Dominion of Darkness: (Parish & Richards #19)

by Tim Ellis

  ‘Clothes? Personal effects?’

  ‘There’s nothing on the body.’

  He turned his head to look at Toadstone. ‘What about you?’

  ‘We’ve found nothing yet, Sir.’

  ‘So, no identity?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Okay, we’ll try and match her up to a missing person report. Can you send us a headshot this afternoon, Doc?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Richards made notes in her notebook.

  ‘Anything in the surrounding area, Toadstone?’

  ‘My people are undertaking a search now, but nothing yet. Also, the ground is like concrete, so I’m not hopeful that we’ll find any impression evidence such as footprints.’

  ‘Post mortem, Doc?’

  ‘Later today. Come for lunch tomorrow – I’ll pay.’

  ‘After the fraudulent crimes you two perpetrated on an innocent bystander, I take that as a given. We’ll see you in the restaurant at twelve o’clock tomorrow.’

  Crow’s feet appeared at the corners of her eyes. ‘I look forward to it.’

  ‘Right, Richards. You go and organise a house-to-house on the Meadway Estate to find out if anyone saw or heard anything. I’ll interview the dogwalker, and I’ll meet you back at the car.’

  ‘Okay, Sir.’

  They stripped off the forensic suits outside.

  Richards wandered off in the direction of the housing estate, which used to belong to the local council before the Right-to-Buy scheme was introduced by Margaret Thatcher. Now, the houses were worth in excess of half a million pounds each.

  The dog the man had been walking was a bulldog called Terrence that wanted to lick his hand all the time.

  Parish produced his warrant card. ‘Detective Inspector Parish from Hoddesdon Police Station.’

  ‘Have you got a dog yourself?’ the man asked.

  ‘A Schnauzer called Digby.’

  ‘That’ll be it. Terry likes male dogs more than he likes female dogs, which is not something I encourage you understand.’

  ‘What’s your name, Sir?’

  ‘Herbert . . . Frank Herbert. And no, I don’t write science fiction novels about dunes, drugs and people with strange blue eyes . . . Having said that, I did like Isaac Asimov’s Foundation trilogy that turned into a series of nine books.’

  ‘Occupation?’

  ‘Used to be a train driver, but I’m retired now.’

  ‘Address?’

  ‘Friarscroft, number thirty-seven.’

  ‘Can you describe what happened this morning?’

  ‘Terry found the body . . . It is a woman, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Only, I wasn’t too sure. I was glad I hadn’t had any breakfast beforehand, that’s for sure.’

  ‘So, Terry found the body?’ Parish pressed.

  ‘Yes. He sometimes plays hide and seek with my nephew, and when he finds the boy – who my daughter and her useless partner have called Usher. I mean, Usher Rigby. Would you credit it?’ The man shook his head. ‘With a name like that, the poor bugger’s going to pay for their stupidity at school . . . Where was I?’

  ‘Hide and seek.’

  ‘Oh yes! So Terry knows not to worry what he finds. He sits down, barks, slobbers and waits for back-up.’

  ‘And that’s what he did?’

  ‘Yes. I followed him through the trees and there he was . . . And there she was as well – he didn’t touch the body though.’

  ‘That’s good to hear. Did you see anyone?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Any vehicles?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Anything out of the ordinary besides the body?’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Thanks for your help, Mr Herbert.’

  ‘You’re welcome, Inspector.’

  Parish passed him a business card. ‘If anything comes to mind.’

  ‘I hope you catch whoever did that to the poor woman.’

  ‘Yes, so do I.’ He made his way back to the Qashqai, climbed into the driver’s seat and closed his eyes while he waited for Richards to return. An horrific picture of the dead woman jumped into his mind. It was normal – at least for a murder detective. He dislodged the memory by thinking of Angie in her bikini on the white sandy beach of Mauritius, of Melody laughing, of Jack hugging Digby, and of Richards trying to run . . .

  The passenger door opened.

  ‘Nobody saw anything,’ Richards said, shuffling onto the seat.

  ‘Hardly surprising at that time of the morning.’

  ‘If you’re tired, I could drive?’

  He half-laughed. ‘Have you just escaped from the monkey house?’

  ‘You’ll have to let me drive this beat-up old cash-cow sooner or later.’

  ‘It’s a Qashqai, not a cash-cow.’

  ‘I can’t pronounce that.’

  ‘A cash-cow is something that makes money.’

  ‘It certainly did that for the people who sold it to you.’

  ‘You’re just jealous.’

  ‘Ha! As if. I’d rather have a tricycle.’

  ‘And I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to do.’

  ‘Once the novelty’s worn off you’ll be begging me to drive it.’

  ‘That’s about as likely as you running the London Marathon.’

  ‘I don’t know how you can say that, I ran like a gazelle this morning.’

  He laughed and started the engine. ‘You ran like a Pug, and everyone knows Pugs can’t run. Come to think of it, you even looked like a Pug this morning as well.’

  She turned and raised her arm.

  ‘I’m driving.’

  ‘It’s a good job for you.’

  ***

  They caught the train from Temple on the Circle Line to Embankment, where they changed to the Bakerloo Line and jumped on a train directly to Paddington station. After they’d made their way to street-level it was only a short walk along Spring Street to the building that housed the Forster League for Penal Reform in Sussex Gardens.

  ‘I’m with Joe on this, Mrs K,’ Shakin’ said. ‘If a woman murders her husband she deserves to go to jail – simples.’

  ‘Even if she kills him in self-defence?’

  ‘She could walk out at any time.’

  ‘Things are never that clear cut.’

  ‘You’re as bad as the Professor,’ Joe said.

  Shakin’ nodded. ‘In my experience, you can’t go wrong if you keep life simple. Grey areas are for grey people.’

  ‘We’ll see,’ Jerry said as they climbed the steps and entered through the revolving door.

  Joe had to go round twice to find the right entrance.

  ‘We’re here to see Miss Veronica Darling,’ Shakin’ said to the security guard behind the bullet-proof glass.

  ‘And you are, Sir?’

  ‘I’m the good-looking stud Richard Stevens.’ He pointed to Joe. ‘This fine upstanding gentleman is Joseph Larkin of the Wimbledon Larkins, and the beautiful woman to my right is none other than the WAG of ex-Detective Chief Inspector Raymond Kowalski. We’re here from the university law school on a mission of mercy.’

  The security guard grunted. ‘Does anybody believe that rubbish?’

  ‘Mostly inebriated young ladies.’

  ‘I’ll let Miss Darling know you’re here.’

  ‘Top man. We’ll wait over here, shall we?’

  ‘You do that.’

  Eventually, a woman in her late twenties appeared. She had long pecan-brown curled hair that hung past her shoulders, a band of freckles across the bridge of her nose and her cheeks, even white teeth and she wore a black lace short-sleeved blouse and black skirt.

  Shakin’ was first in the queue. ‘Hello.’ He took her hand and kissed it. ‘I’m Richard Stevens.’

  ‘I’ve heard of you.’

  His eyes opened wide. ‘You have?’

  ‘Oh yes! Unfortunately for you though, I’m not inebriated.’

  ‘I’m wi
lling to make allowances if you are?’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘Ah!’

  Jerry stepped forward and held out her hand. ‘He’s lovely really.’

  ‘That’s not my initial impression,’

  ‘I’m Jerry Kowalski. We’re here to act on Poppy’s behalf at her forthcoming trial. Under your guidance, of course.’

  ‘I’ve been expecting you. Please, follow me.’

  She led them through a security door to a lift that took them up to the second floor. Once there, she ushered them along a carpeted hallway and into a sitting room where a young woman fidgeted on an easy chair.

  ‘This is Poppy,’ Miss Darling said.

  The three of them shook hands with the red-haired woman. She wore black-rimmed glasses, large round silver earrings, a white t-shirt with:

  PRISON

  ISN’T WORKING

  FOR WOMEN

  . . . printed in purple on the front, a pair of black leggings and orange flip-flops.

  ‘Tell them your story, Poppy,’ Veronica said. ‘They’re here to help, so don’t hold anything back. I’ll leave you to get acquainted, and I’ll return in half-an-hour when we can discuss our strategy for the trial.’

  They all sat down in the easy chairs surrounding a wooden coffee table.

  Poppy began her story.

  ‘At the start it was wonderful. Andrew was everything I wanted in a man. He was affectionate, considerate, fun to be with and great in bed. We were in love, and after a couple of months he asked me to move in with him. Of course, I said yes – who wouldn’t? We both had good jobs, so we rented a place together. From then on, things began to change. He convinced me that my money would be safer and earn more interest if I moved it into a joint bank account . . .’ Tears rolled down her cheeks. ‘Sorry. I look back now, and I can see how stupid and gullible I was. How he manipulated me and took control over every aspect of my life.’

  Jerry took her hand. ‘None of what happened was your fault.’

  ‘That’s not what Andrew’s family and the Crown Prosecution Service think. They’re saying it was pre-meditated murder.’

  ‘That’s why we’re here.’

  Poppy eyed Shakin’ and Joe as if they were the worst kind of abusers. ‘If you’re sure.’

  ‘How long were you and Andrew together?’ Joe asked.

  ‘Two and a half years.’

  Shakin’ stared at her open-mouthed, ‘You stayed with him for two and a half years?’

  ‘I kept thinking he would change, that it would get better.’

  ‘Carry on with your story, Poppy,’ Jerry said.

  ‘Every time he hit me I was so frightened and shocked, but he always said he was so sorry for what he’d done, he promised he’d never hurt me again and begged me to forgive him. I forgave him every time, but the longer we lived together the worse the violence became. He was jealous, possessive and kept accusing me of having an affair. He used to call me a slag, made me feel useless, especially in front of our friends. Later, he turned against my family and friends and told me I couldn’t see them any more. I decided enough was enough, but when he caught me packing he gave me a terrible beating . . .’ She stood up. ‘Do you want tea or coffee?’

  ‘No, we’re fine,’ Jerry said.

  Joe followed her. ‘Here, let me help.’

  Poppy moved away from him. ‘No. You stay over there where I can see you.’

  He shrugged and sat down again. ‘I was only being friendly.’

  Poppy returned with a mug of coffee. ‘I need lots of coffee. It’s the only thing that holds me together. Where was I?’

  ‘He caught you packing,’ Shakin’ said.

  ‘I needed to go to the hospital, but he wouldn’t let me. Look . . .’ She wrenched up her t-shirt to reveal a see-through lace bra and pointed to a two-inch ugly-looking scar at the top of her left breast.

  Shakin’ and Joe licked their lips and leaned forward.

  ‘. . . I needed stitches, but he said he’d do it. For fuck’s sake! He was a manager at a poxy pizza delivery place, and he sewed me up without any local anaesthetic using a needle and thread from the sewing box.’ She stood up and then leaned close to Shakin’, Joe and then Jerry to show them the scar. ‘Take a closer look at what that bastard did to me.’

  They looked.

  Poppy sat back down and covered up her breasts.

  ‘Keep going,’ Jerry pressed her again.

  ‘I thought the attacks must be my fault, that somehow I deserved what he did to me. I tried to change my behaviour, but it didn’t make any difference what I did – the attacks kept coming. I never told anyone what was happening to me, because I was too embarrassed. When I got pregnant the attacks got much worse. One day, he kicked me in the stomach and I lost the baby. I should have got out then, but he was so remorseful and said he’d change and get help, so I went back to him. Of course, he didn’t change. He didn’t get help. The final straw came when he stabbed me in the neck with a fork. I knew that he was eventually going to kill me, so I killed him first.’

  ‘When he stabbed you in the neck?’ Joe asked.

  ‘No. Probably about two weeks later, when he wasn’t expecting it. I hid a carving knife under my side of the mattress. After he’d forced himself on me, I lay there waiting for him to go to sleep. It must have been close to one in the morning before I was sure that he wouldn’t wake up. I grabbed the knife, sat up in bed and stabbed him in the heart.’

  ‘Just the once?’ Jerry said.

  ‘I thought I saw him moving.’

  ‘So you stabbed him a second time?’

  ‘And another fifteen times as well.’

  Shakin’ looked at Joe. ‘You stabbed him seventeen times?’

  ‘I had to make sure that he wasn’t going to get up and hurt me anymore.’

  ‘But seventeen times!’ Shakin’ said.

  Jerry glared at Shakin’. ‘What did you do then, Poppy?’

  ‘I called the police and told them what I’d done.’

  ‘Is there anything else you want to tell us?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘Thank you for being so frank with us, Poppy.’

  ‘That’s okay. Can I go now?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  Once Poppy had left the sitting room Jerry said, ‘Well, what do you think?’

  Shakin’ pulled a face. ‘The truth?’

  ‘The truth.’

  ‘It was pre-meditated murder. There were a number of other actions she could have taken before stabbing him seventeen times such as walking away from the relationship, calling the police . . .’

  Joe nodded. ‘I’m leaning that way as well, Mrs K.’

  ‘If we were talking about a single event, I’d agree with you. However, the law changed last year. Domestic violence is about fear, and a continuing pattern of controlling, domineering and demeaning behaviours. It’s not a single event, it’s a result of cumulative harm. Eventually, physical violence, psychological abuse and rape become normalised behaviour in a relationship. The woman is a victim of ongoing abuse, which is also minimised by the predominantly male police and justice system. Do you know that only three men from every one hundred reported of abuse are convicted and punished?’

  ‘Only three?’ Joe said.

  ‘Three,’ Jerry repeated.

  ‘I see you’ve done your research, Mrs K,’ Shakin’ said.

  ‘Unlike you, I remembered what we’d signed up for, and I hoped it might be a case of domestic abuse.’

  ‘Well, you got your wish.’ Shakin’ scratched his head. ‘Look, I’m still not sure about this. I don’t understand why she didn’t just walk out the first time he hit her. I mean, if it was me, I’d be saying, “Hasta la vista, baby.” You know, just like Arnold the Terminator.’

  ‘I’ve seen the film,’ Jerry said. ‘In fact, I probably saw the original movie before you were born.’

  ‘Oh yeah!’ He grinned. ‘I keep forgetting that underneath all that
make-up and padding you’re a wrinkled old crone.’

  ‘You have a way with women, Joe?’

  ‘Thanks, Mrs K.’

  Jerry stood up, stretching her legs by walking to the window and staring out onto the leafy suburb of Paddington. ‘You heard Poppy’s story. Women stay in abusive relationships because they’re afraid of what might happen if they leave; they come to believe that an unhealthy relationship is normal; they’re embarrassed at the thought of being judged by their friends and family; they have low self-esteem and believe that the abuse is somehow their fault; they lose control of aspects of their life such as money; they have nowhere else to go; and finally, they stay because they love the partner – all they want is for the violence to stop, not the relationship to end.’

  ‘I’m going to bow to your superior knowledge in this delicate matter, Mrs K,’ Joe said.

  Shakin’ nodded. ‘As Joe and I are both of the male persuasion, it seems the logical course of action to go with your female intuition.’

  ‘Don’t worry, boys,’ Jerry said. ‘We’re not going to take Poppy’s story at face value.’

  Joe’s face crumpled up. ‘We’re not? But I thought . . .’

  ‘Oh no! That would be silly.’

  ‘But surely the police, the CPS, Miss Darling and Uncle Tom Cobley and all would have checked out her story, wouldn’t they?’ Shakin’ said.

  ‘So it won’t do any harm to check it out again, will it? Especially by two sceptical non-believers such as yourselves.’

  Chapter Four

  Tom Baguely was a solicitor. Solicitors knew the rules. If you have a bit on the side and your wife finds out you’re likely to lose at least half of your hard-earned fortune. If there were children involved – which there were in this case – then that half might very well look and feel like three-quarters.

  Kowalski had climbed out of his new luxury Volvo V90 Estate twenty minutes ago to stretch his legs and his back, because he wasn’t getting any younger, and suspicious aches and pains in obscure parts of his body seemed to be a natural consequence of getting old. He walked across the road, grabbed a coffee-to-go from a cake shop-come-cafe and then strolled along the street towards the solicitors on the corner glancing in the windows of the different shops along the way.