by Tim Ellis
The second unusual aspect of the murder was the sexual assault. If the killer had gone in there looking for something specific, why rape the woman? It might have been opportunistic in that the killer was attracted to the victim, but Richards doubted it.
Third, why had the killer hit her twenty-two times? Twice would probably have killed her. The only people who did something like that were those who couldn’t control their rage, and there was no evidence of that. Or, someone who was sending a message. If that was the case, who were they sending the message to? And why?
Fourth, there were elements that suggested the murder was premeditated rather than opportunistic – did the killer take the claw hammer with him? Or, was it lying around in the shop waiting to be picked up? The sign that had been turned to CLOSED, and the fact that the killer took the time to lock the door and push the keys back through the letterbox also hinted at premeditation.
Next, she examined the other aspects of the murder:
The offender (if known): She didn’t know who the offender was, but she had an idea that he (a woman hadn’t tortured, sexually assaulted and murdered Emily Stanton) wasn’t a serial killer, although he had probably killed before. The calmness with which he had locked the shop door and pushed the keys through the letterbox indicated that he hadn’t panicked. He probably had a psychopathic personality who had no feelings of remorse, guilt, and lacked any empathy with the victim. Also, if he wasn’t a serial killer, what was he? Killers were usually known by their victim, so there was a strong possibility that Emily Stanton had known her killer.
The modus operandi (MO): In her mind’s eye, she watched the killer enter the shop. The bell jangled. He turned, bolted the door, turned the sign to CLOSED. Emily Stanton came from the back of the shop and saw him. He moved towards her with the claw hammer raised, telling her not to cry out. She was forced backwards – out of sight from the street. In the back of the shop he tortured her, raped her and then – using a customer’s dirty coat to prevent blood and brain splattering on him – he brutally smashed her skull to pulp. What did he want from her? What could she have possibly had that he wanted?
Behavioural data: Was there anything about this murder that made it unusual? Probably the use of the claw hammer and pushing the keys back through the letterbox. As far as she could tell there was no signature that would link this killing to similar murders.
Forensic data: As expected in a dry cleaning shop, a mountain of hair and fibres were collected by forensic officers, but there was no match to profiles held on the database. Also, there were hundreds of fingerprints, but apart from one petty criminal who had an alibi there were no matches. She had a feeling that the killer had worn gloves. There was no DNA, semen or alien pubic hair found on Emily Stanton’s genitals. Forensic officers did find evidence of a condom lubricant. The killer clearly had a knowledge of forensic and police procedures.
‘I’m done,’ she said to Sally Prentice.’
‘Good, it’s nearly lunchtime.’
‘We get lunch as well?’
‘Hey, you get treated like royalty here. So, what have you got?’
She passed her notes over.
Sally’s head nodded as she read through Richards’ notes. ‘Not bad. Anything you want to ask Detective Sergeant Darren Estler?’
‘I have a couple of questions.’ She slid another sheet of paper across the desk:
Where did the hammer come from?
What happened to the money in the armed bank robbery?
Has anyone that came into contact with Stanton in Wormwood Scrubs been released recently?
Is Gemma Gregory Stanton’s child?
‘It’s not hard to see what you’re thinking.’
‘Well, if the money from the bank robbery was recovered, then my theory is blown out of the water as the pirates say.’
‘Do pirates say that?’
‘I guess so.’
‘Are you going to ring him then?’
‘Yes.’
‘One thing, don’t say that you’re Detective Constable Richards.’
‘Oh! Why not?’
‘You’ll be at a disadvantage because he’s a Sergeant and you’re a Constable. As soon as you say you’re a DC he’ll erect a barrier that will prevent him from taking you seriously. You’re already at a disadvantage because you’re a woman, and women aren’t meant to know more than men.’
‘They’re so primitive, aren’t they?’
‘They’ve barely progressed beyond the amoeba stage of evolution.’
They both laughed.
‘They’ll try and chat you up as well, just ignore them.’
‘They wouldn’t do that if I was a man.’
‘Unless they were gay. Just say you’re Mary Richards – an analyst at SCAS.’
‘Okay,’ Richards said, as she dialled Estler’s number.
They both slipped on headsets with built-in microphone booms that were connected to the telephone by cords.
‘DS Estler.’
‘My name is Mary Richards, I’m an analyst at SCAS.’
‘You’re ringing about the murder of Emily Stanton?’
‘That’s right. I’ve been analysing your questionnaire, and I’d like to clarify a few points, if that all right?’
‘Of course, anything for a beautiful woman.’
Richards grinned at Prentice. ‘You don’t make it clear where the hammer came from. Was it already in the shop? Or did the killer bring it with him?’
‘Nobody recalled it being in the shop, so the killer must have come prepared.’
‘Okay. Gregory Stanton was given fifteen years for an armed bank robbery . . .’
‘That’s right – in 2004. There were four of the bastards . . . excuse my French. They killed a security guard at the bank and got away with three quarters of a million pounds.’
‘Was the money ever recovered?’
There was silence on the other end.
‘Hello?’
‘Sorry. No, it was never recovered. Christ! You’re thinking . . . . ?’
‘I have two more questions, Sergeant Estler.’
‘Go on, love.’
‘I’m going to put my next question into context first.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘Emily married Gregory Stanton in 1991 and they separated in 1994 . . .’
‘Yeah, that sounds about right.’
‘. . . They had two children – Mathew and Scott.’
‘Scott’s the one that found his mother’s body.’
‘And they divorced in 2001?’
‘Yes.’
‘Emily’s third child – Gemma, was born in 2003, which was two years after the divorce and a year before Gregory went to prison. The assumption is that Gemma has a different father, but could she be Gregory’s child?’
The line went quiet again.
She didn’t bother saying anything this time, but waited for him to speak again.
‘You still there, Analyst Richards?’
‘Still here.’
‘I’ll have to get back to you on that.’
‘All right. My last question is this: Has anyone that knew Gregory Stanton while he was in prison been released recently?’
‘For fuck’s sake.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘It’s the money, isn’t it?’
‘I’m not sure, but it’s certainly an investigative direction I think you might like to pursue.’
‘Hey, thanks, Analyst Mary Richards. If you come up to London next weekend I’ll take you out for a meal and . . .’
‘A meal and . . . what?’
‘Well, we could see where it went.’
‘And who would pay the hotel bill?’
‘I suppose I could . . .’
‘Didn’t I read somewhere that you were married with children?’
‘Did you?’
‘Are you?’
‘Let’s keep my family out of this, shall we?’
‘I’m sure ther
e’s a generous offer in there somewhere, Sergeant Estler, but I’d much prefer it if we kept everything on a work footing.’
‘If that’s what you want?’
‘It’s exactly what I want. I’ll send you a written report in the next couple of days.’
‘You can’t blame a guy for trying. Thanks for your help, Analyst Richards.’
‘You’ll ring me and let me know what you find?’
‘Of course.’
She ended the call.
‘No problem there,’ Sally Prentice said. ‘You certainly put him in his place.’
‘The police force is a good breeding ground for amoeba.’
They laughed.
‘Okay, after we’ve had lunch, you can enter the contents of the questionnaire onto the system, finish off your analysis by completing any structured queries that might discover links to other cases and/or reveal the identity of the killer and then write your report for DS Estler.’
‘What happens to the file once I’ve finished with it?’
‘Come on, I’ll show you.’
Next door – that was accessible with her code – was another room that had a mobile shelving unit with two banks of twenty mobile bases.
‘It’s fairly straightforward,’ Sally said, turning a handle to open a gap between two of the bases. ‘Files are stored by police station, so the case you’re currently working on . . .’
‘Is filed under Holborn Police Station?’
‘Exactly.’
She walked along the mobile units until she reached “H”, turned the handle to open up a gap and walked down it to find Holborn Police Station. There were ninety-three police stations beginning with “H” – from Hackney to Hythe – but she also knew that a significant proportion of those stations were community police stations that opened their doors at nine in the morning and closed them again at five in the evening. As such, SCAS would never receive a criminal case file from them. Only certain police stations had the authority, manpower and resources to investigate rape, serious sexual assault, and motiveless or sexually motivated murders.
‘That seems easy enough.’
Sally smiled. ‘It is.’
As she followed Sally Prentice to the dining room, she thought she might like her time on secondment at SCAS. It was certainly a lot simpler than being a detective on the ground. In fact, she felt as though she was in charge of an investigation. On her first case she had told a Sergeant what to do – in more ways than one.
***
‘Beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy, Toadstone.’
Parish sat on an oak barstool, the seat of which had been moulded into the shape of an arse at rest, leaned his elbows on the oak panelled bar and put his feet on the brass foot rail. He hadn’t been in the Alf’s Head for as long as he could remember. The days of hanging one on after work was an anachronism. He looked around the room for the things that made it seem familiar. There were the three half-barrels hanging on the wall behind the bar, the black leather sofas either side of the unlit log fire, the Jack Vettriano print entitled The Singing Butler above the hearth, which depicted a couple dancing on a windy beach. Yes, The King Alfred’s Head brought back memories of a time before Angie, before Richards and before Toadstone.
‘I’m sure Benjamin Franklin might have thought that when he was inventing bifocals, Sir.’ He picked up his glass of orange cordial and took a sip. ‘Unfortunately, today is a work day, so I’m unable to imbibe.’
‘You don’t drink anyway.’
‘That’s true.’
‘Nor me,’ Parish said, signalling the barman over. ‘A pint of Guinness, please.’
Toadstone glanced at him with narrowed eyes.
‘For medicinal purposes only.’
‘Of course.’
They examined the menu, ordered lunch and sat down at a table next to an open window.
‘So, why am I here?’ Toadstone asked him.
‘Carrie.’
‘She’s dead. Her two children are dead. The funerals have come and gone. If I’m not mistaken the ongoing investigation into their murders is being conducted by DI Dawn French and DS Brian Garnham from Epping Police Station. It certainly has nothing to do with you, and it definitely has nothing to do with me.’
The waiter – a young Eastern European looking man with acne and hair like straw – brought their meals. ‘Beer-battered haddock, chips, mushy peas and three slices of buttered bread?’
‘That’s mine,’ Parish said, licking his lips.
‘Then you must be the chargrilled lambs liver and bacon?’
Toadstone nodded. ‘Thank you.’
The waiter smiled. ‘Pofta buna.’
‘I’m sorry?’ Parish said.
‘It is Romanian for have a good meal.’
‘Is that where you’re from?’
‘Oh yes. Freedom of movement across European borders makes it easy to come here, get a job and send money back home to my family. I have made them very rich in Romania, but I am still poor. I am told that I can get something called “tax credits”, so I am finding out about that. Soon, they will all be coming over here.’
‘How many are in your family?’
‘Oh, there are only five in my family. I mean all the people in Romania will be coming over here. English people are very generous to immigrants.’ He wandered off back to the kitchen.
‘What do you think about that, Toadstone?’
‘I make it a point never to discuss matters I have no control over while I’m eating.’
‘A wise decision.’ Parish said, liberally covering his fish and chips with salt, pepper and vinegar.
Toadstone watched him. ‘What – no ketchup?’
‘I’m not a ketchup type of guy,’ he said, forking chips into a folded over slice of bread in his left hand.
‘Does Angie know you make those?’
‘Angie doesn’t even know I eat fish and chips, or drink beer. And don’t you go telling her either. It’ll be the end of life as we know it if she ever finds out.’
‘I can imagine.’
‘They’ve pushed Carrie’s case sideways into the pending pile.’
‘And how is that any of my concern?’
‘Carrie was our friend, Toadstone.’
‘I’m not disputing that, but the case belongs to the Murder Team at Epping.’
‘I’d just like you . . .’
‘Don’t you remember what the Chief Constable said the last time I helped you break the law.’
‘We solved the case, didn’t we?’
‘He said that I shouldn’t listen to you ever again under any circumstances.’
‘You don’t have to listen to me. I simply want you to review . . .’
‘I’ll lose my job.’
‘You’re such a drama queen, Toadstone. You need to man up. You know very well I’d never let that happen.’
‘You’d lose your job. We’d both be unemployed, out in the cold, wandering the parched wilderness like lepers, untouchables, outcasts. Do you know how many people are unemployed in Britain today?’
‘A stress-free life would do us both good. Listen, I want you to review the crime scene reports from the three murders. I need something, anything to hang an investigation on.’
‘Maybe there is nothing. Maybe French and Garnham have put it in the pending pile for a reason.’
‘There’ll be something, and if anyone can find it Toadstone, it’s you.’
‘Ah – flattery! I was wondering when you’d get to that. Not long ago, as I recall, you were wondering why Hoddesdon had a forensic department because we were so useless.’
‘Don’t you just love my sense of humour? You know very well that I have boundless respect for your unlimited abilities, that you’re one of the most important people on my team, that . . .’
‘You know they’ll find out, don’t you. As soon as I put in a request for the files, the Spanish Inquisition will arrive to take me down to the torture chamber –
I’ll tell them everything. You know I’m no good with pain.’
‘Well, that’s where you’re wrong.’ He reached down by his legs, pulled up a plastic bag and placed it on the table. ‘Already done. So, the risk of you losing your job is minimal to nonexistent.’
‘If the Chief finds out . . .’
‘Stop looking for excuses. Nobody’s going to find out. This is just between you and me. Just imagine how happy you’ll feel when we bring Carrie’s murderer to justice.’
‘I’d feel happier if you were asking somebody else to commit professional suicide.’
‘You’ll be head and shoulders above your peers. You’ll be the person who found the one clue that nobody else could find. You’ll . . .’
‘You must think I don’t know what you’re doing?’
‘Oh! And what’s that?’
‘So far, you’ve used six techniques in trying to persuade me to do what you want me to do.’
‘Only six? Are they working?’
‘No. Does Mary know you’re working the case?’
‘Not a thing, and don’t say anything to her either. If she finds out what I’m doing, she’ll want to come back and help me..’
‘How’s her secondment going?’
‘She’s been there all of four hours. How do you think it’s going? If you’re that curious why don’t you ring her? I’m sure she’ll be overjoyed to hear from you.’
‘I might just do that.’
‘So, I need you to come back to me by close of play tomorrow.’
‘You think I’ve got nothing else better to do?’
‘Yes, I do think that. If Richards and I are away, you’re probably lounging about in your laboratory playing with the chemical set Santa brought you for Christmas.’
‘I’m not familiar with that technique of persuasion.’
‘Mary will think . . .’
‘. . . That I’m a fool for helping you?’
‘You’d go up in her estimation for living life on the edge.’
The corner of his mouth creased up. ‘I still love Mary, of course, but she’s not for me. She wants someone . . .’ Toadstone shrugged.