by Ellis, Tim
‘You’re sounding like his cheerleader now?’
‘I know it’s hard to believe, but I used to be a shrinking violet myself in times gone by.’
‘As if.’
‘Squeeze his hand across the table. Give him the confidence he lacks when he’s with you. If you and your beast want to live happily ever after, you have to break the fairy curse.’
***
Angie sat on the edge of the bed and cried. Before, she would have already been up and showered, but now everything was so much effort. She stood in front of the mirror and let her dressing gown fall to the floor. What a damned mess! Her breasts sagged like an old aged pensioner’s; she’d put on two and a half stone that she couldn’t seem to get rid of; the flat stomach she used to have was now a spare tyre for a dump truck.
Jed kept trying to touch her as if everything was the same as before, but it would never be the same again. Now she was ugly. Her body belonged to an old woman. The bruises from what that Karen Kincaid had done to her were still evident – yellowing, but still there to remind her of her own death.
Kowalski should have let her die instead of Lola. Angela Parish didn’t deserve to live. She had given her baby to another woman. She should be dead and buried in that wood – in the cold dark earth. She would always hate Kowalski for saving her. She didn’t want to be saved, had wanted to die. A woman who couldn’t protect her own baby deserved to die.
The baby started crying again. She covered her ears with her hands. It wasn’t her baby. She was taking care of another woman’s brat. They had given her the wrong baby back. That’s why she didn’t love it, and never would.
She couldn’t tell Jed or Mary that she had the wrong baby. They would think she was crazy. Was she crazy? Who could she tell? She felt so alone.
She knew she should shower, change her clothes, and take care of the baby, but she was so tired. She crawled back under the quilt. Someone would come and stop the baby crying. How long could it cry for anyway? Maybe, she should stop it crying. She could give it milk, but it would only start again. Maybe she needed a more permanent solution. She pulled the pillow tight over her head and drifted off to sleep again.
***
‘Well, have you got the answers yet, Stick?’ DS Blake said as she walked out of the tent. Yes, she liked that name better than Rowley. She hadn’t planned on calling him “Stick” – it had just tumbled out of her mouth naturally. The name “Rowley” gave the impression of a round jovial type of person, which was as far away from what stood before her as one could possibly get.
‘Is that what you’re going to call me?’
‘I think so.’
‘Okay. There used to be a German tennis player called Stich.’ He spelled it for her.
‘You have the habit of sucking the joy out of every situation, Stick. Answer the fucking question, and stop being a boring fart.’
‘I’ve got the answers.’ He withdrew his notebook and flipped over the pages. ‘The house was built in 1937...’
‘You’re not going to go back to 1937, are you?’
‘You said, and let me quote you word for word here, “I want to know who owned this house from the time it was built until now, and who laid the patio”.’
‘Oh, you’re one of those, are you? One of those people who remember every word a person has said, and then throws it back in their face to prove you’re right.’
‘I’m only going off what you asked me to do.’
‘Somewhere in there should be a tiny spark of initiative, and let me quote the Doc word for word here, “They died between two and fifteen years ago”, so that should have told you that you only had to go back to 1997. At the earliest, and to be on the safe side, maybe go back to 1995. So, in future I expect you to use the brain your mother gave you... she did give you a brain didn’t she?’
‘I have a brain.’
‘Excellent! Then fucking well use it. Now, can we get back to the answers, before I take root and a dog comes along and pisses up my leg?’
‘From 1987...’
‘I’m...’
‘...Until 1999, the house belonged to Judge Margaret Boyd and her husband – Luke Boyd. From 1999 until 2005 Mathew Tucker, Labour Member of Parliament for Hobbs Cross, and his wife, Amanda lived in it. From 2005 until 2008, the singer Mally Haynes – from the heavy metal band Buzz Pig – owned the house. From 2008 to 2011, Louise Marsden, and her friend Iwona Przygoda, lived in the house. She’s...’
‘...A lesbian?’
‘I was going to say Louise Marsden is the actress who played Mazie Razor in the last Bond film. She gave Bond a hard time...’
‘Like I’m going to give you a hard time unless you get a fucking move on, you mean?’
‘In 2011, a businessman called David Rushforth, and his wife Lily, bought the house. He was the one who found the first skeleton and called the police.’
‘Okay, you’re doing well so far. What about...?’
‘A company called Arvon Paving laid the patio in 2003.’
‘None of that helps us, Stick.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘So you fucking should be. I expected answers, and all you’ve given me are names and dates. We’re going to have to work for a living now.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Stop saying you’re sorry. Let’s go and talk to the current owners and see what lies they’re going to tell us.’
They walked round to the side door and knocked. Forensics had taken over the large conservatory, and were using it as a rest area, so they couldn’t access the house that way.
Maybe her initial impression of Stick was a bit harsh. He seemed eager to please, and especially eager to please her. Usually, it was a battle of wills with a new partner, but Stick seemed to have rolled over. All she had to do was tickle his tummy – metaphorically speaking, of course – now and again.
‘If, at any time, it appears that I’m getting soft and mellowing, I don’t want you to get it into your head that I like you. I don’t like you, and I never will. You’re probably the worst partner I’ve ever had. So you just do as you’re told, don’t start having dirty dreams about me, and never breathe on me. If you follow those simple instructions we’ll get along just fine.’
‘Yes, Sarge.’
The door opened. An attractive woman with blonde hair, Emu Stinger shoes, a Stella McCartney ink diamond print dress, and a Dolce & Gabbana silver necklace with matching wrist and ankle chains was standing there.
‘Yes?’
Blake imagined that Lily Rushforth would be wearing La Rouge lingerie, and her Gucci handbag was positioned somewhere prominent inside.
‘We’d like to talk to you and your husband about what was found under the patio.’
The bitch looked at her as if the fucking designer Chihuahua had left a turd on the doorstep. ‘I’m sorry. Now is not convenient – maybe later.’ She began to shut the door.
Xena put her foot in the gap. ‘Or, I could take you down to the station for obstructing a police investigation, strip you bollock naked, get Stick here to search your internal orifices, and well... make your life totally fucking miserable. Your choice, lady?’ and she spat the “lady” part out.
‘Well, I never...’
‘Maybe you should, it’ll ease the tension a bit.’
‘I’ll be lodging a complaint...’
‘Let’s cut through the crap, shall we? I don’t care who the fuck you complain to. Stick and me are here to do a job, and you’re getting in the way. Now, I suggest you co-operate before you really piss me off.’
‘You’d better come in then. Please wipe your feet.’
They followed Mrs Rushforth into a room with easy chairs. Blake made a point of not wiping her feet and nudged Stick when she heard him making a noise on the coconut matting by the door.
‘Take a seat, I’ll get my husband.’
‘And don’t keep me waiting,’ Blake shouted after her as she sat down. ‘Or I’ll come and find you.’
/> ‘Maybe if you were more pleasant...’ Stick began to say.
‘Did I say you could advise me on etiquette?’
‘No, Sarge.’
‘Well, shut the fuck up then.’
A short man, who must have been twenty years older than his wife, with thinning hair and a smile like an assassin arrived with an outstretched hand. ‘Detectives... how can I be of service?’
Xena shook the hand. She didn’t want to, but she knew that if she didn’t he would have grabbed her by the elbow and forced his hand into hers. Mr Rushforth hadn’t made his money by being coy.
‘You found the skeletons under the patio?’
‘I could have brought someone in, but it was only the one slab – a small job. Lift it, smooth out the ground underneath, and lay it back down again – what could be simpler?’
She waited.
‘Anyway, as soon as I started smoothing out the dirt underneath, there it was – a hand. Well... the bones of a hand to be precise. I wonder how the bones all hang together without any skin and so forth. I was just telling the Lady Mayoress...’
‘So, the reason you lifted the patio slab was to flatten it?’
‘Yes. One edge was raised. Maybe the victim was in the process of climbing out... You hear about things like that, where...’
‘And then you called the police?’
‘Most definitely. I didn’t get where I am today by flouting rules. A house with a few skeletons was just what we needed. Wasn’t it, dear?’
Blake’s brow furrowed. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘We’re the talk of the village. We have a whole list of invites for the next six months. I might even do a lecture tour, charge a small fee, you know the thing. You’ll keep us informed? And if you need my help... Well, I’m at your disposal. I can see a book coming out of all this. “How I helped the police solve the crime of the century” by Dave Rushforth. What do you think?’
Blake stood up. ‘Thank you for your time, Mr Rushforth. Come on Stick; let’s get the hell out of here.’
On her way out, she was pleased to see muddy footprints on the beige – nearly white – carpet that matched her shoe size.
‘Fucking weirdoes,’ she said to Stick outside.
‘Yes, Sarge.’
Chapter Three
‘You think we’ve got another serial killer, don’t you?’
They were following the quiet and picturesque Loughton Lane out of Theydon Bois towards Debden and Loughton. Nadine Chryst had lived at 3 Campions in Loughton, which was close to Great Monk Wood on the other side of the A121.
‘I didn’t say anything.’
‘You don’t have to it’s written all over your face.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘You wear a worried expression. There’s a faraway look in your eyes, and your mouth starts to go down at the corners.’
She laughed. ‘You’re making it up.’
‘I wouldn’t know how, and I haven’t mentioned the droopy ears, the moaning, and the limp. The trouble with you is you think as soon as we get a murder it’s another serial killer. I mean, how many serial killers can there be in Essex?’
‘How long is a piece of string?’
‘Well, I think you’re wrong this time.’
‘I’m not, you wait and see. Someone who cuts a person’s eyes out is going to kill again.’
‘Suddenly, you’re a criminal profiler. We’ll see.’
As expected, Campions was full of reporters. He’d given up wondering how they found out about murders before he did. Richards had to park the car at the entrance to the cul-de-sac, and from there they walked down to the house.
‘Inspector Parish, did you have a good Christmas and New Year?’ one of the reporters called from behind the police tape.
‘Very good, thank you.’
‘And congratulations on the baby.’
‘Seven pounds four ounces if you must know, and his name is Jack.’
‘Is your wife through the worst?’
‘As well as can be expected under the circumstances.’
‘What can you tell us about Nadine Chryst?’
‘Ah, now we’re getting to the main reason you’re all being so nice to me.’
There was a smattering of laughter.
‘Like you, we’re just doing our jobs.’
He stopped and raised his hands for quiet. ‘Nadine Chryst was murdered at approximately five o’clock this morning, and found at six thirty by a group of ramblers in an abandoned furniture warehouse in Theydon Bois.’
‘Have you got any suspects?’
‘No, not yet.’
‘Do you know why she was in Theydon Bois?’
‘We think she was abducted from her house during the night, but that has yet to be confirmed by forensics.’
‘Why Nadine Chryst?’
‘Why anybody?’
‘Can you tell us anything about the way she was murdered?’
‘No, we’re waiting for the post mortem results.’
‘Do you think the killer was one of her many stalkers?’
‘We don’t think anything yet, the investigation has only just begun. As soon as we have something more, we’ll let you know.’
‘Have you got any information on the bodies at Hobbs Cross, Inspector?’
‘That’s not my case. You’ll have to speak to DS Blake.’
‘Have you got anything to say, Constable Richards?’
‘Since when does Constable Richards say anything at press briefings?’
They carried on towards number three.
‘Maybe I could say something.’
‘Like what?’
‘Well, maybe I could introduce you... give you a big build-up.’
He laughed. ‘Do you think I need a big build-up?’
‘I could be your image consultant.’
‘Stop talking.’
The houses on Campions were extensive, and valued in the region of between £1.2 and £3 million. A forensic truck was parked on the road outside the late Nadine Chryst’s house.
‘I’m no estate agent,’ Parish said, standing on the pavement and staring up at the house. ‘But this is what I call a house.’
The building was painted white, with Georgian windows. Paving slabs stepped up to a winding path, which led to an arched front door. They climbed the steps and headed towards the house.
‘She was an actress.’
‘Does that explain why she can afford a two million-pound house, and I can’t?’
‘They get paid lots of money, I suppose.’
‘Exactly. The society we live in values a person who acts in a daytime soap more highly than an extremely good-looking and highly skilled police officer. One who acts as a barrier between the ungrateful members of that society and the evil wishing to consume them, who lays his life on the line day after day to fight the jabberwocky, who...’
‘You’re crazy.’
‘Fighting monsters can do that to you. We live in an upside-down society. We’re the ones who should be living in these houses, not some bimbo of an actress.’
‘I think you’d make a good actor.’
‘Do you?’
‘Oh yes, you’d be ideal as the Hunchback of Notre Dame, or maybe Gollum out of Lord of the Rings, or...’
He knocked on the solid wood door. ‘We could both pack in policing and get Equity cards. I see you as a Gorgon, or maybe the alien opposite Sigourney Weaver, or Annie in Misery, or...’
‘You could be...’
‘Sshhh, someone’s coming. Pretend to be a police officer.’
‘I am a...’
He nudged her.
The door opened. A heavily sweating man with short dark hair, a towel hanging from his neck, and muscles on his muscles accentuated by a skin-tight T-shirt and shorts, was standing blocking their way.
‘More police?’
‘Yes.’ Parish showed his warrant card. ‘And this is Constable Richards.’
Richards half-smiled
and blushed.
‘You’d better come in.’
They stepped into a spacious lobby with a winding staircase up to the second floor. White-suited forensic officers were moving up and down the stairs, and in and out of the ground floor rooms. For some strange reason the scene reminded Parish of an Escher drawing.
‘Who are you?’ he asked the man.
‘I’m Nadine’s boyfriend, Ally Christie. Or, should I say I was.’
‘And where...?’
‘...Was I last night? You’ve probably guessed I work out?’
‘It had occurred to me.’
‘I’m a professional bodybuilder and model. There was a competition at the Corn Exchange in Bedford last night. Afterwards, I stayed over at a friend’s house.’
‘Name and address?’
Richards pulled out her notebook and wrote the details down. She then wandered over to the right-hand wall to look at the display of photographs showing a woman in her late twenties with shiny black hair cascading past her shoulders, striking silver-grey eyes, and an angular jawline. Nadine Chryst was certainly a beautiful woman. Parish wondered whether the ample breasts were real, or the result of cosmetic surgery.
‘Nadine was a great actress,’ Christie said. ‘Everybody knows her now as Susan Peck in The Mall, but she did a fair bit of repertory work before getting that part.’ He pointed to the pictures one after the other. ‘That was her as Sarah Driscoll in Dangerous Obsession at the Frinton-on-Sea Rep. That’s her as Julie-Ann in Alan Ayckbourn’s Roleplay at the Birmingham Rep. She was really good in that, and got some rave reviews.’
‘Is there somewhere we can sit?’ Parish said.
‘Yes, come through.’
He led them into a living room with cream carpets, dark grey and cream bold striped sofas and chairs, a large gold-framed mirror above a Georgian fireplace, and pictures of Nadine Chryst on the walls.
They sat down on the sofas and chairs.
‘Tell us about Nadine, Mr Christie,’ Parish said. He was trying to keep an open mind, but he’d already formed the opinion that she liked to look at herself – a lot.