Dead Know Not (9781476316253)

by Ellis, Tim

  ‘I don’t see how we’re ever going to catch him,’ Richards said. ‘I mean, he doesn’t murder anyone, he just gets others to do that for him, and my guess is that the person who is carrying out the murders won’t give evidence against the priest... Even if we follow the priest, and he leads us to the killer – then what? Yes, we can arrest the killer, but what link is there to the priest? All he’ll say is that he was visiting a parishioner, and what that parishioner did afterwards was nothing to do with him.’

  Parish rubbed the stubble on his chin. ‘Why do you always have to be right, Richards?’

  ‘It’s just a knack I have.’

  ‘We’d need a recording of him actually instructing the person to carry out the murder.’ Parish said. ‘And then the best we could charge him with would be conspiracy to commit murder.’

  ‘What if all this takes place inside the confessional?’ Richards suggested.

  ‘Then nobody will ever know,’ Father Rosario said.

  Parish’s brow furrowed. ‘Can’t the Catholic Church do something about him, Father?’

  ‘I am bound by the confessional. If my superiors knew that I was here breaking the seal, I would be ex-communicated.’

  ‘So, the answer is no?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘If Father Rosario hadn’t come to us,’ Richards said. ‘We wouldn’t know what we now know, so thank you, Father.’

  ‘I wish I could do more.’

  They thanked Father Rosario for coming in, and Richards escorted him out.

  When she returned she said, ’We’re never going to catch the priest, are we?’

  ‘Let’s not be too hasty. We have three murders so far, and we know that there’ll be at least six. I’ll speak to the Chief, we need to put him under surveillance, and then see if he’ll lead us to the killer. And if memory serves, you need to do some surveillance as one of your competencies.’

  ‘Yes I do, but I’m depressed. Even if we catch this killer, the priest will just find another parishioner to kill for him in the name of God. That’s what he did after we found and killed Ruben.’

  ‘So, it’s your recommendation that we give up?’

  ‘Well no, but...’

  ‘Sometimes, even after we’ve done all the hard work, a killer goes free.’ He shrugged. ‘That’s just the way it is. Next time, we have to try harder. The priest is taking God’s law into his own hands. Are you advocating doing the same with man’s law?’

  ‘Of course not...’

  ‘There we are then. We do the best we can, and if that’s not good enough then we have to accept it and move on.’

  ‘It’s not right though.’

  ‘Let’s not go there, Richards.’

  ***

  His head hurt. He was lying in the dark on a cold steel floor trussed up like a pig for slaughter. The nylon rope Joshua Heywood had used to tie him up with was looped around his neck. It had then been used to secure his hands behind his back, and his feet had been yanked up to touch his hands. If he tried to move, the rope around his neck cut off his supply of air and blood. There was also a gag around his mouth, which made it even more difficult to breathe, or call out.

  He’d been an idiot. In fact, he was sure Xena would concur wholeheartedly with that conclusion. Her voice echoed in his throbbing head.

  ‘Why didn’t you ring for back-up, you lump head? Why didn’t you tell someone where you were going? Why...?’

  ‘I thought...’

  ‘You thought? Don’t make me fucking laugh. Thinking is not something you know anything about. You just wanted to solve the case all on your fucking lonesome before I got back, so that I’d think you were wonderful and accept your proposal of marriage?’

  ‘And I did solve the murder, didn’t I?’

  ‘Did you fuck. You just stumbled into the killer’s liar, and then got your head smashed in. As usual, you had no idea what you were doing. You’re a fucking dork, Stick. Have I ever told you that?’

  ‘Yes, I think...’ He sighed. Was he Heywood’s next victim? It seemed likely. He’d murdered Stephen Samuels. But why was he still alive? Maybe Heywood was going to torture him to find out what he knew, and who else knew what he knew. And that was a problem – no one else did know what he knew. Xena was right, he should have told someone where he was going.

  After Squibb Landscapes he’d driven to Coppice Row in Theydon Bois, and found Portman Landscapes. The fact that he was on the trail of a serial killer, and down to his last four suspects, should have made him cautious, but he wasn’t. He’d strode into the office like a man without a care in the world.

  Joshua Heywood was the owner of Portman Landscapes, and he’d shown him the picture. He should have spotted that Heywood was one of the four gardeners, but he didn’t. Heywood did though. If he was being honest, Xena was right again – he was a dork.

  Accepting the offer of coffee was the last thing he remembered.

  Now what? Where was he? He couldn’t call out, and he couldn’t use his feet, hands, or any part of his body to bang and make a racket. A strong suspicion washed over him that he wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. He was also thirsty, his teeth hurt, and there was an overwhelming aroma of manure. He did the only thing he could do – closed his eyes and went to sleep.

  ***

  ‘I can’t get hold of DC Gilbert,’ Di Heffernan said.

  Xena grunted down the phone. Di Heffernan was her least favourite person at the moment. ‘That’s because he’s gone missing,’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. Well, when you find him, will you let him know that his gift of Anglesey Farmhouse Chocolates – unlike your two boxes – bore fruit. We’ve found another four bodies in the last section of the grounds. Two of them are recent.’

  ‘You conned two boxes out of Stick as well?’

  ‘And very nice they were too.’

  ‘I can’t fucking believe...’ All Xena heard before the call ended was mocking laughter.

  ‘No wonder there’s so many murders in Essex,’ she said.

  ‘I take it you’d like to go up to forensics and murder that woman?’ Carter said.

  ‘Death would be too fucking good for Di Heffernan.’

  They were sitting in the incident room. It was ten to five. Xena had been to the press conference, passed out Stick’s picture, and made a public request for information. Now, she was just waiting.

  ‘He’ll be all right.’

  ‘You can’t know that. Look what happened to Samuels.’

  ‘Talking of which, let me show you how far I’ve got.’

  ‘Do you know who’s got Stick?’

  ‘Well, no... Not yet.’

  ‘Then I’m not interested.’

  ‘You’ve only known him four days. I thought he was the worst partner in the police force.’

  ‘He is, but he’s my worst partner, and I wasn’t here for him.’

  ‘Ah, it’s not that you miss him, it’s that you feel guilty. While you were in York having a good time with another woman...’

  ‘I thought I told you not to mention that again.’

  ‘Let me show you what I’ve got. I promise I’ll be quick.’

  ‘Go on then, but...’

  Carter didn’t wait for her to finish. ‘First of all, the DVD was rubbish. You can’t see his face. He’s wearing all black with a hood, and although we could have guessed he was using a van, we can’t see the number plates. It makes you wonder why these places have CCTV systems.’

  ‘Is that it?’

  ‘Stop being crotchety. The centre of Samuels’ board wasn’t Tracey Rush, it was a map. Tracey Rush might have been the catalyst that set him off on his investigation, but Samuels obviously had more idea about the killer than the police.’ She pointed to a new incident board upon which she was trying to recreate Samuels’ investigation from the photographs and the paperwork in the boxes. ‘We’re only dealing with missing women before 1997, because that’s when Samuels went missing. So, of the eleven bodies..
.’

  ‘They’ve found another four bodies by the way, but two are recent.’

  ‘So, that’s fifteen bodies in total,’ Carter concluded. ‘It doesn’t change what we’ve got here. At the moment, we’re only interested in the bodies numbered 4 to 11. Numbers 1 to 3 were Stephen Samuels in 1997, Petra Loyer from Buxton in 2002, and Jan Hayes from Southend in 2010. You’d already identified numbers 5, 7 and 8, who were Julie Cooper from Norwich in 1992, Tracey Rush from York in 1993, and Janet Gray from Hartlepool also in 1993. But Samuels had completed the jigsaw puzzle. He’d also identified numbers 4, 6, 9, and 10...’

  ‘What about number 11?’

  ‘Haven’t found anything on her yet. So, number 4 was Brigitte Lang who went missing from Skegness in 1992; number 6 was Cara Morgan from Scarborough in 1994; number 9 was Jessie Boyer in 1996; and number 10 was Angel Hunter also in 1996.’

  ‘So how did Samuels work out the victims were being abducted and brought back here to Essex?’

  Carter pointed to the map. ‘It’s faint, but you can still make out the yellow highlighter he used to trace the roads from the locations the victims were taken from back to Essex. Now, if you look at the map, you’ll notice that five of the seven locations are seaside resorts – Skegness, Scarborough, Hartlepool, Blackpool, and Bangor. The two that aren’t are York and Norwich. I expect he thought that finding victims would be easier in the seaside towns...’

  ‘Southend is a seaside resort as well,’ Xena said.

  ‘Buxton isn’t though.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Anyway, on their own, the locations wouldn’t have led him back to Essex. He had to have had something else.’ She held up a newspaper article. ‘This was the first part. It’s a newspaper article by a crime reporter called Lisa Smith, which was written shortly after the disappearance of Angel Hunter in Bangor in 1996. I found out that Lisa Smith worked at the Bangor Banner at the time. She’s not there now, of course, but I tracked her down to...’

  ‘Fucking hell! You’re as bad as Stick. Get on with it.’

  ‘I love it when you’re exasperated. Lisa Smith reported on a van that was photographed speeding away from the place that Angel Hunter disappeared from. The number plate is obscured – probably on purpose, and the driver’s face is also obscured by something in the windscreen. The police in Bangor either ignored it, or didn’t see what Samuels had seen. Lisa Smith remembers Samuels contacting her and asking for a copy of the photograph...’

  ‘Okay, at last I’m interested,’ Xena said.

  Carter placed the grainy black-and-white photograph on the table in front of Xena. ‘Remember, it was taken with a speed camera, but take a look at...’

  ‘...The sun visor?’

  ‘Yes. It’s hardly noticeable, but there’s something there.’ She placed another photograph on top of the first one. ‘That’s a blow-up of the triangle of white on the visor.’

  Xena squinted at it. ‘My eyes have gone all funny.’

  ‘He spent hours trying to identify what he was seeing, and he eventually came up with a match.’ She placed a flip-over notebook on top of the second photograph opened to the relevant page.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ Xena said. ‘It’s the bottom of an Essex sword.’

  ‘Yes. He managed to work out that what was peeping out of that visor was an Essex County Council pass card...’

  ‘Which led him here. He started asking questions, showing the photograph around, and one thing led to another, which resulted in his eventual murder.’

  ‘We can only speculate what happened when he stepped off that train at Roding Valley,’ Carter said. ‘But it appears that Stephen Samuels pieced it all together. Sadly, instead of becoming a hero – he became a victim.’

  There was a knock at the door.

  ‘Come.’

  ‘Constable Lockley, Sergeant. Sorry to interrupt, but I think you’d better come. We have a Mr Rushforth on the phone. He says he’s seen DC Gilbert.’

  ‘Thank you, Constable.’ Xena turned to Carter. ‘Good work, Buxton. Now all we have to do is find that fucking idiot Stick.’

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Richards put her hand over her nose. ‘Oh God! Is that you?’

  ‘As I recall, you were the one who had the prawn mayonnaise sandwiches.’

  ‘That’s not prawn mayonnaise, it’s the stench of sulphur from the pits of hell.’

  ‘You know what they say about a dog smelling its own...’

  ‘I’ve heard the saying, but it doesn’t apply in this case.’

  ‘One of the many problems associated with stake-outs is the close proximity of your partner for long periods of time. Another problem, is that neither of us can get out of the car to do things. So, I understand if you...’

  ‘I’m going to report you to the European Court of Human Rights...’

  ‘Again?’

  They were sitting in Parish’s Ford Focus outside the vicarage next to the Church of St Gobnait on the corner of Brecon Road in Ponders End. It was ten-thirty, and they’d done two and a half hours of a four-hour shift.

  Parish had briefed the Chief, and it was agreed that three surveillance teams would watch Father Peter Ruunt around the clock for the next forty-eight hours. After that, the situation would be reviewed. But as Parish convincingly argued, the next murder was imminent, so the surveillance shouldn’t eat too far into his budget.

  ‘Have you sorted your minor problem out yet?’ Parish probed.

  ‘Minor! I feel like a moving target. I rang the bank manager. He has as much idea about where my money’s gone as Mystic Meg.’

  ‘So, what are you going to do?’

  ‘I’m not going to do anything – it’s their fault. If somebody hacked into my account and re-allocated my money, then the bank had better put it back. I informed the manager that my account should be returned to its pre-hacked condition – i.e. bursting at the seams with pictures of my mother – by lunchtime today, or they’d get a visit from the fraud squad.’

  ‘I’m sure that made him happy.’

  ‘He was ecstatic, said he’d report me to the Chief Constable for abusing my position. I told him to stop being a prat and just put the money back in my account. I also threatened to go public about how easy it was for someone to hack into my account, and that maybe rival banks would be more secure. He was very apologetic after that, and said the problem would be sorted by lunchtime.’

  ‘Was it?’

  ‘Do you think I’d still be sitting here chewing the fat with you if it wasn’t?’

  ‘I guess not. Has Toadstone found out anything?’

  ‘I’ve heard nothing from him yet, but I’m not hopeful. Whoever did the number on me knew what they were doing. Oh, I’ve got a new mobile by the way.’ He gave Parish the number. ‘When they tried to re-activate the service on the old phone... Well, you know what those phone companies are like – it’s like dealing with fucking aliens.’

  ‘Maybe it was all just a one-off, and...’

  ‘You haven’t heard about my computer?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘The person – and I think it’s that woman in the DVD – sent me an email, which wiped my computer...’

  ‘You mean the one on your desk?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Bloody hell!’

  ‘But that’s not all. As the hard disk melted away, I could see a message on the screen that promised more of the same.’

  ‘You’ve passed it to the e-crime unit?’

  ‘Not yet, but I can’t really see that they’d be bothered about somebody hacking into one person’s bank account.’

  ‘You’re a senior detective, they should be interested.’

  ‘We’ll see.’

  And that’s how they left it.

  ‘I need a pee,’ Richards said, dragging him back to the present.

  ‘That’s what the ginger beer bottle is for.’

  ‘Ha, ha, very funny.’

  ‘It would be if I was joking, but I’m not
.’

  ‘I can’t go in here with you watching, listening, and sniffing. I certainly couldn’t aim it in the top of that bottle... Have you seen the size of it?’

  He grinned. ‘The size of what?’

  ‘You can be really disgusting when you want to be.’

  ‘Maybe you’re not cut out to be a detective. Maybe you need to re-consider your career choice.’

  ‘You have to throw that in my face every time, don’t you?’

  ‘Look, you know as well as I do, that if you leave the car and go for a pee he could see you. Also, if he decides to go out while you’re squatting in someone’s garden...’

  ‘I wouldn’t.’

  ‘Where then? Do you see a public toilet round here somewhere?’

  ‘Well...’

  ‘We’re on a residential street.’

  ‘I could knock on someone’s door.’

  ‘Maybe the vicarage?’

  ‘I still need to pee.’

  ‘There is another option.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘You could just pee where you’re sitting and be damned, but I’d obviously have to bill you for cleaning and disinfecting my car.’

  ‘Don’t be crude. And don’t think you’re going to go while I’m in here either.’

  ‘He’s coming out, pretend to be sleeping.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘So that he doesn’t suspect we’re watching him.’

  ‘Why would he? We could simply be sitting here talking just like we are.’

  ‘Or we could do that.’

  ‘He’s crossing the road towards us. He’s the one, I recognise him.’

  ‘How? You never saw him.’

  ‘I recognise the white collar.’

  Parish gave a laugh. ‘Don’t talk rubbish, white collars are all the same.’

  ‘We’re going to have to follow him on foot, aren’t we?’

  ‘Yes.’

  After the priest had walked past the car, they climbed out and followed him – like a couple – arm-in-arm to a terraced house not too far away from the church.

  Parish phoned the station and discovered that a man by the name of Leonard Anstee lived in the house. He asked for back-up to be despatched, and an emergency search warrant to be issued. If he was wrong, he’d be explaining himself to the Chief Constable.