fridge, took out a bottle of water, and rolled it through a gap at the base of her cage. He didn’t speak.
‘Thank you.’ She took a long swallow and savoured the refreshing coolness.
‘Why have you brought me here?’
He remained silent.
‘Where are my clothes?
There was still no response.
‘Why am I locked in this cage?’
She began to wonder whether he could speak, but then he said, ‘I wanted you to love me, to have my baby, but now God wants me to kill you.’
Her heart began to thrash about and she wanted to pee again. ‘You don’t have to kill me.’ She pushed herself up against the wall and tried to keep calm. ‘You could let me go, I wouldn’t tell anyone.’
‘I was the instrument of God’s will, I was going to sit at his left hand, but now He has turned his face away from me.’
She had an awful feeling that there was no way to reason with him. He was talking to her, but seemed to be somewhere else.
‘I am a sinner like those I have punished. It’s your fault He has turned away from me. You’re so beautiful…’ He took a pace forward, and she pressed herself even further against the wall. ‘You seduced me with your innocence. I wanted a son so much. All those others were dirty, they couldn’t give me what I wanted…’
Then she realised what he was talking about. ‘It’s the diabetes, you know, that’s why you can’t give a woman a baby,’ but he wasn’t listening.
He pulled a knife from the waistband of his trousers – a double-edged Commando knife. ‘If I kill you, everything will be as it should be. He will welcome me back into His embrace.’
She tried to keep calm, to remember her plan, but he was so big. It was then that she saw three jars on a shelf – the other victim’s eyes bobbing about in liquid, looking at her, pleading with her. She screamed, but the sound seemed to die as soon as it left her mouth.
He produced a key from his pocket, unlocked a padlock on the outside that she hadn’t noticed before, and pulled the front of her cage open.
When she heaved the contents of the bucket into his face with all her strength, the urine splashed back onto her because he was so close.
He staggered backward, grunted as he covered his stinging eyes, and spat the urine out of his mouth. The knife clattered on the concrete floor.
She sprang from the cage, and used his own momentum to propel him further backward, but he veered to the left and fell onto the bed. Moving quickly, she tried to find the knife.
The blanket lay crumpled in a heap inside the cage. She couldn’t do what she had to do holding onto a blanket. Now was not the time for modesty. He had already seen her naked when he’d taken her clothes off, probably touched her all over with his filthy monstrous hands. But she couldn’t think about that now, she had to find the knife.
A low growl erupted from his mouth as he clambered up and came towards her.
She saw the knife then, peeking from under the side of the sofa. As she wrapped her right hand around the handle, he reached her and grabbed her arm. Terrified, she lashed out with the knife and opened up a deep gash across his forearm. Blood ran freely onto the concrete, but he didn’t let go of her arm. She brought the knife in a semi-circle and stabbed him in the stomach, but before she could withdraw the knife and stab him again, he had hold of her wrist and forced her to let the knife go.
He pushed her hard against the wall hurting her shoulder, and eased the knife from his own stomach. ‘We will both die here, Mary Richards. If I can’t have you, no one will.’
She was trapped with nowhere to run.
***
Parish stepped downward into the blackness thinking that his heart was going to burst from his chest. He shone the light, and saw that the concrete stairs descended about six feet into an underground tunnel. At the bottom, he waited for Toadstone to catch him up, and then moved forward in the dire
ction of the house.
Up ahead he could see a light and hear faint noises.
‘Maybe we should wait for back-up, Sir,’ Toadstone said.
Parish ignored him, and wondered why he’d brought the Chief Forensic Officer anyway. Toadstone should be in the house collecting evidence not down here confronting a serial killer. He wished he’d brought Musgrove with him now, but at least he had the gun.
The further he went along the tunnel, which seemed to be the whole length of the garden, the harder it was to breathe. He guessed that the tunnel ended in a room underneath the house, which presumably had made it simpler to provide electricity, lighting, and probably water.
‘Are you sure this is a good idea, Sir?’
‘You should go back, Toadstone, I don’t want you getting hurt.’
‘I’ll stay with you, Sir, you might need my help.’
Parish couldn’t imagine any circumstance in which he would need Toadstone’s help – except in collecting evidence and he wasn’t very good at that, but then he’d always had a limited imagination.
They reached a tatty curtain that hung over the doorway to a room. Parish peered through a gap between the wall and the curtain and saw Richards fighting with a man twice her size. He leapt through into the room as Millhaven raised a knife to strike Richards and Parish pulled the trigger. The noise ricocheted in the small space, and he felt the pressure on his eardrums.
Millhaven didn’t drop down dead as he’d expected. Instead, he turned and ran at Parish who fired again, but the bullet missed and embedded itself in the ceiling, by which time the killer had hold of Parish’s wrist. The gun fell to the floor and Parish was forced to the ground.
Richards took a running jump onto Ruben’s back, and began gouging at his eyes.
Then there was another loud explosion, and Millhaven fell sideways. Toadstone stood over him with the smoking pistol in his hand.
‘Did I kill him?’ Toadstone said.
Parish wriggled from beneath the heavy body and checked the pulse at his neck. ‘Looks like it, Toadstone, good job.’
Toadstone dropped the gun and fainted.