by Tim Ellis
‘Never heard of anyone called Morton Gillespie.’
‘The name didn’t crop up during your investigation?’
‘No.’
‘He was killed by a hit-and-run driver three days after Emily was murdered.’
‘A coincidence.’
‘My husband says there are no such things as coincidences where murder is concerned.’
‘Big guy, used to play rugby?’
‘Yes.’
‘I remember him. We were on a “Policing in the Twenty-First Century” course together years ago – drank the bar dry one night and then limbo danced naked under a full moon.’
‘That sounds like something my husband would do.’
‘And you’re his wife?’
‘For longer than I care to admit. We have four children together.’
‘Four children! You don’t look old enough.’
‘Very kind.’
George gulped more oxygen into his useless lungs and said, ‘So, Emily Hobson climbs out of the Nurses’ Home through the ground floor toilet window, helped by this Morton Gillespie fellow, and they escape through the two loose fence posts and go somewhere . . . Have you found out where?’
‘No.’
‘Okay, so they go to a club or somewhere else together, and then on the way back Emily is beaten, raped and strangled . . . Where was Gillespie when all this was going on?’
‘We don’t know.’
‘Well, I’m assuming that Gillespie didn’t rape and kill her?’
‘No, we don’t think so.’
‘In which case – who did? As far as I can see, you’re no further forward than we were back in the day.’
‘Except, we think that the rape wasn’t why Emily was murdered, and that there’s a connection between her death and Morton’s hit-and-run.’
‘This Morton is an interesting diversion, but he hasn’t added anything useful to the investigation. If we’d known about him at the time, he might or might not have provided us with other lines of inquiry, but we didn’t know about him, so it’s all speculation. As for there being another motive other than rape for Emily’s murder . . . Such as what?’
‘We don’t know, but something that involved both her and Morton.’
‘Something? You’re not your husband are you, Mrs Kowalski? “Something” just doesn’t cut it. Evidence – that’s what we needed back then, and that’s what you still need now.’
Flora appeared like a member of the security detail, and made a big show of checking her watch and clearing her throat.
‘Piss off, Flora,’ George said. ‘Can’t you see I’m having a high-level meeting with members of my investigative team. There’ll be dire consequences if I have to tell you again.’
‘You can swear at me and threaten me all you like George, but you and I both know none of that crap works with me. I have the moral high-ground, because I’m here to take care of you. You, on the other hand, are a depraved barely-human specimen of the male species with a mind like a sewer. There are rules, and one of those rules is that Flora is always right.’
George looked at Jerry. ‘I love it when she talks dirty to me, but you can understand what I’m reduced to. I used to be someone of importance, someone with power and influence. Now all I am is Flora’s plaything.’
‘In your dreams, George Hill,’ Flora said. ‘If I started playing with you how long do you think you’d last?’
He grinned like the Cheshire cat. ‘I’m willing to take my chances, Flora.’
Flora stared at Jerry. ‘Are you finished with George? The drums are calling him.’
Jerry shrugged. ‘I suppose so.’ George Hill didn’t really know anything other than what was in the file. For all intents and purposes, it had been a wasted journey.
‘Thanks for tearing yourself away from the sacred drum class anyway, George,’ she said to him. ‘It was good to talk through what you did at the time.’
‘What I did was add another file to the mountain of unsolved cases. I wish I’d solved it, but wishes never come true – do they, Flora? Not only that, here we are nineteen years later and it still hasn’t been solved. They re-visit these unsolved cases every so often and have a case conference, but they’ve obviously not found what you’ve found. I hope you solve the case and get the damned monkey off my back. I can’t say I’m feeling optimistic about your chances, but good luck anyway.’
‘Thanks.’
‘One thing though.’
‘What?’
‘One of the team at the time, a young Detective Constable by the name of . . .’ He scratched his flaky scalp. ‘I had a quick fling with her as well . . . Oh yeah! Juicy Lucy. That wasn’t her real name, of course, it was Lucy Tripp. Anyway, she also thought Helen Veldkamp was the key to solving the case. You want to speak to her. Last I heard she was a Detective Inspector at Kentish Town Police Station in Camden.’
‘Right, George,’ Flora said, taking a firm grip on his upper arm. ‘Time to go. Say goodbye to your investigative team, and let’s follow the sound of the drums.’
‘Goodbye, team.’
‘Goodbye, George,’ they said in unison.
***
After Parish had finished bringing the team up to date on the murder of Christy Henson and the abduction of Summer Trent, the DCI suggested a comfort break.
‘I’m supposed to have a press briefing in five minutes, Sir,’ Parish said to Mike Todd.
‘You can still do the briefings, Parish. We’ll keep everything low-key. We don’t want this to look like a major inquiry until we’re forced to. We’re not ready for the press yet though, so push it back an hour to ten o’clock. I imagine DI Mellor’s briefing will only take half an hour.’
‘There’s also a Detective Sergeant downstairs who’s come from the Essex Serious Economic Crime Directorate in Chelmsford to see me.’
‘Tell someone to look after him until we’re finished here. Are you dabbling in economic crime as well now?’
‘It’s something that involves crime statistics, fraud and murder. I’m passing it on for them to deal with.’
‘They’re supposed to be the experts in financial matters.’
Richards brought him a coffee.
‘Thanks.’
He phoned Jenny Weber – the Press Officer – and gave her the good news. He also called the Desk Sergeant and asked if a DS had arrived from Chelmsford.
‘Serafina Kingfisher no less, Sir,’ Sergeant Andrew Waine informed him. ‘Just arrived with the early-morning post, introduced herself and asked for you. I nearly called for the police surgeon to come and dislodge the cherry from her mouth.’
‘Way out of your league then, Sergeant?’
‘I’d say so, Sir.’
‘Can you inform her that I’ll be delayed by half an hour? Look after her for me. Give her a pot of tea with a plate of scones and a jug of fresh cream.’
Waine laughed. ‘Of course, Sir. Leave it to me. I believe Nancy is serving scones and fresh cream in the canteen this morning.’
‘Thanks, Sergeant.’
‘Happy to help, Sir.’
The line went dead.
‘You could have warned me,’ Richards said.
‘Why?’
‘Well, you just could have.’
‘You got five more sponsors – what are you moaning about?’
‘I was embarrassed.’
‘You need embarrassment counselling.’
‘I know.’
DI Brett Mellor cleared his throat. ‘Ladies and gentlemen . . .’
Everyone shuffled back to their seats nursing unfinished drinks and shortbread slices for dunking.
‘I’ll keep this brief,’ he began, pointing to a pin board where two maps were displayed. The first was a 1:25,000 Ordnance Survey map of the South of England. Large coloured pins had been used to identify the addresses of all twenty-five of The Lover’s victims. Coloured string led from each map pin to a victim photograph and a card detailing brief details of the victim
’s background, place of abduction, where they were found, evidence recovered at the site, forensics, witnesses, post-mortem, CCTV . . . ‘This first map provides an overall summary of each of the twenty-five victims – twenty-four murders and one abduction. Where each victim was found is not where they were murdered. We’re assuming he murders the women where he’s kept them for a week, and then removes any internal and external forensic evidence through the use of a strong dilution of sodium hydroxide . . .’
‘Which is?’ the DCI said, presumably for the benefit of Parish and Richards.
‘It’s a chemical compound with a high alkaline content. It’s used in drain cleaners and paint strippers.’ He looked around for any other questions, but what he’d said appeared to have explained to those present exactly what it was and what it could do. If it was used to strip paint off surfaces, then one could only imagine the damage it would do to hairs, fibres, fingerprints, DNA and other bodily fluids – not to mention the internal surfaces of the vagina and rectum. There are no witnesses; no CCTV of any value; nothing from the post-mortems . . .’
‘Cause of death?’ the DCI said.
‘Oh yes. The cause of death is an arterial gas embolism, which results in a catastrophic stroke. He injects air into the carotid artery in the neck, which causes a blockage of the blood supply – and thus oxygen – to the brain. Death is fairly rapid – within a couple of minutes at most.’
‘Are they conscious when he does that?’ Richards asked.
‘I’d like to say no, but Professor Carling would shoot me down in flames. The biological evidence suggests they are conscious. He has this theory that The Lover is looking into their eyes as he watches them die. Just thinking about it makes my skin crawl. Anyway, we basically have nothing to go on. One murder follows another, and we get no nearer to catching him. Yes, we have his MO, but up to now it hasn’t helped us: He abducts the victims from a pub or club; he wears a disguise; his face has never been caught on CCTV; we have descriptions of him, but they’re different each time; we have a victim profile – they’re dark-haired, attractive, in their mid-twenties, unmarried and childless; he keeps them naked and tied up for exactly a week; during that week he rapes them frequently using a condom; after a week he kills them in the manner described; cuts a heart into their forehead and disposes of the body in a secluded wood by nailing them upside down to a tree.’
He pointed to the second map – a 1:10,000 scale map of Hoddesdon and the surrounding area, which identified the locations relating to Christy Henson with red map pins and matching string, and those relating to Summer Trent with green pins and string. ‘This is where we’re up to with the geographic analysis of the current victims.’
‘Is that it, Brett?’
‘More or less, Sir. Although we do have a number of leads to follow up based on DI Parish’s presentation.’ He referred to the incident board that DC Lewis had made a list on. ‘We need to chase up Forensics for the analysis of Christy Henson’s diary; the analysis of the DVD from the Crocodile pub on February 19 and the months of January and February; the swabs and fingerprints from the door of the Trent house and the note; and the handwriting analysis of the note. We also need to find and question Garcia, Lonely and the taxi driver from the night of February 19; organise a forensic artist to draw up a likeness of Humbert based on Tuppence Bevans’ description and extrapolate possible e-fit likenesses; verify Tuppence’s alibi; check out the Crocodile CCTV system to make sure it wasn’t hacked; check out JLR Systems in Ware and find out who carried out the maintenance check of the Crocodile CCTV system on February 11; find Summer Trent’s biological father – Colin Fairweather; visit the Eros Club; interview Summer Trent’s three friends to find out how the killer was able to abduct her last night. Finally, get Dr Miriam Shepherd here to provide us with a psychological profile.’
The DCI stood up. ‘So, there we have it. Any comments from anybody?’
Richards shuffled on her seat.
‘Come on, Richards,’ Parish said. ‘If you’ve got something to say – spit it out.’
‘I think he’s left us clues, but we haven’t found them yet?’
The DCI’s eyes narrowed to slits. ‘Go on?’
‘I could be wrong, Sir.’
‘And you could be right as well, Richards,’ Parish added. ‘Tell the team what’s on your mind. Do you want to lie down?’
Her face glowed red. ‘It struck me that the twenty-third and twenty-fourth victims have the same initials – CH – Charlie Harrison and Christy Henson. It could just be a coincidence, but our previous DCI always said that there were no coincidences where murder was concerned. So, I’m wondering if anyone has searched for a pattern in the names, locations, dates and so on? If you recall, there was the alphabet murders in the 1970s where three girls were raped and strangled in New York who all had the same double initials: CC, MM and WW. And there were another four similar murders in California between 1977 and 1994 with the initials: CC, PP, RR and TT. They never caught the New York murderer. Also there’s . . .’
Parish put a hand on her shoulder. ‘All right, Richards. I think everyone gets the idea.’ He stared at the DCI. ‘Have you asked anyone to look for a pattern or a message, Sir?’
‘No.’
‘Richards sees things that the rest of us mere mortals don’t see, so I’d suggest that you ask someone to take a look.’
‘I will. Excellent suggestion, DC Richards.’
‘Thank you, Sir.’
Parish said, ‘You might want to ask Dr Toadstone – the Head of Forensics – if he can suggest someone. As a fully paid-up member of MENSA, he knows people who know people.’
‘I’ll do that. Thanks, Parish. Right, so you have a visitor to see, a press briefing to attend, and then you and Richards are off to the Eros Club, followed by visits to Summer Trent’s three friends to find out what happened last night.’
‘That’s our day mapped out, Sir. I’m also hoping to fit a spot of lunch in there somewhere.’
‘Remember, keep the press briefing low-key. We don’t want this case turning into a media circus and hampering our efforts.’
‘Will do, Sir.’
‘Okay, people. We’ll meet back here at five o’clock to see where we are. I’m sure you wouldn’t want me to get my whip out, so let’s get to it, and no slacking.’
Chapter Twenty
‘Put your foot down,’ Xena urged him.
They were on their way to investigate whether Martin Boyd was holed up in 39 Heronsgate Road in Turnford. At the same time, Alicia Collins was being arrested at her place of work – the perfume section at Debenhams in Broxbourne – and taken to the station for questioning.
An Armed Response Unit was travelling in an unmarked black transit van behind them.
‘Why?’
‘There are a number of reasons. First of all, I’m giving you a direct order . . .’
‘In my own car?’
‘For which you get paid good money to use instead of a pool car, which means that this is not your car during working hours, but my executive command vehicle. Secondly, Martin Boyd might get wind of our impending arrival and scarper. Thirdly, and most importantly, I hate dawdling.’
‘Don’t you have Melissa Boyd’s contact list to examine?’
‘I’ve decided to let you look through that.’
‘Me?
‘Is that a problem?’
‘No . . . Except, I’m driving.’
‘Not now, dipstick – later. I know you don’t have anyone to delegate to, but I do. And, as you already know, I take my leadership responsibilities very seriously. So, I feel it’s important that I don’t hog all the interesting tasks for myself. I need to delegate some of them to you, so that you’ll gain the necessary experience you’ll need to progress up the career ladder.’
‘Very generous.’
‘You’re lucky to have such an understanding, caring and thoughtful boss.’
‘I’ve often thought that.’
‘
I’m sure. So, why haven’t you put your foot down yet?’
‘We’re here now.’
‘I see! You thought you’d distract me with mindless conversation while you ignored a direct order?’
‘I never would.’
‘You just did.’
He parked three houses along the road from Number 39, and the driver of the black van carrying the ARU pulled up behind them.
The five members of the ARU piled out of the back of the van and hugged the hedge of Number 45. Sergeant Nick Webb jumped from the front passenger seat and approached Xena and Stick.
‘You and your unit go first, Sergeant,’ Xena said.
‘Only if you’re sure, Ma’am?’
‘I’m sure. Sergeant Gilbert and I will follow you in.’
He ignored her. They both knew that until such time as Number 39 was pronounced clear of any danger, he was in charge of the operation.
‘Okay, men,’ he said to his team, even though there were two women in the unit. ‘Follow me.’ He led them along the pavement keeping close to the hedges at the front of Numbers 45 and 43, and the waney lap fence of Number 41. They were dressed in black coveralls with ankle-high boots, bullet-proof vests and helmets, ski masks, utility belts, police radios and personal cameras. In their hands they carried the standard-issue Heckler & Koch G36, which had a tendency to overheat during sustained firefights. The second man – Constable Valerie Mitchum – was in charge of the hand-held battering ram that was hooked over her shoulder with a canvas strap.
Xena and Stick crouched behind the corner of the five-foot fence of Number 41 and waited for the “All Clear”.
Sergeant Webb led his team down the path to the front of Alicia Collins’ semi-detached house.
Constable Valerie Mitchum opened the door with her battering ram, stood to one side and dropped the piece of equipment on the path while Sergeant Webb and the other four members of the team stomped into the house shouting “Armed Police” at the tops of their voices.
‘Do you think he’s in there?’ Stick whispered.
‘Why are you whispering?’
‘I don’t know.’