by Ellis, Tim
Richards stood up. ‘Oh my God,’ she said and ran out of the room.
They could hear her banging up the stairs.
‘Sorry,’ Toadstone said. ‘I thought she was okay with stuff like that?’
‘So did I,’ Parish said. ‘Anyway, carry on...’
Richards burst back into the room puffing and panting like a chain smoker and carrying a book. ‘Here...’ she said taking a gulp of air. ‘Listen:
Saint John is the nickname of a serial killer who is thought to have operated in Essex, England, between 1952 and 1958. Seven murders were attributed to him, and all the victims had been beaten, raped, and strangled with their own stockings, all were menstruating at the time they were murdered, and all had sanitary napkins stuffed in their mouths. Mercy Jane Seigel was his first victim. Her dismembered body was found on 22nd May 1952 in a metal trunk at Bumble’s Green Landfill site. On the night she disappeared she had been out dancing at a nearby club, the Pavilion Ballroom in Earl Street, Ware...
But listen to this:
...Her sister, who was with her at the ballroom, gave a description of the man Mercy left with. She described him as a thin, angular-faced man in his mid-thirties with glasses and dark curly hair who said his name was Peter... Forensic psychologists have since suggested that the killer was driven to violence by the menstrual cycle, and that he was a Roman Catholic with strong religious views.’
Parish held his hand out for the book. ‘And this is an unsolved murder?’
Richards passed it to him. ‘Yes, and see, it’s the same date.’
‘The History of Serial Killers in England by Terri Royston,’ he read and then passed it to Kowalski. ‘So, what you’re saying is that a murderer, who must be...’ He put his head back and closed his eyes to work it out.
‘A hundred and ten,’ Toadstone suggested.
‘I know, Toadstone. I was using the pause to rest my eyes.’
Richards laughed. ‘You know I don’t mean the original killer has come back to start again. I think someone has copied his first murder... We’ve got a copycat killer.’
‘Okay, that makes the author – Terri Royston – a prime suspect.’
‘You do know it’s a woman in her eighties?’ Kowalski said, with the book open at the author biography. He passed it back to Parish.
‘She could have arranged it to increase the sales of her book,’ Ed said.
Kowalski gave a laugh. ‘Let’s not dabble in fantasy, Ed.’
‘Do we know who found the black plastic bags?’ Parish directed at Toadstone.
He shrugged. ‘I assumed it was one of the bulldozer drivers who spread out the rubbish and flatten it.’
‘Richards, do you know?’
She pulled a face. ‘Why would I know?’
‘Because you’re working on the case and you’re also my mole.’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Tomorrow, find out.’
‘Okay. Why?’
‘You tell me why.’
‘I don’t know why, that’s why I... The date! Oh God, Sir. Those bags might never have been found in all that rubbish, but they were, and they were found on the 22nd May, the same date Mercy Jane Seigel was found.’
‘Exactly. You’ll be a brilliant detective one of these days, Richards.’
‘As your partner?’
‘That’s looking shaky at the moment. Write in your notebook : Interview Terri Royston. Where does she live, do we know?’
‘Close by, in Broxbourne,’ Richards said while she was writing.
‘Good. No doubt she’ll be an expert on the murders and might have information that she hasn’t put in the book.’
‘That’s brilliant, Sir. You’re thinking about whether the police had any suspects, and whether those suspects had children.’
‘Will you stop reading my mind, Richards?’
‘Why Saint John?’ Ed asked.
Richards took the book back from Parish and began to read. ‘In her description, Mercy’s sister said... “He said his name was John and frequently referred to the different Saints. I remember him saying that “The Lord dwells within me”.’
‘What about the other six murders?’ Ed said.
‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,’ Parish replied. ‘We’ll talk to this Terri Royston first and go from there, and I’ll have a look at the book tonight and get photocopies of the relevant chapter for everyone for tomorrow night.’
‘What I don’t understand is how he knew,’ Richards said.
‘Stop being cryptic, Richards,’ Kowalski said. ‘How he knew what?’
‘How they were all menstruating.’
They looked at each other, but no one made any suggestions.
‘Another question without an answer,’ Parish said. ‘Add it to your list, Richards.’
‘Do you want me to continue?’ Toadstone said.
‘Yeah, let’s get it over with,’ Kowalski said. ‘I’m starving.’
‘I collected a number of samples, but the analysis isn’t complete yet.’
‘You say she was raped,’ Kowalski said. ‘Any semen?’
‘Yes, contaminated because of the menstruation, but I should be able to extract a DNA profile.’
‘You’re surpassing yourself this time,’ Parish said.
‘Ego intentio ministro,’ he said.
‘I had a feeling it was your new motto, Toadstone.’
Richards screwed up her face. ‘Is that the same as you said before, Paul?’
The shadow of a smile crossed his face. ‘Yes, it is.’
‘He’s trying to beat you again, isn’t he, Sir?’
‘Unsuccessfully.’
‘Also,’ Toadstone continued. ‘I have a number of fibre and hair samples that are undergoing analysis, but unlike the semen – which was found inside the victim and on her dress – they may not be related to the killer at all.’
‘Your people cut two locks off the trunk...’
‘Yes.’ He pointed to a photograph – on the right of the board – of a brass lock with ABACUS engraved across the front and the shank of the lock in two pieces. ‘Both locks were the same. Classic brass locks which can be bought anywhere...’
‘Any fingerprints?’ Kowalski asked.
‘Sadly no. And it’s unlikely that the killer would leave fingerprints either on the inside or the outside of the trunk and then use gloves to attach and secure the locks.’
‘Do we know how the trunk was transported to the landfill?’ Ed asked.
Toadstone shook his head. ‘I certainly haven’t questioned anybody.’
‘Write...’ Parish began.
‘I’m already doing it,’ Richards said, scribbling in her notebook. ‘Question the workers at the landfill site.’
‘Both legs and the head were severed to enable the torso to fit into the trunk. The edges of the wounds are reasonably clean and show evidence of being hacked apart with a machete, a butcher’s axe, or something similar. Also, some of her organs are missing – the heart, liver and kidneys.’
‘Oh God, I hope...’
‘Don’t even go there, Richards,’ Kowalski said. ‘My Gabe is still having nightmares.’
Richards looked down at her hands. ‘He’s not the only one, Sir.’
‘When’s your next appointment?’ Parish asked.
‘Friday afternoon at two thirty.’
‘Mine’s at three; we’ll go together.’
‘Okay.’
‘I take it she was already dead when the killer took her organs and dismembered her?’ Kowalski said.
‘Yes, the lack of blood shows that she was.’
Parish checked his watch. ‘Okay, it’s seven o’clock. Kowalski’s wasting away, the women have prepared food that requires consuming, and I’ll need to launch a rescue mission to extricate Digby from those psychopathic kids outside, so let’s finish this off. Toadstone, have you got anything else for us?’
‘No, Sir.’
‘Write, Richards.’
> ‘Shoot.’
‘So, you’re going to finish your analysis and come back tomorrow night and update us, Toadstone?’
‘Yes.’
‘What about comparing Valerie Nichols’ post- mortem results with Mercy Jane Seigel’s?’ Richards said.
‘Good one, Richards,’ Ed said.
‘Thanks, Sarge.’
Toadstone scratched his greasy hair. ‘I’ll try, but the records might have been destroyed.’
‘Terri Royston must have accessed the records,’ Richards said. ‘Maybe she has copies.’
Toadstone’s eyes lit up. ‘Yes, of course. Should I contact the author, Sir?’
‘Ring her and arrange a meeting for tomorrow afternoon- I’ll come with you. It doesn’t look as though I’ll have much else to do.’
‘So, Paul is your new partner now?’ Richards said.
‘Well, since you’re hob-nobbing with the new DCI, I don’t have much of a choice, do I?’
‘Huh!’
‘Right, Richards, you’ll be tied up with Marshall on the... We’ll call it the Bin Bag Case, and you can brief us all on that tomorrow night. Ed is tied up with the other seven cases, which we were meant to look at tonight, but now we haven’t got time. Have you got the file with you, Ed?’
Ed pulled a green file from under the chair he was sitting on. ‘Here.’
‘I left my file on my desk,’ Parish said, taking Ed’s file. ‘You take mine and I’ll keep this one to read overnight. I’ll see you in the morning when I come into the station and give you my ideas.’
‘Okay, Sir.’
‘Ray, you’ll be tied to your desk in traffic, but you should be able to make some phone calls. What about organising times for Wednesday and Thursday when I can visit Carole Dobbins, Tollhurst & Chandler and the Statics Club?’
‘Consider it done.’
‘Ed, you should be more or less a free agent. I’ll take a look at the other seven cases later, and we’ll try and get you out and about tomorrow under the guise of doing some work on one or more of them, so that you can visit the three suspects whose fingerprints were found on the trunk.’
‘Yeah, that’ll work.’
‘And that just leaves the workers at the landfill site, which I’m not looking forward to considering my visit this morning...’
‘Is it bad, Sir?’
‘Is it bad, Toadstone?’
‘It’s bad, Mary.’
‘I’ll go there on either Thursday or Friday.’
Kowalski stood up, rubbing his stomach. ‘Are we done?’
‘Meet here at seven thirty tomorrow night. Leave the families at home; Digby is still recuperating,’ Parish said.
Everyone nodded.
‘Why are you all still here?’ he said.
Kowalski was the first out of the door, closely followed by Ed, but Richards hung back and put her hand on Parish’s arm.
‘Why are you keeping me from your mother’s wonderful food, Richards?’
‘What happens if the Chief Constable dies, or has an accident?’
‘You tell me what will happen?’
‘I don’t even want to think about it.’
‘Then don’t. Come on, let’s go and mingle.’
‘I wish the Chief was still alive, Sir.’
‘You and me both, Richards. You and me both.’
***
Parish was sitting up in bed reading the chapter entitled Saint John of Essex in Terri Royston’s book The History of Serial Killers in England. Angie was sleeping next to him, and a worn-out Digby had crept onto the bottom of the quilt and was curled up between them.
As he was reading he realised that one of the things they hadn’t discussed was the possibility of a second victim and whether the killer was going to copy St John’s next murder.
Chapter Four
Tuesday 24th May
Sir Charles Lathbury – who had never been to Buckingham Palace and knelt on the red cushion to receive a knighthood from the Queen, and whose real name was plain old Arthur Pocock – was sitting in one of the easy chairs around the square mahogany coffee table in the Chief Constable’s office at Police Force HQ in Chelmsford, Essex. Heather Devine, the Deputy Chief Constable, was sitting opposite. He was expertly balancing a saucer in the palm of his left hand and drinking percolated Brazilian coffee from a small delicate cup using his right thumb and forefinger. His cashmere coat was hanging on the hat and coat stand next to the door. He wore a charcoal grey suit, which contrasted with his silver grey hair, and a Churchill College striped tie with matching gold clip and cufflinks. He had never actually been a student at Cambridge University, but that was simply a minor lie in a whole universe of lies.
‘And this DCI Marshall doesn’t know about my involvement?’
‘She is simply following orders. I have told her to get rid of DI Parish, and that is what she is doing.’
‘Without asking why?’
‘I am in possession of certain information that she would not wish to become public.’
‘Ah, I see.’ Of course, he thought, the lovely Heather has learnt a thing or two on her way up to the top; particularly how to get what she wants.
‘I would be happier if you elaborated on “a matter of national security”. DI Parish is one of our best detective Inspectors; his clear-up rate is...’
‘Unfortunately, you are not cleared for Top Secret otherwise I would have no hesitation. But I can assure you that if the information were to become “public” as you say, it would probably bring down the government, and the ripple effect would have far-reaching consequences.’
‘I shall have to take your word for that, Sir Charles.’
‘Yes, you will.’
‘Someone made an attempt on DI Parish’s life a few weeks ago. You don’t know anything about that do you?’
‘Heather! MI6 do not have what our American allies call a “Black Ops” department; we leave that to other – less refined – branches of the security services.’
‘I get the feeling you know more than you’re telling me.’
He took a swallow of coffee and reflected on the worst field operative that he’d ever had the misfortune to work with. Alex Knight perishing in the fire at Tantalus Industries had saved him the job of terminating her employment contract himself. She at least did that right. ‘I always know more than I tell you, Heather; that’s the nature of security.’
‘The Chief Constable is not going to be happy with what I’ve done to DI Parish, you know.’
‘In his absence you were forced to make certain decisions. Tell him anything except the truth.’
‘I don’t know the truth. It would have been a lot simpler if you had spoken to him directly.’
‘He is ah... less understanding than you, Heather.’
‘And you can’t blackmail him like you can me?’
‘There is that, of course.’
‘I thought so. That’s why you waited until he’d gone on holiday.’
‘Excellent coffee. Is there a second cup hiding somewhere?’
Heather slid forward, took Sir Charles’ cup and refilled it from the coffee jug. ‘So, what now?’
‘Now, we wait and see.’
‘And the photographs?’
Sir Charles removed a manila A4 envelope from his attaché case and dropped it onto the coffee table. As she leaned forward to pick up the envelope, the corners of his mouth moved slightly upwards. With her long black hair pulled tight and knotted at the back of her head, her dark smouldering eyes behind the glasses and the large jutting breasts, she was still worth a second look.
‘And that’s all of them, including any negatives?’
‘I am a man of my word,’ he said, but they both knew he wasn’t. In fact, he had kept copies of the complete set of photographs on a CD. He also had a DVD of Deputy Chief Constable Heather Devine – in her younger days when merely a Sergeant – as Lady Cantaloupes, Mistress of the Electrodes, doing exceptionally painful things to a succession of men
, the last of whom was himself. He recalled, with a certain fondness, the sweat-drenched sex near the end of the DVD, which he liked to watch on occasion.
He swallowed the last of his coffee and stood up. ‘You’ll keep me informed?’ he said, taking his coat from the stand and shrugging it on.
‘Do I have a choice?’
He moved to the door and opened it slightly. He still had the slight limp – a childhood accident – that he reluctantly informed people, when they asked, was a bullet wound he’d received on a mission in East Germany in 1977. ‘No, not really.’
‘And no guarantees about what will happen when the Chief Constable returns on Monday. He’s particularly fond of Parish and Richards for some reason.’
‘I understand.’ What he did understand was that he would probably have to tweak fate a little bit. He couldn’t have the Chief Constable returning from holiday and spoiling his plans.
There was no handshake, no peck on the cheek, only a curt nod. They’d known each other for a long, long time, and their relationship had only ever been as mistress and slave at the Bondage Bar in Pimlico.
***
He found a memo stuck to his computer screen from the DCI when he arrived at work at eight o’clock, which read:
DI Parish,
I do not wish to see or speak to you. You are suspended from duty until further notice. The Disciplinary Committee will carry out an internal investigation into a charge of Gross Misconduct as soon as practicable. You will be notified should they wish to interview you. On your desk you will find a copy of Essex Police Force’s Disciplinary Procedures. Please leave your warrant card with my PA.
DCI H Marshall
BSc (Hons)
‘Is that a letter from fatty Marshall saying it’s all a big mistake, she’s sorry, and can you come back?’