Deceit is in the Heart (P&R15)

by Tim Ellis

  ‘I’ve been at the receiving end,’ Richards said.

  ‘Then you’re half-way there.’ Sally passed her a sheet of paper. ‘Some information you need to know: Access code to get into sensitive areas; user names and password for ViCLAS – change the password when you log in . . . Oh, you should also know that every corridor is fitted with security cameras, so don’t pick your nose in the corridors. And . . . most importantly, if you’re going to a man’s room at night, don’t use the corridors in the living accommodation.’

  ‘I thought you weren’t meant to . . .’

  ‘You’re not, but we’re not automatons. There’s a way of moving between rooms. If you find someone you like, let me know and I’ll show you how you can get into each other’s rooms without being seen.’

  ‘Thanks, but I’ve not come here to meet someone.’ She thought it all sounded a bit like Big Brother, and felt like a rat in a laboratory maze.

  ***

  Stick looked around the empty squad room and said, ‘Are we on the graveyard shift?’

  ‘I could be in the graveyard for all you care.’

  ‘You know Jen and I have been on holiday.’

  ‘And when did you get back?’

  ‘Late Thursday. Jen had to attend a disciplinary hearing on Friday.’

  ‘And what day is it today?’

  ‘Monday.’

  Xena counted on her fingers. ‘Friday, Saturday, Sunday and Monday. Four days to come and ask how I was . . .’

  ‘No, Friday was the disciplinary hearing in Southend as I said, and Monday is today, which has hardly started, so . . .’

  ‘All right, let’s not quibble about Friday and Monday, but in-between there was Saturday and Sunday . . .’

  ‘Which were spent unpacking, washing, ironing, sorting the garden out, preparing for work . . .’

  ‘And you couldn’t spend five minutes to pick up the phone? Or an hour to drive round and find out how your partner was doing after her near-death experience?’

  ‘I’m a terrible partner, aren’t I?’

  ‘The worst. I’ve been on my own for two weeks while you’ve been . . .’

  The Chief came in. ‘Ah good! I was wondering if you two were back today.’

  ‘We’re back, Chief,’ Stick said. ‘Ready, able and willing.’

  ‘There’s a man downstairs in reception who would like to confess to a murder.’

  ‘Has he got nothing else better to do?’ Xena asked.

  ‘Obviously not. And after you’ve been down to interview him, DI Blake, you and I need to have a conversation.’

  ‘You’d like me to come and see you, Sir.’

  ‘Didn’t I just say that?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  After the Chief had gone Stick said, ‘That’ll be about you getting drunk, won’t it?’

  ‘You’re quick. Come on, let’s go and get rid of this nut.’

  ‘Maybe he’s not a nut.’

  ‘He’ll be a nut. What normal murderer would come into a Police Station at ten to nine on a Monday morning wanting to confess to a murder?’

  ‘One who feels remorse and shame at what he’s done?’

  ‘Remorse and shame! What the hell language is that? They’re just courtroom strategies to get a reduced sentence.’

  They headed along the corridor to the stairs.

  ‘So, how are you feeling?’

  ‘Don’t pretend you give a shit.’

  ‘You know I do.’

  ‘Well, if you must know, I feel as though a butcher – who’s been masquerading as an NHS surgeon – has taken my insides out, tenderised the different bits with one of those wooden mallets, stuffed all the bits back inside without worrying too much about where everything goes, and then sewn me back up with a rusty knitting needle.’

  ‘You’ll soon be back to normal.’

  ‘Thank you for your prognosis, Doctor.’

  ‘Just trying to be helpful.’

  ‘Trying to be a fucking idiot and succeeding, more like.’

  Allan Donnelly – a civilian support worker – was manning the front desk.

  ‘Where is he?’ Xena asked.

  Donnelly pointed to a wood-grain effect door opposite the reception hatch. ’In the relatives’ room.’

  ‘Is there someone with him?’

  ‘Like who?’

  ‘Like a police officer able to restrain him if he gets violent, or to stop him leaving if he decides he doesn’t want to confess?’

  ‘No, Ma’am.’

  ‘Well, get someone here.’

  He nodded.

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘He said he was called Herb Flack.’

  ‘Do we know anything else about him?’

  ‘He wants to confess to a murder.’

  ‘Besides that?’

  ‘No, Ma’am.’

  ‘Did anybody think to do some groundwork before calling us down from upstairs?’

  ‘No, Ma’am.’

  She shook her head in disbelief. ‘You’d fit in well down here, numpty.’

  ‘Very kind,’ Stick said.

  They went through the security door and out into the main reception area.

  There was a short obese woman – whose feet didn’t touch the floor – sitting on the plastic seats. She had two grubby-faced toddlers with her, who were sucking toffee lollies and staring at them as they walked towards the relatives’ room. The woman slapped each of the toddlers with an expert flick of her podgy hand. ‘Don’t stare at the plod, they’ll turn you into pillars of salt.’

  Stick opened the door and let Xena go in first.

  Inside, sitting on a chair, was a man of around thirty years of age in a dark blue suit, white shirt and yellow tie. He was clean-shaven, his hair had recently been cut, he seemed at-ease with his own company, and he was holding onto a brown leather briefcase with both hands.

  ‘Mr Flack?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What’s in the briefcase?’

  ‘My sandwiches.’

  ‘Do you mind if we take a look?’

  Flack proffered the briefcase with his right hand. ‘Of course.’

  Xena nodded at Stick.

  Stick helped himself to Flack’s briefcase and placed it flat on the table.

  Xena’s brow furrowed. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Looking inside the briefcase.’

  ‘Are you stupid?’

  ‘Not especially.’

  ‘What if there’s a bomb inside?’

  ‘We could call the Bomb Squad?’

  ‘Take it outside and open it, numpty.’

  ‘What if there’s a bomb inside?’

  ‘Stop being a wimp. If you’re blown to smithereens, I’ll say some nice words about you at the funeral.’

  ‘Nice words! Can you give me an example?’

  ‘Are you still here?’

  Stick took the briefcase outside.

  A uniform appeared.

  ‘You drew the short straw, did you?’

  ‘Yes, Ma’am. Constable Nikki Hughes.’

  Stick returned with the open briefcase and placed it on the table again. He lifted the lid. ‘Sandwiches and a couple of files.’

  Xena peered inside. ‘Files containing what?’

  ‘Financial information and spreadsheets from a company called Ashford Mouldings.’

  ‘Okay, let’s get this show on the road. Mr Flack, why have you come into Hoddesdon Police Station this morning?’

  ‘To confess to a murder.’

  ‘Constable,’ Xena said. ‘Take Mr Flack to the Custody Suite, book him in and then bring him along to Interview Room 2.’

  ‘Yes, Ma’am.’

  ‘Mr Flack, I’d like you to go with the Constable. If you’re going to confess to a murder, then we need to do things properly and record your confession.’

  ‘Certainly. Can I have my briefcase back?’

  She glanced at Stick.

  Stick shrugged. ‘I don’t see why not.’ He clos
ed the catches and passed it back to Flack.

  Flack followed the Constable out.

  When the door closed Xena said, ‘What do you think?’

  ‘He seems genuine.’

  ‘Mmmm! Maybe.’

  Chapter Two

  He’d discussed taking two weeks leave to investigate Carrie’s murder with Angie, and she understood that he really had no choice, but he hadn’t told Richards. He knew exactly what she would have said. In fact, he could have played the conversation out in his head without her even showing her face:

  ‘You’re going to do what?’

  ‘I’m going to take a couple of weeks’ leave to investigate the murder of Carrie and her two children.’

  ‘You’re crazy. Have you cleared it with the Chief Constable?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What about Chief Kowalski?’

  ‘He has other things to worry about.’

  ‘You mean you’re running your own private investigation while you’re on leave?’

  ‘I’m simply taking a few days off to look into . . .’

  ‘You know it’s against the rules.’

  ‘Rules are there to be broken.’

  ‘You never say that when I want to break the rules.’

  ‘That’s different.’

  ‘How is it different?’

  ‘You work for me, and I make the rules.’

  ‘You’re not setting me a very good example.’

  ‘You won’t know what example I’m setting you because you’ll be taking things easy in sunny Hampshire.’

  He wondered how she was doing. He’d ring her later and find out. In the meantime, he had work to do. It had been murder trying to get copies of the three case files of the families that had been killed by the Family Man. Not least, hiding what he’d been doing from Richards, but also from anyone who might have put two-and-two together to make five. He’d bribed other people to submit the case file requests, so that his name wasn’t connected to the murders in any way. They’d passed the files on to him, he’d made copies and passed them back, they’d returned the files to their rightful owners - easy. No one had the faintest idea what he was doing.

  He began to make notes.

  The media had labelled the killer – The Family Man – based on the modus operandi of inveigling his way into the affections of a single mother and her child(ren), moving into the family home and becoming part of the family until . . . until what? Why did he kill the mother and children? What happened to make him kill them? Did anything happen? Or, did he wake up one morning and simply decide to kill them? In each case the time-frame was different. Newcastle was eight months, Grimsby was thirteen months, and Hoddesdon was only two weeks.

  He hated the label that the media had pinned on the killer, so he decided to call him Mottram – it was the name he was familiar with. Mottram had killed two other families besides Carrie and her two children – one in Grimsby going by the name of Lewis Jones, and the other in Newcastle-upon-Tyne posing as Martin Rollins. He looked at the three E-fit pictures he’d asked the Chief’s temporary secretary – Lydia O’Brien – to print off because his printer wasn’t working and he was in a bit of a rush.

  ‘Are you sure what you’re asking me to do is legal, Inspector Parish?’

  ‘Absolutely. You don’t think I’d get you into trouble, do you?’

  Her eyes narrowed. ‘I hope you’re not flirting with me.’

  ‘I’m happily married. I don’t know how to flirt anymore.’

  She printed the E-fit pictures off and handed them to him with a smile.

  Grant Mottram was the man he knew. The other two pictures bore no resemblance at all to the man who called himself Mottram. He was clearly a master of disguise.

  He phoned Toadstone.

  ‘I thought you were on holiday, Inspector.’

  ‘And because of that, I’m not permitted to ring my favourite forensic officer, Toadstone? I’m taking a few days off to re-charge my batteries is all.’

  ‘I see. So, why are you ringing me? My battery-charger is broken beyond repair.’

  ‘You don’t mean that. Meet me for lunch.’

  ‘You want me to do something for you, don’t you?’

  ‘I’m paying.’

  ‘And it’s illegal, isn’t it?’

  ‘Do you want lunch, or not?’

  ‘I’ve brought sandwiches with me, thank you very much.’

  ‘All right, I’ll come in and share your sandwiches – anything nice on them?’

  He heard Toadstone sigh.

  ‘Where do you want me to meet you?’

  ‘The Alf’s Head?’

  ‘What time?’

  ‘Twelve o’clock?’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘You won’t regret it, Toadstone.’

  ‘I’m sure I will.’

  He ended the call. There were certain areas where he needed help – such as forensics and pathology. Toadstone would help him with the forensic side of the investigation, and he needed Doc Riley on his team to review the post mortem reports.

  He phoned her.

  ‘There are no murdered people in my freezer, Inspector. Why are you ringing me?’

  ‘What about lunch tomorrow – I’ll pay?’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Do I have to want something?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m on leave.’

  ‘Which makes me even more curious.’

  ‘I expect you heard about the murder of the mother of my daughter Melody?’

  ‘The Chief’s PA?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I recall. She was murdered by The Family Man, wasn’t she?’

  ‘The investigation has hit a brick wall.’

  ‘It’s not your investigation though, is it?’

  ‘It’s nobody’s investigation at the moment, so I’ve claimed it.’

  ‘I’m no expert, but I don’t think that’s how investigations are allocated, and doesn’t your relationship to a victim prevent you from becoming involved?’

  ‘As you say, Doc – you’re no expert.’

  ‘So, let me get this right: You’re on leave; you’re carrying out an illegal investigation of someone that you’re related to; and now you want to drag me down in the sewers with you. Is that a reasonable synopsis of what’s happening?’

  ‘Do you want lunch, or not?’

  ‘If it’s my last meal, I want a proper lunch.’

  ‘You choose the place – I’m feeling generous.’

  ‘You must really need my help.’

  ‘I promised Carrie that I’d find her killer, Doc. I need something to hang an investigation on – a lead, a clue, somewhere to start.’

  ‘I’m not promising anything over the phone, but a proper meal that someone else is paying for beyond the confines of the hospital would go a long way towards recruiting a co-conspirator.’

  ‘Pick you up outside the hospital reception at twelve?’

  ‘That would be acceptable. And I’ll book a table for two at a proper restaurant.’

  ‘Looking forward to it, Doc.’

  She’d help him. A second opinion on the post mortem reports wouldn’t cause her any problems. All she had to do was say that she’d thought it was a legitimate request – he’d support her in that.

  Another possible avenue that he could follow was the names that Mottram had used. The name “Grant Mottram” had been taken from a gravestone of a seven year-old boy in Halifax. Why Halifax? Tracking backwards – Martin Rollins had killed Kylie Woodhouse and her twin three-year-old daughters – Donna and Dolly – at 54 Hartside Gardens in Newcastle-upon-Tyne on February 17, 2010; Lewis Jones had killed Pippa Frayne and her six-year-old son – Peter – at 13 Lansdowne Avenue in Grimsby on October 26, 2012; and Grant Mottram had murdered Carrie Holden, her ten-year-old son Howard and her eight-year-old daughter Sarah at 23 Sutton Close in Spitalbrook, Broxbourne on Saturday July 20, 2014.

  What had Mottram been doing in Halifax? Wh
at had he been doing between the date he killed the Woodhouse family in Newcastle and the time he began living with the Frayne family in Grimsby? What had he been doing between killing the Frayne family in Grimsby and moving in with Carrie and her two children in Hoddesdon? He’d stopped off in Halifax – why? Had a family been killed there that hadn’t been attributed to him? Was the Woodhouse family in Newcastle his first kill? Or had he murdered another family before the one in Newcastle? Was Newcastle where he came from? So many questions and too few answers. He knew that he’d have to walk in Mottram’s footsteps to find out who Mottram was and where he’d come from.

  ***

  ‘It’s far too soon,’ Ray had said to her when she’d told him she was going back to work.

  ‘When do you think would be a good time?’

  ‘Never, that’s when.’

  ‘I thought so.’

  It wasn’t often that they argued, and she knew Ray was only concerned about her safety. But she also knew that if she didn’t get back out into the land of the living, she’d probably never leave the safety of her house.

  ‘For Christ’s sake! You’ve still got the bandages on your hands.’

  ‘They’re only there to keep the dressings on.’

  He was pacing around the bed like a caged grizzly. ‘Stop splitting hairs, Jerry. You don’t need to go out to work. I earn . . .’

  ‘You know it’s not about the money, Ray. It’s about me fulfilling my potential. I’ve given my life so far to you and the children, now it’s my turn. I need to do this, Ray.’

  ‘Even if it kills you?’

  ‘They certainly keep trying, that’s for sure. Yes – even if it kills me.’

  ‘And you think I’m happy about that?’

  She stopped him mid-pace and pulled him down onto the end of the bed to sit next to her. ‘How would you feel if I said to you that I wasn’t happy about you doing what you’re doing because it was too dangerous, that you had a wife and four children to support, that you’d better get a job as a claims adjuster in an insurance office on the fifth floor so that I could sleep at nights.’