by Tim Ellis
‘We found a witness you didn’t find during your investigation. We’ve been to see George Hill in his retirement home, and he suggested that we come and speak to you.’
‘Did he? Why?’
‘My husband – Ray Kowalski – who’s an ex-DCI from Hoddesdon, thinks that the key to solving this case is Helen Veldkamp.’
‘Come with me.’ She led them through the security door and into the bowels of the police station. As they were walking along a corridor she said, ‘I can’t say I know your husband.’
‘There’s no reason why you should, but he was a good detective before his heart attack.’
‘Heart attack, huh! It’s either a mental breakdown, the big C, or heart disease that knock us down like skittles in the force. Very few retire and live long and healthy lives. Anyone with any sense gets out before the rot sets in.’
They arrived in the canteen.
DI Tripp gave Shakin’ a ten-pound note. ‘Make yourself useful, go up to the counter and ask for four coffees. You . . .’ She pointed at Joe. ‘Go and get the milk, sugar and teaspoons.’
Shakin’ and Joe hurried off to follow DI Tripp’s orders.
‘Is he free?’
Jerry’s forehead creased up. ‘Who?’
‘Stevens.’
‘I thought you were gay?’
‘I am when it suits me. At other times I’m not.’
‘He’s like a hummingbird flitting from flower to flower.’
‘I’m not interested in pollination, so a flitting hummingbird would suit me just fine. He’s reasonably good-looking, young and hopefully has the staying-power of a half-decent stud.’
Shakin’ and Joe came back with the coffees.
‘So, talk to me,’ Tripp said, putting sugar and milk into her coffee and using the spoon like an egg whisk to stir the hot liquid. ‘Why are you here?’
Chapter Twenty-One
DS Serafina Kingfisher was young – early thirties Parish guessed. She had long black hair that petered out a good four inches past her shoulders, oblong thick-rimmed glasses, a red and white flowing dress that ended just past her knees and a full face. She was attractive, but in an acquired-taste type of way. Not to his taste, if he had a taste anymore. Being married with children meant that a person wasn’t permitted to still have tastes concerning the opposite sex. That suited him fine. He’d made his choice, and he’d chosen Angela Richards. She was very much to his taste.
The woman certainly wasn’t dressed like a DS, but then he imagined that officers who worked for the Essex Serious Economic Crime Directorate didn’t go around chasing criminals through cornfields, abandoned buildings, sewerage pipes and across rooftops, so they could dress to suit their working conditions. Not that he and Richards did a lot of slithering through sewers either, but they had to turn up for work wearing clothes for a worst-case scenario. Well, at least now they could chase criminals for going on twenty-six miles.
‘I’m really sorry to have kept you waiting, DS Kingfisher,’ he said, offering his hand. ‘DI Jed Parish and DC Mary Richards.’
She took his hand, squeezed it as if she were feeling how fresh the rolls were in the bakery, but didn’t shake it. She did the same with Richards.
‘The tea was adequate, and it gave me the chance to catch up with my emails, texts and social media accounts.’
‘I’m glad.’ He could understand what Sergeant Waine had said about the cherry wedged in her mouth. He had to force back an overwhelming urge to prise her oral cavity open himself and extract the offending fruit with his fingers. ‘I don’t have an office. We could go to the squad room, or we could simply stay here and talk. I have to give a press briefing in twenty-five minutes, so we’ll need to be quick. Any preference?’
‘No, here is fine.’
They sat down at the table that Kingfisher had already been sitting at. There weren’t many officers or support staff in the canteen, and those who were there kept their own counsel, or whispered in small groups as if they were part of a conspiracy to overthrow the government.
‘Can I get you another cup of tea?’
‘No, thank you.’
She waited.
He told her about Richards’ observation that the Essex Crime Statistics didn’t reflect reality; about asking Abel Winter, a forensic accountant who used to do occasional work for the fraud squad, to take a look at the figures; about how Winter had contacted the Office for National Statistics; about how he’d then been killed by a hit-and-run driver; about Richards receiving the copy of the Crime Statistics in the post a few days after his death, which Parish now slid across the table.
DS Kingfisher picked the stapled sheets of paper up and looked through them. ‘Who made the pencil annotations?’ She was referring to the dozen circled figures; the question marks against them; the word “FRAUD” and the two sets of initials “NG” and “PR”.
‘Abel Winter. We also had our Head of Forensics check out whether anyone with those initials worked at the ONS, but there weren’t any. What he did discover was that the preparation of the statistics is contracted out by the ONS to a company called BetaStats.’
‘And you think that Mr Winter was run down and killed on purpose to stop him from revealing what he’d found.’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re the murder detectives. Why don’t you investigate his death as a murder?’
‘Evidence. With the exception of those scribblings, which aren’t evidence in themselves, we have nothing to prove either fraud or murder.’
‘What do you expect the SECD to do about it?’
‘Investigate.’
‘Even if either of those crimes could be proven, neither are classified as an economic crime, and therefore don’t fall within the remit of the SECD.’
‘I considered that possibility, but then I asked myself what could be the motive for manipulating the Essex crime figures?’
‘And what answer did you give yourself?’
‘Funding. There’s a direct link between criminal statistics and funding. We all know that fraud takes place. The figures are manipulated by officers at station level through reporting malpractice to show that efforts to combat the increase in various crimes such as burglary, gun crime, robbery, domestic violence and sexual violence are working, and that politically acceptable targets are being met. When, in reality, the figures are rising. The government are therefore more inclined to fund initiatives that reduce crime levels. Increases in recorded crime attract a whole host of negative outcomes, and impact on funding levels. As well as that, budgets are being cut to the bone, but we’re still talking billions of pounds. So there’s a massive incentive to make every effort to attract as much funding as possible.’
‘Your argument then, is that the Criminal Statistics for Essex were fraudulently manipulated to increase funding?’
‘If it was simply someone massaging the figures to get a few extra pounds, I’d turn the other cheek. But we’re talking about murder, Sergeant Kingfisher.’
‘You have no proof it was murder. It could have been a totally unconnected hit-and-run?’
‘Yes, it could. But as somebody famous once said, “Where murder is concerned, there’s no such thing as a coincidence.” And in this instance, I tend to agree with them.’
‘My boss said to come back empty-handed.’
The corner of his mouth creased upwards. ‘I got the impression he was loathe to accept the case when I spoke to him on the phone yesterday.’
‘Economic crime has mushroomed in the last couple of years. Our funding has decreased, which has resulted in a reduction of manpower, resources, overtime and so on. And you want me to take on a case that doesn’t really fall under our remit.’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m sorry, Sir. I can’t do it. If I went back with this case, I’d lose my job. My recommendation is to approach the Serious Fraud Office.’
‘I thought about them, but they deal with large-scale economic crime and would be even less likely to
consider criminal statistics as a valuable use of their time, resources and funding. Not only that, they’re civilians and they don’t investigate cases of murder.’
Kingfisher sighed and was quiet for a handful of minutes.
He checked his watch – five to ten. Time was running out.
‘I’ll take it back with me, but no promises. I’ll call you tomorrow and let you know our decision.’
‘I’m grateful.’
‘I’ll need copies of these annotated statistics . . .’ She tapped the sheets of paper. ‘A copy of the police report on the hit-and-run, and some background information on Abel Winter and BetaStats.’
‘DC Richards will provide you with everything you need – I have to go. Thanks for coming, and for agreeing to take a look at the case, DS Kingfisher. I’ll look forward to your call tomorrow.’
‘You might want to prepare yourself for disappointment, Sir.’
‘I’m an optimistic type of guy, Sergeant. I always like to look on the bright side of life.’
He just had time to pop into the toilet, before making his way down to the press briefing room, where they were jam-packed in like passengers on a train from Oxford Circus to Bank during the rush hour – there was breathing-room only.
He sat down, took a sip of water to lubricate his vocal chords and held up a hand for quiet. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming today. Christy Henson, aged twenty-five, who lived at 55 Heronsgate Road in Turnford disappeared late on Friday, February 19, and was found dead in the woods off Meadgate Road near Dodd’s Weir early in the morning of Monday, February 29. I would ask that you respect the family’s privacy as they mourn their loss.’
The questions began.
A man with long curly grey-streaked hair, a greying beard and a wide-expanse of forehead put his hand up. ‘Steve Bamping from NBC Europe, Inspector. What can you tell us about the way she died?’
‘Nothing at all at this time, Mr Bamping. The post-mortem is being carried out this morning, so we hope to have more information later today.’
‘Surely you can tell us how she was found? There’s a rumour she was naked, can you confirm that?’
‘No.’
‘What about the person who found her?’
‘You’re stealing everybody else’s questions, Mr Bamping. Next?’
‘Nicki Jacobs from the Chigwell Herald,’ an overweight woman with lank blonde hair, a squashed nose and a pleasant smile said. ‘Was there any sexual motive to the murder?’
‘Without the post-mortem results I can neither confirm nor deny the motive for the murder.’
A green-haired woman with dark rings around her eyes like one of the undead waved her arm in the air frenetically. ‘Clare Tindle from the Redbridge Camera. Where has Christy Henson been for a week, Inspector?’
‘We have no idea at this point, Miss Tindle.’
‘Mark Horton from the Mission Daily,’ a man with thick wiry hair, thick-rimmed glasses and a moustache so thick that it was probably home for a multitude of bacteria, microbes and organisms. ‘Is there any connection to Summer Trent who went missing last night?’
‘I’m murder Mr Horton, not Missing Persons . . .’
A black man with a maze shaved into his hair stood up. ‘Colin McPhail from the Southend Echo. There are rumours . . .’
‘There are always rumours, Mr McPhail.’
‘These rumours concern a serial killer, Inspector.’
‘As I said: There are always rumours about serial killers.’
‘Is it true that the killer of Christy Henson has abducted and murdered other victims?’
‘As yet, we have no idea who the killer of Christy Henson is, Mr McPhail. Next question?’
An attractive woman with reddish-brown shoulder-length hair, chubby cheeks and freckles said, ‘Raffi Wilson from the Identity Channel. Do you have any suspects?’
‘There are a number of people that we wish to eliminate from our enquiries, but as for specific suspects – not at this time.’
‘Becky McKeever from U>Direct,’ said a woman from the back of the room. She was tall, had a mole on her top lip and didn’t appear to have any eyebrows. ‘Is it true that a specialist team have come from London to help you and DC Richards solve this case?’
‘We have a couple of additional support staff to help with the paperwork and take calls from members of the public. As you know, budgets are being squeezed, and money’s too tight to mention, Miss McKeever.’ He stood up. ‘There’ll be a further briefing at the same time tomorrow, and I hope to have more information for you then.’
After making his escape through the back door, he walked up the stairs to the squad room to find Richards.
***
On the way to Hilltop Farm Stick stopped and bought seven pastries for Xena, because that’s all they had left, and one for himself.
‘You’d better eat it now Stickybun, because I doubt that you’ll have an appetite after we’ve looked at Martin Boyd’s body.’
‘That’s true. Okay, you take the wheel while I eat my cream cornet.’
She pretended to laugh. ‘You have no sense of humour, you know.’
‘I thought it was quite funny.’
‘It wasn’t. And besides, my hands and mouth are full with these Belgian buns. You see, that was funny.’
‘Was it?’
‘Yes. You’re not laughing, because as I’ve explained, you have no sense of humour. You’re the type of person people have to explain jokes to.’
‘That’s true. How many buns have you eaten now?’
‘Two and a half.’
‘You’ll be sick.’
‘Where’s the sick bag just in case?’
‘There are no sick bags on this flight.’
‘Budget airways?’
‘Yes. Were you not informed at check-in?’
‘If I’d known I would have upgraded.’
‘There are no sick bags in first class either. People in first class are expected to conduct themselves with a degree of decorum.’
‘I hope you’re not suggesting . . .?’
‘I never would.’
‘Because if I thought . . . What do you think about Martin Boyd being found dead?’
‘I think we’re in trouble.’
‘You could be right. I would have put my house on the killer being Martin Boyd.’
‘You haven’t got a house. And anyway, you had your doubts.’
‘I did, didn’t I? Well, now it looks as though my doubts were justified. The pieces just didn’t fit together.’
‘Now we have the problem of finding the real killer.’
‘We’ve had that problem from the start, numpty.’
‘Oh yes! So we have.’
‘But, if the killer isn’t Martin Boyd – who the fuck is it?’
‘We know it’s not the staff at the Donkey Sanctuary.’
‘Do we? There are female mass murderers.’
‘I think we can safely assume that neither Heidi Ledger nor Kim Bradshaw are mass murderers.’
‘You’re probably right.’
‘And it can’t be Eddie Hayes or Andy Scully.’
‘Why not?’
‘They were in the east field.’
‘So they say.’
‘Not only that, because they work together they’d have both had to have been in on it – and it’s unlikely one would be covering for the other. Also, Ray Parry saw the Boyds after Hayes and Scully had met with Martin. Then, of course, there’s the Land Rover – where could they have hidden that in the time available?’
‘Ray Parry?’
‘He drove away from the farm in his black Porsche Cayenne, so he couldn’t have disposed of the Land Rover.’
‘All we’re left with is the killer wandering in with the early morning mist.’
‘We’ve dismissed the idea of it being a random killing, so whoever did arrive with the mist brought a shotgun with them and knew exactly what they were going to do with it. Also, becaus
e there wasn’t a lot of time, they must have known the layout of the farm and where everyone would be.’
‘If the killer was contracted to murder the Boyd family, and we now know that it wasn’t Martin who paid for the contract, then we probably need to find out who would inherit Hilltop Farm.’
‘That’s one possibility. The other is that Martin or Melissa had an enemy we know nothing about.’
Stick parked the Lexus in the yard again.
Pecker was already dressed in his white garb.
After wriggling into new forensic suits they followed Pecker to a barn at the far end of the farm. Through the open door they could see a tractor and iron attachments spread around on the floor, but they didn’t go inside. Instead, Pecker led them around the back of the building to where two forensic officers had discovered Martin Boyd’s body in a shallow grave.
Xena’s forehead wrinkled up. ‘Did you get a tip-off he was here?’
‘No,’ Pecker said. ‘My people were carrying out a search of the farm, came across this grave-sized patch of ground that had recently been disturbed and began digging.’
The body was still in the grave and had been covered over with a blue plastic sheeting.
Xena nodded at one of the forensic officers.
He pulled the sheet away.
Boyd had been shot in the chest.
‘He must have been shot before the rest of the family,’ Stick said.
Pecker crouched down. ‘I have a theory.’
‘A theory!’ Xena said. ‘You know very well that theories by forensic officers are strictly forbidden. You could lose your licence if word ever got out.’
‘I like living on the edge, Inspector.’
‘So, what’s this theory you think you have?’
He picked up something small from the grave beside the body and held it up. ‘Lead shot. Mr Boyd was lying down when he was shot. Also . . .’ He slid his gloved hand beneath Boyd’s head and withdrew it covered in blood. ‘It’s my guess that the killer came up behind him and knocked him unconscious with the butt of the shotgun. He then went to the farmhouse, shot Mrs Boyd and the three children, and then returned here. After digging the grave, he put Boyd in it, shot him and covered him over.’