The Body in the Marsh

by Nick Louth

  * * *

  At just before nine the next morning Gillard was at home looking in the mirror, doing up his black tie and checking his formal police uniform, ready for the memorial service. A call from Townsend made him jump. The research intelligence officer had spent the last hour on the phone to French police and relayed the disappointing news.

  ‘There’s no CCTV on that cash machine, nor anywhere nearby. The gendarmes told me Gretz-Armainvilliers is a fairly ordinary town, just a few minutes’ drive off the main N4 route, south-east of Paris. Knight used a cash machine outside a Crédit Agricole branch at half past eleven in the evening, according to his bank. A lot of them don’t seem to have CCTV. The gendarmes are checking every hotel within an hour’s drive.’

  ‘Any luck finding the data stick?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘Whatever you do, keep it from Alison Rigby.’

  ‘Too late, sir. DCI Dobbs complained to her already. I got a right roasting. But as I said to her, we should be able to leave evidence in our own offices for an hour or so, shouldn’t we?’

  ‘Any luck tracing who it might have been?’

  ‘Could be any one of a hundred people with access to the building. There’s CCTV at the entrance, but nothing inside.’

  Gillard hung up, and swore quietly. The idea of Harry Smith getting away with abuse made his blood boil.

  A few minutes later Gillard drove over to pick up Claire Mulholland. He wondered how much cash Knight would get through. If he needed more, say, once a week, then he really was going to get caught fairly quickly. All they needed was a little bit of CCTV, a little glimpse of his vehicle, and a little bit of luck. Feeling cheered by this turn of events, Gillard forgot his nerves until he arrived with Mulholland at the leafy parish church of St John’s, just a few minutes’ drive from the Knights’ home. There was a significant uniformed police presence, a gaggle of reporters and a couple of media satellite trucks. Gillard was greeted rather coldly by Oliver Knight. Another man handed him an order of service. Reading it he saw that the ceremony was intended to celebrate the life and achievements of Elizabeth Knight. Being an official presence at these kind of events always made Gillard feel uncomfortable and conspicuous. He was the man who was supposed to be offering answers to a bereaved family, and had so far failed to do so. He was the man who was tasked with finding Martin Knight and again had failed to do so. Everyone who looked at him on his way in seemed to be asking questions, raising expectations, demanding answers. It was giving him a headache.

  Liz’s parents, looking very frail, were deep in conversation with Claire Mulholland, and as Gillard entered the gloom of the church Kathy Parkinson introduced herself. She was wearing a lot of dark eye make-up which with her blue chiffon scarf and dark trouser suit made her look like an upmarket travel agent. She steered him away from the throng towards one of the many huge displays of flowers which filled the transept and nave. ‘I’m glad to finally talk to you, Craig,’ she said. ‘This is such a terrible business, isn’t it?’ She leaned forward to inhale the scent of a spray of lilies.

  ‘It must be particularly awful for Oliver and Chloe,’ Craig said. ‘I know that Gabby Underwood has had her work cut out keeping Chloe’s spirits up, particularly.’

  ‘And how are your spirits?’ Kathy said.

  Craig looked at her. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, you were once in love with her, weren’t you?’ She smiled indulgently at him.

  ‘That was a long time ago.’ He looked around the church, happy to look anywhere except into this woman’s overly sympathetic face.

  ‘You and I met a few times, you know. Back in 1986.’ Kathy smiled again.

  ‘Did we?’ Craig risked a glance at her.

  ‘Yes. It was at The Bell on a couple of occasions, one of them when Martin was down from Cambridge. I was one of Liz’s friends even then. You don’t remember me, but I remember you.’

  Gillard was feeling quite uneasy now. ‘I’m sorry. It was quite a long time ago.’ But he did recall seeing Martin. The smug, moneyed boy who had stolen his beloved woman away.

  ‘I could certainly see what Liz saw in you.’ Seeing the look of surprise on Gillard’s face, she continued. ‘You were quite a physical presence, and I don’t mean in any sporting way. Liz up until that time had been immersed in intellect. At home, at school, music, chess, literature. All those expectations. And of course she was very cerebral, more so than the rest of us. But you were this rather well put-together young man, quietly strong and self-possessed.’

  Gillard directed his gaze upwards to the delicately repaired ceiling of the church. The pale plaster cherubim and seraphim under the wooden beams, their slender trumpets spreading the secrets of the wounded heart. ‘You really have me at a disadvantage, Kathy. You observed all this about me, and I don’t recall you at all. It makes me feel quite awkward.’

  ‘Don’t feel awkward about it. It’s the kind of thing that inevitably happens. Everyone could see you only had eyes for her, more’s the pity. I used to see you, sitting on your motorbike at the end of her street, in the weeks after your relationship with her ended. You looked so sad, and rather adorable.’

  ‘I was a bit sorry for myself, that’s for sure,’ Gillard said, scanning the gathering congregation, seeking someone who would rescue him from this emotional interrogation. He spied Helen Jennings, wearing a tight black jacket and a broad-brimmed bolero hat at a rakish angle. She waved at them, and her long shapely legs carved a path through the throng towards them. On her arm was a tall and very handsome Mediterranean-looking man with swept back hair and designer stubble. ‘This is Juan,’ she said, introducing her beau. ‘Juan, this is Detective Chief Inspector Gillard, and my old friend Kathy Parkinson.’

  The conversation soon returned to small talk, and Gillard was able to slip away to where Claire Mulholland was talking to Alison Rigby. The assistant chief constable radiated authority, not only from the silver epaulettes and collar insignia on the tightly fitting uniform, but her sheer height and bearing.

  ‘Learn anything?’ Rigby asked.

  ‘Not so far, ma’am.’ His eye was drawn to the latest arrivals. Sir Gerald Cunliffe and his wife, who walked up the aisle and were shown to a row near the front. Sir Gerald stopped to exchange brief words and a perfunctory smile with Alison Rigby: two worthy adversaries from the Girl F circus, in circumspect acknowledgment.

  The service was very tasteful, with music by Bach, Telemann and Schubert. A solo Ave Maria was sung exquisitely by a young niece of Liz’s. It was only during this song, when Claire looked up at him in concern and offered him a tissue, that Craig realized that tears were running freely down his face. This slight flurry of activity caught Alison Rigby’s attention too. The flash of ice-blue eyes showed something like shock at seeing the crumpled mask that his face had become.

  Craig switched off as best he could during the readings. He saw ahead of him a trembling Chloe Knight, her brother’s arm around her shoulder. She was just about holding it together. It was a relief when the final hymn had been sung, the final prayer offered, and the congregation filed out into the cool, breezy air through which a watery sun shone. He turned on his phone, and it rang immediately. Rob Townsend again.

  ‘Martin Knight’s been withdrawing more cash, sir. This time at a place called Itteville, south-west of Paris. It was a Crédit Agricole again. I’ve got all the usual requests in to the French police.’

  Gillard hung up just as Alison Rigby approached. He told her the news and added: ‘He’s getting through a fair bit of cash. I think we’re going to catch him.’

  Rigby, an inch or two above him in her heels, held him with an intense gaze. ‘Craig, are you finding this case a bit too much for you? Do you need some time off?’

  ‘No, ma’am.’

  A look of alarm must have crossed Gillard’s face, because Rigby gave a smile of understanding. ‘It’s all right, Craig. I know how much it means to you. I know you won’t rest until
we’ve got him.’

  She walked away, and suddenly Craig Gillard felt that he’d been outmanoeuvred. Did every woman in his professional life somehow know what was going on in his head, without being told? On the spur of the moment, Gillard turned back and caught up with Rigby. ‘Ma’am, I think we can catch Knight quite quickly if we move the investigation across to France. I’d like visit my opposite number, and perhaps also to take a look around the Knights’ newly acquired holiday home in Spain.’

  ‘I don’t see that being a problem,’ she said. ‘As long as it produces results. But do please think of the media attention. It goes without saying that I don’t want to see invoices for four-course menus dégustation or luxury hotels. Am I clear?’

  ‘Crystal clear, ma’am.’ Kincaid had been spreading a rumour that the ACC kept a jar on her desk which contained the testicles of male underlings who had displeased her. Gillard had no intention of being part of her collection.

  After the memorial service, and once Rigby had departed, Gillard walked around the churchyard pondering the life and death of Liz Knight. As he looked up Kathy Parkinson approached. ‘This is rather a long shot, I suppose, but a friend’s let me down and I’ve got a spare ticket for Richard III at the Globe tomorrow night. Would you like to join me?’

  Craig hesitated. Professional entanglement with witnesses were frowned upon, and he had a long-standing grudge against Shakespeare from miserable classes at school. He also had to catch a flight to France the next morning. His face must have betrayed these misgivings, because she sweetened the offer.

  ‘I’ll let you into a secret,’ she said. ‘Something Liz told me which may help you.’

  ‘Can’t you tell me now?’

  She shook her head and laughed. ‘One good turn deserves another.’

  She knew exactly how to press his buttons. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘But I’ll have to pay for the ticket. It could be seen as a bribe otherwise.’

  ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Then I might have to reluctantly let you pay for dinner as well, on the same principle.’ She laughed.

  ‘It had better be something good,’ he said, realizing how he had been outmanoeuvred.

  ‘Believe me, it is.’ She flicked her scarf at him, catching him across the face. She then turned and walked away, knowing he was watching her.

  * * *

  Richard III was superb, well worth the trip by train to London Bridge and the rainy walk to the theatre. Kathy Parkinson had shared the bill on their quick pre-theatre pasta at Garfunkel’s, but as promised let him pay for his theatre ticket. It was during the interval, while squeezed against a red plush curtain in the crowded bar, that Kathy had finally agreed to let Gillard know the secret she had been harbouring.

  ‘It was something that happened in October 2014. Liz told me she had cooked a special romantic candlelit meal, as some form of reconciliation after the end of Martin’s affair. They were clearing up together afterwards, having had a few glasses of wine, when he said something extraordinary. Martin said that it was a pity Liz hadn’t made more of her academic potential, and been a bit more like Natalie Krugman.’

  ‘Whoa. That’s inflammatory,’ Craig conceded.

  Kathy nodded. ‘Liz plucked out a ten-inch Sabatier carving knife from the knife block and went for him. He got some cuts to his arms and hands, but disarmed her.’

  ‘She wouldn’t have meant to kill him.’

  Kathy laughed at the naiveté. ‘My God, Craig, you are blind to how much anger there was buried in Liz. At that moment, I’m sure she would happily have killed him! In fact I just wish she had, before he murdered her.’

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  It’s no good padding about like a caged leopard. The die is cast. I have to think. It’s what I always did best. This is a game of chess and I can win. I know I can.

  Liz’s diary, February 2015

  Sunday, 6 November

  If Kathy Parkinson had expected a romantic evening using Liz’s secrets as a lure, it hadn’t worked. The elegant blouse she had worn, her perfume, her explanation of the meaning of the play had registered with Craig, but only vaguely. He instead turned over the revelation in his mind, a picture of Liz with a knife superimposed over everything Kathy was saying. As they’d parted at Upper Warlingham Station, Kathy invited him to call her again. After thanking her for the evening Craig had given a noncommittal response, and saw the slightly disappointed moue on her face. The only emotion Craig felt was a tenderness. Poor Liz, unhappy enough to strike out at her husband with a knife.

  By Sunday Gillard had to set such thoughts aside as he prepared to take the search for Martin Knight to France. The reason for ACC Rigby’s warning about expenses didn’t emerge until Gillard was waiting to check in at Gatwick for the flight to Paris. A bulky figure sidled up to him and pushed his large wheeled suitcase into his knees. ‘Don’t mind some company?’

  Paddy Kincaid. The detective superintendent said that he had pulled rank on Claire Mulholland, who had originally been approved to accompany Gillard. ‘Man of your reputation, Craig. Didn’t think it was a good idea to send you on an all-expenses paid junket with an attractive female officer. People might talk.’ He winked horribly at him.

  ‘You should know that Claire Mulholland and I have a very professional working relationship. She’s a happily married woman, and I like her husband.’ Gillard left unsaid the thought that Kincaid was happy to participate in the junket himself, and then realized exactly why it was Rigby had given him a warning about expenses.

  Since the memorial service for Liz Knight, there had been two further cash withdrawals on Martin Knight’s cash cards. One was in Houdan, a small town an hour west of Paris, and one a day later in a tiny village called Kirch-en-Bourses, south of Chartres, both at Crédit Agricole branches.

  On the same day, and just 30 kilometres away, there had been one sighting of a man matching Martin Knight’s description, driving a UK-registered vehicle at a rest stop on a motorway. An arrest was made a few hours later, but it turned out to be the wrong man. That lead having been closed down, the two detectives spent the flight flicking through Knight’s financial paperwork. It included all the details of his numerous credit and cash cards, his patterns of previous spending as well as his last logged mobile phone calls.

  When they arrived in France, they were met at arrivals by the French detective who had been assigned as liaison in the case. Caspar Glomiquet was a tall, shaven-headed officer with a goatee beard, who spoke excellent English, and Gillard took the opportunity to brief him on the full details of the case. Glomiquet, who was a sergeant from the Service de Coopération Technique Internationale de Police said he had read everything he could about the case. Gillard was impressed that there was little he wasn’t already aware of.

  ‘Pretty unusual for a professor to cut his wife up, non?’ Glomiquet said, as they walked to the French detective’s unmarked silver Renault. ‘Teeth, blood and bones, all in different places. Are there any practical skills? Is he a hunter or an outdoorsman in his recreation?’

  ‘Not unless you count the occasional weekend mountain biking. I’m not sure that really qualifies,’ Gillard said.

  ‘We haven’t recovered the tools he did it with either,’ Kincaid said. ‘There are lots of the victim’s body parts missing. Knight must have been pretty cunning about hiding them. We’ve used ground-penetrating radar in the garden of their home, and dogs to track across the marshes in Kent. Nothing,’ he said, looking out of the window as the car slid along the motorway west of Paris.

  By now, nearly a week after the first cash withdrawal, it was clear that Martin Knight was being clever. Despite wanted posters put up in town halls and post offices, and despite some coverage on French TV, credible sightings were rare and soon disproved. He was apparently staying clear of modern shopping centres with their profusion of cameras, but instead would go off the main routes to small traditional towns. Post office cash machines and small branches of Crédit Agricole, the traditional lender to th
e French farmer, were the least likely to have cameras.

  Glomiquet said he was taking them to the village of Itteville, in Île-de-France, scene of the second withdrawal. ‘Normally, this would be an unusual place to stop for cash, but it fits the pattern we have been seeing. It’s a tiny village with narrow streets, and a cash machine right next to the tabac.’ He stopped the car next to the tiny single-storey bank branch. ‘The transaction was timed at a quarter to ten in the morning. There is no CCTV anywhere in the village.’

  ‘Right,’ Gillard said. ‘Is this machine heavily used? If not, we might be able to lift some fingerprints. I sent you a file copy of Knight’s DNA and prints a few days ago.’

  The Frenchman blew a sigh. ‘I can check. But even an infrequently used machine will still get ten users per day. I don’t think we are likely to get a result there, especially as it was three days ago when he used the machine.’

  ‘What about cars?’ Kincaid said.’ Are there any number-plate recognition systems nearby?’

  ‘Yes,’ Glomiquet said. ‘Mainly on the péage, the toll routes.’

  ‘Well,’ chuckled Kincaid. ‘I bet he’s avoiding them. Every time me and Muriel come to France we always drive an extra 20 miles rather than pay a toll. And Knight’s got an even better motivation than simply refusing to give his hard-earned cash to the bloody French government.’

  Glomiquet ignored the comment. ‘We are already trying to fit any British number plates picked up to the pattern of movement we have seen around Paris with the cash withdrawals. But it’s a big task. Many cameras don’t have ANPR, and those that do only work on French national plates. Foreign or unrecognized plates are all dumped in a big computer file which can only be sorted by date, and requires manual oversight. Still, the further Professor Knight travels, and the more cash machines he visits, the greater chance a plate will crop up that fits the pattern of travel.’