by Ellis, Tim
‘As soon as I get the strength back in my stabbing arm I’m going to kill you, Dougall.’
‘I can think of another way you could expend that arm energy.’
‘You always were a pervert.’
He bent down and kissed her on the cheek. ‘Yeah, but now I’m your pervert. You’ve lost weight.’
‘A uterus, some ovaries, fallopian tubes and . . .’
‘You look much better for it.’
‘Are you saying I was fat before?’
‘A few extra pounds – nothing too extreme, but coming in here has obviously done you the world of good. Maybe I’ll book myself in for a couple of days.’
‘You could lose an ounce or two by getting that unused organ you call a brain removed.’
‘Same old Xena.’
‘You bring out the best in me. So, what did you find out?’
‘I tried phoning you.’
‘They won’t let me have a phone in here.’
‘There are four people there who run the show at Shrub End: Chief Inspector Ezra Pine, DI Tony Wentworth, Inspector Adam Pincher and Sergeant Gerry Chalker – and you were right, they’re going to kill DC Koll.’
‘Bloody hell. I hear you say it, but I don’t believe it. They’re cops for Christ’s sake. Koll is one of us – Jesus. I feel sick.’
‘You’re in the right place.’
‘How . . . ?
‘It wasn’t hard to plant some bugs, put some cameras in strategic places, tap some phones . . . One thing’s for sure though, someone at Professional Standards is in on the game – otherwise, they’d all be locked up by now.’
‘It’s a can of worms.’
‘More like a viper’s nest.’
‘You’ll get another promotion out of this.’
‘I don’t want it. As you said, they’re cops like us. I feel dirty just thinking about it.’
‘So?’
‘They’re paying someone called Michelangelo to do their dirty work for them.’
‘And? It’s like trying to open a tin with a left-handed screwdriver.’
‘I’ve got two men on him. He’s big and he’s ugly.’
‘So, you’ll stop him killing Koll?’
‘That’s the plan.’
‘What about my partner?’
Dougall shrugged. ‘Not involved as far as we can see.’
‘That’s one thing, at least. Where are you going to take it?’
‘I’m going to knock on the Police Commissioner’s door, walk in and dump it all on his desk. It’s his problem not mine.’
She squeezed his hand. ‘I don’t know what I would have done without you.’
‘And I want you to remember that the next time you’re giving me grief over some minor infraction.’
‘I wouldn’t do that – I don’t give a shit.’
‘You pretend you don’t care, but underneath you’re a toasted marshmallow – all warm and squishy.’ He took her face in his hands and kissed her on the lips. ‘Christ! When was the last time you cleaned your teeth?’
‘You’d better slither out of here before I call security.’
He smiled and stood up. ‘I’ll let you know how it all goes.’
‘You’d better.’
After he’d gone she pressed the emergency alarm button.
Staff Nurse James appeared. ‘Yes?’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t interrupt your game of fellatio with the doctor, did I?’
‘You’re just the nicest person. What’s the emergency?’
‘Why haven’t my teeth been cleaned? I’ve got the sneaking suspicion that the doctor has been using my mouth to satisfy his carnal desires while you were out walking the streets.’
‘You’re disgusting. I’ll send a Health Care Assistant in with a lavatory brush . . . And in future, the emergency button is for emergencies.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry. Did I break another stupid rule?’
Somebody had dropped anvils on her eyelids. It was great to see Tom. He looked just the way she remembered him – rugged and homely. Was he really hers? At least Stick was safe now. Tom would make sure no harm came to him. How many times had she saved Stick now? It’s a good job the numpty had her as a partner. Where was that Health Care . . . ?’
***
Doc Paine had finished Machael Pitt’s post mortem, and the body had been put back in the fridge. Samantha Morrow – opened up from neck to pubis like a Venus flytrap – now lay on the stainless steel mortuary table giving up her secrets.
‘I was beginning to think . . .’
‘Yeah. Sorry, Doc. I don’t need to tell you what’s it’s like.’
‘No. Well, I’ll be another half an hour on this one. You could go and grab lunch or take in the sights while I’m finishing off.’
‘Lunch is a good idea. I only have a vague recollection of what food tastes like.’
They caught the lift up to the second floor and wandered into the cafeteria.
‘Are you having lunch?’ he asked Koll when they reached the counter.
‘Why, don’t you think I should?’
He smiled. ‘DI Blake tries to trap me like that, as well. I think you should do whatever makes you happy.’
‘Hmmm.’ She pointed. ‘I’ll have the pasta salad, a chocolate caramel and a mug of coffee. While you’re doing that I’ll go and fight those OAPs over there for a table.’
He nodded and began piling up a tray. His choice was lasagne with garlic bread, no sweet and coffee.
‘Are you going up to see DI Blake while you’re here?’ Koll asked.
‘No, I don’t think so. I’ll come back later. It’s not worth waking her up twice when she needs the rest.’
‘You really like her, don’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘I wish I had a decent partner.’
‘Do you want another partner?’
‘No, silly,’ she said, touching his arm. ‘I don’t mean now. But this is just temporary, isn’t it? As soon as DI Blake is better you’ll be her partner again, won’t you?’
‘Yes, but you’ll be involved with testifying and so forth soon, won’t you? And sooner or later you’ll have to go back to Shrub End.’
‘Then I won’t have a partner. Let’s face it, who’ll want a partner who grasses on her colleagues?’
‘I would. And they’re hardly colleagues if they’re dirty cops, are they?’
‘I suppose not.’
After they’d eaten they went back to the mortuary.
‘Okay,’ Doc Paine said when they arrived. ‘Let’s deal with Samantha Morrow first, shall we? I’ve seen the ballistics report from Dr Buswell, and I don’t think that there’s any doubt the victim died from a 7.62mm bullet entering and leaving her thoracic cavity. There’s a small entry wound to the left of the sternum, between the fourth and fifth internal intercostals ribs.’ She pointed to her own chest to indicate approximately where she meant.
Koll shook her head. ‘It’s hard to imagine that one minute she was driving along without a care in the world, a fabulous job, two lovely children waiting for her at home and maybe an idyllic life in the future on the Isle of Arran with a husband who loved her, and the next . . .’ She didn’t finish – they all knew what had happened next.
Doc Paine continued. ‘The bullet was not kind to her internal organs and took most of her thoracic vertebrae with it through the exit wound. She would have known nothing. To echo Detective Koll: One minute here, and the next . . . there.’ She pointed upwards to the possibility of a Heaven.
Turning, she picked up a large plastic bag full of items from the counter behind her and held it out to Stick. ‘Her personal effects. These items were inside the car with her. She had spare clothes, a large handbag and a briefcase in the boot of the car, which are by the door for you to take with you when you go.’
He moved the items about inside the plastic bag. There were two bunches of keys – home and work he guessed, but they’d have to be checked; a mobile phone; her pur
se containing a selection of cards, money, an assortment of pictures of her children and one of her husband – a good-looking man in a red and black checked shirt with a full beard squatting outside a stone cottage like a gold digger in the Klondike; some loose change and a pair of reading glasses.
‘That’s all I have to say about Samantha Morrow. Mathew Pitt, however, is a different animal altogether.’ She scooped up a file from behind her and began withdrawing colour photographs and laying them out on the stainless steel table where, shortly before, she’d been rummaging about inside Pitt’s torso. ‘He was injected with Rocuronium Bromide, which is a paralytic drug.’ She put the first photograph on the table and pointed to an injection site on the victim’s neck. ‘That would have prevented him from putting up any resistance. Next, the killer began amputating. The hands first, then the feet, the forearms and finally the lower legs . . .’ More photographs were laid out in order along the table.
Stick’s brow furrowed. ‘I don’t understand. Was Pitt put to sleep while all this amputating was going on?’
‘Not at all. He was wide awake, but paralysed.’
‘Tell me he couldn’t feel anything,’ Koll said screwing up her face.
‘I could tell you that, but it wouldn’t be true. He felt everything.’
‘Jesus,’ Stick said.
‘Don’t give up on me yet, Sergeant. There’s still a long way to go. It’s my belief that the person who did this is – or is trying very hard to be – a surgeon, but there are inconsistencies with that conclusion . . .’
Stick held up his hand to stop her. ‘Go back a minute. What makes you think he’s a surgeon?’
‘Apart from the inconsistencies, this is good work – neat and tidy. No signs of hesitation or amateurism. He knew what he was doing.’
‘Okay. I only asked because Mr Pitt was the senior administrator at Essex University Medical School and had dealings with medical staff and students.’
‘Then I’d say your killer is one of them.’
‘Thanks, that’s very helpful.’
‘So, let’s get back to these inconsistencies. First, there is evidence that he used an old-style tourniquet . . .’ She put another photograph on the table and pointed to the outline of a one-inch strap in the skin of Pitt’s upper leg, and an oblong mark within the boundaries of that outline – as if it was a buckle of some sort. ‘That type of tourniquet hasn’t been in use since . . . Well, for a very long time. Also, the instrument used to cut through the skin and muscle wasn’t a scalpel, it was a knife.’ She put down a black and white photograph of a curved knife approximately ten inches long. ‘And, this type of saw was used to cut through the bone.’ She lay another black and white photograph of a hacksaw on the table, but it looked like an antique.
Stick scratched his head. ‘He’s using really old instruments?’
Doc Paine nodded. ‘Yes, but that’s not the best of it. This . . .’ She placed a series of photographs on the table. ‘. . . is what’s called a hole in the head, or more accurately – a trephine hole. Today, we call the procedure a craniotomy and the drill bits have diamond-coated rims. This hole was created using a drill bit with teeth.’ She placed another photograph on the table, which was an engraving of a hole being drilled through a man’s skull by a contraption on the top of his head.
‘That’s terrible,’ Koll said. ‘Why would anyone want to drill a hole in someone’s head.’
‘A craniotomy is used by surgeons today mainly to treat epidural and subdural haematomas – intracranial pressure builds up due to bleeding into the outer layers of the brain and can cause life-threatening damage if the pressure isn’t relieved – hence a craniotomy. In the past, however, there was a whole host of ailments that were thought to have been cured by cutting a hole in a person’s skull – for instance: epileptic seizures, migraines and mental disorders. There’s also a movement today that advocates self-trepanation . . .’
Stick’s brow furrowed. ‘What?’
‘In 1965 a man drilled a hole in his own head with a Black & Decker power drill. In 2000, two men were prosecuted in America after drilling a hole in an English woman’s head to treat her chronic fatigue and depression. There have been, and continue to be, many others. Numerous unsubstantiated arguments are put forward for its continued use.’
‘I think I’ll pass on it,’ Koll said.
‘Me too,’ Stick agreed. ‘Where is the killer getting all these old instruments from?’
‘That’s a very good question,’ she said. ‘And as much as I might be interested in doing your job, I have a mountain of my own work to do.’
‘Wasn’t there a third foot?’
‘Ah yes. You’ll be pleased to hear that the third foot did not belong to Mr Pitt. Who it did belong to I have no idea, but I can tell you that the condition of the foot suggests it belonged to a tramp or homeless person. My guess is that the killer started practising on people whom nobody would notice had gone missing, and for some reason has now gravitated onto University administrators.’
‘You think there’ll be more bodies, Doc?’ Koll asked.
‘I would say so.’
Chapter Eleven
The cell where Major Thomas Durrell was being held was two floors below ground level. Sunlight never visited, but the rats, cockroaches and spiders called it home. It was a stark contrast to the architecture above ground, although the furnishings in both locations left a lot to be desired.
‘We don’t like to make people too comfortable,’ Kefalis explained as the three of them followed a hunchbacked guard dragging his left club foot along the half-lit corridor.
‘So I see,’ Parish said.
‘You English are too fond of your human rights. Here, we like to treat prisoners as prisoners, not hotel guests. Nobody knocks on our door asking to sleep down here for the night. This is not a nice place, which is as it should be.
‘I’d agree with you in that respect, Inspector . . .’
‘Christos.’
‘Christos . . . We’re too soft by far in England. Jail should mean jail. Instead, it means a holiday – with snooker, pool, television, table tennis . . . Do you know, some of our prisoners get better education and food than our schoolchildren. Call me draconian, but . . .’
They arrived outside a cell.
The guard unlocked the door and shuffled back.
‘Major, you have visitors,’ Christos called into the gloom.
The Major was dressed in what at one time might have been an all-in-one white jumpsuit, but it wasn’t white anymore, and there were rips and holes in various places in the material. He cowered on a bare wooden bunk with a single blanket. His skin was sallow, there were dark rings under his eyes, his hair was matted and he had a full beard. This was the tenth day of his incarceration and he was beginning to fray around the edges.
The cell stank of urine and faeces. Parish saw something slither under the bunk and he could have sworn he heard the pitter-patter of tiny feet.
Maddie covered her mouth and nose with a hand.
Parish said to Kefalis, ‘Is there somewhere we can talk to Major Durrell?’
‘Yes, in here. I will come back in twenty minutes. Beelzeboul will be outside should the Major decide to cause any trouble.’ He turned on his heel and left.
Parish perched on the edge of the bunk and offered his hand. ‘Detective Inspector Jed Parish from Essex Police Force.’
They shook hands, and Parish knew he’d have to find a sink to wash his hands in as soon as he got out of here.
‘Major Thomas Durrell of the Essex Regiment. . . or at least I used to be. I don’t know who the hell I am now. I expect I’ll soon be a convicted murderer if that bastard Kefalis has anything to do with it.’
‘That all depends on whether you actually murdered Caterina Makhairas or not.’
‘Inspector Kefalis thinks I did and he says he has the evidence to prove it.’
‘That’s why I’m here, Major. You know Sergeant Madison, I believe?’
‘Yes.’
‘Hello, Sir,’ Maddie said, but she didn’t salute. It was the wrong time and place for the observation of military custom.
‘We don’t seem to have much time, so you’d better tell us what happened.’
‘I’d been seeing Caterina for a while. She kept it from her family because it’s not what good girls do here . . .’
Maddie stood by the door where there was slightly more light and fresh air, and took notes.
‘How long had you been seeing her?’
‘About six weeks. We met when I joined the HamActors – an English-speaking amateur dramatic group in Konia on the outskirts of Paphos. She lived in Konia – in a flat above the local greengrocers. We called it our love-nest.’
‘And nobody saw you coming and going?’
‘We were very careful. The flat has its own entrance round the back.’
‘And yet, on the day Miss Makhairas was murdered you were seen entering and leaving her flat.’
The Major shrugged. ‘I think they call that Murphy’s Law, don’t they? It was Sunday . . . the 8th, I think. What date is it today?’
‘Thursday 18th.’
‘God! Have I been here ten days?’
‘Yes.’
He put his face in his hands and began sobbing.
Parish squeezed the Major’s shoulder.
Maddie moved into the corridor until he’d stopped.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘You haven’t got a tissue, have you?’
Parish shot Maddie a look as she returned to the cell, and she passed Durrell a paper tissue.
‘Thank you,’ he said after snorting black slime into the tissue. ‘You don’t want it back, do you?’
‘I don’t think so, Sir. I have spare ones in the Land Rover.’
‘Yes, it was Sunday morning. I got there early . . . about seven-thirty, I think. I let myself in . . .’
‘You had your own key?’
‘Yes. Caterina was still in bed. I stripped off my clothes and joined her. We made love and I fell asleep. In fact, we both slept in each other’s arms. I woke about eleven and had a shower. When I came out of the bathroom, she was dead.’ He stared at Parish. ‘Somebody had murdered her while I was in the shower . . .’