Be Not Afraid (9781301650996)

by Ellis, Tim

  ‘I was thinking…’ He shrugged.

  She squeezed his arm. ‘I’m all right.’

  Smedley had followed them into Alicia Mae’s room and began sniffing.

  ‘It smells like paint,’ Richards said.

  ‘Yes, it does, doesn’t it?’ He took out his mobile and rang a number. ‘Yeah hi! Get the team over here – the Painter has claimed his fifth victim.’ He ended the call.

  ‘The Painter?’ Parish asked.

  ‘It’s a bit embarrassing, but we’ve got our very own serial killer in Richmond, who we’ve dubbed “The Painter”.

  Richards said, ‘What, you mean he killed our nanny, and then painted her portrait?’

  ‘We think that’s what he does, that’s why she’s arranged like that. As far as we know, your nanny is his fifth victim.’

  ***

  Erin Donnelly was pleased with the way things were going. Oh, she knew it wasn’t enough to finish Kowalski off once and for all yet, but she had other things up her sleeve. She was slightly disappointed with the response from the press, but she was sure that would change as the evidence against him continued to mount up. As her father used to say, “There’s no smoke without fire.”

  The Chief Constable – Kennard Barrett-Croft – would go along with anything she came up with. He had little choice. Once she’d emailed him copies of the photographs she’d managed to acquire of him playing “horsey-horsey” with two prostitutes – he was the naked horse, and they were the riders with boots and crutchless jodhpurs – all very upper class. Well, he was very submissive. Of course, he had no idea who she was, because communication with him was all carried out by anonymous email.

  What she was surprised about, was the amount of drugs that had been going missing over a number of years from the evidence store – specifically heroin and cocaine. Altering the records wasn’t difficult, because it was all on computer now.

  Someone – a certain DI Pete Ranger – had begun to compile evidence about missing drugs, but had then – unexpectedly – been transferred out. When anyone with half a brain compared visits to the evidence store and the drugs recorded as ‘missing’, it wasn’t hard to spot that there was a very close match between one person’s visits and the disappearing drugs. The obvious conclusion to be drawn from this evidence was that DI Kowalski was either a long-time drug addict or a major supplier.

  After sending the evidence to the Chief Constable, the Drug Squad and her list of media sources, she leaned back in her chair and smiled. What made her smile the most was that Kowalski had no idea who was destroying him, or why.

  ***

  ‘You did a good job in the press briefing, DS Blake,’ SDI Pollock said. ‘However, I will be taking the lead at any future press briefings.’

  ‘You’re welcome to them, Sir. I hate press briefings.’

  They were in the incident room. Xena and Stick were sitting facing the incident boards, and Pollock was standing up gesticulating like a vacuum cleaner salesman.

  She hated him with a passion. The bastard had taken her case. She hated DCI Kowalski as well for letting the weird bastard take her case, and she hated the Chief Constable with his stupid bloody initiatives. She glanced at Stick. Did she hate him as well? She was certainly in the mood to hate him, and she probably did. He was keeping things from her – a number of things. He was her partner for God’s sake! There should be no secrets between partners. She’d have to tackle him about that. Pollock was talking about something unrelated to why they were here, and she guessed he was one of those who just liked the sound of his own voice.

  She slid her notebook out of her pocket, opened it to a blank page at the back, and began making a list. 1) Who was Stick? 2) Why was he headhunted to be a detective? 3) What was he doing in Special Ops? 4) Why was the net curtain moving in his bedroom when he lived alone?

  Stick leaned over and tried to see what she was writing.

  She tipped her notebook sideways, so he couldn’t see.

  ‘So, that’s how it all came about,’ Pollock concluded.

  ‘Great, Sir,’ she said, and half-smiled. ‘I’ve made a note of the salient points from your welcome speech.’

  ‘Excellent. I see we’re going to get along just fine. Now, do you want to bring me up to speed on this case? It is, after all, why I’m here, but I see from the incident boards you have the Smith case…’

  Fuck’s sake! She slid her notebook back in her pocket. Now the bastard was trying to take that case away from her as well.

  ‘The Chief said to put it on the backburner until we’ve solved the paedophile case, by which time you’ll have gone.’

  ‘I take it you mean the old Chief? I’ll have a word with DCI Colville, and see if we can’t take it off that old backburner and solve that case as well.’

  Her hands were clenched so tight. If she’d had any nails they would have been digging into the flesh of her palms, and the blood would have been dripping onto the carpet. She wanted to put her hands around his neck and squeeze. To explain, as the light disappeared from his eyes, that, ‘They’re both my cases. Stick and me don’t need you. We can solve both cases without you. You’ve got the paedophile case, but the Smith case stays with me. If you even look at the Smith case in the wrong way, you’ll die a horrible death. Are we clear, SDI Bollock?’

  ‘We were called to Drury Lane in Hunsdon yesterday. Forensic officers were already there. A man – we now know to be Alan Morrison – had been tortured, killed, and dumped there in the early hours of the morning…’

  ‘With his penis and testicles rammed in his mouth?’

  ‘You could just tell me what you know, and I could then fill in the blanks?’

  ‘No, carry on, Blake.’

  ‘We conducted a house-to-house, but nobody saw or heard anything.’

  ‘We’ll do that again…’

  ‘Are you saying that Stick and I can’t…?’

  ‘I’m not saying anything like that, Blake. You know how it is – new brush sweeps clean, and all that. I’m a great believer in basic police work, dotting the i’s and crossing the t’s.’

  ‘A waste of time if you ask me, Sir.’

  ‘Now, I don’t want you to get your knickers in a twist…’

  ‘I see, you’re a sexist. You don’t think women can do what a man can do?’

  ‘I never said anything of the sort…’

  ‘You were referring to my knickers – is there something in there you’d like to get your hands on?’

  ‘I am not a sexist. Can we get back to the briefing, DS Blake?’

  ‘If I’m going to brief you, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t interrupt me… Sir.’

  ‘Quite. Carry on, Blake.’

  ‘Then, of course, we were notified anonymously about the website. I sent a team out to Reynkyn’s Wood, and they found the graves of the three children during the night. First thing this morning, Dr Toadstone – the Head of Forensics – told me that they’d identified anointing oil on the bottom of Morrison’s feet, which is imported by only one company into the UK, and they’re based in Lowestoft. Apparently, anointing oil, which is used in religious ceremonies, has a batch number, so Toadstone is chasing that up as we speak. The people at the import company should be able to tell us which churches received that particular batch of oil, and then hopefully we’ll have some idea about where the torture and murder took place.’

  ‘Hmmm! That’s all you’ve got?’

  ‘What did you expect… Sir? We’ve had the case a day, and…’

  ‘Stop being so touchy, DS Blake. I was merely asking if that’s all you had.’

  ‘Yes, that’s all we’ve got.’ She slouched in her chair. Jobsworth. He probably wanted her to solve the case and then take all the bleeding credit.

  Stick cleared his throat. ‘There is Erin Donnelly, Sir.’

  ‘Oh! And what is it he does?’

  Xena glanced at Stick, but neither of them corrected him.

  ‘Computers. She says that she can’t
trace the website, because they’ve written a program that hops about all over the place. She’s trying to stop it hopping.’

  ‘Has he had any luck so far?’

  The stupid bastard, Xena thought. Stick keeps saying “she”, and Bollock keeps hearing “he”.

  ‘We haven’t seen her this morning.’

  Xena shifted in her seat. ‘And we’ve got the post mortem of Morrison this afternoon at two o’clock.’

  He pulled his glasses off, and rubbed the bridge of his nose. ‘Okay, so Eric Donnelly is trying to trace the source of the website, you and DC Gilbert are chasing anointing oil scratch numbers, and I’ll be here co-ordinating everybody’s efforts.’

  Ah! She was right about him. He hadn’t got a clue what he was doing. He simply took the credit for other people’s hard work. More than likely promoted out of harm’s way. Nobody wanted him so he was dumped in a pool of other unwanted DI’s. At intermittent intervals the Chief Constable sent them to annoy honest, hard working and intelligent Detective Sergeants. This was what Chief Kowalski was talking about. SDI Bollock was the very person stopping her from getting her well-deserved promotion. Well, she’d have to see what she could do about that.

  Her eyes closed to slits. ‘Co-ordinate everybody’s efforts? There’s only Stick and me. Erin Donnelly will just let us know when she’s got something. What’s to co-ordinate?’

  ‘That’s why the Chief Constable specifically selected me for this task, Blake. Sergeants don’t see the bigger picture. They haven’t got the wherewithal to lead men into the valley of death…’ He started gesticulating again to emphasise what he was saying, and his voice began to get louder as he spoke:

  ‘Cannon to right of them,

  Cannon to left of them,

  Cannon in front of them

  Volley'd & thunder'd;

  Storm'd at with shot and shell,

  Boldly they rode and well,

  Into the jaws of Death,

  Into the mouth of Hell

  Rode the six hundred.’

  ‘Sorry,’ he said – a strange madness in his eyes. ‘I get carried away sometimes. Alfred, Lord Tennyson wrote a stirring poem. Do you know the story of The Charge of the Light Brigade?’

  Stick nodded.

  Xena’s nose wrinkled up. ‘Is it relevant to the case, Sir?’

  ‘Only inasmuch as I use it to inspire the men under my command.’

  ‘What about the women?’

  ‘Well, them as well.’

  ‘Were there any women riding in the… actually it was nearly seven hundred?’

  ‘Well, no…’

  ‘So how does it inspire women? In fact, I’d be interested in knowing what inspiration you expect men… and women for that matter, to draw from a suicidal charge that killed or wounded over half the soldiers and horses that started out?’

  ‘Well… it’s an example of courage, bravery, glory and self sacrifice… I thought you didn’t know the story?’

  ‘I didn’t say that. So, you don’t think it’s a shining example of incompetent leadership, total disregard for the lives of the men under Lord Raglan’s command, the issuing of imprecise and vague orders, cowardice by the Earl of Cardigan who left his men to find their own way back, and…?’

  ‘You seem to be very knowledgeable on the subject, DS Blake?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Pollock’s eyes wandered off to the left again. ‘Well, should we get on? As I said, I’d like you to chase up that lead about scratch numbers, and I’ll tidy things up here…’

  She stood up and jammed the chair under the table noisily. ‘Come on, Stick let’s go and buy some scratch cards and see if we can’t solve the case for the Super Detective Inspector.’

  Chapter Eight

  Alicia Mae’s room was crawling with people without any form of protective suits on. Some were wearing gloves, but most weren’t. As far as Parish could ascertain, no one appeared to be in overall charge. He wondered how the FBI ever collected any uncontaminated evidence.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he asked Harry.

  ‘Crime scene analysis. Surely you do this in Britain?’

  ‘With a lot less people.’

  ‘Yeah. We don’t usually have so many. We’ve got the local police force here, their CSIs, and our guys as well. Probably a bit over the top.’

  ‘Is this his usual MO?’

  ‘Yes. He targets single women in hotels, lets himself into their rooms in the early hours of the morning, suffocates them, and after arranging their bodies he spends a couple of hours doing an oil painting of them.’

  ‘Oils?’

  ‘Paint traces have been found, and the distinctive smell is from the solvent he uses to mix his paints.’

  Richards entered the conversation. ‘Do you know what the mask and knife are for?’

  ‘No idea. We think they’re cryptic clues, but we haven’t been able to decipher them. As well as the two items tonight, he’s also left us a writing pad, an old scroll with a love poem written on it in ancient Greek, a guitar, and a flute.’

  ‘Does he arrange the women in the same way?’ Richards asked.

  ‘No. They’re usually in different poses.’

  ‘And you have no idea who this “Painter” is?’

  ‘We have a profile. We think he’s a white male between the age of twenty-five and forty years, he lives in the Richmond area so this is his killing ground, and during his childhood he was subjected to sexual or physical abuse. Then, as an adolescent he developed into a dreamer, a loner and compulsively masturbated. He developed a feeling of resentment towards society brought on by his own failings and sexual frustrations. He has an inability to be social, and his wild imagination manifests itself through his paintings. He’s very intelligent, good looking, and probably has a university education and a well-paid job.

  Parish grunted. ‘Has it helped?’

  ‘Obviously not.’

  ‘Well, you’ve got a wealth of experience here now. Maybe we could have a brainstorming session during the conference?’

  ‘I don’t think that would be very helpful. If the BAU can’t find him, then it’s unlikely anyone else will be able to.’

  ‘I see. Do you have any clues?’

  Harry rubbed his beard. ‘Let’s see… we have a recording of him entering and leaving one victim’s room dressed as a woman, but then he disappears…’

  ‘He’s a transvestite?’ Richards said. ‘That wasn’t in your profile.’

  ‘No, we don’t think he’s a transvestite. We’re sure he dresses up as a woman merely to disguise who he is for the CCTV.’

  Richards’ brow furrowed. ‘I thought he’d killed five women?’

  ‘He has.’

  ‘Then why have you only got one recording?’

  ‘Three of the hotels had no CCTV.’

  ‘What about this hotel?’

  ‘The whole system has been fried. We’re gonna have to re-evaluate our profile, because we didn’t realise he had the skill set to do something like that.’

  ‘Are you sure it was him, and not just a fault with the system?’

  ‘We’ve had it checked out. It was done deliberately. There must have been something on that DVD he didn’t want us to see.’

  Richards shuffled her feet. ‘Can we get copies of the files…? And the DVD?’

  ‘No, I don’t think that’s a good idea. You’re here for a conference, and some downtime. Get out. Enjoy the sights. You don’t want to get involved in our problems.’

  ‘We’re already involved,’ Parish said. ‘Come on, Harry. Richards has to have something to keep herself occupied otherwise she’ll start annoying me, and we do have a personal stake in this case, after all. What harm can it do? And we might just find something that you’ve missed.’

  ‘That ain’t gonna happen,’ he said. ‘I’ll talk to the other team members, but don’t get your hopes up. How would it look if two Brits came over here and started solving our cases for us? We’re the goddam experts. We tell
others how to solve their cases, not the other way round.’ He shuddered. ‘The whole idea makes my skin crawl.’

  Once everyone had finished in Alicia Mae’s room, and they’d taken Alicia Mae’s body away to the mortuary for an autopsy, the connecting door was closed and locked with strict instructions not to re-enter the crime scene.

  ‘We need to contact Alicia Mae’s next of kin,’ Angie said, when they were on their own.

  ‘Do you know who it is?’ Parish asked.

  ‘No. I feel ashamed. We know very little about her. It’ll be on her passport. You’ll have to go down to reception and ask them for it.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll go and get it.’ He pushed himself out of the easy chair he’d made himself comfortable in. ‘We could take a trip out this afternoon, if you want to.’

  ‘In the morning our nanny is murdered, and in the afternoon we’re out and about eating ice cream and shopping for trinkets. How would that look?’

  ‘Yeah, seeing as you put it like that.’

  ‘Do you think they’ll give us copies of the files?’ Richards said.

  ‘Stop being so morbid, Mary,’ Angie chastised her.

  ‘I think he was there last night, you know. In the bar, watching her.’

  Parish loitered at the door. ‘Seems likely.’

  ‘And there was someone taking pictures.’

  ‘You didn’t tell the FBI that.’

  ‘I’ve only just remembered. A flashlight kept registering in my eyes, but I took no notice of it, and I didn’t see who it was taking the pictures either.’

  ‘I’ll go and get Alicia Mae’s passport,’ Parish said, opening the door. ‘And I’ll let Harry know about the photographer.’

  ‘And ask him about the files…’

  Parish shook his head. ‘He’s only been gone five minutes.’

  ‘Well… ask him anyway.’

  ***

  They were on their way back up to forensics to find out if Toadstone had found out anything about the batch number.