There is no Fear in Love: (Parish & Richards #20)

by Tim Ellis

  ‘An old crusty who takes ten minutes to get ready.’

  ‘Maybe you ought to take a little longer.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Nothing. It’s merely an observation.’

  He blew into the palm of his hand and tried to smell his own breath, and sniffed his armpits. ‘An observation about what?’

  ‘You know that doesn’t work. People can’t smell themselves. I read somewhere that it’s something to do with your brain being overly familiar with your own smell. I suppose that’s why Digby can find you in the dark.’

  ‘Are you saying I have body odour?’

  ‘I’m not saying anything. I’m simply making an observation.’

  ‘I’m quite sure that if I stunk like a skunk, your mother would have said something to me by now.’

  ‘Your wife, you mean?’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  ‘Maybe her brain is overly familiar with your smell as well? I bet mum could find you in the dark as well.’

  ‘Your mother doesn’t seem to have any problem finding me in the dark. Mind you, she is lying next to me in the bed.’

  ‘There you are then.’

  ‘I have no smell.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  They arrived at 20 Mulberry Close in Broxbourne at twenty past seven. Richards drove through the police cordon and parked the Qashqai in the first gap she could find. The crime scene tape had been set up at the entrance to the Close, which meant that they didn’t have to run the gauntlet of the press who had got wind of the story by listening to the police radio channels, or someone had been given a tip from a copper who had received a pay-off to notify them of newsworthy events.

  As they walked towards the house, Parish could hear some members of the press trying to get his attention, shouting questions, hoping for a sound bite or an impromptu briefing – he ignored them. Apart from the fact that it wasn’t his case anymore, he hadn’t even spoken to the parents yet.

  Richards knocked on the door.

  A woman in her late fifties with dishevelled brittle brown-grey hair wearing a dark-red dressing gown, over a pink lace-fringed nightdress, and fluffy pink cotton slip-on slippers on her feet opened the door and peered through the gap. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Mrs Trent?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Parish showed Mrs Trent his Warrant Card. ‘Detective Inspector Parish and Detective Constable Richards from Hoddesdon Police Station. We’re here about your daughter – Summer.’

  She opened the door fully and stepped to one side to let them enter.

  There were two female white-suited forensic officers already in the house. The smaller of the two approached him. ‘Officer Derry Hughes, Sir. We’ve dusted the front door and letterbox for fingerprints, taken swabs and bagged this,’ she said, passing him the note in a clear plastic evidence bag.

  The note was written in black ink on a clear white postcard. There was no name or address on the front of the card, but on the back was written exactly what Constable Angela Nicholas from Central Dispatch had read out to him:

  I have the beautiful Summer Trent, DI Parish. She’ll keep me warm during the cold nights. Are you any better than the other useless detectives? Come and catch me, if you can. You have a week before she dies like all the others.

  And a small red heart had been drawn in what appeared to be human blood.

  ‘You’ll run a familial DNA comparison?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘And a handwriting analysis?’

  ‘We can do that if you request it, Sir.’

  ‘Consider it requested.’

  ‘I’ll arrange for the analyst to examine the handwriting, Sir.’

  ‘Good.’ He handed the evidence bag back. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘No, Sir. We’ve finished here.’

  ‘Thanks, Officer Hughes.’

  They followed Audrey Trent into the kitchen and shook hands with Jim Trent, who was a few years older than his wife and a good few pounds’ overweight. He had a swathe of baldness from the front of his head to his crown, that left only a two-inch semi-circle of grey running from above one ear, and around the back of his head to the other ear. To compensate for his lack of head hair, he had a thick grey moustache and pointed goatee beard. His jowls had filled out, and there were deep crevasses in his forehead that made him look like a marble sculpture.

  ‘Please, sit down,’ Audrey said, pointing to the wooden chairs with flower-flattened seat cushions positioned around a Formica-topped drop-leaf kitchen table. ‘Would you like tea or coffee?’

  It wasn’t a particularly large kitchen. The dark-wood units were dated and fading; some of the tiles on the floor were cracked and chipped; the tap was dripping into a wash bowl in the sink, and as soon as four people were seated around the table there wouldn’t be enough room to swing the cat . . . And they had a cat. He knew that, because he could hear it purring and it was rubbing itself on his left leg. He wasn’t really a cat man; he could take them or leave them. Sure, when they were kittens they were cute and could be fun with balls of wool, but adult cats didn’t really do anything. Unlike Digby, who had his own personality and was like a member of the family.

  Although he’d been able to grab a coffee before leaving the house, Richards hadn’t, so he said, ‘Yes, a coffee for me, please – half a sugar with a splash of milk.’

  ‘Would a tea be too much trouble?’ Richards asked.

  Audrey shook her head. ‘Not at all. I’m making tea for myself. Sugar and milk?’

  ‘Neither, thank you.’

  While Audrey was making the drinks he said to Jim Trent, ‘When did you notice that your daughter was missing?’

  ‘That’s just it – I didn’t. The post arrived about six. I heard it drop on the hall floor, because I’d been awake for a while with my sciatica. In the end I decided to get up, come down, make myself a drink and take a couple of painkillers. On my way, I picked up the post and dropped it here on the table. After I’d made a coffee and taken the tablets, I sat down where I’m sitting now and went through the post. It was mostly rubbish, which is what you get these days, but in amongst it all was that postcard. If I’d known what it was . . . Well, we watch all the crime series on the television and understand about forensic evidence, but I didn’t know what the hell it was, did I? I had to read it three times before it registered in my brain, by which time my fingerprints and DNA were all over it. Real life’s not like the TV, is it? Anyway, I went upstairs to check on Summer . . .’

  Audrey placed matching white and red patterned mugs with their drinks in on the table in front of them and said, ‘Of course, Summer Trent isn’t her real name.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ Parish said, his mug of coffee half-way to his mouth.

  She put a plate of chocolate digestive biscuits in the middle of the table. ‘Help yourself.’

  He didn’t mind if he did and scooped one up. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘She was adopted.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘It’s no secret – Summer knows. Her real parents were heroin addicts and she was taken into care by Social Services in 1997 when she was seven years old. She’s twenty-six now. I was surprised it took them that long to be honest. Anyway, we fostered her at first for eighteen months, and then when her mother died of a heroin overdose at the beginning of 1999, and her father disappeared shortly afterwards, we applied to adopt her.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Her real name was Delores Dobbs, which she hated. Dobbs was her mother’s name – Patricia Dobbs, because she and the father weren’t married. His name was Colin Fairweather. She didn’t like that name either. Anyway, in 2005 at the age of fifteen she decided to change her name by deed poll to Summer Trent. She chose the name Summer herself, and she thought of us as her real parents, not two drug addicts who used to abuse her, so that’s been her name for the past eleven years. Do you think her past has anything to do with her going missing?’

  He didn’t think so, but it would obviously h
ave to be checked out. What could he say? He couldn’t tell them that their adopted daughter had been abducted by a serial killer who was already responsible for the murder of twenty-four other women, and that a week probably wasn’t long enough to find her and bring her back alive. In the end, he decided to avoid the question altogether. ‘We need to ask you some questions?’

  ‘Of course,’ Jim said.

  ‘You were telling us that you went upstairs to check on Summer?’

  ‘Yes. Obviously, she wasn’t there. Her bed hadn’t been slept in. That was when the note really sunk in, so I rang you lot.’

  ‘Did she usually come home after a night out?’

  ‘Yes. She didn’t do one-night stands, and she didn’t sleep with a man until she knew him properly. Before she was taken into care, her disgusting parents used to sell her to paedophiles to get money for drugs. I still can’t wrap my head around what some people will do to other people – especially children – based on the flimsiest of excuses.’

  ‘Do you know where Summer went last night?’

  ‘The Eros Club on the corner of Bell Lane and Broxbourne High Road. She left here at about five to nine. Apparently, there’s always a queue at the Eros – it’s a popular nightclub, so she wanted to get there early.’

  ‘Did she go to the club on her own?’

  ‘Yes, but she was meeting friends there.’ Jim looked at his wife. ‘Give him the list Audrey.’

  Audrey pulled a piece of paper from her dressing gown pocket and slid it across the table. ‘We knew you’d want their names, so I made a list earlier. We haven’t spoken to any of the girls, but they’ll soon find out. The note made it clear what had happened to Summer, so there didn’t seem much point.’

  ‘What do you mean: They’ll soon find out.’

  ‘They all work together at the Barley Print factory in Cheshunt, so they’ll notice that she hasn’t turned up for work.’

  He looked at the three names, addresses and telephone numbers on the piece of paper: Lola Robinson, Cathy Hewitt and Alisha Bennett, and passed it to Richards. ‘What was she wearing?’

  ‘A halter-neck backless black chiffon dress . . . She looked like a million dollars, didn’t she, Aud?’

  Audrey began sobbing into a tissue.

  Jim put his hand on her shoulder. ‘Show them the photographs.’

  She pulled an iPhone out of her other pocket, navigated to her photographs and passed Parish the phone. ‘I took these pictures of her before she went out. She was going to use one of them as her profile picture on Facebook, but now . . .’ She began sobbing into the tissue again.

  Richards leaned over his shoulder.

  They both stared at a series of five photographs taken of a very attractive young woman. She was slim with dark hair that had been pulled back and pinned up into a fan. On her right wrist was a red bangle that matched her red shoes and bag. Around her neck was a gold cross and chain.

  Richards passed Mrs Trent her card. ‘Can you email me those photographs, please.’

  Audrey nodded.

  Parish stood up to leave.

  ‘What about the note?’ Jim said. ‘It was addressed to you. Surely you must have some idea what’s going on? Who’s taken Summer, Inspector? He’s obviously killed other women – how many? And what does he mean about Summer keeping him warm during the cold nights? He’s going to rape her, isn’t he? As if she hasn’t already had her fair share of people abusing her.’

  Parish glanced at Richards.

  ‘We read about Christy Henson, Inspector,’ Audrey said, tears running down her face. ‘It’s the same man, isn’t it?’

  What choice did he have? He sat back down. The note was pretty damning evidence about what the killer had already done, and what he intended to do to Summer unless Parish could find him first. ‘All I can tell you is that a specialist team of detectives have come down from London to assist us with the investigation. Yes, he’s killed before, and unless we find him in the next week, he’ll probably kill again.’

  ‘And that bloody heart,’ Jim said. ‘It’s Summer’s blood, isn’t it?’

  He was being put on the spot. The note was forcing his hand. ‘Yes, the blood probably does belong to Summer. But I don’t want you to give up hope. Summer is still alive, and we’ll try everything in our power to find her and get her back to you . . .’

  ‘But you can’t promise us that you’ll bring her back alive, can you?’

  ‘No, I can’t promise you that.’

  ‘He’s given you a week to find him. As a further incentive, I’m giving you a week as well. If you don’t find our Summer alive, I’ll go to the papers with what I know.’

  ‘There’s no need to do that, Mr Trent.’

  ‘There’s every need, Inspector. Are you any better than the other useless detectives he refers to in the note?’

  He shrugged. ‘I have no idea who those detectives are.’

  ‘Let’s hope you are, Inspector Parish. We’re not interested in selling our story to the papers. The only thing we care about is getting our daughter back alive.’

  Parish stood up again. ‘Thanks for your time. Come on, Richards. We have work to do.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  ‘Well?’ Bronwyn said into his ear.

  ‘I might ask you the same question, but I’m too tired to listen to the answer. Do you know what time it is?’

  ‘Time and Bronwyn wait for no man.’

  ‘Call me back when it’s not dark and cold outside.’ He ended the call and put the phone back on his bedside table.

  ‘Was that Bronwyn?’

  ‘I’m asleep.’

  ‘Oops! My nightdress must have rolled up during the night, and the shoulder straps seem to have slipped off revealing . . .’

  He opened an eye.

  ‘So you’re not asleep?’

  ‘I was, but someone kept whispering sweet lies in my ear. However, now that I am awake . . .’ He moved his hand across her stomach.

  ‘Can I come in with you?’ a pathetic pleading voice said from the foot of the bed.

  He grunted. ‘Absolutely not. Go and play with the hobgoblins in the pitch-black cellar.’

  ‘Of course you can, darling,’ Jerry said. ‘Ignore your father.’

  ‘A child ignoring her father! Whatever next? The end of the world is nigh.’

  Gabi scrambled over Kowalski and wriggled into the bed between them.

  ‘We’ll have to get a deadbolt put on our bedroom door,’ he said. ‘Maybe have keypad access installed, motion sensors, infrared beams and a sign that says something along the lines of: Adults Only, or No Access to Children.’

  ‘Stop being a misery,’ Jerry reprimanded him.

  ‘A misery! Me? I’m the happiest man alive. Or at least I would be if I could just . . .’

  ‘It’s nice and warm in your bed,’ Gabi interrupted him.

  ‘Don’t you have school this morning?’ he threw back at her.

  ‘School is for dunces,’ she retaliated.

  ‘You’ll need to go twice then, young lady.’

  She elbowed him. ‘You’re the dunce, daddy dunce.’

  He elbowed her back. ‘No, you’re the dunce, Gabi double dunce.’

  Jerry slid from under the covers. ‘I can see there’s not going to be much chance of getting any more sleep.’

  ‘Or anything else for that matter,’ Kowalski added.

  ‘I suppose I may as well go and have my shower. I need to be at Temple station by nine-thirty to meet the boys.’

  ‘Plenty of time,’ Kowalski said. ‘Now, if we could just get rid of this non-paying guest, I could join you . . .’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  He stared at his youngest daughter. ‘Gabi?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Go and tell grandma that you’d like your breakfast now, and that mummy and daddy would like toast and tea in about half an hour.’

  ‘You think I’m a dunce, don’t you?’

  ‘The thought nev
er crossed my mind.’

  ‘I think I have a good idea what you and mummy would be doing if I went downstairs.’

  ‘Who’s been telling you things?’

  ‘People.’

  ‘Which people? I want names, addresses, fingerprints and vomit samples.’

  Gabi screamed. ‘You’re the most disgusting daddy.’

  He tickled her. ‘Says you, but I know there’s a lot more disgusting daddies than me out there – we just have to find them.’

  She squealed some more.

  Jerry came back into the bedroom dripping wet with a white towelling dressing gown on and a small white towel wrapped around her hair. ‘Are you still here, young lady?’

  ‘Daddy’s disgusting.’

  ‘You don’t have to tell me that. Go and get ready for school and make sure you brush your teeth.’

  ‘There’ll be an inspection,’ he said to his daughter. ‘And if I find any specks of green vomit between your teeth, you’ll be in serious trouble, Gabi Kowalski.’

  Making retching sounds, Gabi scrambled off the bed and ran out of the room.

  ‘Go downstairs first,’ he shouted after her. ‘Tell grandma that daddy wants a hundred pieces of toast and a barrel of coffee in bed.’

  ‘You treat my mother like a slave.’

  ‘She’s your mother? I’m astounded. I thought she was a slave. And if the saying is true: Like mother, like daughter; then I want my money back.’

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘What have you got to complain about?’

  ‘There’s also a saying about the size of a man’s feet comparing favourably to the size of his . . . Well, I think a refund is in order.’

  ‘I’m devastated.’

  ‘You are!? Think about me.’

  ‘Do you think the slave will bring the toast and coffee?’

  ‘Stop calling my mother a slave.’

  ‘I have other appropriate names for her.’

  ‘Do you know a DCI called George Hill?’

  He thought for a handful of seconds. ‘Nothing springs to mind.’

  ‘Have you heard of an unsolved case from nineteen years ago concerning the rape and murder of a student nurse called Emily Hobson on Cambridge Street near Pimlico tube station? She lived at the Nurses’ Home in St George’s Square, close to Great Ormond Street Hospital.’