Dominion of Darkness: (Parish & Richards #19)

by Tim Ellis

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Maybe she had a mental illness?’

  ‘I suppose that’s possible.’

  ‘Maybe there’s absolutely no connection between her attempt to erase any traces of her life, and her murder? Maybe she was simply unlucky to be abducted by a killer on her way to stay with family?’

  ‘You don’t believe that.’

  ‘It’s all up in the air at the moment, Richards. Until we have more information we don’t know anything.’

  ‘What about the other victim?’

  ‘We’ll follow the same procedure. I’ll pass doctored photographs of the man out at the press briefing tomorrow morning, ask for help in identifying him and go from there.’

  ‘He didn’t commit suicide either, did he?’

  ‘You’d have to be the worst detective in the whole police force to think that, Richards.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  Andrew Crowthorne’s parents – Ashcroft and Barbara – lived at 15 Circus Road, NW8, which was within broken-window distance of Lord’s Cricket Ground in St. John’s Wood.

  It wasn’t easy, however, to reach St. John’s Wood from Camden Town on the underground. First of all, she had to travel in the opposite direction to King’s Cross St. Pancras on the Northern Line. There, she changed to the Circle Line and boarded the train to Baker Street, where she moved to the Jubilee Line. St. John’s Wood was the next northbound station. All-in-all the journey took her forty-five minutes, which might very well have taken ten minutes on a rental bike. Although, it wasn’t ideal weather for bike riding and neither was she dressed for strenuous exercise.

  She walked past a new white Ford Fiesta parked on the driveway, took a deep breath and knocked on the front door. It was a terraced house with Georgian sash windows. There were ornate wrought-iron fake balconies on the second floor, and a bay window on the ground floor with ivy beginning to grow up the wall and occlude the glass.

  The door opened. A grey-haired man in his sixties was standing there wearing brown corduroy trousers, a predominantly green and brown checked shirt and a brown tie.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ the man said.

  ‘Mr Crowthorne?’

  ‘Politician?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Charity collector?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Jehovah’s Witness?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What are you selling?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘My house isn’t for sale.’

  ‘I don’t want to buy it.’

  ‘Okay – I’m listening, but I have a short attention span, so keep it brief and to the point.’

  ‘I’m a trainee barrister.’

  ‘Still listening.’

  ‘I’m checking the facts of the case for Rebecca Hardacre’s defence team . . .’

  ‘You’ve lost me.’ He took a pace backwards and began to close the door.

  ‘I’m independent.’

  ‘You’re working for her defence team. How can you possibly be independent?’

  ‘What I’ve found out so far doesn’t support Rebecca’s claim that Andrew abused her.’

  ‘That’s why the Crown Prosecution Service have charged her with pre-meditated murder.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re aware that the law has recently changed . . . ?’

  ‘Yes, but . . .’

  ‘And how notoriously difficult it will be to prove that Rebecca didn’t have just cause to murder your son.’

  He opened the door wider. ‘I suppose you’d better come in. I don’t want to discuss my personal business on the doorstep, but let me make it clear that there’s to be no verbal or visual recording of anything my wife and I say or do, and if you quote me I’ll sue.’

  ‘I understand. I’m simply here to find out what type of person your son was, not to cause any trouble.’

  ‘We can tell you about Andrew. Although my wife will probably cry a lot. She’s still struggling to come to terms with his death.’

  He shut the front door and led her down a short hallway into a mostly white living room. ‘Barbara, this is . . .’ He turned to stare at Jerry. ‘I’m sorry. My manners have deserted me. Who are you?’

  ‘My name is Jerry Kowalski. I’m a student in the law department at King’s College London . . .’

  ‘Are you a mother?’ Barbara Crowthorne asked. She was sitting on the sofa in a pink dressing gown with her legs tucked under her. Her eyes were red, her face puffy and there was a box of tissues next to an empty bone china cup on a matching saucer sitting on a small occasional table in front of the sofa.

  ‘I have four children – an eleven year-old son and three daughters aged nine, eight and six.’

  ‘Andrew was our only son.’

  ‘I know, and I’m sorry for your loss. I’m here to . . .’

  ‘Mrs Kowalski wants to know about Andrew, darling.’

  Jerry sat on the sofa next to Barbara.

  ‘I’ll head off into the kitchen and make a pot of tea and some cucumber sandwiches. I’d say it was about that time, wouldn’t you, Mrs . . . ?’

  ‘Jerry . . . Please call me Jerry. Yes, a cup of tea and some cucumber sandwiches would be lovely – thank you.’

  Barbara passed Jerry a framed photograph that she slid from under a cushion. ‘This is Andrew.’

  It was a picture of a slightly overweight young man with short black hair, a cocky grin and clear skin wearing a university graduation hat and gown.

  ‘That was taken two years ago . . .’ Barbara dabbed at her eyes with a ball of paper tissues. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t have anything more recent.’

  She pulled a face. ‘Andrew went to university?’

  ‘Yes. He completed a degree in banking and finance . . . He was always good with numbers.’

  Jerry’s forehead wrinkled up. ‘I don’t understand. Why was he working as a manager in a pizza delivery shop if he had a degree in banking and finance?’

  ‘Yes, we asked him that as well. We always assumed that Andrew would follow Ashcroft into the City, but he said he wasn’t ready for that type of responsibility – he wanted some fun first . . .’ She dabbed at her eyes again. ‘Fun! Would you believe it? I can tell you . . . Jerry, I’m not having much fun right now.’

  Jerry put her hand on Barbara’s arm and squeezed. ‘They say that time heals all wounds.’

  ‘They don’t know what they’re talking about.’

  Ashcroft re-appeared carrying a tray of matching blue and yellow bone china cups, saucers, teapot, milk jug and sugar bowl. He set it down on the coffee table, laid everything out neatly and removed Barbara’s empty cup and saucer from the small occasional table.

  He then left the room and returned with a tray of cucumber sandwiches and matching blue and yellow side plates, which he placed on the coffee table as well.

  ‘Should I be mother?’ He passed Jerry and Barbara side plates and said, ‘Take as many sandwiches as you want. There’s lots more where they came from just waiting in the kitchen for onwards transportation and consumption.’ After providing a cup and saucer each he poured the tea. ‘Help yourself to sugar and milk,’ he said to Jerry.

  ‘Thank you.’ The crusts had been removed from the cucumber sandwiches – she picked up four triangles and placed them neatly on her plate. Seeing them, she realised she was ravenous. ‘I can’t remember the last time I had cucumber sandwiches.’

  ‘Just one of many English customs ravaged by the changing nature of society. Don’t get me started on multiculturalism and the negative effects of social engineering by clueless politicians. I remember when . . .’

  ‘Ashcroft!’ Barbara admonished him.

  ‘Yes, sorry,’ he aimed at Jerry. ‘You didn’t come here to listen to me reading the riot act on my soapbox.’

  ‘You were telling me about Andrew,’ Jerry reminded Barbara.

  ‘I’ll admit . . .’ Barbara said, ‘. . . he had a temper all right, but we didn’t bring him up to hit and abuse women. I just can’t belie
ve that my Andrew would do the things she said he did to her. I’m his mother for mercy’s sake. I carried him inside me for nine months. I was there for him when he needed me all through his childhood and teenage years. Surely, a mother would know something like that about her son, wouldn’t she?’

  ‘Every person we’ve spoken to says much the same thing. They say that Andrew wasn’t that type of person, that he was a bit of a ladies man, that . . .’

  ‘There you are then,’ Ashcroft said. ‘The CPS don’t believe her lies either. They’re saying it was pre-meditated murder . . . I mean, seventeen times! That woman stabbed our son seventeen times in the chest while he was sleeping. At least he died quickly and wouldn’t have been in any pain . . .’

  Barbara began snuffling and dabbed at her eyes again.

  ‘Sorry, love,’ Ashcroft said. ‘What that woman did just winds me up like a cheap North Korean watch.’

  ‘Yes well, don’t let it wind you up too much, dear. You know what the doctor said – the next time could be the last time, and I couldn’t lose you as well.’

  He glanced at Jerry. ‘I have a dickey heart that doesn’t react well to being wound up.’

  ‘My husband has a similar condition. He used to be a Detective Chief Inspector in charge of the Murder Team at Hoddesdon Police Station in Essex. He’s meant to be retired, but instead he runs a private investigation agency.’

  Ashcroft stuffed a whole sandwich triangle into his mouth. ‘So, poking around in other people’s business runs in the family?’

  Jerry half-smiled. ‘It’s definitely looking that way. Did you ever meet Rebecca?’

  ‘Oh yes! Andrew brought her here once just after they started going out together,’ Barbara said, screwing up her face. ‘That was enough for me. Took an instant dislike to her with that bright red hair. I mean, what type of person has red hair? She was bereft of manners as well. Came in, made herself at home and thought she owned the place. Seemed to have never been taught how to say “Please” and “Thank you”. We told him not to bring her back again. We were quite happy for him to visit us on his own, but we said that the sooner he tired of her the better – didn’t we, Ashcroft?’

  ‘She certainly wasn’t my cup of tea. Andrew was a good-looking lad. He could have done much better for himself. Not that I’m any expert on the fairer sex I might add, I struck gold first time round with Barbara.’

  ‘Stop embarrassing me, Ashcroft.’

  ‘If telling the truth embarrasses you then that’s just the way it’ll have to be, my love.’

  ‘Who else have you spoken to?’ Barbara asked.

  ‘The neighbours from 28 Lyme Street, work colleagues . . .’ She thought about Paula aborting Andrew’s child – their grandchild – but it wasn’t her place to say anything. She guessed that they’d never know they were nearly grandparents. ‘. . . We’ll be speaking to their friends; Rebecca’s work clients; checking some details concerning their joint bank account and hospital records.’

  ‘It sounds like you should be working for the CPS,’ Ashcroft said, stuffing another triangle into his mouth. He offered her the plate of sandwiches.

  She helped herself to another two triangles. ‘I’m training to be a barrister because I want to help the disadvantaged in society, to make a difference to people’s lives. A woman who has suffered for years in a toxic relationship and then freed herself by murdering her partner you could argue is my ideal client. That said, the truth must always precede justice. If Rebecca is lying – I’ll find out.’

  Ashcroft and Barbara Crowthorne had nothing else to say and she had no more questions for them. After polishing off another three cucumber triangles and a second cup of tea she thanked them for their kindness, made her excuses and left.

  ***

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Waikiki Beach in Hawaii. I’m riding the crest of a massive wave. There’s a one-eyed dolphin called Flipper trying to knock me off my surfboard, but I’m in it to win it.’

  ‘Isn’t Muscle Beach somewhere near there?’

  ‘No. You’re thinking of Santa Monica Beach in California, but don’t worry, when I’m on the beach you’d think you were there anyway.’

  ‘You! Ha! I’ve seen more muscles sloshing about in vinegar being eaten by pissed people in pubs with cocktail sticks.’

  ‘It’s always a pleasure to hear from you, Bronwyn. What is it that you want on this fine brisk morning?’

  ‘Your wife called.’

  ‘She sometimes uses her phone. I’ve told her not to, but she has a will and mind of her own.’

  ‘I’m invited for Sunday lunch.’

  ‘It’ll be nice to see the person who spends all the money, but doesn’t do any of the work. You do know there’s no such thing as a free Sunday lunch though, don’t you?’

  ‘HMS Westminster was in West India Docks on March 23, 2011.’

  ‘In which case, I’ll take a look at the files you sent me.’

  ‘You mean you haven’t looked at them yet?’

  ‘I got as far as printing them off.’

  ‘What have you been doing? If anyone can be accused of not doing any work . . .’

  ‘Remember Tom Baguely?’

  ‘Nothing springs to mind.’

  ‘Well, the Detective Inspector who was investigating his murder – an old friend of mine as it happens – and his wife were killed last night in a road traffic accident.’

  ‘Bummer!’

  ‘Yes. It’s possible they was murdered.’

  ‘How did you arrive at that conclusion?’

  ‘Apparently, he found something unusual in Baguely’s legal cases, called the Chief Constable and arranged a meeting. He was on his way to Chelmsford last night when the RTA occurred.’

  ‘That’s a bit of a coincidence.’

  ‘My suspicious nature is beginning to rub off on you.’

  ‘What was the “something unusual” he found?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘Don’t plods have partners?’

  ‘She doesn’t know either.’

  ‘Well, as much as I enjoy tales of mystery and imagination to help me sleep at night we already have a case . . .’

  ‘The Chief Constable has asked me to investigate.’

  ‘To which you declined, because you’re a civilian?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘I didn’t realise there was a sliding scale between yes and no. I always thought it was either yes or no with nothing in-between. So, if you didn’t say no, you must have said yes. But I don’t see how that can possibly be, because you already have a job . . . and a partner.’

  ‘It’s just for a month.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘The Chief Constable gave me my Warrant Card back.’

  ‘I’m not fucking happy, Judas.’

  ‘I can imagine.’

  ‘I ask you to investigate a series of murders and you say no, but when the Chief Constable dangles a worn out old Warrant Card that belonged to a dried-up pathetic has-been in front of you . . .’

  ‘I can tell you’re upset?’

  ‘Too fucking true. So, how many pieces of silver is he paying you?’

  ‘Initially I said no to the serial murders of prostitutes because of the lack of evidence, but now that there’s something to investigate I’ll take a look.’

  ‘You will?’

  ‘As a DCI I’ll have access to police resources . . .’

  ‘I’ve already accessed those resources.’

  ‘Some, but not all.’

  ‘What about your dead friend?’

  ‘I’ll obviously be investigating . . .’

  ‘And his partner?’

  ‘Well . . .’

  ‘So, you’ve got your old job back and a new partner?’

  ‘A temporary situation only.’

  ‘What’s she like?’

  ‘Old, pathetically useless and ugly.’

  ‘Why don’t I believe you?’

  ‘I have no idea. You kn
ow very well that the police always tell the truth and nothing but the truth.’

  ‘You didn’t answer my question.’

  ‘And what question would that be?’

  ‘How much are you getting paid to . . . ?’

  ‘The benefits to our other investigation will be . . .’

  ‘You’ve got a fucking nerve.’

  ‘So, now we’re both working for free.’

  She made an unladylike noise down the phone. ‘You remember the flower he’s been leaving in their hair?’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I found out what it is.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Botanists call it a prostitute orchid, because it practises sexual deception. It seduces male bees by mimicking a female bee to ensure its continued existence through pollination.’

  ‘Okay . . . You said that the officer grew flowers in his cabin, which was why Perry believed him to be the killer?’

  ‘That’s right. And the officer’s name is Lieutenant Geoffrey Orwell.’

  He wrote the rank and name down on a company post-it note. ‘I’ll check him out. Is Orwell growing these prostitute orchids?’

  ‘It’s definitely a possibility.’

  ‘You don’t know, do you?’

  ‘I’m ninety-nine percent sure.’

  ‘You’re a hundred percent guessing?’

  ‘The ship will be in port on Thursday . . .’

  ‘So you’ve said.’

  ‘They’ll get shore leave.’

  ‘After a long time at sea I imagine they will.’

  ‘Another prostitute will be murdered.’

  ‘You’d better start producing evidence instead of speculation then.’

  ‘Me? I thought you had access to a shitload of police resources?’

  ‘Those resources are built on evidence-based investigations, not guessing games by amateurs.’

  ‘An amateur who saved your fucking life in France.’

  ‘And while I’m doing something for you, you can do something for me.’

  ‘You can . . .’

  ‘That’s not very ladylike. I want you to find out everything you can about Tom Baguely.’