by Ellis, Tim
Parish interrupted. ‘Can we keep him on remand?’
‘It’s unlikely the magistrates will go along with that. You have nothing that supports a charge of murder, and he doesn’t meet any of the four criteria outlined in the 1976 Bail Act, so the presumption is in favour of bail.’
He’d phoned Toadstone on the way to the court, but forensics hadn’t found any evidence in Frankl’s flat linking him to the murder. In effect, they had nothing to disprove Frankl’s version of events.
‘Sir, tell her.’
‘Miss Goodley is right, Richards. I was hoping Toadstone would find something we’d missed at Frankl’s flat, but he didn’t.’
‘But...’
‘The magistrates will refer him to the Crown Court, but unless you find more compelling evidence before the court date the CPS would be unlikely to proceed with the prosecution. Also, as things stand, Mr Frankl has a strong case for wrongful arrest, and could make a substantial claim for compensation.’
Richards eyes opened wide. ‘That can’t be right?’
‘I’m afraid it is, Constable. The scales of justice are weighted in favour of the criminal these days.’
They made their way outside to the car park.
‘We should get a different lawyer,’ Richards said.
‘It’s not the lawyer, it’s the police.’
‘You mean me?’
‘I mean us. There’s no “me” in “team”.
‘Yes there is. If you move the “m”...’
‘You know what I mean. We should have put him on police bail until we had enough evidence.’
‘Where are we going to get this evidence?’
They climbed in the car. Richards was still driving, but Parish had stopped using his sling. His arm was still sore, but he could move it about seventy per cent of its range. He’d been given a list of exercises to do twice a day by the physiotherapist at the hospital, but – understandably – he’d been a bit lax over the last couple of days.
He took out his phone and called Toadstone.
‘Twice in one day, Sir? People will start talking.’
‘I need evidence Toadstone.’
‘Is this where I say, how much?’
‘I want you to access Frankl’s phone and credit card records.’
‘You have a warrant, duly signed by a magistrate?’
‘Yes, don’t worry about small things like that.’
‘I do worry about them, Sir. The Chief Constable said I shouldn’t get involved in any of your crazy schemes again, but you keep involving me...’
‘Live on the edge, Toadstone.’
‘I prefer the middle.’
‘You know it’s not just me asking, don’t you?’
‘I’ll see what I can find.’
‘Good man. I hear there are rewards in Heaven.’
‘I’d prefer some rewards on Earth before I get to Heaven.’
He ended the call.
‘You’re using me to get Paul to do illegal things, aren’t you?’
‘I don’t know how you can say such dastardly things about your partner, Richards.’
‘Mmmm. Where are we going now?’
‘Okay, let’s give this some thought, so that we can maximise the time we have...’
‘I think we should go back to the station and see what we’ve got.’
‘Go on?’
‘Well, we were going round and talking to people about who would kill Nadine Chryst, but it’s not just about her anymore, is it? We need to start looking for a connection between Lord Latham and Nadine Chryst.’
‘What if there is no connection?’
‘Well, this second murder changes the nature of our investigation. We need to plan where we go from here.’
‘Okay, I’ll go along with your weak argument for now. Back to the station, Tonto.’
‘If I’m Tonto, that would make you The Lone Ranger.’
‘I’ve been thinking of getting a mask and a horse, what do you think?’
‘Horses pooh everywhere, and I never knew how nobody recognised him with that lame mask on. I mean, you’d have to be pretty stupid not to see who it was.’
‘Trust you, Richards.’
‘What?’
‘We’re talking about the romance of it all, the fight against evil, the power of right over wrong, and all you care about is pooh and his lame mask.’
‘Well, somebody has to think of those things.’
‘Of course they do. Hi-yo, Silver! Away!’
***
He missed her already, and she’d only been gone an hour. After the rush hour, the roads were quiet. It was also quiet inside the car, which made an unwelcome change. Living alone as he did, he was thankful to be harangued by his partner. She swore a lot, and said some terrible things to him, but behind the bravado he could see that she was a lonely woman with a warm personality. And she cared about him. Why else would she make him go to the dentist and face his greatest fear?
His tongue still felt swollen as he ran it over the inside of his mouth. The dentist had removed one of his upper back teeth and filled another four on the left side. He was surprised that she hadn’t taken the whole lot out and called it a day. There were still issues inside his mouth, but with Xena’s support he knew that he could get through it.
He’d had feelings for other women, but none had ever reciprocated. He couldn’t blame them, because he wasn’t a good looking man. In fact, many would call him positively ugly, and he could understand why. He had no shoulders to speak of, his ribs protruded like piano keys, and his head looked far too big for his body. His hairline went too far back, his nose was too long, and then, of course, there were the problems inside his mouth. All in all, he was a mess. If he was hung on a stand as an anatomical skeleton, nobody would bat an eyelid.
But what could he do about it? As a kid, he’d tried everything. He changed his diet to a high-protein, high fat, low fibre one until he could defecate through the eye of a needle; he’d drunk copious amounts of milk until he couldn’t stand the sight of it because it made him sick; he’d followed the Charles Atlas programme like a zealot, but the other kids still kicked sand in his face; he’d bought a chest expander and other equipment that promised to make his body a muscle temple. None of it worked. He was as he was. He had spent his whole life as the butt of people’s jokes, being ridiculed, and picked on. He’d learnt to ignore it all, and then to turn it to his advantage.
He didn’t have to look like Charles Atlas to be able to carve animals that people wanted to pay lots of money for, or to have a knack of doubling the money he made, or to know which investments were worthless or worth investing in. There were other things he excelled at as well, things that had brought him to the attention of people in high places. These people had seen that he was more than the sum of his parts, that he was a person who could go anywhere and be anyone, and that no one would ever suspect that he was much more than simply skinny old Rowley Gilbert.
Buzz Pig hadn’t had a hit since 2005. In fact, they were a one-hit wonder. The song that had catapulted them to stardom was called “Makin Bacon”. It was heavy metal, but had a catchy beat, and a humorous undertone to it. People could dance to the song in the clubs without having to jump up and down like demented pogo sticks.
There were four members of Buzz Pig: Mally Haynes – the lead singer who also played maracas, mouth organ, and tambourine; Joss Polski on bass guitar; Richie Washburne on drums; and Art Molinaro on rhythm guitar. They had long hair, were dirty and smelly, drank a lot, used hard drugs, and generally wasted the opportunity they’d been given. Apart from a worldwide tour each year to support the release of a crappy sub-standard single that barely reached the Top 100 due to an army of dedicated fans, they spiralled into obscurity – like so many other groups – within three years of their hit single.
Stick had no idea what had happened to the others in the group, or even if they were still alive. He’d listened to “Makin Bacon” on YouTube before he’d set
off, and he imagined that one had to have been there to have enjoyed it. As far as he was concerned – not that he had any appreciation of the finer qualities of music – the song was utter drivel.
He’d discovered that Haynes was living in a tied cottage in Doddinghurst and working as a farm hand at Peartree Farm. How the mighty have fallen, he thought, but wasn’t that the nature of the beast. How many individuals had shot to fame, and then pressed the self-destruct button? He could think of at least half a dozen off the top of his head. Fifteen minutes of fame, and then dead in the blink of an eye.
He was driving along Doddinghurst Road and he could see Peartree Farm up ahead on his right. He pulled into the access lane and parked outside the farmhouse. There were potholes full of water, pats of cow dung, and other small mounds that he didn’t really want to speculate about. He wasn’t an outdoor type of person. The cold weather went right through him – freezing his innards during its passage. Even in the summer he switched his electric blanket on in bed.
His wellies were in the boot. He carefully made his way round to the back of the car and put them on before heading towards the front door of the house.
As he was about to knock, an overweight man wearing a black woolly hat, a Barbour jacket, a pair of purple overalls tucked in his wellies, and carrying two bleating lambs came round the side of the house.
‘Yes?’
Stick produced his warrant card. ‘DC Gilbert from Hoddesdon Police Station. I’d like to speak to Mr Haynes, please.’
‘Follow me. He’s in the cowshed.’
The cowshed contained at least fifty cows. Mally Haynes was operating the milking machines, and was a shadow of his former self. In his prime he’d had long ginger hair, the physique of a middleweight boxer, and wore black leather trousers and waistcoat. Now, his hair was short, and there was a bald swathe running through the middle of his hair from front to back as if he’d lain in the path of a lawnmower. He had heavy black bags under his eyes, floppy jowls, and a paunch. Stick found it hard to believe this was the lead singer from Buzz Pig after only seven years.
‘You’re shocked, aren’t you?’
‘Surprised, Mr Haynes.’
‘Yeah, Mr Haynes is right. Before, it used to be Mally, now I’m Mr Haynes.’ He gave a laugh. ‘You’re here about the bodies at Hobbs Cross?’
‘Yes.’
‘If I did kill and bury them, I don’t remember. We weren’t even there most of the time, we were on tour in the UK and abroad. When we were there, we were stoned, pissed, fucked, or any combination of the three. Most of the time, I couldn’t remember my own name. God, we had a ball.’ He closed his eyes and shook his head. ‘Those were the days, but I’m glad to be out of it. If we’d had another hit instead of the band breaking up, we’d probably all be dead by now. Well, I certainly would have been anyway. As it is, Richie killed himself in 2009, and Art died from a heroin overdose in 2010. Having a hit was the worst thing that could have happened to us... or anybody for that matter.’
‘You have no information about the bodies that could help us then?’
‘Can’t remember a fucking thing.’
‘Do you recall who looked after the grounds.’
‘We had a manager – Monty Kellman – he looked after all that side of things. The house wasn’t even mine, you know. Owned by a management company that Monty set up.’
‘What about women...?’
Haynes laughed. ‘Yeah, what about ‘em? God, there were so many. I must have had sex with over a thousand... two thousand. They just kept coming...’ He laughed again. ‘Yeah, coming as in orgasms, and coming as in arriving. This one’s fucked, pass me another one. I wonder if there are any little Mally Haynes out there. I must have got some of ‘em pregnant, but nobody ever complained.’
‘You don’t think that one of the band...?’
‘What? Killed all those women, and the rest of us didn’t know about it?’
‘Yes.’
‘None of the guys were like that. Richie was a bit fucking strange, but he wouldn’t have killed anybody. We were all too busy shooting up, shagging, and pissing away the money we made. Remember, we were a rock band, we were expected to be bad boys, and we sure as hell didn’t want to disappoint anyone.’
‘Do you know if any of the band were gay?’
He bellowed with laughter. ‘Don’t talk fucking rubbish. We were all studs. All of us got the clap at one time or another. I had it five times I think. Had to keep getting penicillin shots – had an arse like a pin cushion.’
‘Thank you, Mr Haynes.’
‘You’re welcome. You want to talk to Monty Kellman if you can find him, that is. If anyone knew what was going on, he did. Never hear from him now though. Last I heard he’d emigrated to Canada, and was getting cosy with some penguins on Baffin Island. Talk about crazy, he was crazier than the fucking lot of us squashed together. I mean, Baffin fucking Island, who lives there?’
Stick made his way back out to the car. Maybe he’d see if he could contact Monty Kellman by phone. That would please Xena. He’d be using the initiative she didn’t think he had. He nearly smiled, but then changed his mind because of the pain.
***
Richards had made the coffee while Parish checked his emails. They were sitting in the incident room. He’d received one email from a Beverley Jenkins at Redbridge Council stating that she knew the woman in the photograph, but she didn’t elaborate.
‘I hate that,’ he said.
‘Now I have to ask what do you hate and why?’
‘The way people say, “I have to tell you something”, and you say, “Go on then, tell me?”, and they say, “Not over the phone, meet me”, but when you go to meet them they’re dead. They use it as a plot device in books and films, but it doesn’t happen in real life.’
‘You hope.’
‘Maybe I’d better ring her now before...’
‘Probably a wise decision.’
He rang the council and asked to be put through to Beverley Jenkins.
‘Hello, Environmental Services. How can we be of service today?
‘Who am I speaking to?’
‘Lizzy Roo.’
‘Is that a nickname, or something?’
‘No, it’s my real name. I have a brother called Kanga.’
‘Very funny. I’m Detective Inspector Parish from...’
‘...Hoddesdon?’
‘That’s right. How...?’
‘We throw darts at your picture in the staff room.’
‘Of course.’
‘How can I help you this morning, Inspector?’
‘I’d like to speak to Beverley Jenkins.’
‘She hasn’t come in this morning.’
‘Have you got a home phone...?’
‘We’re not permitted to give out staff details over...’
‘I could come and arrest you.’
‘That’s exactly why we throw darts at your picture. Just one moment... Have you got a pen?’
‘Go on?’
She read out the number.
He wrote it down in his notebook. ‘Home address?’
‘I hope you’re not going to tell anyone I gave you this information?’
‘You can trust me, I’m a policeman.’
She gave him the home address.
‘Thank you, Miss Roo.’ He ended the call.
‘I was just thinking, maybe you could go there with a peace offering. You know, like a basket of fruit, or a hamper, or...’
‘Or maybe I could go in there and arrest them all.’
‘Then you’d have more than Frankl suing you for wrongful arrest.’
He dialled Beverley Jenkins’ home number. ‘No answer.’
‘Maybe she’s taking a duvet day.’
‘Then she’d be at home.’
‘Not if she was out shopping for duvets.’
‘I’ll try again later. Right, come on then, let’s talk nuts and bolts.’
‘Here’s the list of things we st
ill have to do. Examine Lord Latham’s house because it’s a crime scene, talk to Nadine Chryst’s insurers about the insurance for her eyes, talk to the people at the clinic where she had her termination, interview the producer/director of The Mall and the other actors, check Ally Christie’s alibi, find out which charity gets Chryst’s money, interview the ramblers who found her, interview Robert Stanford the manager of the discount furniture warehouse, find out about Midway Holdings who own the warehouse, check with forensics about the tests of blood found on the sheet, and whether there were any fingerprints in the house.’
‘That’s a long list. So, what’s your point?’
‘Most of that we don’t need to do.’
‘Oh?’
‘Well, when there’s only one murder, we investigate everybody connected to the victim, because nine times out of ten it’s someone the victim knows.’
Parish took a swallow of coffee. ‘I’ll go along with that.’
‘But when there are two or more murders, and it looks like it’s another serial killer, then nine times out of ten it’s someone the victim doesn’t know.’
‘I see. So, what you’re saying is that we’re wasting our time questioning people the victims know, because it’s bound to be someone they don’t know.’
‘Exactly.’
‘So, we should still question the ramblers...?’
‘No. They’re hardly likely to be serial killers, are they?’
‘But Nadine Chryst didn’t know them.’
‘Stop being awkward.’
‘And if we’re not chasing up all those people, what are we going to do, pray tell, Little Miss Detective?’
Richards smiled. ‘We create a new incident board, because now we’ve got a whole new investigation. It’s not about the victims anymore, it’s about the killer.’
‘But the victims were chosen because they fitted the killer’s profile.’
‘That’s right, but it’s the killer’s profile, and he’s not finished yet.’
‘I just knew you were going to say that.’
‘Think about it. He’s killed two people so far – a beautiful green-eyed soap actress who nobody liked, and an old Lord who used to be Defence Secretary and also had the gift of the gab – “green-eyed” and “silver-tongued”. The killer has an agenda, we just don’t know what it is yet.’