Deceit is in the Heart (P&R15)

by Tim Ellis

  ‘Exactly! You don’t know what she wants, and neither does she. What you have to do is make her want you.’

  ‘And how do I do that?’

  ‘You think I’m going to pimp for my daughter?’

  ‘I’ve tried everything, Sir.’

  ‘Think about it. She loves your wit and intelligence. You’re her friend, her hero, her rock in stormy seas. Besides me, who would she call if she was in trouble?’

  ‘Her mum? The Chief? Jerry?’

  ‘You.’

  ‘I might be all of those things, but I’m not boyfriend material, am I?’

  ‘Do you know what she said when you stole the Loveday case from her?’

  ‘She hated me for doing that, didn’t she?’

  ‘Her exact words were: “I think I love him.”’

  Toadstone arched his eyebrows. ‘Really?’

  ‘Really. She couldn’t believe you’d done something so manly.’

  ‘Manly?’

  ‘Yes. That’s the piece of the puzzle that’s missing – manliness. You’re a wimp, Toadstone.’

  ‘A wimp?’

  ‘Someone with your intelligence should be able to crack the code.’

  ‘Code?’

  ‘Of Mary Richards’ heart. In her eyes, you have to become a man instead of a wimp.’

  Toadstone smiled and his eyes lit up. ‘I see.’

  ‘But first . . . find me a clue, Toadstone.’

  Chapter Five

  Stick formally arrested Herb Flack when they were all gathered in the car park at Rye House train station, and read him his rights. Constable Andrew Shelton handcuffed Flack and took him and his solicitor back to the station. The other uniformed officer – Constable Georgina Troy – had been left guarding the corpse.

  ‘My car doesn’t look any different,’ Stick said once they were on their own.

  ‘No bucket, sponge or water.’

  He held out his hand. ‘I’ll have my twenty-five pounds back then, please.’

  ‘You won’t believe how expensive things are in that cafe. Not only that, Struthers didn’t have any money on her. Can you believe that? She must be earning twice what we’re on, and she comes out without her purse. She was really convincing with her sob story though, so out of the kindness of my heart I bought her lunch.’

  ‘I’ll have to settle for the change then.’

  ‘Change? You think there was any change from two lunches and a ten percent tip? There was no change, Stickleback. I nearly had to ask for credit.’

  ‘So you’ve had lunch?’

  ‘Yes, thanks.’

  ‘I’ll go and grab some lunch while you wait here for forensics and the pathologist.’

  ‘You have some strange ideas if you think a DI is going to loiter in a railway station car park while a DS is sitting in the cafe having lunch?’

  ‘Well . . .’

  ‘The answer you’re looking for is: “No, Ma’am. Come in the cafe with me and I’ll buy you a cup of coffee and a cake.’

  ‘A cake?’

  ‘You think I had any money for dessert from the measly twenty-five pounds you gave me? You’re beginning to sound like Uncle Scrooge and we’re nowhere near Christmas yet.’ She pushed him towards the station. ‘Get a move on, or we won’t have time to order the food never mind eat it.’

  Doc Paine arrived just as they were sitting down to eat.

  ‘I thought you two might be in here,’ she said as she made her way to the counter.

  ‘Don’t you have a corpse to examine for lunch?’ Xena said.

  ‘How long has the body been there?’

  Stick said, ‘About four months we think, Doc.’

  ‘Then a few more minutes while I quench my thirst won’t make much difference, will it?’

  ‘Did you see a white truck out there?’ Xena asked her.

  ‘No, your favourite forensic officer hasn’t arrived yet. So, tell me what you know about this body you say you’ve found.’

  ‘Do you want me to tell her?’ Stick said to Xena between mouthfuls of a salmagundi of Cornish pasty, salad and coleslaw. ‘Or will you?’

  ‘I’ll tell her, otherwise we’ll be subjected to a splatter of goo as you talk and eat at the same time. And besides that, you eat like a pig at the trough.’ She wiped cream from the cake she’d been eating off her nose and mouth with a napkin. ‘Man came into the station . . .’

  ‘A joke! I love gallows humour.’

  ‘No, it’s not a joke. The man confessed to murdering a woman four months ago. He brought us here. We found the body. She has no head. We arrested the man. That’s about it.’

  ‘Except . . .’ Stick said.

  They both stared at him.

  ‘I found the body.’

  ‘And the DI, due to her delicate condition, stayed in the car park directing operations.’

  Doc Paine took a swallow of her orange juice. ‘I heard you’d gone back into hospital. You’re okay now then?’

  ‘I’ll survive.’

  ‘Well, I’d better get on,’ Doc Paine said.

  Stick finished off his meal and stood up. ‘I’ll show you the way, Doc.’

  Xena also pushed herself up. ‘And I suppose I’d better come and take a look as well.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Stick said, looking her up and down.

  ‘You think I can’t do my job?’

  ‘I never would.’

  ‘Then lead the way, numpty.’

  Stick led, followed by Doc Paine and her sallow-faced assistant. Xena brought up the rear.

  As they donned the white forensic paper suits, plastic overboots, gloves and masks, they could hear the arrival of the 1204 from Broxbourne on its way to Hertford East, and the departure of the 1205 to London Liverpool Street via Tottenham Hale.

  The headless corpse had been concealed in undergrowth and presented itself as a mixture of black and blue. The skin over the right clavicle and upper thoracic ribs had been eaten away by animals, and the midday sun ricocheted off the protruding white bones. The chest and abdomen were moving in an undulating fashion due to the mass of maggots eating the cadaver from the inside out.

  ‘This heat doesn’t help,’ Doc Pain said leaning forwards. ‘I’d say four months was about right, but the entomologist will have the last word on that.’ She took out her digital recorder. ‘The body belongs to a young woman, somewhere between twenty and thirty years old . . .’ She looked up at Xena. ‘No idea who she is?’

  Xena and Stick shook their heads.

  ‘She’s wearing the remnants of a pink lace-edged nightdress . . .’ She reached out and turned the hem of the nightdress over. ‘This should help us get closer to a time of death. The nightdress was purchased from Primark.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ Xena said. ‘They usually sell nightdresses like that all year round.’

  ‘You seem to have an intimate knowledge of Primark nightdresses,’ Doc Paine observed.

  ‘Work-related research.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘What’s that underneath her?’ Stick said, pointing to something brown protruding from beneath the corpses’ lower back.

  Doc Paine looked more closely. ‘Ah, a brown plastic sheet. She might very well have been wrapped in it when she was brought here. Well spotted, Sergeant.’

  ‘Cause of death?’ Xena asked.

  ‘Without the head . . .’ she shrugged.

  ‘Flack the Confessor said he stabbed her in the heart.’

  Doc Paine examined the woman’s chest. ‘No, no knife wound here. I’m not going to turn her over, because I think the body will collapse, but I doubt very much whether she was stabbed in the heart through the back.’

  ‘What about the neck wound?’

  ‘The marks suggest an axe, possibly two or three blows. Here, see this indentation . . .’ She pointed to a deep narrow wound that was rounded at one end, but tapered at the other. ‘It looks like the killer didn’t hit the same place with the second blow. If I was arm-wrestled for a cause of
death, I’d have to say decapitation. Of course, I’ll know more once the post mortem is complete.’

  ‘I see you started without me,’ Di Heffernan said as she arrived with her team of people.

  ‘That’s because you weren’t here,’ Xena countered.

  ‘Oh, you’re back.’

  ‘Oh, you’re still being employed under false pretences.’

  ‘Always a pleasure, DI Blake.’

  Doc Paine interrupted. ‘We’re missing a head.’

  Di gave Xena the usual look of death. ‘I’ll coordinate the search teams.’

  ‘I wish you wouldn’t,’ Stick said to Xena after Di had moved away to talk to her people.

  ‘She started it.’

  ‘You started it, as you always do.’

  ‘What happened to: “I’ve got your back.” That didn’t sound very encouraging from someone who’s got my back.’

  ‘When you’re in the right.’

  ‘Oh, I didn’t realise there were conditions concerning right and wrong attached to your offer of protecting me from my enemies. Who made you judge and jury?’

  ‘If I may?’ Doc Paine said. ‘There’s not much more I can tell you until after the post mortem. I’ll try and get to the PM today, but it’s more likely, by the time we’ve separated the maggots from their dinner, that it’ll be in the morning. I’ll give you a call about this time tomorrow.’

  ‘Thanks, Doc,’ Stick said. He turned to Xena. ‘Do you want a piggyback up the bank?’

  She gave a laugh. ‘You’re a pervert.’

  ***

  In the dark and distant past – before 1965 anyway – Snaresbrook used to be part of Essex, but now it was in London with a small part in Waltham Forest. It was also only ten minutes from Woodford Green along Chigwell Road, and 20 Station Approach happened to be a lock-up under a railway arch.

  The Victorian railway station at Snaresbrook had a mainline station until 1970, but now it was just a tube station on the Central Line.

  British Rail had sold off the arches beneath their disused railway bridges, and after developers had converted them into lock-ups, estate agents had sold them on for a significant profit. Bertrand Paul Birmingham had purchased 20 Station Approach in December of 1970.

  Jerry decided not to go right in, but to have lunch first and give the expedition some thought.

  There was a bakery with a few tables and chairs reserved for customers. She ordered a pot of tea and a honey wheat roll with grape tomatoes and basil leaves.

  Why had Margaret Birmingham called her husband a “monster”? Why had she killed him? What would she find in the lock-up? Why had the old woman waited until now to let somebody into the lock-up? What did she mean “not like my children”? Why were her children different?

  Should she go in there alone? Or, should she call Ray? After what she’d been through with Israel Voss, she was terrified that she no longer knew the difference between good and evil. Except for Mrs Birmingham, nobody else knew where she was.

  She called Bronwyn.

  ‘Mmmm?’

  Had she called the right number? ‘Bronwyn?’

  ‘Is that the person you called?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then this is she.’

  ‘Are you busy?’

  ‘A leading question.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Another leading question. If you’re planning on becoming a barrister you’ll need to do better than that.’

  Jerry smiled. ‘I’m back at work.’

  ‘I’m pleased for you.’

  ‘And I’m about to go into a client’s lock-up on my own.’

  ‘Uh huh! I thought so.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’ve just moved up to number one on my crazy list. You’re meant to learn from past mistakes.’

  ‘That’s why I’m calling you.’

  ‘What – to tell me you’re crazy? You needn’t have bothered. I already knew.’

  ‘To ask you to come in with me.’

  She heard laughter and then coughing.

  ‘You think I’m crazy as well?’

  ‘Aren’t you?’ She told Bronwyn what Mrs Birmingham had said about her children, and about killing her husband the “monster”.

  ‘I’m here, and you’re there. Where is there?’

  ‘Snaresbrook railway station.’

  ‘I can think of better places to spend a summer afternoon.’

  ‘How long will it take you to get here?’

  ‘Who says I’m coming?’

  ‘Curiosity.’

  ‘That curiosity should keep her big mouth shut.’

  ‘I’ll wait for you outside the station.’

  ‘It’ll take me about an hour.’

  ***

  After lunch she entered the contents of the questionnaire into the ViCLAS software, finished off her analysis of the case by inputting a number of structured queries in the hope of discovering links to other cases and/or revealing the identity of the killer, which came back with: NO MATCHES. She then wrote her report for DS Estler.

  The next file she picked up was four inches thick and involved a serial rapist in Hertford – a hop, skip and a jump over the A10 from Hoddesdon.

  There had been five female victims in the past four months who had come forward to report their ordeal. She spread the before-and-after photographs of the women in a semi-circle on the table in front of her. It was difficult to match the “after” pictures up with those taken “before” their lives had been destroyed. The horrific injuries made the women unrecognisable.

  She began her analysis and note-taking:

  Physical traits: The victim profile was not based on age, looks or physical endowment. The youngest was thirteen, the eldest fifty-seven. Three could be considered pretty, two less so. One was morbidly obese, three were average, and one suffered from bulimia and was a bag of skin hanging on a skeleton;

  Marital Status: Nor was it based on marital status. Two were married with children, one was divorced, and two were single;

  Hobbies: Between the five victims they had a range of hobbies, but none of those hobbies had intersected beyond the confines of the family home;

  Online: Four of the women were online, one of them wasn’t. One was heavily involved in Dungeons and Dragons as a Dragon Mistress called Alana the Merciful, the thirteen year-old was being groomed on a chat site, but that was being investigated separately, and the other two were more concerned with shopping and surfing;

  Medical history: Nothing unusual;

  Criminal justice system history: One had juvenile convictions for shoplifting and drugs; two had driving offences, and two had no criminal history;

  Last known activities – timeline of events: The timeline of events was interesting because all the victims had been on their way home at night in the dark. None of them had a car. Two of them had caught the bus, three of them had been walking from the town to their home. One had been to the local pub, one to a cinema, one late-night shopping, one returning from a friend’s house, and one on the late shift;

  Map of travel prior to offence: The attacks all took place at different locations in and around Hertford. They all occurred late at night between ten and two in the morning, and were in out-of-the way places;

  Drug and alcohol history: One of the victims was drunk when she was attacked. Otherwise, nothing unusual;

  Friends and enemies: A circle of friends for each victim was identified. Three people who were known to more than one of the victims were investigated, but all three had alibis;

  Family background: Family backgrounds were thoroughly investigated, but no obvious overlaps were discovered;

  Employment history: The thirteen year-old was still at school, one was a receptionist at a dental practice, one was a solicitor, one was a shop worker, and one was unemployed. No intersections were found.

  Next, she looked at the other aspects of the crime:

  The offender (if known): Reports of the attacker(s) were confu
sing. Three of the victims reported multiple attackers, two had no recollection of their attacker(s). One description suggested that an attacker might be small and thickset, while another was tall and thin;

  The modus operandi (MO): The women were set upon in the dark and beaten unconscious. Two were attacked from the front, two from behind, one had no memory of the attack;

  Behavioural data: The attacks occurred on different days of the week: Friday, Sunday, Tuesday, Monday and Thursday. The intervals between the attacks showed no obvious pattern: Victim selection appeared to be based on location, time of day and the fact that the victims were walking home alone;

  Forensic data: Injuries to the vagina and anus of each victim suggested that there was more than one attacker. No semen, hair, fibres or DNA were found, but there was evidence of condom lubricants.

  Besides each victim walking home alone late at night, the only common factor between the rapes was their randomness. It seemed clear that there was more than one attacker – possibly between two and four. It occurred to her how they were like animal predators hunting their prey as part of a pack, but this wasn’t the Serengeti in Africa – it was Hertford in England.

  The attackers would choose a location and wait in the shadows for a victim to come along, fall upon the woman from the front and rear, beat her senseless so she couldn’t scream or call for help, take turns raping her while she was unconscious and then leave her where she lay like a carcass. It was premeditated, inhuman and brutal. They had a modus operandi that worked, and it was proving next to impossible to identify the perpetrators, or predict where or when they might strike next.

  The ViCLAS questionnaire had been completed thoroughly by a DI Thorne Moore. On her first quality assurance pass Richards had no observations or questions. DI Moore was obviously an experienced detective.

  ‘How’s it going?’ Sally Prentice asked.

  ‘Not so good.’

  ‘Don’t become disheartened. Apart from it now being mandatory to send us a completed ViCLAS questionnaire as part of the protocol for serious crimes, some of these questionnaires would have found their way here anyway. We’re the last chance saloon. The detectives have hit a brick wall and are hoping we can shine a light in the darkness. You struck lucky on that last case, but don’t think they’re all like that – they’re not. You go through the questionnaire and realise that the detectives have done everything humanly possible to find the perpetrator. In most cases, they’ve gone above and beyond. They live and breathe the case until they solve it. I’m sure you’ve been in that situation – where all leads are exhausted, every clue is a red herring, there’s a wealth of forensic evidence but nothing to match it to . . . ?’