by Tim Ellis
‘We believe that a Miss Alice Cooper attended night classes here during 2009?’ Parish said.
She leaned down, pulled open the lower drawer of her desk, and extracted a green folder. ‘Yes, she began on the 9th January and her last session was on the 7th September – she never returned, and although I sent her two letters she didn’t reply.’
‘She disappeared on 10th September 2009,’ Richards said. ‘That’s probably why she never came back.’
‘Yes, I suppose that would explain it. Disappeared where?’
‘We have no idea at the moment,’ Parish said.
‘And she hasn’t been seen since that date?’
‘No.’
‘Oh! And you have no idea what happened to her?’
‘No.’
‘That’s a bit scary. What would you like to know?’
‘She was here re-taking her English A-Level...’
‘No, I don’t know who told you that, but she was completing a course in Acupuncture.’
Parish’s brow furrowed. ‘Acupuncture? We were told she was re-taking her English A-Level because she wanted to become a teacher. I suspect Acupuncture isn’t an acceptable course for University entrance?’
‘No, and certainly not for a teaching degree.’
‘Do you know if she had any close friends while she was here?’
‘My understanding is that she kept herself to herself.’
Parish stood up and offered his hand. ‘Thank you for your help, and if anything else comes to mind please call me.’ He passed her a business card.
As they walked back to the car Parish said, ‘It would appear she was preparing for a new life.’
‘That’s only one interpretation. It might be that her father had high expectations of her and wanted her to become a teacher. She pretended to re-take the English A-Level, but she wasn’t interested, and decided to take Acupuncture instead.’
‘That’s a nice story.’
‘Your explanation is a story as well.’
‘Okay, maybe her friend – Tracy Shayler – will be able to shed some light on the mystery.’
***
They returned to 17 Spinning Wheel Mead in Latton Bush and knocked on Annie Allsop’s door at twenty-three minutes past two.
‘Yes, come in,’ she said opening the door fully. ‘Walnut’s in the kitchen sulking that he hasn’t got any human flesh to eat, and I’ve made a pot of tea.’
Parish was just relieved he didn’t have to keep one eye on that crazy Walnut.
‘Should I be Mother?’ Richards said.
‘If you want to, dear.’
Richards poured three cups of tea and added milk and sugar.
‘A biscuit, Sir?’
He saw they were Jammie Dodgers. ‘One? Two would be better.’
Richards pulled a face as if she was Mr Bumble and he was Oliver Twist asking for more.
Annie laughed. ‘My Peter likes his Dodgers as well. I send him a box full each month.’
Parish noticed that three chairs from the dining table had been moved to face the computer on the drop-leaf table.
A buzzing sounded and the computer screen came to life.
‘There he is, right on time.’ She hobbled to the computer with her walking stick and used the mouse to accept the call. ‘Come on over and sit down. After I’ve said hello I’ll let you go first. He’s only on for fifteen minutes, so you need to be quick.’
‘Hello Gran,’ Peter Field said from Helmand Province in Afghanistan. ‘Are you okay?’
‘I’m fine, my lovely boy. Listen, I have two police officers here to ask you some questions about Allan.’
Annie turned to Parish. ‘There’s about a five-second delay. Well, you see it on the news when the reporter is speaking from the other side of the world.’
Parish nodded. ‘Thank you, Annie.’
Peter Field was still wearing his desert combats. He had short black hair, and his teeth shone in a sun-tanned face. ‘Okay Gran, and thanks for the Dodgers.’
‘Hello Peter,’ Parish said into the thin microphone on the table. ‘Have you any idea why Allan Cousins disappeared?’
‘Not really.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, just before he went he became distant. Wouldn’t answer his phone when I rang, said he had something better to do instead of going for a pint, but wouldn’t say what. I got the impression he couldn’t be bothered with me anymore.’
‘Was there anything else that seemed odd about his behaviour?’
‘You know about Ruthie?’
‘Yes, we’ve spoken to her already.’
‘Well, that’s it really. As I said, I didn’t see much of him towards the end.’
‘Thank you, I’ll leave you to talk to your Gran.’
He and Richards went back to the sofa to finish their tea and biscuits while Annie carried on speaking to Peter.
‘I see what you mean about a religious cult, Sir.’
‘They’ve been chosen, but by whom and for what?’
‘We still have to find them, don’t we?’
‘Yes.’ He helped himself to another Dodger. ‘I don’t think it’s a religious cult anymore though.’
‘You don’t, but...?’
‘No, I think they’re all dead.’
‘What’s made you change your mind?’
‘The fact that there’s only one person aged nineteen with the initials AC who goes missing on the 10th September each year. Someone has chosen them for something. Now, we have to find out who that someone is, and what he’s choosing them for.
‘We don’t have any idea where to start looking.’
‘You want to give up?’
‘No, but none of them left any clues.’
‘That we know of yet. We keep digging. That’s what detective work is all about. Sooner or later we’ll get a break.’
Once Annie had finished talking to her grandson they thanked her for allowing them to talk to Peter and for her kind hospitality.
It was five to three when they set off towards Pollards Hatchery in Great Parndon.
Richards was right, he thought. There was no trail of breadcrumbs to follow. Apart from a vague suspicion that someone was leading these teenagers astray, there was no hard evidence – no one had seen anyone with them. Although from what Allan Cousins had said about his lift home it was probably a man, but was he working alone? And who had phoned Alice Cooper?
‘Stop the car, Richards.’
‘Oh!’
They were driving along the A1169 passing Tye Green. She turned left at the mini-roundabout into Parnall Road and pulled in with her left indicator flashing.
‘Is this the best you can do? Find a layby or something.’
‘Well, if you’d said what you wanted in the first place.’
Great Parndon Library appeared on the right and she drove into the car park.
‘Will this do, your lordship?’
‘Get your notebook out and make a list.’
‘Shoot?’
‘Why only one person once a year? Why the 10th September? Why nineteen years of age? Why so secretive? Why the initials AC? Why do they take nothing with them? Have I missed any?’
‘Why since 1984? Why have none ever come back? Where are they?’
‘Good.’
‘You’re thinking that the 10th September is an anniversary of something, aren’t you?’
‘Am I? What else am I thinking then, clever clogs?’
‘That maybe... someone with the initials AC who was nineteen years of age went missing, or died on that date in 1983, or at least before 1984?’
‘We’ll make a detective of you yet. Why are we parked here? Come on, it’s twenty past three, we haven’t got much time, and won’t the playgroup close early? If you’ve made us late, Richards...’
‘Sometimes...’
‘Yes, yes... get a move on.’
***
Allan Cousins was still alive, but he knew he wouldn’t
last much longer – hours, days, weeks or maybe months – any idea he once had of time had deserted him. When he had first been brought down here he had tried to hold the passing of days and then the weeks in his mind, but soon enough everything had coalesced into a hodgepodge of minutes, hours, days and weeks. It felt as though he had been here in this place his whole life, bolted to the metal contraption, staring at the others who had suffered before him, and knowing that when it was all over he would join them.
They had been buried standing up in the soil of the walls surrounding him. Whether by design, or because the man didn’t care enough, the bodies had only been partially buried. Hands, arms, legs, feet, a breast, a skull, a myriad of bones – The underground chamber resembled part of the catacombs beneath one of the cities of Europe. It was like something out of a nightmare, and since he’d been brought to this place he had lived that nightmare.
Those bodies had been his companions, had kept him sane – if he was sane. Maybe insanity had engulfed him a long time ago. Did the insane know they were insane? He had given them names – not their real names – but names he had plucked from the air. He had spoken to them as friends. They knew the terror he felt each time the man came to see him. He’d once had a friend called Peter – whatever happened to Peter? And Ruthie – he’d loved Ruthie. Where was she now?
Now, he had a new girlfriend – her name was Evie. Half of her head – with its long blonde hair – jutted out from the dirt, and her blue eye watched over him. If he ignored the rotting flesh, the flies and the maggots, her slim arm and firm breast reminded him of Ruthie.
He would like to have touched Evie’s soft blonde hair, put his hand in hers, and caressed her cold hard nipple with his tongue, but he couldn’t move. Hadn’t been able to move since he’d woken up and found himself here. Oh, he could move his head, his fingers and his toes, but that was all.
At first, when he felt and saw the half-inch bolts through his forearms and lower legs he’d screamed both with the unbearable pain and the devastating realisation that he was never going to get out of this place alive. Foremost in his mind was the pain. He’d thought he was going to die, but after a time – hours, days, weeks, months – the pain had eased, it had become almost a part of him. Now, it reminded him that he was still alive.
Soon after he woke up the man came. The same man who had promised him so much, who had laughed with him and become his friend, who had said his name was David Clark, but that wasn’t his real name. Now, the man didn’t laugh, he didn’t speak, and all he promised was more pain.
He heard a noise, and knew the man was coming back. In the beginning, he had pleaded with the man to stop, but it had done no good. Since he’d been in this place the man had never spoken to him, and he had never stopped. For some time now, he had resigned himself to his fate. When death came for him he would welcome the dark shadowy figure with open arms, and even offer to carry his scythe.
Chapter Eight
Kim Wise was the owner of Pollards Hatchery on Pollard Hatch just off Kingsmoor Road in Great Parndon. She was fond of telling anyone who would listen that she had taken the name of the road as the name of her Playschool because the surrounding roads had been given names relating to birds such as Greygoose Park, Hawkenberry, and Pyenest Road. Even the local pub was called the Cock Inn. She also liked the imagery that the word ‘Hatchery’ generated of a place where the young were cared for.
She directed them to two of the four easy chairs in the small reception area and sat opposite them. ‘My office is just large enough for me,’ she said in explanation. ‘Do you want to talk to the children while you’re here?’ She was overweight by a good few chocolate bars with lank shoulder-length dirty blonde hair, and pasty skin.
Parish’s brow creased. ‘What, about serial killers?’
‘As long as you tell them all the gory details... Of course not about serial killers, I was thinking more about being a police officer.’
‘He doesn’t know much about children,’ Richards said.
‘That’s fairly obvious.’
‘I’ll talk to them,’ Richards offered.
Parish said, ‘Have we got time...?’
‘I could tell the children that the horrible nasty man wouldn’t let the beautiful nice lady talk to them?’ Kim Wise said.
They both stared at him expectantly.
Maybe he should arrest the slovenly fat woman for blackmailing a police officer instead. ‘Okay, but only for five minutes.’
‘What would you like to know about Alice?’
‘Her ex-boyfriend said she wanted to become a teacher...’
Kim gave a throaty laugh. ‘Alice? I don’t think so.’
‘What makes you say that.’
‘Usually, people who work with children do it for love not money, it becomes a vocation. What Alice was doing here was beyond me. She had no interest in children whatsoever, and the idea of her becoming a teacher is laughable. If she hadn’t left, I probably would have sacked her.’
‘She disappeared,’ Richards said. ‘Nobody has seen her since the 10th September 2009.’
‘I thought she’d just decided not to come back. I phoned her, but received no answer, and her wages for the first ten days of the month was transferred into her bank account.’
‘Why did you employ her in the first place?’ Parish asked.
‘She was a totally different person at the interview, but over the nine months she was here she changed.’
‘In what way?’
‘In the beginning she was happy, interested, and the children really liked her, but over time she became morose, detached, and towards the end she couldn’t be bothered with the children.’
‘Did she have any close friends here?’
‘No, she tended to keep herself to herself.’
‘What about phone calls, or a man picking her up...’
‘Yes, there was someone... a few days before she went. I saw her climb into a large dark car.’
‘Did you see the person who was driving?’
‘No, it was such a long time ago... Short dark hair and a thin face as he opened the door that was all. I couldn’t tell you what he looked like.’
‘Thank you,’ Richards said. ‘Do you want me to talk to the children now?’
They followed Kim Wise through into a large multi-coloured room with small tables and chairs, storage cabinets, whiteboards, blackboards, magnetic boards, and murals of trees and rainbows on the walls. It was a bright room with natural light coming in through a pair of French windows at the far end, and fluorescent lights overhead.
Parish felt like Alice after she’d fallen down the rabbit hole in Wonderland. What he needed was a potion that said ‘Drink Me’ on the bottle, so that he’d shrink to fit the furniture and wouldn’t appear like a giant.
‘Mrs Campbell,’ Kim Wise called to the woman who seemed to be in charge of the children. ‘Karen is our lead teacher, she designs the curriculum.’
A pretty petite woman in her mid-twenties with light brown bobbed hair and an angular jawline approached.
‘Karen, this is Detective Inspector Parish and Constable Mary Richards. They’ve been here about another matter, but before they go Mary has agreed to talk to the children about being a policewoman.’
‘They’ll like that,’ Karen said and smiled. She clapped her hands for attention. ‘Children, we have two very special guests. Would you like to know what a Detective Inspector and a Policewoman do?’
‘Yes, Miss Campbell.’
‘I’ll wait outside,’ Parish said.
Richards grabbed his arm. ‘Don’t leave me on my own, Sir.’
‘Well, don’t get me involved then.’
‘I won’t.’
‘All yours,’ Karen said.
‘Hello children,’ Richards began. ‘My name is Mary Richards.’
‘Hello, Mary Richards,’ the children chorused.
‘I’m a Policewoman, is there anything you’d like to know about being...’
>
‘What’s it like being a Detective Inspector?’ a tousled-haired Indian boy shouted out.
‘You know the rules, Kunal Nagpal,’ Karen admonished him. ‘We put our hands up to ask questions, don’t we?’
‘Sorry, Miss.’ His hand shot up and he repeated the question.
‘Well, I think the Detective Inspector should answer that question.’ Richards turned to Parish.
‘I thought you weren’t going to get me involved?’ he hissed at her out of the side of his mouth.
Richards smiled. ‘Here’s the Detective Inspector now,’ she said to the children.
‘Well, as you can see, I have staff who won’t do as they’re told, who...’
‘Tell us about the murders?’
‘Billy Lawton...’ Miss Campbell said with a stern look on her face.
‘Yeah, tell us about all the dead people,’ a girl shouted out. ‘I want to be a bone collector when I grow up,’ she informed everyone.
‘Emma Bell...’ Miss Campbell began.
‘You don’t even know what a bone collector is,’ another girl said.
‘I do too. Tell her, Miss Campbell.’
‘Pamela Howes, are you causing trouble again?’
Parish held up his hand for quiet. ‘Human nature I’m afraid,’ he said to the two adults. ‘People have a fascination with death, and the fascination obviously begins at a very early age. What do you want me to tell them?’
‘Well, I suppose you’d better tell them something,’ Kim Wise said, ‘but try not to frighten them too much otherwise I’ll have the parents knocking down my door when the children all have nightmares.’
‘In the dark woods there’s a man with a knife...’
‘Sirrrr.’
‘What?’
‘I’ll tell them, should I?’
‘Probably be better, that way I’ll have someone to blame when the Chief calls me in to explain why all the children in Essex are having nightmares about serial killers.’