by Tim Ellis
‘I’ll bear that in mind.’
‘Good.’
‘Oh, and another thing,’ Pecker said.
‘Yes?’
‘Martin Boyd’s Land Rover has been found on a piece of waste ground. It’s been torched and of no forensic use whatsoever.’
‘Do you have any good news, Pecker?’
‘Come and see for yourself, Inspector. I think we might have just found your killer.’
The call ended.
‘Pecker? Pecker?’ She looked at Stick. ‘He put the phone down on me.’
‘Were you not being nice to him?’
‘I don’t know how you can ask me that with a straight face – I’m nice to everyone.’
‘Then why did he hang up?’
‘He thinks he’s found our killer.’
‘Who?’
‘That’s why he hung up. He’s keeping us on tenterhooks. He wants to do the big reveal. Have you noticed how Pecker has a burning desire to do your job?’
‘My job?’
‘I picked up on it the first time I met him. He wants to be a detective.’
‘In a way, he’s already a detective – a forensic detective.’
‘That’s not enough for him. He wants to be my partner.’
‘Why?’
‘I think that’s obvious, don’t you?’
‘Do I?’
‘He’s got the hots for me.’
‘He has?’
‘You’ve not noticed?’
‘I can’t say I have.’
‘Maybe it’s because I’m a woman. Women notice the little things that tell you when a man fancies you.’
‘They do?’
‘Eye contact – he wants to look me in the eyes; smiling – he smiles at me; and have you noticed how he wants to get close to me all the time when we’re talking? I mean, Pecker’s a really weird psycho.’
‘You’re right. Maybe it’s because you’re a woman. I haven’t noticed any of those things.’
‘Right, let’s go back to the farm and see what Pecker’s got himself all worked-up about.’
‘We could go and see our donkeys.’
‘Shut up, dipstick.’
It took them thirty minutes up the B198 to reach Hilltop Farm.
Pecker was waiting for them.
‘Well?’
‘Follow me.’
‘This had better be good.’
‘It’s better than that. We’ve also found something else.’
‘Another something! What have I told you about these disparate somethings?’
‘Wait and see.’
After donning the forensic paraphernalia again, he led them to the boy’s bedroom on the ground floor.
Forensic officers were in and out of the fitted wardrobe.
‘What’s going on, Pecker?’
‘At the back of the wardrobe we discovered a loose panel, which we managed to slide out. Behind the panel we found graffiti and David’s journal.’
‘What type of graffiti?’
‘Take a look.’
The forensic officers moved out of the way, so that she and Stick could see what Pecker was talking about.
Heavy-duty lights on tripods were directed on the wall at the back of the wardrobe.
I think a lot.
I notice everything.
But I never say a word.
If my heart stopped
Would you miss me?
She knows what he’s doing to the girls.
Diane and Mary are dying inside.
They’ve been ruined.
Killing them would be a good thing.
You can love people too much.
I cry for them all.
‘Are you suggesting twelve-year-old David killed his whole family? . . . And then what? How could he have shot himself in the head and then disposed of the shotgun?’
‘It’s all in his journal. He knew that Martin was abusing his two daughters, and that he was having an affair with another woman; he knew that Melissa was aware that Martin was abusing the two girls and was doing nothing about it, that she was also having an affair, and was pregnant; he also knew that Martin and Melissa were trying to sell the farm. To be honest though, I think the trigger was the girl who finished with him. He was in love with a girl called Angelique in his class at school. There are naked photographs of her on his phone, and on his computer. It’s clear that he was devastated, and the day after she ended it, he contacted an assassin on the Dark Net, transferred five thousand pounds from the Boyd’s savings account and the deal was done.’
‘Surely he didn’t mean for the assassin to kill him as well?’
‘That’s exactly what he meant. Without Angelique, life wasn’t worth living. Remember you wanted us to check for fingerprints and DNA on the game controller?’
‘I recall.’
‘There was only David’s on it, and his thumb print was on the pause button. He paused the football match just before the assassin shot him.’
‘Are you sure you’ve got this story right, Pecker? It all seems a bit far-fetched.’
‘All the evidence points to David. He planned everything. There’s even a goodbye note to Angelique in his journal. We found nothing until we began looking at David’s computer, mobile phone, social media accounts . . . and then we found the loose panel and what was behind it. Yes, I’m sure. David Boyd arranged the murder of the family who had adopted him.’
‘You think you’re so smart, don’t you?’
‘Bordering on genius, I would say.’
‘Well, don’t think this makes you a detective, Pecker. You’ll never be a detective as long as you’ve got a hole in your arse.’
‘I don’t want to be a detective, thank you, Inspector. Forensics is all I’ve ever wanted to do, but I think the combination of forensics, detection and above-average intelligence has paid dividends in this investigation.’
‘You do, do you?’
‘I do.’
‘Well, if I had to draw a pie chart based on the percentage contribution of each of those aspects to the investigation, I’d have to give forensics about five percent – that would be your contribution, Pecker; detection would be thirty percent – and could be broken down into ten percent of input from DS Gilbert, and ninety percent from me; and finally, there’s the above-average intelligence – which could all be apportioned to me. Do you two numbskulls agree with my allocations?’
Pecker looked at Stick, pursed his lips, nodded his head and said, ‘I think that’s reasonable, don’t you, DS Gilbert?’
‘I’ve always found DI Blake to be fair in her allocation of the contribution each of us makes to an investigation. So yes, that all seems reasonable.’
‘Excellent,’ Xena said. ‘Make sure you tie everything up nice and neatly with a ribbon here, Pecker. I’ll expect your report on my desk by – at the very latest – four o’clock tomorrow afternoon.’
‘Of course, Inspector.’
‘Right, Stick. Let’s go. I think we have some parents to talk to before the press briefing.’
Chapter Twenty-Four
It was five o’clock. Usually, this was the time for going home, but there was nothing usual about this day. The expanded team had all gathered in the Major Incident Room: Toadstone, Dr Megan Riley, Chief Nigel Nibley, all the SCIT . . .’
‘Oh God!’ Richards whispered to him. ‘Don’t look!’ She turned her back on a tall thin woman in her mid-fifties with short grey hair who was dressed in a matching grey skirt and jacket. The woman was attractive with a healthy complexion, a neck that hadn’t prematurely aged, and unusual ceramic goldfish earrings dangling from her ears.
‘If I was twenty years older . . .’
‘No, that’s Dr Miriam Shepherd – the criminal profiler.’
‘Go and introduce yourself.’
‘Are you crazy? She’d never talk to me.’
‘You’re the crazy one.’ He took her by the elbow and frog-marched her over to where Dr Shepherd had ju
st finished talking to Doc Riley. ‘Doctor Shepherd.’
‘Yes?’
‘I’m DI Jed Parish who’s mostly in charge of this investigation on the ground, and this cringing specimen is my partner DC Mary Richards. She’s the one who recommended you to the team.’
‘Hello.’ She glared at Richards. ‘So, I’ve got you to thank for being dragged half-way across the country in a contraption that defies the laws of gravity, have I?’
It looked as though the volcanic lava rising up through Richards’ neck and face might erupt through the top of her head. ‘I’m sorry, Ma’am.’
‘She’s joking, Richards.’
‘Yes, DC Mary Richards – I’m joking. It’s not often I find an intelligent police officer. And, of course, if you recommended me to construct a profile of the killer, then you must obviously be of above-average intelligence.’
‘Must I?’
‘Let’s not spoil things by making wild generalisations based on limited evidence, Dr Shepherd,’ he said, winking at her. ‘Are you travelling back tonight?’
‘Nothing would get me into a helicopter in the dark. So no, I will not be travelling back to West Yorkshire tonight. They can pay for me to stay in a five-star hotel. I take it you do have five-star hotels in Hoddesdon?’
‘I’m sure there are a few. Why don’t you come to my house for dinner tonight, instead of eating alone in a hotel?’
‘You’re a bit young for me, Jed Parish.’
He smiled. ‘I’m married with two young children and a nearly grown-up step-daughter. As long as you don’t mind having your brain picked clean by Richards here, who just happens to be my nearly grown-up step-daughter, you’d be most welcome.’
‘That’s very kind of you. I’d be happy to accept.’
Parish looked at Richards, who was staring at Dr Shepherd like a star-struck groupie. ‘Is that okay with you, Richards?’
‘I’ll say.’
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ DCI Todd said. ‘Shall we begin. I’m sure we all have homes and hotels to go to.’ He remained standing while everybody took their seats. ‘We’ll start with DI Mellor, who’s been chasing leads down all day.’
Mellor stood up and shuffled to the front with his notes. ‘We verified Tuppence Bevan’s alibi; we also found Garcia and Lonely who are more commonly known as Osvaldo Nasti and Drew Barrington, and the Slovenian taxi driver – Radoslav Bednarik. We obtained the statements of all three, which didn’t provide us with anything new, but their descriptions of Humbert fed into that provided by Tuppence Bevan to give us a variety of e-fits.’ He pointed to five e-fit pictures on a board. All the e-fits had the same thin face, but each one had a different hair style, eye colour and facial hair. ‘We also checked out the owners and employees at JLR Systems in Ware. The two engineers who carried out the annual maintenance of the CCTV system in the Crocodile on Thursday, February 11 have been cleared. We found Summer Trent’s biological father – Colin Fairweather. He died of a drug overdose three years ago and was buried in a pauper’s grave. DC Lewis checked out whether the security system at Crocodile was hacked, but found no evidence of any illegal access.’
‘Thanks, Brett,’ the DCI said.
DI Mellor sat back down.
‘Okay, I think next up is Dr Paul Toadstone.’ He looked in Toadstone’s direction.
Toadstone nodded and stood up without any notes, but clutching a small bottle of water in his left hand. ‘As you’re all aware, there was no forensic evidence left at the crime scene, which mirrored other crime scenes. Analysis of the nails revealed nothing new. A size-ten boot print was planted at the crime scene as it was at other crime scenes. However, we compared the depth of the boot print to the depth of a man’s boot print who actually had a size ten foot and found a discrepancy of a few millimetres. We then correlated the length of foot with the weight and height and found that the killer was around eleven stone and five feet nine inches tall. It’s an inexact science, but it does support the notion that the person wearing the boot when they made the indentation does not have size ten feet.’
He took a swallow from the bottle of water. ‘Christy Henson’s diary was examined, but there was nothing of relevance. We were looking for any suggestion that Christy had prior contact with the killer, but found no evidence of any such contact. We ran face recognition software on all the CCTV footage obtained from the Crocodile public house for January, February and the night of Friday, February 19; and also on the Eros Club footage for Friday, February 19 and Tuesday February 29 – all analysis drew a blank, which was disappointing, but expected. The swabs and fingerprint dusting of the front door at the Trent house found nothing, as did our forensic analysis of the note pushed through the door. I’m sorry to say that The Lover continues to provide us with no forensic evidence of value.’
The DCI stood up again. ‘How many times have we heard that, team? Too many times – that’s how many. Okay, next up is our very own and lovable Professor Eric Carling . . . Professor.’
An old black man with sparse patches of grey hair on his head and face, liver spots and skin like millennia-old Egyptian papyrus got to his feet and grunted. He was wiry, about six feet two, but beginning to stoop in the shoulders. ‘Lovable! Yes, I’ve heard that term used before. If I had the desire, inclination or youth I might have disputed such a claim, but one-by-one each of those things have deserted me, until all that’s left is the empty shell you see before you.’
There was a ripple of laughter.
Parish wasn’t sure the professor was joking. The old man certainly had the finish line in sight.
‘DCI Todd has dragged me out of the retirement home, where I was being waited on hand-and-foot by beautiful, nubile maidens who filled my room with dance and song, to perform yet another horrific post-mortem on a victim of The Lover. I’m a different kind of detective, but if I was still fumbling about in the dark after twenty-four attempts, I don’t think I need to tell you what would have happened to me. Anyway, all has not been doom and gloom, because I was assisted in my grisly endeavours by the very young and beautiful Doctor Megan Riley, who will outline our findings because I’m far too old to be standing up here unsupported for any length of time.’
The professor made his way back to the chair he’d vacated.
Doc Riley took his place at the front. ‘Clearly, there’s nothing wrong with the professor’s eyesight, or his hands.’
Another ripple of laughter.
Parish wondered whether she meant his surgical hands, or his wandering hands, but he supposed that was the Doc’s idea.
‘At the professor’s request, I reviewed all the other post-mortems performed by him on victims of The Lover. As expected, there is a depressing similarity between all twenty-four victims. What the professor and I did this time was to compare our findings at each stage with those of the previous victims in the hope of finding some discrepancy – no matter how small – between them, but I’m sorry to say we found nothing. However, that in itself is a significant finding. There have been twenty-four crime scenes and twenty-four victims, yet no forensic evidence has ever been found. I would say that wasn’t possible. The only people who don’t leave forensic evidence behind after themselves are forensic scientists and the like, and even that’s being debated in America at the present time. So, how is it possible that a killer never leaves any forensic evidence at the crime scene or on his victims . . .?’
‘He’s a forensic scientist?’ DS Kerry Mullins called out.
Doc Riley shrugged. ‘It’s a theory the professor and I discussed at length. I would say that over ninety-nine percent of serial killers leave some forensic evidence behind after themselves. To never leave any at twenty-four crime scenes, or on twenty-four victims is certainly impressive, if not impossible. I know you have a criminal profiler here – Dr Miriam Shepherd – and I’m looking forward to hearing what she has to say about the killer’s personality, because . . . and I don’t mean to steal her thunder when I say this, but forensic scientists mu
st possess certain personality traits. They are highly intelligent people; possess patience and concentration; they’ll be analytical, accurate and detail-oriented. So, in our humble opinions, that’s the type of person you should be looking for. As for the post-mortem of Christy Henson – we found that she’d been raped and sodomised a number of times similar to all the others; she’d been washed using sodium hydroxide; the cause of death was an arterial gas embolism caused by air being injected into the carotid artery in the neck; and there were marks on her wrists and ankles consistent with being restrained in an upright position for a week.’ She looked around the assembly. ‘And that’s all we have. Of course, you’ve all been provided with the detailed post-mortem report, but are there any questions?’
Nobody had any.
Doc Riley sat down.
The DCI didn’t bother getting up this time, he simply said, ‘Your turn, DI Parish.’
He stood up and told them all about his and Richards’ visit to the Eros Club; about finding Tessa Henson on the CCTV footage using herself as bait in a vigilante attempt to find the killer; and about their interviews with Summer Trent’s three friends. ‘All-in-all a fruitless, but necessary day.’
‘Thanks, Parish,’ the DCI said. ‘Okay, I think you’re back on aren’t you, Dr Toadstone?’
Toadstone stood up again. ‘I’d like to introduce the Forensic Graphologist Lena Gulliver.’
He gave way to a woman who must have been a good few years into retirement. She had swept back light brown hair, skin that didn’t appear to have any visible means of support, an amulet around her neck that might once have belonged to an Egyptian princess, and a mint-green jacket and skirt over a skeletal frame.
‘Many write graphology off as being about as scientific as reading tea leaves – pun intended. Numerous studies have cast doubt on its reliability. And yet here we are. There’s no right or wrong answer. In the end, people will believe what they will. As far as I’m concerned, it’s another psychometric tool available to the police – take it, or leave it. On its own, forensic graphology will not tell you who your killer is, it will simply add another piece to the jigsaw.’ She took a sip of water from a bottle. ‘Now, the sample of writing that was slipped under my office door in the middle of the night was very limited, but we will do what we can with it.’ An enlarged copy of the killer’s note was projected onto a blank whiteboard, and she pointed at it using a wooden cane like a headmistress. ‘I’m not going to bother talking about arrhythmic, strokes and zones, because then I’d have to explain what those terms meant, and as the tall gentleman who looks like an insurance salesman said so eloquently – we all have homes or hotels to go to. What I can tell you is that there’s some underlying theory linking a person’s handwriting to their personality, so don’t dismiss forensic graphology out of hand – another intended pun. What the handwriting tells me is that the person who wrote it has a desperate need to continually prove his manliness – to whom? I would say a parent – possibly the mother, because he doesn’t appear to identify with a father-figure. His life centres around his mother, and aspects of his writing suggest that he has a twisted perception of the world. He will become more aggressive as time progresses, and will increasingly draw attention to himself. I’m not going to offer myself up for sacrificial questions, but I have written a report providing a detailed basis for my analysis.’