by Tim Ellis
‘You’ve got a fucking nerve. What happened to the shitload of police resources you were bragging about?’
‘There was a fire at Baguely-Browne offices, and Browne is missing – possibly murdered – as well. Just see what you can find out for me.’
‘So now I’m working for the police?’
‘You always were – you just didn’t know it.’
‘You’re a bastard, Kowalski. Maybe I’ll call you later, but then again maybe I won’t.’
‘Make it after five.’
***
Stick stared at her. ‘You plan to blame me for trying to access AC Nunn’s records?’
‘Only if things go pear-shaped.’
‘You told me to try and access them.’
‘Show me the signed written order you have in your sticky fingers, the voice recording, the video . . . ?’
‘I don’t have . . .’
‘Somebody has to take the fall, Stick.’
‘And that would be me?’
‘That’s what having your partner’s back is all about. When the bullets start flying, you protect me at all costs.’
‘There are no bullets flying around.’
‘Speaking metaphorically.’
‘So when Professional Standards ask me what happened, I’m supposed to lie and say that it was my own decision to access AC Nunn’s records?’
‘That’s it. Except you need to support what you’re saying with a convincing back story.’
‘Such as?’
‘Think of one. Don’t get me involved in your criminal disregard for police regulations and procedures. I’ll be lucky to escape with my rank intact. People will want to know how I didn’t know. They’ll say: “You were his boss, how did you not know?” I’ll tell them how you always went your own way, did things behind my back, had no respect for the chain of command . . .’
Stick sighed. ‘Thanks very much.’
‘The least I can do.’
‘We’re not going to wait here for the wrecking crew to arrive, are we?’
‘No. The Chief still has to call and authorise it anyway. He’s like you – a fucking wimp. Can’t make a decision unless he’s holding onto the Chief Constable’s apron strings.’ Xena approached Captain Biggington. ‘I’m leaving you in charge, Captain.’
‘Me?’
‘Yes. We haven’t got time to stand around here waiting for the salvage crew to arrive.’
‘Oh!’
‘So, it’s your job to stay here. And I don’t want anybody touching that boat . . .’
‘It’s underwater.’
‘I’m simply making myself clear. If anyone interferes with that boat I’ll hold you personally responsible.’
‘Me?’
‘Yes.’
‘I can’t believe . . .’
‘Do you have any recent photographs of Roland Beagrie?’
‘No.’
‘CCTV images?’
‘No.’
‘But you could describe him to a forensic artist?’
‘I suppose I could.’ He addressed the old woman. ‘You certainly could . . .’ couldn’t you, Hazel?’
She was kneeling on the jetty staring into the murky water at the sunken wreck of the Cool Breeze. ‘What’s that, Captain?’
‘You could describe Beagrie to a forensic artist couldn’t you?’
‘Definitely. Being an amateur wildlife painter I have a weathered eye for detail.’
Xena nodded. ‘Good. Call forensics, Stick. Tell them to send someone over here. Thanks to your incompetence we won’t be able to put out an All-Ports Warning until we have that picture.’
Stick made the call. ‘A Rowena Chalfont is on her way.’
‘Okay, I think we’re done here,’ Xena said. ‘Remember Captain – you’re in charge.’
‘I’m the Captain, I’ve always been in charge.’
She passed him a business card. ‘Any problems, give me a ring.’
‘You can be sure I’ll do that.’
‘Right, Stick. Let’s make a move. We’ve wasted enough time here already.’
As they made their way back to the car Stick said, ‘You don’t really think it was AC Nunn who called Roland Beagrie to warn him we were coming, do you?’
‘Why not? How else do you explain that phone call? How do you explain Beagrie sinking his boat and disappearing into the night on the very day we decide to come here and question him? Who else knew we wanted to talk to him?’
‘The Chief?’
‘All right, I want you to access the Chief’s records . . .’
Stick half-laughed. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘Well, shut up then, numpty. It wasn’t the Chief.’
‘It could have been someone else who had seen our incident board – maybe the cleaner?’
‘No.’
‘You don’t know that for sure.’
She pulled a face. ‘Trust me, it wasn’t the cleaner – it was AC Nunn.’
‘You don’t know that for sure.’
‘You’ve said that already. Do we know anything for sure, Stick? We have to go with our gut instinct . . . You get gut instincts, don’t you?’
‘No.’
‘No?’
‘Am I meant to?’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t realise. It’s ninety percent of what being a detective is all about. And what’s worse in your case, is that the other ten percent isn’t up to much either.’
‘You’re so kind.’
‘And loveable with it.’
They reached the car and climbed inside.
‘Where to?’ Stick said.
‘The pub. It’s lunchtime and your turn to pay.’
‘It’s always my turn to pay.’
‘You should be grateful I let you wine and dine me. Many men would cut off their right arm for the opportunity.’
‘Any particular pub?’
‘Somewhere exotic – maybe the South of France, Bali, or Tahiti.’
‘I’ll see what I can do.’
‘So, we’re agreed then that there’s something not quite right about AC Nunn?’
‘I suppose I’ll have to go with your gut instinct in the absence of one of my own.’
‘Good decision. Now that’s settled, how are we going to access her records?’
‘We?’
‘You’re already floating down Shit Street without a paddle, so you’ve got nothing to lose.’
‘That’s true.’
‘Well?’
‘I’ll give it some more thought.’
Chapter Sixteen
‘It’s Richards’ fault we’re late, Doc,’ Parish said as they approached the booth in King George Hospital restaurant where Doc Riley was sitting on her own.
‘Only ten minutes,’ Doc Riley said. ‘It gave me a chance to have a quiet cup of tea and collect my thoughts.’
‘Don’t listen to him, Doc. We’re late because he won’t let me drive his new second-hand jalopy and he drives like an old woman.’
The Doc raised an eyebrow. ‘You’ve got a new car?’
‘A Nissan Qashqai. You heard what happened to my Mazda 3, didn’t you?’
‘The suicide?’
‘Yes. It was a write-off, and the insurance was a rip-off.’
‘I don’t think cars are designed to protect the occupants from falling objects. It’s more about front, side and rear impact.’
‘Well, that’s all well and good until something falls out of the sky. I can’t imagine what condition I’d be in now if I’d actually been in the car at the time that woman decided to end her life. And then, of course, there’s all this talk of asteroids, meteorites and space junk falling back to earth . . . It’s about time these car manufacturers began taking top-down safety seriously.’
Richards pulled a face. ‘What about sinkholes? They seem to be popping up everywhere these days.’
‘Sinkholes pop down not up, Richards. Yes, they’re certainly a worrying phenomenon. One minute you’re driv
ing along minding your own business, and the next you’re God only knows how far underground looking distinctly mole-like. We live in worrying times for sure. Right, are we eating? I’m eager to take advantage of my free-meal voucher.’
Doc Riley’s lip curled up. ‘You’ll never let us forget that, will you?’
‘Absolutely not. I’m just astounded that I was hoodwinked, bamboozled and hornswoggled for so long. It’s certainly taught me a valuable lesson about the female psyche.’
Parish had a panini layered with lettuce, slices of sopressata, mozzarella, Parma ham, peppers and radicchio, with curly fries and a garlic mayonnaise dip. Doc Riley ordered the spaghetti bolognaise with a side salad and garlic bread. Richards opted for the black bean and avocado salad with a bottle of water.
Doc Riley and Richards split the cost between them.
‘I plan to have the rhubarb crumble and custard after I’ve demolished this,’ Parish said. ‘So don’t put your bulging purses away.’
‘You’re a pig,’ Richards said.
‘Lunch is one of the three important meals of the day.’
‘That’s not the type of pig I meant.’
‘I know.’
They sat down and began eating.
‘Well, what’s the good news, Doc?’
She slid a file with the post-mortem report inside across the table. ‘As usual, I’m still waiting for the toxicology report, but from my examination it doesn’t look as though she was on either prescription medication, or that she was illegally drugged immediately prior to her death. There was, however, a knuckle bruising and swelling to the left side of her jaw, which suggests that the killer is right-handed and that he knocked her out before securing her to the table.’
Parish’s brow furrowed. ‘Hardly well-planned. Could it have been a spur-of-the-moment attack?’
‘It’s possible, but unlikely. He might very well have planned to knock her out rather than concern himself with drugs.’
Richards said, ‘We’ve also discovered that she’d planned a week away, but we don’t know where, or with whom.’
The Doc continued. ‘I found no DNA other than the victim’s from hair samples, fingernail scrapings, fibres or residue. Ultraviolet light was used to enhance any secretions on the skin, but none were found, which supports what I said at the crime scene that the killer washed her and destroyed any evidence.’
‘It doesn’t make sense, does it?’ Richards said.
Parish stared at her. ‘What doesn’t?’
‘Well, she plans a week away somewhere with someone, but she ends up tortured and murdered. That’s obviously not what she had planned.’
‘Maybe she was lured to her death under false pretences,’ Doc Riley said. ‘I’ve heard of that happening before . . . Mainly with teenagers though.’
‘Was the person who killed her the same person she was planning to meet?’ Richards persisted.
‘It seems likely,’ Parish said. ‘Otherwise she’d have been reported missing when she didn’t turn up.’
‘But there’s also the fact that she didn’t take a suitcase or any clothes with her even though she’d planned to be away for a whole week.’
Doc Riley took a swallow of tea. ‘Maybe the killer promised to buy her everything she needed, which was part of the lure? Maybe she’d found herself a rich sugar daddy.’
‘I’m still looking for mine,’ Richards mused.
Doc Riley nodded. ‘And me.’
‘Do they have sugar mommas?’ Parish asked.
‘They’re called wrinkled old crones held together by cosmetic surgery and Botox,’ Doc Riley suggested.
‘Mmmm! I’ve already got one of those,’ he said, winking at the Doc.
Richards slapped his arm. ‘Don’t think I won’t tell mum.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘And then there’s the wiped computer and the shredded personal information . . .’ Richards continued, as if there’d been no interruption. ‘It’s as if she turned her back on her old life and was on her way to start another one.’
‘Which supports my suggestion that she might have been led to believe she was going forward to something better.’
‘Anything else, Doc?’ Parish said.
‘A fractured hyoid bone confirms the cause of death as strangulation. The wounds on her back, buttocks and legs were not life-threatening, but simply executed to cause pain and suffering, which supports my hypothesis that the person who killed her suffered from paraphilic sexual disorder. The weapon used to cut and stab her was a seven-inch pointed double-edged knife – they’re common enough. The one major finding, which might or might not be relevant to your investigation, is that there’s clear evidence of long-term childhood sexual and physical abuse. Also, she’d had an abortion.’
Parish halted the mouth-directed movement of his loaded fork. ‘An abortion! Recently?’
‘No. The scarring was hardly noticeable. I think it would have been an unwanted childhood pregnancy, which might very well have been a consequence of the sexual abuse. I found no evidence that the uterus had ever been misshapen, there were no varicose or spider veins, and no stretch marks. Combining all those clues would suggest that the pregnancy did not last beyond the twenty-four week cut-off period.’
‘What about her medical records?’ Richards said.
‘There’s nothing – no childhood injuries and no abortion. Her parents must have taken her to an unregistered doctor. If they’d taken her to their family doctor, or the local hospital it would have been reported to Social Services, the child would have been taken into care and the parents prosecuted.’
‘Was the abortion definitely performed by a doctor?’ Parish said.
‘Yes. Also, the physical injuries she received – cuts to her scalp; fractured ribs, radius and ulna, and tibia and fibula were all set and repaired by a doctor with the benefit of x-ray.’
Richards’ eyes narrowed. ‘It makes you wonder how the injuries and the pregnancy were never noticed and reported by her teachers.’
‘Maybe she was home-schooled,’ Doc Riley suggested. ‘The authorities are beginning to clamp down on home-schooled children now, but twenty years ago there wasn’t much in the way of regulation, inspection or safeguards.’ She tapped the file. ‘The current address of the parents and the photograph of the latest victim is in there.’
Parish opened the file and saw the address written on a post-it note stuck to the inside cover. ‘Thanks, Doc. That’ll be our next port of call.’
‘Do Hayley Kingdom’s parents live in a port?’ Richards said.
He put his knife and fork down and stood up. ‘Yes. The port of come with me and pay for my rhubarb crumble and custard.’
‘I’ll give you the money.’
‘Okay.’ He held out his hand expecting her to pass him a five- or ten-pound note.
Instead, she began counting out change on the table. ‘I looked at the menu. Rhubarb crumble and custard costs one pound seventy-five . . . twenty-two, twenty-six, thirty-one, forty-one . . .’
‘It’s going to be like that, is it?’
She looked up at him as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. ‘Like what? Now look! You’ve made me lose my place . . . one, three, seven . . .’
He left her counting. Walked up to the counter and bought the rhubarb crumble and custard himself. When he returned to the booth the change had disappeared. ‘Where’s my one pound seventy-five?’
‘I didn’t think you wanted it.’
‘Think again.’ He tapped the table. ‘Start counting.’ He passed her the receipt he’d received from the cashier. ‘For your accounts.’
‘You’re a pig!’
‘Snuffle! Grunt! Snuffle!’
***
As she walked back towards St John’s Wood tube station she realised that nobody she’d spoken to had a bad word to say about Andrew Crowthorne. Was he really the charming, intelligent, happy-go-lucky person everybody made him out to be? Or had he
been wearing a mask to disguise an evil psychopathic personality underneath?
She was just about to call Veronica Darling when her phone vibrated.
‘Jerry Kowalski?’
‘It’s Veronica.’
‘I was just about to call you.’
‘No need. I have the two lists you requested. Are you able to write them down?’
‘Just a minute.’ She hurried to a bench up ahead, sat down, found a pen and paper in her handbag and said, ‘All right?’
She wrote down the four names and addresses of friends, and the five for Rebecca’s massage clients.
‘Thanks, but that’s not why I was going to call you.’
‘Oh?’
‘We need to talk.’
‘About?’
‘Everyone we’ve spoken to says the same thing: Andrew wasn’t that type of person.’
‘You’ve heard Rebecca’s story.’
‘I have. She tells it well.’
‘Do you believe her?’
‘I thought I did.’
‘But now you don’t?’
‘Let’s just say I’m wavering, Nothing we’ve found so far supports what she told us.’
‘I thought you were here to help?’
‘Help in supporting the truth, not perpetuating a lie.’
‘Who have you spoken to?’
‘Neighbours, Andrew’s work colleagues and his parents.’
‘None of those people were inside the house when the abuse was taking place.’
‘I know. There were only ever two people in the house at those times, and one of those people – Andrew Crowthorne – is now dead. And the other one – Rebecca Hardacre – has justified stabbing him seventeen times by telling us a story of psychological and physical abuse over eighteen months. The problem at the moment is that it’s just a story – there’s no evidence to turn that story into fact.’
‘Then you’d better find some then. If you’re here to help – then help.’
‘We’ll do our best. I have people checking key parts of her story.’
‘Such as?’
‘Thanks for the two lists of names, Veronica. I’ll be in touch when and if we find any corroborating evidence.’