Dominion of Darkness: (Parish & Richards #19)

by Tim Ellis

  ‘You’re a numpty. You should have called the Parish Council and asked them to input a query.’

  ‘I should?’

  ‘Never mind, we’ll get someone in administration to do it.’

  ‘Okay. Last, but by no means least, no central records are kept of Carbendazim purchases.’

  ‘Haven’t you forgotten something?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘I asked you to do a background check on AC Nunn.’

  ‘No check was possible – her records are sealed.’

  ‘Sealed!’ Xena’s eyes narrowed to slits. ‘Who says so?’

  ‘CrimInt says so. Don’t you know what a database can do? We’ll need a Court Order to unseal them.’

  ‘Have you written one out?’

  Stick laughed. ‘And what justification would we give?’

  ‘Well, you know what the justification would be. She disregarded a lead in an investigation that shouldn’t have been ignored.’

  ‘That might be an investigative mistake, but it hardly amounts to justification for unsealing a senior officer’s records.’

  ‘Fuck! I want to look at her records, Stick.’

  ‘Well, you can’t.’

  Her brain was already trying to work out how to take a look at AC Sarah Nunn’s sealed records. Her immediate thought was to go up to forensics, but no one up there would hack into a senior officer’s sealed records without written authorisation from a senior officer – a lot more senior than her.

  Stick began tidying up. ‘Don’t you have the Chief to brief?’

  ‘While I’m briefing the Chief I want you to work out how to . . .’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’re refusing a direct order from . . . ?’

  ‘I’m refusing an illegal order from . . .’

  ‘It’s the key to unlocking this case, Stick.’

  ‘I don’t know how you can possibly say that. I’m sure that AC Nunn’s background has absolutely nothing to do with the Libby Stone case.’

  ‘But what if it did? What if it really was the key to finding out who the murderer was, and you were the one who ignored a valid lead just like she did in 1992?’

  ‘Don’t say that.’

  ‘I’ve already said it, numpty. So, are you on the side of good or evil?’

  ‘Which side is which again?’

  ‘All I’m asking you to do is think about it.’

  ‘I thought you said I wasn’t allowed to do any thinking?’

  ‘I’ll authorise it this one time.’

  ‘Very kind.’

  As she made her way along the corridor to the Chief’s office, her stomach began making strange bubbling noises and she wondered whether she’d be able to keep the pastries down long enough to brief the Chief.

  ‘He’s waiting for you,’ the Chief’s secretary – Lydia O’Brien – said.

  She knocked once and opened the door.

  ‘Ah, DI Blake – just the person. Come in.’ He directed her gaze towards a grey-haired woman in a smart dark-blue jacket and skirt. ‘I believe you already know Assistant Commissioner Nunn from the Met?’

  ***

  ‘No . . . I can’t.’

  ‘No such word.’

  ‘Please don’t make me.’

  ‘I’m not making you do anything – you volunteered.’

  ‘I’m going to un-volunteer.’

  ‘That’s definitely not a word.’ He pushed her in the back. ‘Keep going.’

  ‘Why can’t I change my mind?’

  ‘Everybody knows you’re running the London Marathon for charity – you’ll become a laughing stock.’

  ‘I don’t care. I’ll tell them I’ve injured myself, which prevents me from training, and as such I’ll be unable to . . .’

  ‘You mean you’ll lie?’

  ‘A little white lie.’

  ‘And what am I supposed to say to people?’

  ‘You tell them the same thing.’

  ‘So, you want me, your senior officer, to lie as well?’

  ‘It’ll be our version of the truth.’

  ‘As much as I’d like to help you out – I’m afraid I can’t.’

  ‘You won’t tell people I’m injured?’

  ‘No. I’ll tell people that you’re pretending to be injured because you couldn’t hack the training. I’ll tell everybody that, contrary to what I believed about you, I now find that you’re a spineless liar who won’t get off her fat arse and run a measly twenty-six miles for charity.’

  ‘I feel terrible now.’

  ‘And so you should.’

  ‘No, I mean . . .’ She pulled off the track, bent over and puked. ‘Oh God! See . . . I’m ill. Running doesn’t agree with me. I’m allergic to it. You go on ahead. I’ll crawl back to the house . . .’

  He pushed her in the back again. ‘Keep going.’

  ‘You’re trying to kill me.’

  ‘We’ve nearly done a mile.’

  ‘A mile!’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How nearly?’

  ‘See that tree up there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’ll be a mile.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. One twenty-sixth of a marathon. You only have to do another twenty-five of what you’ve just done and you’ll be a marathon runner.’

  ‘Mary Richards – marathon runner. I like the sound of that.’

  They reached the tree.

  Richards stopped and sat down on a hillock.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Taking a rest.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, we’ve finished, haven’t we?’

  ‘Only if you want to stay out here in the freezing cold and not go to work. Now, we have to run back.’

  ‘No . . . I can’t.’

  ‘No such word. Get your fat arse up and start running.’

  She stood up. ‘Please don’t make me.’

  He pushed her in the back the way they’d come. ‘Keep going.’

  ‘I want a different trainer.’

  He laughed. ‘Okay – describe your ideal trainer?’

  ‘Someone who doesn’t wake me up at five in the morning; someone who understands my complex training needs; someone who lets me run at my own pace; someone who . . .’

  ‘I know someone like that.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Yes – me.’

  ‘You don’t . . .’

  ‘If you spent less time whinging and moaning you’d conserve masses of oxygen and energy for the task ahead of you.’

  ‘I don’t whinge . . . and I certainly don’t moan.’

  ‘Of course you don’t.’

  ‘Look, is that a bench over there?’

  He pushed her in the back. ‘Keep going.’

  ‘Will you stop doing that?’

  ‘I’ll stop doing that when you prove to me that you can run unaided.’

  ‘I don’t need your help . . .’

  ‘How was it?’ Angie said when they were standing in the hallway removing muddy trainers on sheets of newspaper.

  ‘The highlight of my day,’ Parish replied.

  ‘He’s trying to murder your flesh-and-blood daughter, and all you want to know is how it all went. Some mother you’re turning out to be – I’m seeing your true colours now.’

  ‘We ran a mile out and a mile back,’ Jed said. ‘So we did two miles today.’

  Angie raised an eyebrow, ‘Two miles! That’s really good.’

  ‘Well, of course you would say that. You won’t be happy until the crazy person you married and forced on me as a stepfather has killed your only flesh-and-blood daughter.’

  Jed kissed Angie good morning. ‘Tomorrow we’ll increase it to three miles.’

  Richards stomped up the stairs. ‘Tomorrow! Ha! I’ll be lucky if I make it to lunchtime, never mind tomorrow. And three miles isn’t even a distance that anyone has ever run before . . .’

  Angie smiled. ‘Was she like that all the way
there and back?’

  ‘Petty much.’

  ‘You deserve a medal for putting up with her.’

  ‘I only do it for you.’

  She kissed him on the cheek. ‘I know. Tea and toast?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  In the car on the journey to work he said to Richards, ‘How do you feel now?’

  ‘Abandoned, neglected, forsaken.’

  ‘You ran two miles today.’

  ‘That’s no comfort. Tomorrow you’ll force me to run three miles.’

  ‘No, I’ll leave you to catch up with your beauty sleep tomorrow.’

  ‘You will?’

  ‘Do you think that’s likely?’

  ‘You’re a pig.’

  ‘So, what have we got on today?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘We’re in the middle of a murder investigation, we must have a bit more than nothing to occupy our time?’

  ‘Europol had nothing, Bramshill had nothing, Interpol had nothing, Paul had nothing, Doc Riley had nothing . . .’

  ‘Don’t we have a combined lunch and post-mortem report with the Doc to attend today?’

  ‘Yes, but Doc Riley has already told us she has nothing.’

  ‘And then there’s the photograph that’ll be on the news and in the newspapers.’

  ‘That’s our only hope.’

  His phone buzzed.

  ‘Parish?’

  ‘It’s Constable Pippa Morningtown from Central Despatch, Sir.’

  ‘What can I do for you PC Morningtown?’

  ‘It’s what I can do for you, Sir.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘I can tell you that there’s been another body discovered.’

  ‘That’s hardly the news I expected or wanted, Morningtown. Where?’

  ‘Just off Old Nazeing Road on a piece of waste ground at the end of the car park.’

  ‘What about Forensics and the Pathologist?’

  ‘They’ve been despatched, Sir.’

  ‘I’m on my way.’

  ‘I’ll let them know, shall I?’

  ‘You do that.’

  The call ended.

  ‘Seems like our killer has taken a liking to fulfilling his paraphilic psychosexual fantasies,’ Parish said.

  ‘It’s a psychological disorder.’

  ‘As I’ve said to you many times: People still have free will.’

  ‘Do they?’

  ‘If it was me who had paraphilic psychosexual disorder, where I had to torture and murder people for sexual pleasure, I just wouldn’t do it. I’d make the choice to live my life devoid of sexual pleasure rather than kill and maim people.’

  ‘But what if they can’t help themselves?’

  ‘Like automatons, you mean?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘They’ve been genetically programmed to maim and kill people for sexual pleasure – the genetic-defect defence?’

  ‘That’s it exactly.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘So, your argument is that a genetic mutation in the killer’s family tree caused him to commit torture and murder, in order to ejaculate?’

  ‘It’s possible.’

  ‘No, it’s not. The genetic-defect defence was dismissed as a valid defence in 1969, and a recent Dutch study introduced as evidence to support such a defence in America in 1991 found that the genetic connection was not at a level of scientific acceptance that would justify its admission. Although, many American lawyers agree that it’s only a matter of time before genetic mitigation is permitted.’

  ‘If genes can be used by the prosecution, why can’t they be used by the defence?’

  ‘DNA profiling is totally different.’

  ‘I don’t see how.’

  ‘Because inferences are made from a person’s family tree to suggest that there’s a faulty gene somewhere that has been inherited by the accused. The faulty gene can’t be identified, so where’s the evidence to support a genetic defence? If you argue that a person is inherently bad with no possibility of ever getting better, then you may as well put them to death or lock them up and throw away the key, because you can never knowingly let them back into society again. Also, is it just murderers who have a faulty gene? What about people who speed? Who shoplift? Who volunteer to run a marathon for a charity, but then pretend to be injured to get out of running said marathon? Should we lock them all up? Or put them to death? If there’s never any hope of salvation . . .’

  ‘Why are you comparing me – your stepdaughter – to rapists and murderers?’

  ‘I’m merely making a point. If the genetic-defect defence can be used for rapists and murderers – where does it end? Pretty soon, nobody will be responsible for anything.’

  ‘I see what you’re saying, but . . .’

  ‘No buts. Genetic defects cause physical problems, not psychological ones. And anyway, since when have you been an advocate for rapists and murderers?’

  ‘I’m not. I’m their worst nightmare.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it. I thought you might be turning into a bleeding-heart liberal.’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘We’re here.’

  Richards peered out of the windscreen. ‘We need wellies, don’t we?’

  ‘I would say so.’

  After swapping shoes for wellies, they followed the path mapped out by forensics to the tent covering the body, where they donned the habitual paper suit, gloves, mask and plastic overshoes.

  ‘Murder is always a mistake, Toadstone,’ Parish said as he ducked through the flap. ‘One should never do anything that one cannot talk about after dinner.’

  ‘Oscar Wilde said that before they put him in Reading jail for gross indecency with men.’

  Richards stared at Parish. ‘Well?’

  ‘A fluke! He knows I like the writings of Oscar Wilde, so he took a stab in the dark.’

  ‘One of these days you’ll tell Paul how brilliant he is.’

  ‘Neither he nor I will live that long, Richards.’ He turned his head and looked at Toadstone. ‘What the hell’s going on, Toadstone?’

  ‘It seems that we have a serial killer.’

  ‘What about you, Doc?’

  ‘I concur. Even though this is a male body in his early twenties, the injuries follow a similar pattern . . .’ She pointed to the marks on the wrists and ankles, the line of discoloured skin from the mouth to the neck, the purple bruising caused by being bent over a table. ‘Yes, definitely the same killer and take a look at this . . .’ She signalled for her assistant to help her turn the corpse onto its side and hold it there.

  ‘Jesus!’ Parish said, staring at the bloody mess where the victim’s penis and scrotal sack should have been.

  Richards’ brow furrowed. ‘A female and now a male. The killer doesn’t seem to have a preferred gender profile.’

  Parish nodded. ‘Good point, Richards. Gender is unimportant. Only the pain and suffering he inflicts is important, which makes me wonder how he’s identifying and selecting his victims.’

  Doc Riley continued. ‘I’d say that the genitals were where the killer started from. Also . . .’ The assistant lowered the corpse back down onto its front at Doc Riley’s signal. ‘. . . something was forced into his anus that was well beyond the capacity of the sphincter to accommodate it. I’d say it was something with a circumference of around four or five inches . . . Maybe a rolling pin, or something of a similar size.’

  ‘He must have been screaming in agony,’ Richards observed.

  Doc Riley looked up at her. ‘But that’s the whole point, isn’t it? This is not necessarily about murder – it’s about torture, about the killer reaching climax from hurting his victims. Murder is merely the end of the process. He couldn’t really leave the victims alive, could he?’

  ‘Cause of death?’ Parish asked.

  ‘Strangulation again. Although . . . this victim could very well have bled out if h
e hadn’t been strangled.’

  ‘Time?’

  ‘In the early hours of this morning. Also, what I found with the female victim was that the killer washes them afterwards.’

  ‘To remove any DNA and other evidence?’ Parish said.

  ‘It seems likely, because I have no doubt he ejaculates on them while he’s torturing them, but I think it might be more than that – as if he cares for them.’

  Richards’ forehead wrinkled. ‘Cares for them! In what way? You mean they might be romantically involved?’

  ‘No, I wouldn’t go that far. All I’m saying is that washing them is an intimate act. If all he wanted to do was get rid of any evidence he could simply have poured bleach or lime over them, or even drenched them in petrol and set fire to them. I’m not the person to tell you what might be going on in the killer’s mind. Maybe you need to ask a Criminal Profiler for help with this one, Jed.’

  ‘Maybe I should gather together a congregation of quacks and phonies such as a clairvoyant, a diviner, an astrologer, a fortune teller, someone with a Ouija board . . . What do you think, Toadstone?’

  ‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.’

  ‘How did I know you were going to throw that at me?’ He turned back to the Doc. ‘Any identity?’

  ‘Nothing. Same as the woman, I’m afraid. No clothes or personal possessions either.’

  ‘I’ll need an acceptable photograph by lunchtime, which I can give to the press, Doc.’

  ‘I’ll do my best, Inspector.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Not from me.’

  ‘What about you, Toadstone?’

  ‘I have a list of valid reasons why I have nothing yet.’

  ‘Same as ever then.’

  Toadstone took him by the elbow and led him to the side of the tent. ‘We managed to obtain a staff list from the ONS – there’s no one there with the initials ‘NG’ or ‘PR’.’

  ‘That’s not the news I was expecting from you, Toadstone.’

  ‘Sorry, Sir. What do you want me to do now?’

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

  ‘I’ll wait to hear from you.’

  His phone vibrated.

  He wriggled to retrieve it from his jacket pocket.

  ‘Parish?’

  ‘It’s the Duty Sergeant, Sir – Sergeant Allison Moore.’

  ‘Yes, Sergeant Moore?’

  ‘We’ve had a response about the woman in the picture.’