by Tim Ellis
‘Oh, I report your condition further up the chain of command, they send in a covert operative to dispose of your useless body, and the compensation they might have paid you is distributed evenly among those who were involved in your disappearance.’
‘That sounds reasonable.’
‘It makes ends in meet.’
***
Stick switched on the digital recording, and then read Mr Flack his rights.
‘For the benefit of the tape Mr Flack, state your name and address.’
‘I am Herb . . . Herbert Harold Flack. I live at 37 Ratty’s Lane, Rye in Hoddesdon.’
‘Are you married, Mr Flack?’
‘No.’
‘Does the house belong to you?’
‘No. It’s my mum’s house.’
‘And what about your father?’
‘He left us.’
‘Where do you work?’
‘Ashford Mouldings in Rye.’
‘And what do you do there?’
‘I’m their accountant.’
‘Thank you, Mr Flack. Also in the room is DI Blake, DS Gilbert, Constable Hughes and the Duty Solicitor representing Mr Flack – Shannon Struthers. Now, in your own words Mr Flack, tell us why you’re here.’
‘To confess. I murdered a woman four months ago . . .’
‘Does this woman you murdered have a name?’
‘I suppose so, but I don’t know it.’
‘Okay, carry on.’
‘Well, I killed her and hid her body in Rye Marsh.’
‘Why did you kill the woman?’
He ran the fingers of both hands through his hair and his eyes looked haunted. ‘I can’t remember now, but I did.’
‘How did you kill her?’
‘I stabbed her in the heart.’
‘But you don’t know why you killed her?’
‘No . . . Maybe we had an argument.’
‘Did you have an argument?’
‘We must have done.’
‘An argument about what?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘And you don’t know the woman’s name?’
‘No.’
‘Did you know the woman at all? Or was she a stranger?’
‘A stranger . . . Well, she must have been if I don’t know her name.’
‘If she was a stranger, why were you arguing?’
‘I don’t know.’
Xena chipped in. ‘Do you recall where you left the woman’s dead body?’
His face lit up. ‘Oh yes.’
‘Do you think you can show us?’
He nodded his head. ‘Uh huh. Near the railway station. Between the track and the river.’
‘Which river?’
‘The big one – the River Lee.’
‘Interview suspended at ten fifty-seven,’ Stick said, switching off the recording.
Constable Hughes was instructed to organise a squad car with two uniforms to take Mr Flack and the duty solicitor out to Rye Marsh.
Xena and Stick followed in Stick’s Aston Martin DBS.
‘This is a nice car,’ Xena said.
‘Nice?’
‘Did you get it second-hand?’
‘It’s new.’
‘Really?’
‘Do you want to know . . . ?’
‘No. So, is our Mr Flack a murderer?’
‘One part of me says no, but then I wonder why he’s confessing and if there really is a body.’
‘We’ll soon find out.’
They parked up at Rye House train station.
‘Are you all right to start scrambling down railway banks and tramping through fields?’ Stick asked Xena.
Xena pulled a face. ‘I’m not going, numpty.’
‘You’re not?’
‘And that stuck-up bitch Struthers won’t be going either.’
‘Oh?’
‘She’s wearing high-heels.’
‘Ah!’
‘So, you’ll have to go with Flack and the two uniforms.’
‘Okay.’
‘If there is a body – take photographs, and maybe a video.’
‘With what?’
‘Your phone.’
‘Ah.’
‘I’ll stay here and polish your shiny new car.’
‘That’s very kind of you. There’s a tiny scratch under the left rear wheel arch . . .’
Xena held out the flat palm of her hand.
‘What?’
‘Money up front.’
‘I have to pay?’
‘You didn’t think I was going to polish it for free, did you?’
‘I suppose not.’
‘Also, I haven’t brought any money with me, and I’ll need some to buy the car wax, coffee and cakes in the station cafe.’
‘Coffee and cakes?’
‘It’ll no doubt be thirsty and hungry work.’
‘Of course. Do you think they’ll sell car wax in the cafe?’
‘All I can do is ask.’
He took out his wallet and passed her a five pound note.
‘Five pounds! That won’t even buy the car wax.’
He passed her a twenty and went to take the five back.
She snatched it away. ‘Hadn’t you better get going?’
‘I suppose.’
‘And if you do find a body send me the photographs and video so that I don’t have to wait until you get back.’
‘Okay.’
Xena watched him go.
Shannon Struthers ambled up to her. ‘I’m not really dressed for a field trip.’
‘So I see. Should we grab a coffee in the cafe?’
‘That sounds like a good idea.’
‘You can pay. I haven’t brought any money with me.’
‘Oh! All right then.’
In the cafe, Xena ordered a coffee, a cheese and onion panini, and an egg custard slice. She saw Struthers’ look of disapproval. ‘It’s nearly lunchtime,’ she explained. ‘If they find a body down there we’re not likely to have time for a three-course meal.’
‘I could get disbarred for buying a police officer lunch.’
‘A panini and a cake hardly passes for lunch. Maybe they’ll go easy on you.’
‘Maybe.’
After half an hour of trying to make conversation with Struthers she phoned Stick, but he didn’t answer.
‘Do you think everything is . . . ?’ Struthers began to say.
Xena’s phone vibrated.
‘I called you,’ she said. Why didn’t . . . ?’
‘I was recording the video when the phone rang. I guessed it was you, but I didn’t want to mess it up by answering it.’
‘So you ignored me?’
‘I delayed answering your call. Do you want me to send you the pictures and the video?’
‘There’s a body then?’
‘Yes.’
‘Didn’t I ask you to send me the photographs and video already?’
‘I was just checking you still wanted them. Have you polished my car?’
‘Twice. Now, stop talking and send the fucking things over.’
The line went dead.
The photographs and video arrived accompanied by loud pings.
Shannon Struthers moved round the table and stood behind her.
They could clearly see the shape of a body, but it was badly decomposed, and the remnants of a pink frilly nightdress clung to the decaying skin and bone.
Xena called Stick.
‘Yes?’
‘Where’s the woman’s head?’
‘We had a quick look around, but I didn’t want to contaminate the crime scene.’
‘Doesn’t Flack know?’
‘He vomited when he saw that the head was missing.’
‘I’m confused. If he decapitated the woman, why is he puking at the sight of her? And why doesn’t he know where the head is?’
‘I don’t think he killed her.’
‘Don’t talk rubbish. He’s confessed to killing her. Also,
explain to me how he knew where the body was located?’
‘I can’t.’
‘Of course you can’t, because we have our killer. Have you called that lazy bitch Heffernan and Doc Paine yet?’
‘No, I . . .’
‘What the hell have you been doing with yourself all this time? Stop making excuses and phone them.’
***
Mrs Margaret Birmingham lived at number 12 The Boulevard in Woodford Green, which was a primrose yellow bungalow called “Rose Cottage”.
A local gardener – Sebastian Kirby – who had known Mrs Birmingham for many years, came in twice a week and pruned her yellow roses. The old woman made it quite clear that only yellow roses were to be planted in her garden. More specifically, they had to be either Bright Star, Climbing Arthur Bell, Flower Power Gold or Golden Smiles. Any rogue colours or illegitimate strains had to be ruthlessly eliminated at the earliest opportunity.
‘She’s not crazy,’ Mr Kirby said to Jerry as she stopped to speak to him on her way up the winding path to the front door. ‘All I know is that it’s something to do with her late husband.’
‘When did he pass?’
‘Oh, forty years ago now.’
‘That long?’
‘He made it all the way through the Second World War and then died of a heart attack at fifty-seven years old.’
‘She didn’t marry again?’
‘No. Although she’d have been well within her rights.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘She had four young children to raise on her own.’
‘I have four children.’
‘Of course, her children are all grown up now.’
‘My husband was forty-one when he had his first heart attack.’
‘What did he do?’
‘Oh, he’s still alive. He’s a Detective Chief Inspector at Hoddesdon Police Station.’
‘They can work medical miracles these days, that’s for sure.’
‘I wouldn’t say he was a medical miracle, but I know what you mean.’
‘Have you hurt yourself,’ he asked, nodding at the bandages on her hands.
‘It’s a long story, but I’m glad my husband is still alive. Anyway, I must get on. Thanks for talking to me.’ She passed him a card. ‘If you ever need any legal advice.’
‘Which one are you?’
‘Jerry Kowalski.’
‘Good luck in there.’ He indicated the bungalow. ‘She’s not the easiest of people to get on with.’
‘Thanks.’
Jerry carried on up the path and knocked on the front door, which opened after a short while.
A small wrinkled old woman in a bright blue dress appeared in the doorway with her bony hands gripping a walking-frame as if it was her only hold on life. She had fine white hair brushed straight back like steel wool, and an antique gold watch around her left wrist. ‘Yes?’
‘Good morning, Mrs Birmingham. I’m Jerry Kowalski from Baxter, Kowalski & Associates. You wrote us a letter requesting that we organise a last will and testament for you.’
‘That’s right, I did. Do you have some form of identification?’
Jerry carried her passport round with her now for just such occasions. She opened it to the page containing her photograph, and held it out to the old woman. It was all right for Ray with his warrant card, but she had nothing. In fact, it occurred to her that it was about time she organised an official identity card for all the staff, and she made a mental note to set things in motion when she returned to the office.
‘Well, I suppose you’d better come in then.’
She followed the woman inside, shut the door and then had a tortuous journey along the beige carpeted hallway as she plodded behind her into the living room.
There was clutter everywhere. Pictures; clocks; photographs of children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren; lamps on tables; mirrors; books; candles; dolls; vases; plates displayed on a shelf high up on one wall; a threadbare rug and two easy chairs. It felt as though she’d walked into an antique shop, or a room that had been frozen in time.
Mrs Birmingham pointed to the easy chair that wasn’t surrounded by possessions. ‘You can sit there. If you want tea you’ll have to make it yourself.’
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’
‘I thought you’d never ask.’
Jerry went into the kitchen, made a pot of tea and then carried a tray with cups, saucers, spoons, sugar and milk into the living room.
‘Chocolate digestive?’
‘Not for me, thank you,’ Jerry said. ‘I have to watch my figure.’
‘I’m lucky, I don’t have to do that anymore. Third cupboard on the left – bring the whole packet in.’
Jerry did as she was asked.
‘You be mother,’ the old woman said. ‘My hands shake too much.’
She poured two cups of tea, and added one sugar and a drop of milk to Mrs Birmingham’s cup.
‘Thank you, dear.’
‘I’ve brought a digital voice recorder with me,’ Jerry said, rummaging around in her bag for the small device. ‘I thought that we could work our way through the document, I could then go away and have it typed up, come back in a couple of days to go through it with you to make any necessary changes, and then you could sign the final version with me as a witness.’
‘I have four children, you know?’
‘Yes, Mr Kirby told me. I have four children as well.’
‘Not like my children.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Did Seb also tell you that my husband Bertie died of a heart attack?’
‘Yes. I was . . .’
‘Well he didn’t.’
‘Oh!’
‘That’s what I tell everyone, but it’s not true – I killed him.’
Jerry’s brow furrowed. ‘Surely, you don’t mean that?’
‘I know, you think I’m a crazy old woman, but I’m not. I killed a monster. I used to be a Staff Nurse at South Ockendon Hospital. It closed a long time ago, but before it did I obtained a vial of Methamphetamine Hydrochloride and gave him a massive overdose to induce a heart attack. The drug has a half-life of up to twelve hours, which means after that time it’s hardly detectable in the human body. Bertie was dead for over twenty-four hours before I called for the ambulance. Do you want to know why I killed him?’
‘I . . .’
Margaret Birmingham scooped up a lumpy sealed envelope from the side table and passed it to Jerry. It had an address on the front:
20 Station Approach
Snaresbrook
E11 1QE
‘When you’ve been and looked inside that building, come back and talk to me again. Will you promise me you won’t speak to anyone else until then?’
Jerry nodded. ‘All right.’ She wasn’t a solicitor or barrister yet, but the spirit of attorney-client privilege weighed heavily upon her. She was expecting to hear the old woman’s last will and testament, but instead it was more like a death-bed confession.
She’d promised Ray that she wouldn’t go anywhere else on her own, but what could she do? She stood up. ‘I’ll go and take a look, and then come back and talk to you.’
‘You do that, dear. You’ll understand why I did what I did when you see what’s inside that building.’
Jerry made her own way out of the bungalow.
Seb Kirby had left.
The garden looked as though it was ready to be exhibited at the Chelsea Flower Show.
Chapter Four
After she’d had her coffee she made another quality assurance pass through the questionnaire, making notes as she progressed. She included all the witness statements, reports, photographs of the crime scene and a background research on the victim. First, she focused on the victim:
Physical traits: Emily Stanton was a reasonably attractive forty-three year old woman with long black hair; pierced ears; a tattoo of a bluebird on her left upper arm; and a caesarean scar across her bikini line;
; Marital Status: Married Gregory Stanton in 1991, and divorced him in 2001 after seven years of living apart. (Stanton was currently serving fifteen years in Wormwood Scrubs for armed robbery in which a bank security guard was killed and he wasn’t eligible for parole until 2021). She had three children: Mathew aged twenty-two (who was working away in Leeds – verified), Scott aged nineteen (who worked in a local vegetable and fruit shop, and who found his mother dead), and Gemma aged eleven who was at a friend’s house at the time of the murder. (Gemma possibly has a different father than the other two children – check);
Personal lifestyle: Nothing unusual. Bingo on Friday nights with group of female friends. Currently, no male friends;
Occupation: Manager at the Glow Dry Cleaners;
Hobbies: Online shopping, bingo, making greeting cards;
Education: Left school at sixteen. Nothing beyond low-grade GCSEs;
Online: Shopping/selling on eBay, Facebook – mainly family and friends;
Medical history: Nothing unusual. Third child born by caesarean section;
Criminal justice system history: None;
Last known activities – timeline of events: Arrived at work from home, stayed in shop all day. Nothing unusual;
Map of travel prior to offence: Home to work;
Drug and alcohol history: Nothing unusual;
Friends and enemies: A circle of female friends. No enemies found;
Family background: Family originally from Leeds. Both mother (non-worker) and father (building contractor) still alive. Emily’s eldest son – Mathew – currently residing with them;
Employment history: With the exception of child breaks, continuous work in low-level jobs.
It appeared that Emily Stanton was an ordinary person living an ordinary life. She had three children, two whom were still young enough to be living in the family home. Her killer didn’t appear to be somebody who had wandered in off the street looking for money or sex. In fact, the murder was unusual in a number of ways. First, why had Emily Stanton been tortured? What was the killer looking for? The idea of a safe in the shop crossed Richards’ mind, but two things ran against that theory – a dry cleaners was not a business that generated a large amount of income or held a lot of money, and why did the killer not take the money from the till or the victim’s handbag?