by Tim Ellis
‘I’m glad to hear it, because lately I’ve been wondering if maybe you and I are not working like the well-oiled machine of bygone days. And when I say “you and I”, I actually mean “you”. Despite a myriad of drawbacks and obstacles put in my way by a kaleidoscopic array of people and unnaturally occurring events, and with the invaluable help of Richards, I seem to solve murders without any noticeable help from my forensic support team.’
‘It’ll be different this time, Sir.’
‘That’s what you said last time, and the time before that . . .’
Richards interrupted. ‘Tell us about the body, Paul.’
‘Hello, Mary. How are you?’
‘I’m okay.’
‘Still training for the London Marathon?’
‘Training! I think of it more like torture.’
Parish grunted. ‘For me!’
‘You’re lucky I agreed to run with you – nobody else wanted to.’
‘Well, Toadstone?’ Parish said.
‘Her name is Christy Henson. She’s twenty-five years old, lived with her sister – Tessa Henson – and worked as a Complaints Manager at Cheshunt Community Hospital. She was reported missing by her sister last Tuesday, February 23.’
He shook his head in disbelief as he looked at the dead woman. Thick nails had been hammered through the palms of each hand, and a single nail pierced both feet, which had been placed one on top of the other. Her face and body were covered in cuts and dark bruises. She’d obviously been physically beaten, and by the marks around her pubic area and thighs, it was almost certain that she’d been sexually assaulted on numerous occasions as well.
What was the world coming to? The prisons were chock full of psychopaths, lunatics and all manner of crazies, and yet still more kept rising to the surface of the cesspit. It reminded him of Michelangelo’s painting of Hell. Where would it all end? Probably at the end of days. He wasn’t normally a pessimist, or religious for that matter, but he had the eerie feeling that there wasn’t much hope for humanity. Sooner or later, there would come a judge, jury and executioner. Humanity would be found guilty, and that would be it – so long, and thanks for all the fish.
He had to turn, bend at the waist and twist his head to look at the woman properly. She’d been crucified upside down. ‘Does this have some form of religious meaning, Toadstone?’
‘Could be, Sir. St Peter was reported to have been crucified upside down, although the evidence is sketchy . . .’
‘I know all about sketchy evidence, Toadstone.’
Richards nudged him.
‘Also, the Papal symbol incorporates an inverted cross, which anti-Catholics argue is satanic and as such the Pope is seen as the Antichrist and in league with the Devil. The truth, however, is slightly different. The inverted cross symbolises the martyrdom of St Peter. The disciple of Jesus insisted that he be crucified upside down because he didn’t believe himself worthy of being crucified in the manner of his Lord. Of course, there are those who believe that if you invert something, then it must mean the opposite of its original meaning, so many people believe that an inverted cross is satanic in nature.’
‘And what’s that mark on her forehead?’
‘A problem for you, Sir.’
‘Meaning?’
‘It’s the killer’s signature – a heart.’
‘What do you know, Toadstone?’
‘The Met’s Homicide and Serious Crime Command have overall responsibility for this case . . .’
Parish nodded as a vague memory fought its way to the surface. ‘Of course.’
‘What’s Paul talking about, Sir?’ Richards said.
‘They call him “The Lover”, because of the heart carved into each victim’s forehead. It’s his calling card. He’s one of the UK’s most prolific serial killers with twenty-three confirmed victims – all young women.’
‘Is Christy Henson number twenty-three or twenty-four?’ she asked.
‘Twenty-four.’
‘Why don’t I know about him?’
‘Very few people know about him. Oh, there have been dubious rumours in the media. The Sun even ran an article last year suggesting that there are two active serial killers operating in Britain at any one time, which was supported by research undertaken by Professor David Wilson . . .’
Richards’ eyes opened wide. ‘The Criminal Profiler?’
‘The very same.’
‘He’s my hero.’
Parish’s brow furrowed. ‘You have some strange heroes, Richards. Anyway, most people don’t realise that the truth is actually far worse. According to the Sun, sixty murder cases across Britain go unsolved each year. We’ve seen the figures, and we know that estimate is significantly on the low side.’
Richards nodded. ‘That’s true.’
‘And don’t forget about “The Pusher”,’ Toadstone said.
‘The Pusher!’ Richards’ face creased up. ‘Who’s that? How come I don’t know about him either?’
‘Need to know,’ Parish said.
‘I need to know.’
‘Senior officers and above.’
‘I’m above.’
‘Above who?’
She looked around to see who she might be above, but couldn’t find anybody. ‘I’m above the support staff.’
‘Unfortunately, you’re not. You have nothing to do with the support staff. They’re on a completely different career ladder and pay scale from you.’
‘I must be above someone.’
‘The best that can be said is that you’re above ground.’
‘That’s something, isn’t it?’
‘Definitely.’
Toadstone continued. ‘The remains of eighty-five people, mainly young men, have been recovered from the canals around Manchester since 2007. At least twenty-eight of those deaths remain unexplained, and Professor Craig Jackson . . .’
‘He’s another one of my heroes.’
‘. . . Professor Jackson thinks that a large proportion of those twenty-eight bodies are the work of a serial killer who is targeting gay men, or those he believes are gay, to assuage his own feelings of homosexual guilt. He doesn’t believe that the deaths are attributable to accidents, suicides or misadventure because canals aren’t popular suicide spots – especially for men. But they are popular places for disposing of bodies. Of course, the Greater Manchester Police have dismissed the claims as mere urban legend, but I suppose they have to, don’t they?’
‘Why is he called “The Pusher”?’ Richards asked.
‘Because he pushes people into the canals.’
‘Is that it? I was expecting a more elaborate explanation, Paul.’
‘Sorry, Mary.’
‘So anyway,’ Parish said. ‘Can we get back to the killer of this unfortunate young woman. The reason very few people know about “The Lover”, is because we don’t want any copycats. Also, can you imagine the panic if we told the general populace that a serial killer with twenty-three – twenty-four – kills was still on the loose after five years. And then, of course, there’s the media. They’d focus on the delicious newsworthy fact that the police don’t have a clue what they’re doing and couldn’t catch a cold in Alaska. No, things like that are best kept under lock and key.’
‘But I wouldn’t have told anyone.’
Parish stared at her. ‘There’s not somebody going through a list of police officers deciding who’s trustworthy and who isn’t, you know. Officially, only Chief Inspectors and above know about these two and the other three serial killers.’
‘You’re not a Chief Inspector.’
‘I certainly have all the right credentials to be a Chief Inspector – good looking, intelligent, a keen sense of humour . . .’
‘As if!’
‘Chief Day let it slip about two years ago.’
‘You could have told me.’
‘He swore me to secrecy.’
‘I can be secret.’
‘Well, you know about them now, so you’d better be.’
‘Just a minute! You said there was another three serial killers?’
‘Another three? You know more than me, Richards.’
‘You said there were another three serial killers that no one knew about.’
‘I doubt that. And if no one knows about them – why are you asking me about them? I don’t know anything about them.’
‘I’ll find out.’
‘I look forward to reading your report, Detective Constable.’
‘I suppose we’ll just hand the case over to the Met’s Homicide and Serious Crime Command now, won’t we?’
Parish shook his head. ‘If only life were that simple. They’ll send their Specialist Casework Investigation Team – SCIT for short – to help us.’
‘Help us! Do we need any help?’
‘Whether we do or we don’t, a small team of detectives will arrive first thing tomorrow morning, take over the Major Incident Room on the top floor and get to work helping us to progress new lines of enquiry.’
‘We don’t have any old lines of enquiry, never mind new ones. Will you still be the Senior Investigating Officer?’
‘I doubt it. I’ve never had SCIT descend on me before, but I seem to recall they come with a DCI who acts as a go-between. We’ll just have to suck it and see.’
‘Maybe we shouldn’t tell anybody.’
‘That’s a brilliant plan, Richards.’
‘It is?’
‘If you want to join the queue at the job centre.’
‘I could stack shelves at the supermarket.’
‘A job I think you’re suitably qualified for. I’ll write you a glowing reference.’
‘Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome.’
‘We’ve already found something, Sir,’ Toadstone said.
‘Oh?’
‘A size ten boot print. As you know, we can extrapolate the person’s height and weight from a boot print.’
‘Can you extrapolate a likeness as well?’
‘No.’
‘A name?’
‘No.’
‘Address?’
‘No.’
‘Then I apologise for pouring cold water on the flames of your enthusiasm Toadstone, but a boot print is not going to help us catch him, is it?’
‘I suppose not.’
‘Definitely not. There’s obviously a reason he hasn’t been caught for the past five years. If he’s left us a boot print, then it’s to throw us off the scent. He’s had years of practice. He’s hardly likely to get careless after all this time, is he?’
‘No, I don’t think that’s likely.’
He peered at the nail through her left hand. ‘The nails look like standard issue . . .’ He looked around the tent. ‘Where’s Doc Riley?’
‘On her way.’
‘From where – Timbuktu?’
Just then the tent flap was lifted up and Doc Riley came in with her assistant – Maurice. ‘Did I hear my name being taken in . . . Dear Lord, whatever next?’ she said when she saw the body.
‘My thoughts exactly, Doc,’ he said.
‘What’s the world coming to?’
‘Stop stealing all my thoughts.’ He pointed to the heart engraved on the woman’s forehead. ‘Have you seen that signature before?’
‘Yes.’
‘You know about “The Lover” as well?’ Richards asked her.
‘Yes, I do.’
‘Everybody seems to know about all the serial killers, but me.’
‘Not everyone, Richards,’ Parish consoled her. ‘There’s a cleaner who works nights in the gymnasium – she doesn’t know.’
‘That’s something at least.’
‘I’m a registered Home Office pathologist, so I’m privy to knowledge that isn’t widely known, Mary,’ Doc Riley said. ‘Serial killers who they can’t seem to catch is one aspect of that knowledge base. You do realise that I have to notify the Met’s Homicide and Serious Crime Command, don’t you?’
Parish nodded. ‘Yes. Toadstone is familiar with the case as well. I also found out inadvertently a couple years ago.’
‘I didn’t know,’ Richards said.
‘The system of “need to know” is working as intended then,’ Parish said. ‘So, what can you tell us about this body, Doc?’
‘I can tell you that I’m not a seer. That said, I do know that the reason he hasn’t been caught is that he doesn’t leave any internal or external forensic evidence. I haven’t had the privilege of carrying out post-mortems on any of his victims yet but, like all the other pathologists, I expect to find nothing that will help you.’
‘Encouraging words, Doc.’
‘Sorry, but there it is.’
Parish said, ‘Does he nail all his victims upside down to a tree?’
‘Sorry, I don’t know. They only release certain details associated with the murders. I knew about the heart, because he’s informing us that the victim belongs to him – it’s his calling card. I also knew about the absence of any forensic evidence. Beyond that, I knew as much as you did – until now. Okay, I can’t touch the body until I’ve spoken to people way above me. And even then, I’ll probably get sidelined. I’ll give you a call when I know what’s happening.’
‘What about lunch, Doc?’ Richards said.
‘Probably not this time, Mary. We’ll have to see what the powers-that-be say when I tell them what we’ve found.’
‘Talking of which,’ Parish said, rounding on Toadstone. ‘Who found the body?’
‘An athlete by the name of Mandy Allen. She’s in training for the heptathlon at the Rio Olympics.’
‘I think I’ve heard of her,’ Richards said.
‘She’s in the forensic truck keeping warm.’
‘Good thinking – we’ll speak to her on the way out. So, the bottom line is that neither of you has anything useful for me?’
‘I wouldn’t be surprised if this was taken out of your hands, Parish,’ Doc Riley suggested.
‘Probably, but until that happens Richards and I have work to do,’ he said, heading for the exit. ‘Come on Richards, let’s try and solve this case before the glory hunters arrive.’
Once they’d removed the forensic paraphernalia and were walking back towards the Qashqai Richards said, ‘We’re not really going to try and solve this case before tomorrow, are we?’
‘Do you think we can do in eight hours what a hundred other detectives have failed to do in five years?’
‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘There you go then.’
They climbed into the white forensic truck.
A forensic officer was chatting with the athlete, who had her hands wrapped around a steaming mug of black tea.
‘Thanks for staying with the witness,’ Parish said to her. ‘You can get back to work now.’
The forensic officer left.
He sat down on a stool opposite the woman. ‘Mandy Allen?’
‘Yes.’
‘You found the body and called the police?’
‘Yes. I wish I hadn’t . . . Found the body, that is.’
‘I understand. Did you see or hear anything or anyone?’
‘No. She pointed to an iPod on the worktop. ’I had earplugs in listening to my Portuguese lessons and repeating the phrases.’
‘In preparation for Rio?’
‘That’s the idea, but I’m not very good at foreign languages. I’m competing in the . . .’
‘Heptathlon.’
‘That’s right. Have you heard of me?’
‘No, sorry. One of the others told me what you did.’
‘Well, it’s hardly surprising. I only made it into the Great Britain team because someone pulled out.’
‘Don’t put yourself down. You’re up there with the best to even be considered, so you must be good.’
‘I suppose.’
‘You didn’t take any pictures of the body with your phone camera, did you?’
‘That’s a strange question.’
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br /> ‘Sorry, but you wouldn’t believe what some people will do. Have you told anybody other than the police about what you found?’
‘No – no one.’
‘We’d appreciate it if you did keep what you’ve seen to yourself. If any of the details did get out it could compromise our investigation.’
‘Of course.’
He passed her a business card. ‘If you do need to talk to someone . . . a counsellor to help you cope with what you saw – give me a call and I’ll make arrangements.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Now you are, but you may not be later when your brain processes the information. Also, if anything does come to mind that you think might help us, please call.’
‘I will.’
He stood up. ‘Okay. Thanks for your help, Miss Allen. You’re free to go now. I’m going outside to give a short press briefing. While they’re distracted, I suggest you slip away. DC Richards will help you do that. I’m sure you don’t need the press hounding you while you’re focusing on your training?’
‘No, thank you. Although they do say that any publicity is good publicity.’
‘Not in this case, I’m afraid.’
He made his way out to the crime scene tape and stood behind it as if it acted as a barrier between him and the swarms of journalists, photographers, cameramen and other strange people with nothing else better to do with their lives on a freezing Monday morning.
‘Ladies and gentlemen. Thank you for waiting patiently. As you know, I’m not keen on giving ad hoc press briefings. However, I know you have deadlines to meet, so I can tell you that the body is that of a young woman in her twenties . . .’
‘Is it Christy Henson, Inspector?’
‘You know I’m not at liberty to divulge the identify of the victim until the next-of-kin has officially been notified.’
‘Susan Daly from the Identity Channel,’ a woman with half a shaved head, and rings through her nose and lips said. She had heavy black make-up around one eye, and looked like the bride of Chucky. ‘Can you tell us how she died, Inspector?’
‘We’re waiting for the post-mortem to be carried out, Miss Daly. As yet, the cause of death is unknown.’
‘Andrew Pearson from the Broxbourne Beagle, Inspector,’ a man with a crew cut, a handlebar moustache and a military bearing said. ‘Was she sexually assaulted?’
He shook his head. They would insist on asking questions they knew weren’t going to elicit any answers. ‘Until we receive the post-mortem results we simply don’t know, Mr Pearson.’