by Tim Ellis
A woman in her late fifties or early sixties with silver hair was standing behind the reception desk.
She smiled. ‘Yes, Sir?’
Parish produced his Warrant Card. ‘DI Parish and DC Richards from Hoddesdon Police Station. Is it possible to talk to someone about Christy Henson?’
Her smile disintegrated. ‘Of course. I’ll call the Matron.’ She picked up a phone, dialled an internal extension number and spoke into it. ‘Cathy Moor – the Matron – is on her way, Inspector,’ she said, putting the phone back in its cradle. ‘She won’t be a moment.’
‘Thank you.’
Within a minute, a woman with shoulder-length dirty-blonde hair, glasses, black slacks and a nurses’ red uniform top appeared. ‘I’m Cathy Moor – the Matron.’
He stared at her.
‘Not what you expected?’
‘I don’t know what I expected.’
‘As the Matron I have an office, but this is a working post. The NHS can’t afford to employ people who don’t work for a living.’
‘I understand.’
‘You want to talk about Christy?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’d better come to the Matron’s office then. Don’t expect anything lavish. We’re having a crutch amnesty at the moment, so one corner of my office is full of crutches, Zimmer frames, walking sticks and other medical paraphernalia. We hand out several pairs a day, but very few come back.’
They reached her office. It was a small room with metal-framed hard-backed chairs and a wood-effect Formica-topped desk. As she’d indicated, in the corner was a mishmash of crutches and the like.
‘Is the body you’ve found in the woods that of Christy?’
Parish nodded. ‘Yes.’
Cathy Moor crossed herself. ‘May the Lord have mercy on her soul. The staff will be devastated.’
‘Christy worked here as your Complaints Manager?’
‘That’s correct. We don’t get many complaints, so she also used to fill in on reception.’
‘Did she have any close friends here?’
‘We’re all close friends, but I know what you mean. Yes, she was particularly close to Tuppence Bevan, one of our nurse practitioners. Would you like to speak to her?’
‘Once we’ve finished talking to you. Were you here on Friday afternoon?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you recall what time Christy left?’
‘No, sorry. Friday evening is a quiet period and I was in here catching up with some paperwork.’
‘Did Christy have any male friends from among the staff?’
‘Not as far as I know. I’m sure I would have heard something if she had. Tuppence will be able to tell you for sure.’
‘Was Christy on Reception, or in her office?’
‘In her office. I remember, because Polly Newberry was dealing with a visitor on Reception as I passed.’
‘Would it be okay to take a look in Christy’s office?’
‘I don’t see why not. Nobody has been in there since she disappeared. Complaints can always wait and we expected her to come back. Now?’
‘Yes, please. And maybe we could question Tuppence Bevan in there as well?’
‘Of course.’ She picked up the phone on her desk and arranged for Nurse Bevan to meet them at Christy’s office in fifteen minutes. ‘That’s arranged. If you follow me, I’ll take you to Christy’s office.’
They followed Cathy Moor right out of the door, along one corridor and then left up another one, where she stopped outside a door with a sign that read: COMPLAINTS MANAGER. She unlocked the door and held it open for them. ‘You don’t need me to stay, do you?’
‘If you’re happy to trust us?’
‘At this point I’m supposed to say that the police can always be trusted, aren’t I?’
‘I see you’ve played the game before.’
‘I’ll be in my office if you need to speak to me again.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Moor.’
‘You’re welcome.’
Richards switched the light on and began rifling through the desk drawers.
Parish sat in a chair and watched her.
‘You could help.’
‘There’s not enough room. And anyway, you obviously enjoy rummaging through other people’s things.’
‘It’s the detective in me.’
‘Some people might call it something else.’
‘Well, those people might get . . . There’s some clothes hanging in here.’ She was referring to a thin personal locker.
‘We’ll ask Nurse Bevan what Christy was wearing during the day on Friday.’
‘Well, these clothes don’t look as though they’re clubbing clothes. Not that I’m an expert on clubbing clothes, because I haven’t been clubbing for at least fifty years. Do you want to know why?’
‘No. What else is in that locker?’
‘A couple of pairs of shoes.’ She held up a flat shoe. ‘These look like work shoes.’
‘Keep going.’
‘There’s a pamphlet for a Pokémon auction dated August 11, 2015 in Ware; a photograph of a man called Barry with 2003 on the back; a family photograph of her with her parents and sister dated July 2001; a variety of ticket stubs for the Eros Club in Broxbourne; a wristwatch that doesn’t work; three umbrellas; a bag-for-life with another six bags inside; a green handbag . . .’ She opened up the handbag, turned it upside down and shook the contents out over the desk. Some small change bounced on the desk and Parish thrust his hand out to catch a pound coin that was trying to escape. ‘Good catch,’ Richards said.
He pursed his lips ‘The reflexes of a crouching tiger.’
‘And the bad breath to go with it.’
‘When are the Annual Reports due?’
‘You don’t frighten me.’
‘What else is in the bag?’
‘Some tissues; lipstick; a pack of condoms; half a pack of chewing gum . . .’
There was a tap at the door.
A nurse with long black crinkly hair and wearing a two-piece blue uniform was standing there. ‘You wanted to see me?’ She had a pleasant face, but her eyes were puffy from crying.
‘Tuppence Bevan?’ Parish asked.
‘Yes.’
He shuffled up to the second chair in front of the desk and indicated for her to sit in the one he’d vacated. ‘DI Parish and DC Richards from Hoddesdon Police Station,’ he said, showing her his Warrant Card.
‘Is it true that Christy is dead?’
‘Yes.’
Tears welled in her eyes. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be. We understand.’
She took a tissue out of the pocket of her top and dabbed at her eyes. ‘Christy was murdered, wasn’t she? Otherwise you wouldn’t be here.’
‘Yes.’
‘Was it bad?’
‘Do you mind if we ask you some questions?’
‘Sorry.’
‘Do you know if Christy had a boyfriend?’
‘No, she didn’t. She said she’d tried long-term relationships before, but they weren’t for her. They were always messy and ended the same way – with the man trying to suffocate her. She decided that one-night stands suited her just fine. They were simple and uncomplicated.’
‘Did she have any relationships with men here in the hospital?’
Tuppence shook her head. ‘Apart from the fact that it’s frowned upon by the Matron, Christy thought it would be too complicated. She didn’t like complicated. I think she’d escaped from a couple of difficult relationships in the past, and now she just wanted a simple life.’
He pointed to the clothes in the locker. ‘Were those the clothes Christy was wearing during the day on the Friday she went missing?’
‘Yes.’
‘So she had another set of clothes that she changed into?’
‘Yes. She wore a royal blue halter-neck dress that clung to her like it was sprayed on. She had a really great figure and liked to show it off. That dress, m
atching shoes and clutch bag made her look like a million dollars.’
‘Did you go out with her?’
‘Yes. We were ready to party.’
‘What happened?’
‘We went to the Crocodile on College Road to get warmed up, because the Eros Club didn’t open until ten o’clock. After that, we went on to the Maltster on Windmill Lane . . .’ She began to cry. ‘Sorry.’
‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘Take your time.’
‘I received a telephone call saying that my Gran had gone missing from the Care Home again – she has Dementia.’
‘What time was this?’
‘I’d say about nine-thirty.’
‘Okay, carry on.’
‘It’s not the first time Gran has gone missing. She wanders out when nobody’s looking. For someone who doesn’t remember, she remembers well enough how to get out of that Care Home. She’s like one of those hardened criminals in the past that kept escaping in America and then they put them in Alcatraz. That’s what they ought to do to my Gran, put her in maximum security with 24-hour round-the-clock surveillance. Anyway, I wasn’t going to go, but Christy said I had to. I knew I had to, because if something had happened to my Gran, I never would have forgiven myself. I didn’t want to leave Christy, but she said she’d be all right . . .’ Tears rolled down her cheeks. ‘It’s my fault, isn’t it? I should never have left her.’
Richards chipped in. ‘It’s definitely not your fault. You had to go and look after your Gran. Even if you’d stayed, it’s unlikely you could have prevented what happened. The killer had probably picked Christy as his next victim and nothing you could have done would have changed the outcome.’
‘Do you really think so?’
‘Yes.’
Parish continued. ‘So you left her at the Maltster?’
‘She came outside with me. I climbed into a taxi and she waved me off. As we drove away, I turned and saw her going back into the pub.’
‘Were you with anyone at the Crocodile, or the Maltster?’
‘Anyone! You mean men?’
‘Yes.’
‘We hooked up with three men at the Crocodile who came with us to the Maltster. I’d seen two of them in there before, but the third one was new.’
‘Any names?’
‘Only first names, I’m afraid . . . Or, maybe they were made-up names – I don’t know. The two we already knew were called Garcia and Lonely. The other one said his name was Hum, which was short for Humbert. I remember we laughed for ages at that, because we couldn’t believe that any mother would call their son Humbert. We shouldn’t have teased him, but he didn’t mind. In fact, he laughed with us. We suggested that Bert might be a better nickname, but he said he liked Hum, so we called him Hum.’
‘Did any of the three focus their attention on Christy?’
‘Garcia and Lonely were drooling over her. Hum seemed to like me, which made a nice change. In fact, we kissed just before I got the call about my Gran.’
‘I don’t suppose your dress is lying unwashed somewhere?’
‘No. I took it to the dry-cleaners the next day.’
‘Okay. Could you describe Hum?’
‘Sure. He was a bit older than the men I usually go for, but beggars can’t be choosers so they say. He had longish brown hair, a four-o’clock shadow, a thin face and intense dark eyes. I really liked his eyes, they were so . . . black. You know, the pupils were like black holes that you could jump into and get swallowed up in.’
‘Did he have any distinguishing marks – scars or tattoos?’
‘Not that I saw.’
‘What about rings or jewellery?’
‘No. I checked for a wedding ring. The married ones take off their wedding ring, but you can still see where it was. They seem to think all women are idiots and can’t see the mark. If you mention it, they give some lame excuse, such as they’ve just got divorced, or their wife ran away with a travelling salesman. Anyway, there was no mark on his ring finger, and he didn’t have the hang-dog demeanour of a married man.’
‘We might ask you to describe him to a forensic artist.’
‘Why? You don’t think . . .? Oh God!’
‘We don’t think anything at the moment, Tuppence.’
‘If I’d stayed . . .’ She broke down in tears again. ‘It could have been me . . . and I kissed him.’
‘There’s nothing to suggest that Hum was anything other than who he said he was, but we have to check every lead. Thanks very much for seeing us and answering our questions, Tuppence.’
‘That’s it?’
‘Yes.’
She stood up. ‘I can’t believe Christy’s gone. You’ll catch him, won’t you?’
‘We’ll do our very best.’
After Tuppence had left Richards said, ‘Do you think Hum is The Lover?’
‘Do you know who Humbert was?’
‘Humbert who?’
‘Humbert Humbert.’
‘He had the same first and last name?’
‘Yes.’
‘No, I don’t know anyone called Humbert Humbert.’
‘That’s because nobody is called Humbert in this day and age. Do you think that serial killers want to get caught?’
‘They never believe that they’ll get caught, but they always want to get caught. What’s the point of being a serial killer if no one knows you’re a serial killer?’
‘Humbert Humbert is a fictional character in a book called Lolita written by Vladimir Nabokov in 1955. Humbert is a paedophile who has an uncontrollable desire for young girls. The story is also an allegory of intense love seen through the eyes of a lecher.’
‘Tuppence was right, wasn’t she? If she hadn’t received the call about her Gran – she could have been his next victim?’
‘Possibly.’
‘How scary is that?’
‘By calling himself Humbert he’s telling us it was him and leaving us some other clues, but what else do we know about serial killers, Richards? Why do they believe they’ll never get caught?’
‘Because they think they’re too intelligent and the police are a bunch of bumbling idiots.’
‘Speak for yourself.’
‘I was actually referring to you.’
‘I guessed as much. The key things we know about Humbert’s character is that he’s charming, sarcastic and seductive. He’s also an unreliable narrator and isn’t self-aware of his crimes.’
‘He doesn’t really look like Tuppence described him, does he?’
‘No. Remember the size ten boot print that Toadstone found?’
‘It was left there on purpose. He doesn’t have size ten feet at all, does he?’
‘No.’
‘Then we’re no better off, are we?’
‘I wouldn’t say that, Richards. Do you know how many murders are solved by footage caught on CCTV cameras?’
‘Is this a trivia question?’
‘It could be.’
‘Out of how many?’
‘Ten.’
‘Three?’
‘Seven.’
‘Seven!’
‘Yes. That’s according to the Head of Homicide at Scotland Yard. He suggests that CCTV cameras are as vital to detectives as forensic evidence.’
‘You could be him one day.’
‘I’m too old, but you on the other hand.’
‘Me?’
‘Why not? With my expert guidance anything is possible.’
‘It is, isn’t it?’
‘So, we’re going to the Crocodile and then the Maltster to see if they’re in possession of any CCTV footage from Friday, February 19.’
‘I love this job.’
‘I know you do.’
Chapter Ten
‘So, where are we now, Stickleback?’
‘In this lay-by.’
‘I don’t mean geographically, numpty. With the case?’
‘Our main suspect is Martin Boyd. We’ve reasoned that he’s the only perso
n who could have possibly killed his wife and three children within the limited time-frame available. Even if he had help, he’s responsible and we need to find him.’
‘Agreed. Let’s hope his Land Rover turns up soon. What else?’
‘We don’t know why he did it, so we probably need to explore the possible motives.’
‘Which are?’
Stick took out his notebook. ‘Infidelity by him or her; whether he’s mentally unstable – although we didn’t find any drugs to support that . . .’
‘He could have taken his medication with him.’
‘Normally, people with psychiatric problems do things when they don’t take their medication, not when they do.’
Xena lowered her window to stop the windows steaming up and to let some fresh air in. ‘True, but I don’t believe he was mentally unstable.’
‘No, there’s no evidence to suggest that he was.’
‘Okay. Anything else?’
‘Melissa threatened to divorce him and take the children with her. Maybe that’s why they were trying to sell the farm, and why they asked Raymond Parry to give them a figure for what it was worth.’
‘It seems likely.’
‘There’s something else as well.’
‘Go on?’
‘Maybe someone knew they were trying to sell the farm, didn’t want to lose their job and tried to stop them?’
‘It’s a bit far-fetched.’
‘It’s a possible motive.’
‘At a push. We’ll keep it up our sleeve as a last resort.’ Pecker had given them Melissa Boyd’s contact list from her phonebook, but a lot of the entries needed deciphering, so she wasn’t about to start searching through that. ‘Call Pecker again. We want the names and addresses of the family doctor, solicitor and bank.’
Stick took out his phone.
Xena watched as he navigated to his phonebook. ‘Have you put Pecker on speed dial yet?
He grunted. ‘Speed dial only applies to landlines.’
‘You’ve not passed the technological literacy test, have you?’
‘There’s a test?’
‘If you had, you’d know that holding down the HOME button and telling the phone who to call works just fine.’