Dead Know Not (9781476316253)

by Ellis, Tim

  ‘Where are we?’

  ‘King George Hospital?’

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Is your fucking watch broke? It’s five past three and we’re late for the post mortems.’

  ‘Where did the day go?’

  She opened the driver’s door. ‘I’m not playing twenty fucking questions with you, Stick.’

  ‘I’ll come with you.’

  ‘Are you sure you’re up to it?’

  ‘I’ll be okay.’

  As soon as Stick got out of the car, he puked down the side of the Mercedes parked next to them.

  ‘Fucking hell, Stick. Now I’ll have to move the car. We don’t want them responding in kind.’

  She climbed back into the car and moved it three bays along.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want to stay in the car?’

  ‘No, I’m raring to go now.’

  They began walking towards the reception.

  ‘Raring to go! You’ve never been raring to go since I’ve known you, so how does that work?’

  ‘I can’t remember what’s happened today.’

  ‘Probably a good job. You’ll be relieved to know I’m not going to report you for the inappropriate conduct in the lap dancing club, and for flashing yourself at those old ladies in the park, and then there was...’

  Stick half smiled. ‘I see you’ve still got your sense of humour.’

  ‘You must have woken up in a parallel universe if you think I’ve got a fucking sense of humour, Stick.’

  Doc Paine had already started the post mortems. Three tables were being utilised by her and two junior female pathologists. An army of technicians were swarming around like worker bees.

  ‘Take a wrong turn?’ Doc Paine asked.

  ‘Something like that,’ Xena responded, pissed off that the pathologist had the gall to mention her tardiness. ‘And for future reference, I don’t work for you. I’ll get here when I get here, and not before. Anyway, now that I am here, I hope it’s not going to be a wasted journey, and you’re going to give me all the answers.’

  ‘It depends what the questions are.’

  ‘The questions are always the same, but the main one is: Who’s the killer?’

  ‘Let’s see what we find, shall we?’

  Stick found a seat by the wall out of the way, and promptly started snoring.

  ‘I guess he’s tired.’

  ‘The dentist gave him ten milligrams of valium, and he’s had some painkillers on top of that.’

  ‘That’ll do it every time. I wondered about his swollen face. I thought maybe you’d been beating him.’

  ‘I’ve felt like it most of the day.’

  ‘I can give him something to counteract the effects of the valium, if you want?’

  ‘Let him sleep. He’s less annoying when he’s sleeping.’

  It took the conveyor belt of pathologists and technicians two hours to carry out the eleven post mortems. They were quick, efficient, and followed a standard procedure. Sometimes, one of the junior pathologists asked the advice of Doc Paine, or they compared findings like a huddle of witches, but otherwise it was all very speedy.

  ‘Right, DS Blake. Here are some answers to the questions, which are, of course, preliminary until we receive the toxicology and microscopy reports back in a couple of days.’

  ‘Fucking hell,’ Xena said getting out her notebook. ‘If that lazy bastard Stick were awake he could write all this down. Instead, I’ll have to do it. Go on then.’

  ‘Let’s deal with each body separately.’ She pointed to a plan of the grounds at Hobbs Cross and the layout of the bodies. ‘As you can see, the seven bodies under the conservatory are identified as Woman Nos. 5 – 11. The corpses under the patio are Man No.1, and Woman Nos. 1 – 4, because that’s the order we found them in. We’ll deal with the man first. Now, based on the discovery of the train ticket from York to Roding Valley dated 12th November 1997, we’ve identified him as 44 year-old Stephen Samuels from York.’ She passed Xena a file.

  ‘Do we know why he had a one-way ticket to Roding Valley?’

  ‘The Missing Person’s report is in the file. He had a wife and three children, but as far as they were aware he simply disappeared. The 12th November 1997 was a Wednesday, and he was meant to be at work, but instead he caught a train to Roding Valley. Oh, by the way, as this is the first time we’ve worked together, and just so there’s no misunderstanding, I inform you of my findings, and you tell everyone else.’

  ‘As it should be.’ She quickly scanned the file. Apart from Stephen Samuels being an investigative journalist at the York Sentinel, nothing else jumped out at her. She wondered what had led him to 117 Hobbs Cross. He had obviously found a trail of breadcrumbs, which had got him killed. She guessed that their next task was to find out what Samuels had discovered.

  ‘Unlike the women, who were all sexually assaulted and strangled, Samuels had his throat cut. Now, before I get to the three other victims under the patio, let me first tell you about the seven women who were under the conservatory. I’m doing that, because there’s a timeline associated with the deaths. The bodies under the patio were all killed between 1992 and 1997, then the man was killed, and then the four other women were killed between 1997 and 2010.’

  ‘Which suggests that Samuels discovered what was going on, but was killed before he could do anything about it. Then, the killer carried on with what he was doing until 2010.’

  ‘So it would appear.’

  ‘I wonder why he stopped.’

  ‘You’re assuming he did.’

  ‘Yeah, you’re right. You say the women were sexually assaulted?’

  ‘Yes. There’s evidence on all of the victims of vaginal damage.’

  ‘Any fingerprints, pubic hairs, semen, fibres, or other bodily fluids?’

  ‘Nothing, I’m afraid. The killer is obviously very careful not to leave any trace of himself on the victims. All the clothes and jewellery, of course, have been sent to Di Heffernan in forensics. She might have found something.’

  ‘I always find that hard to believe,’ Xena said, shaking her head. ‘Humans are like walking dust bags. We spit, sneeze, scratch, slough, and generally leave our bodily shit everywhere we go. How come you forensic people never find any of it?’

  Doc Paine gave a laugh. ‘A very apt description of a human being. Now, if any of these victims had been killed yesterday...’

  ‘...Yeah, you still wouldn’t have found anything... I get the picture.’

  ‘Do you ever have a nice word to say...?’

  ‘I’m not in the ego-stroking business. People get paid for doing a job, that’s all they should expect.’

  ‘Let’s carry on, shall we? We’ve identified three of the women under the conservatory, which have been confirmed through the descriptions of their jewellery and clothing in the Missing Persons’ reports.’ She passed Xena another three files. ‘Julie Cooper is Woman No.5. She was a waitress in a late night cafe at Great Plumstead in Norwich who went missing on her way home on 17th July 1992; Tracey Rush is Woman No.7. She worked as a cinema usherette in Haxby, York, and disappeared from the actual cinema on 7th January 1993...’

  ‘...And might have been the person who set Samuels off on his doomed investigation.’

  ‘If that was the case, then it would indicate that he was investigating the case for four years or more. Someone must have known what he was working on.’

  ‘Good point, Doc.’

  ‘Anyway, Woman No.8 was Janet Gray, who went missing on the 18th October 1993 from Hartlepool. She was a shop assistant who had gone out on the town with three work colleagues. One minute they were all having a good time in the Excelsior Club, and the next Janet Gray was gone.’

  ‘The victims seem to come from all over the country.’

  ‘And don’t forget that Petra Loyer – who we’ve labelled Woman No.1 – went missing from Buxton on 30th May 2002.’

  ‘No, I’m hardly likely to forget it, after you pointed
that bloody DI Carter from Buxton in my direction.’

  ‘Yeah, sorry about that, but I expect she’d have hunted you down sooner or later.’

  ‘Maybe, but I can be fucking hard to find when I want to be.’

  ‘Also, Woman No.3, who had a shopping receipt on her from the Southend TK Maxx dated the 3rd May 2010, probably went missing from around that area about that time.’

  Xena took a long intake of breath that sounded like a whistle. ‘So, this has been going on, as far as we know, for eighteen years between 1992 and 2010?’

  ‘Looks that way.’

  ‘And no more victims found?’

  ‘Not so far, but isn’t eleven enough?’

  ‘More than enough.’

  ‘So, was it a wasted journey?’

  ‘I’ll give it some thought, and get back to you.’

  ‘Or you could just say thank you.’

  ‘If I did that, you’d think I was grateful.’

  ‘Does anybody actually like you, DS Blake?’

  ‘I’m not paid to be liked.’ She gave one of Stick’s legs a kick. ‘Come on, wake up you lazy bastard. Time to go.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  ‘You do know that I’ll have to release John Frankl in about forty-five minutes unless you’re here to charge him with something?’

  ‘You know how to break a man’s heart, Kristina.’

  ‘I wondered if you’d forgotten.’

  ‘I hadn’t, but Richards obviously had. Unfortunately, there’s been other things that have occupied our thoughts.’

  ‘I heard. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Thanks. Okay, we’re not now going to go where we thought we were going to go, we’re on our way back to the station. It’ll be close. I’ll get Richards to put her foot down.’

  He ended the call.

  ‘I’m blaming you.’

  ‘It’s not my fault.’

  ‘I didn’t say it was your fault, I said I was blaming you.’

  She keyed in the post code for the police station. ‘It says it’ll take us thirty-three minutes.’

  ‘Except it’s the rush hour, and satnavs are notorious for telling lies.’

  ‘It’s a fairly straight run on the A414.’

  ‘Well come on then, put your foot down.’

  ‘We could put the blue light on.’

  ‘If we got caught doing that when there’s no emergency, do you know what would happen?’

  ‘You’d get the sack?’

  ‘Why would I get the sack when you’d be to blame again?’

  ‘Huh! I don’t feel like sparring with you.’

  They arrived at the station with five minutes to spare.

  ‘Do you feel up to it?’

  ‘You’re going to be in the room, not behind the glass?’

  ‘In the room, and I’ll interrupt if you forget to ask him something.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll do it.’

  Frankl had the duty solicitor – a Miss Linda Stear – with him. She wore a dark blue suit that was seriously creased, her light brown hair needed brushing, and she looked as though she was at the end of a very long day. Frankl, on the other hand, was dressed in a white zip-up paper suit – compliments of Hoddesdon Police Station – had long greasy hair, a pock-marked face, and a nervous smile.

  Parish and Richards sat down on the opposite side of the table. The 8-Channel Digital CCTV system was already in operation and recording on dual DVDs.

  ‘Your twenty-four hours are up,’ Miss Stear said like an automaton. ‘Either charge Mr Frankl, or release him.’

  Richards said, ‘As you know, Miss Stear, we can keep Mr Frankl for a further twelve hours should we wish to due to the serious nature of the crime, or he can answer a few questions in connection with the death of a woman in the Redbridge Council building at approximately three-thirty yesterday afternoon, and we’ll go from there?’

  The solicitor whispered to her client and then said, ‘You have fifteen minutes, and then we’re both walking out of here.’

  ‘Mr Frankl, can you explain why you were at Redbridge Council offices yesterday afternoon?’

  His lip curled up. He put his hands behind his head, and leaned back. ‘Who said I was there?’

  ‘We have a security tape.’

  ‘I wanted to see someone about my disability allowance, but when I got there I decided that they’d only give me the same old shit, so I didn’t bother.’

  ‘The security recording shows you exiting the stairwell where the woman was murdered.’ Can you explain...?’

  ‘It wasn’t me.’

  ‘Are you saying you weren’t in the stairwell with the murdered woman?’

  ‘Yes, I’m saying that.’

  ‘In which case, why was your DNA found on the woman? And her DNA found on the clothes you were wearing when you were brought in yesterday?’

  His solicitor whispered in his ear.

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘You are seen in the recording pushing something into the front of your jacket. Can you tell us what that was?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘If you’re refusing to co-operate, Mr Frankl, then I have no alternative but to charge you with murder. I am quite sure that the jury will draw the correct conclusions from the evidence we already have. Forensics are also examining your flat. I’m sure that sooner or later we’ll find the murder weapon, and the woman’s handbag and mobile phone.’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘Who paid you to kill her, Frankl?’ Parish said.

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘John Frankl, you are charged that on Monday 14th January 2013 you murdered an unknown woman at Redbridge Council offices. You will be held in custody until such time as you appear at Redbridge Magistrates Court. You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’

  They escorted Frankl out and handed him over to the Custody Sergeant – Nicky Newman. Richards wrote out a charge sheet and handed Frankl a duplicate copy.

  Sergeant Newman also gave him a copy of the Codes of Practice that the police had to follow during his arrest and incarceration, which he could read in his cell if they kept the lights on.

  ‘That didn’t go very well,’ Richards said as they were walking across the car park.

  ‘It was the best you could do under the circumstances.’

  ‘I was hoping he was going to spill his guts.’

  ‘You do know we’re not actors in a second-rate movie, don’t you?’

  ‘We could go straight to the hospital.’

  ‘No, we’ll go home first. We’ve left the nanny on her own all day with Jack, and we haven’t even met her yet. She’ll be thinking we don’t care and we don’t exist. Also, we can let your mum know that Jack and Digby are all right, and looking forward to her coming home.’

  ‘Okay, I’d like to get changed anyway.’

  ‘There you are then. I know you’re eager to see your mum, but for now she’s not going anywhere. We’ve been rushing about all day, so let’s just slow down and take a breath.’

  ***

  After the day he’d had, he was looking forward to a long soak in a hot bath. He didn’t normally subscribe to the “pampering oneself school of thought”, but tonight he’d make an exception.

  Whatever happened to a “Hotel Register”? He signed the booking-in form, and the pretty blonde receptionist fluttered her eyelids, and told him how to get to his room.

  He couldn’t believe they were going to talk for two days about honour killings. Today had been more than enough. In fact, after the first hour he was wondering whether he’d survive until lunch time. It wasn’t as if Hoddesdon was plagued with honour killings, and in the scheme of things they accounted for less than 0.01 per cent of murders in the UK. None of which had occurred in Essex. Although he had every sympathy for the 3,000 victims across the UK last year, it wasn’t at the top of his “need-to-
know” list. What was at the top was how Angie, Parish and Richards were doing; how the Nadine Chryst case was going; how DS Blake and DC Gilbert were getting on with each other, and how they were progressing with finding the killer of the eleven victims at 117 Hobbs Cross.

  His back was killing him, his arse had gone numb after an hour of sitting on a hard chair, and his eyeballs felt as though they were rolling around in gravel.

  He swiped the card through the reader, and lugged his overnight bag and suit holder in through the door. Very nice, he thought as he dropped the luggage on the floor in front of the wardrobe. Being a DCI was certainly better, in terms of quality of hotel room, than being a DI. He could get used to being a DCI.

  Champagne on ice was sitting on the table at the foot of the bed. Now that’s what he called “service with a smile”. He pulled the cork, poured himself a drink, and took a long swallow.

  After stripping his clothes off, he turned the bath taps on, and then liberally poured in some “Raspberry Sorbet” bubble bath – compliments of the hotel. It wouldn’t take long to fill up. He topped his glass up, grabbed his mobile, and climbed into the bath.

  ‘I’m lying in a raspberry sorbet bubble bath.’

  ‘On your own, I hope.’

  ‘Sadly, yes.’

  ‘How’s your day been?’

  He took another swallow of champagne. He wasn’t really a champagne drinker, he tended to drink it like beer. ‘Let’s not talk about the worst day of my life since your mother came to stay.’

  ‘She thinks the world of you.’

  ‘That’s the trouble. I’m just thinking that I should have brought you with me. You know what we’d be doing now if you were...?’

  ‘I think I have an idea.’

  ‘You could catch a train, and...’

  ‘I don’t think so. There are four of your children here that need my love and attention every waking hour.’

  ‘Ring Social Services, tell them you’d like them all taken into care. Tell the social worker you’re going to London to have dirty sex with your husband.’

  ‘The doctor said that once you’d had the vasectomy you’d forget all about sex.’