by Tim Ellis
‘Lots of times.’
‘You know the Senior Investigating Officer (SIO) is desperate when they make a televised appeal for public assistance; they ask the relatives to offer up an impassioned plea for the perpetrator to do the right thing and hand himself in; they organise a reconstruction of the victim’s last moments. Initially, there are a flood of telephone calls, but again the leads peter out and hope soon fades to nothing. The days, weeks and months pass by until they become clinically depressed. Eventually, they have no choice but to shift the file from the “Active” pile to the “Pending” pile’ and move on with their lives. Don’t think it’s any different here. We’re simply a fresh pair of eyes, a new brain that analyses things differently. Sometimes, we see something that they haven’t seen – as you did on the last case – but mostly, we can’t help them. Have you input the information into ViCLAS yet?’
‘No, not yet. I still have to do a second quality assurance pass.’
‘Maybe a light will appear, but probably not. We have one advantage over those clinically depressed detectives – once we’ve input the information contained on the questionnaire into ViCLAS and sent the negative feedback to them, we can forget about the case and move onto the next one.’
‘I suppose there is that. You get to read all the details of the worst crimes in Britain here, but you don’t have to live with each case. You try to help, but if you can’t, you move on to the next case.’
‘Exactly.’
‘Maybe analysts should be seconded to Murder Teams.’
The corner of Sally’s mouth creased upwards in a V-shape. ‘You’re getting defensive, Mary.’
‘I’ve never had an unsolved case.’
‘None of these cases are yours, so you still haven’t.’
‘They feel like my cases.’
‘You have to learn to distance yourself. You’re simply the human interface between the detective and ViCLAS – nothing more.’
‘I’ll try.’
Chapter Six
He decided to take Digby out for his afternoon stroll early. Walking the dog helped him think.
As a consequence, Digby became confused. Digby was a dog of habit. He knew very well what time he was expected to go out and mark his territory by spray-painting the lampposts, hedges and telephone boxes yellow, and it wasn’t that time – not by any stretch of his chinny-chin-chin. It was the time for afternoon snoozing, which was the complete opposite of afternoon walking.
The tail-wagging was half-hearted, the barking with excitement muted, and although Digby followed him out of the house like any good dog would, it was clear that it would take him a while to acclimatise himself to this time of the day and generate the usual enthusiasm associated with walkies.
‘Don’t worry, old boy. I’m not changing your regular schedule. Tomorrow it’ll be back to normal. Think of today as a bonus.’
It wasn’t the first time somebody had stolen a dead child’s name. In 1982 a man assumed the identity of a boy who had died in 1963. He wasn’t caught until 2005, and was then sentenced to a twenty-four month jail term for making an untrue statement for the purpose of obtaining a passport. Also, the police use of dead children’s identities for undercover officers was common practice in the 1980s.
Who was Grant Mottram before? Was there any way of finding out? Every crime scene had been bleached clean. Why? Was that his weakness? Was his DNA and/or fingerprints on the system?
He phoned Toadstone.
‘I haven’t even looked at the files yet.’
‘That’s not why I called.’
‘I have other work to do, you know.’
‘You couldn’t tell a lie if your life depended on it. Listen, I’m wondering if Mottram’s identity documents were forged, or if he actually sent away for a birth certificate, diving licence and passport.’
‘Okay.’
‘I’m giving you a peek into how my mind functions now, Toadstone, so pay attention and you might learn something. At every crime scene he scrubbed the place clean with bleach. Forensics found no DNA or fingerprint evidence. Why do you think that was?’
‘He’s on one of our databases . . . and you’re thinking that we might be able to lift his DNA or a fingerprint from the original application forms and obtain a match?’
‘You’re not just a pretty face after all. So, I want you to contact the Driver & Vehicle Licensing Agency (DVLA), the Passport Office and the General Records Office (GRO) to find out if they received an application form for any or all of those documents from Martin Rollins, Lewis Jones or Grant Mottram.’
‘It’ll take a week or more . . .’
‘. . . If they did, make sure you tell them that no one is to touch the application forms again, but to wait for you to arrive . . .’
‘Me? What am I going to tell . . . ?’
‘You’ll think of something. And if I’m not mistaken the GRO is part of the Passport Office, so two of the three are in London, which will take you a couple of hours there and back tomorrow morning.’
‘And what about the DVLA – they’re in Swansea?’
‘I hear Wales is lovely at this time of year.’
‘You won’t be happy until I’m living in the sewers like those tunnel people in America, will you?’
‘That’s what real men do sometimes, Toadstone. Call me when you’ve got something – I’ll be in Newcastle.’
‘Newcastle!’
He ended the call, and phoned Angie.
‘You want to take me away from all this, don’t you?’
‘I do.’
‘Just tell me where and when.’
‘I will, but first I have to go to Newcastle.’
‘Newcastle!’
‘Toadstone said exactly the same thing.’
‘I’m hardly surprised. Why are you . . . ?’
‘You don’t want to know.’
‘It wasn’t your fault, Jed.’
‘And yet, if I’d done my job properly a mother and her two children would still be alive.’
‘You can’t say that. It’s easy in hindsight to think that way, but it’s not true. You would have done exactly what you did every time. No one could have predicted what happened.’
‘I could have done if I’d have done that background check properly. Anyway, I’m off to Newcastle to investigate the first murder.’
‘Will you be back tonight?’
‘I don’t think so. I’m out walking Digby at the moment, but I’m thinking of flying up there.’
‘Flying up there!’
‘Will you stop repeating everything I say? I expect it’s a good five-hour drive, and that’s until you factor in road works, rush hour and crazy people. If I fly, it’ll take me about an hour to reach Gatwick, and another hour on the plane. I’ll hire a car, find a motel near the crime scene and get an early night. Then tomorrow, I’ll begin early in the morning, fly back in the afternoon and be cooking the dinner by the time you come home from work.’
‘I don’t think you cooking the dinner is a good idea. I’ll miss you.’
‘I’ll miss you too, but I have to do this, Angie.’
‘I know. And be careful in Newcastle.’
‘Why?’
‘They have all those Geordie people up there.’
‘Of course they do. I’ll phone you later just to check in.’
‘Okay.’
The call ended.
While he’d been talking to Angie, he remembered that he’d promised Doc Riley lunch in a proper restaurant tomorrow. He called her.
‘I’ve booked . . .’ she began.
‘I have to go to Newcastle.’
‘Don’t say that.’
‘Sorry. What about Friday?’
‘If you stand me up again . . .’
‘I won’t. Definitely Friday.’
‘I suppose you still want me to tell you about my review of the PM reports tomorrow though, don’t you?’
‘You’re the best forensic pathologist in the whole
world, Doc.’
‘The most gullible, you mean. I’ll call you tomorrow.’
‘Thanks, Doc.’
He ended the call and waved at Mrs Moffatt walking her five Daschunds on the opposite side of the road.
Digby growled at them.
‘That’s not very nice, Digby,’ he said. ‘They’re smaller than you.’
So, that was it. He was off to Newcastle. He probably needed to go to Grimsby as well, but he was sure he could do a round trip in a day to Grimsby. It was still a fair old drive though, but definitely not as far as Newcastle, which bordered the wastelands of Scotland. He’d talk to the lead detective if they were available, visit the crime scene and chat with the neighbours. Somebody might remember something that hadn’t already been mentioned. All he needed was a sliver of light to appear in the darkness.
‘Right Digby, time to go. Time’s moving on, and I have to get to Newcastle.’
***
In accordance with the relevant designated powers under the Police Reform Act 2002, Herbert Flack had been photographed, fingerprinted using Livescan, DNA samples taken and warned that such said samples would be the subject of speculative searches against existing records. Also, under the Police and Evidence Act (PACE) 1984, the Custody Officer – Sergeant Peter Marples – had booked him in, informed him of his rights, and relieved him of his tie, belt and shoe laces.
Now, Herbert Flack was sitting in Interview Room 3 opposite Stick, and his solicitor – Shannon Struthers – was sitting opposite Xena. Constable Judith Arnopp was on guard at the door just in case Flack turned violent, or tried to escape.
The audio and visual digital recording system had been activated, which interfaced with the Custody Suite software and allowed demographic data entered by the Custody Officer to be sent to the recorder and integrated within the recorded interview. The recorder also added an ID, location, and interview start and stop times. The interview was then also uploaded to a network server and DVD copies produced.
Flack’s car had been impounded, and a forensic team had been despatched to his house.
‘Mr Flack,’ Stick began. ‘Can we go back four months to April of this year?’
‘Sure.’
‘Do you recall the exact date you killed the woman?’
‘No. As I said before, it was about four months ago. That’s all I remember.’
‘Was it day or night?’
‘After midnight I think.’
‘Close your eyes.’
Flack did as Stick asked him.
‘It’s dark. Do you see the woman?’
‘Yes.’
‘In your mind’s eye look around. Where are you?’
‘I’m in an alleyway in Rye. There are houses on both sides that back onto the alley, and there are wooden gates leading to the rear garden of each house.’
‘Look down, what do you see?’
‘My feet.’
‘What type of surface are you standing on?’
‘Cobblestones.’
‘Is there anything unusual about where you are?’
‘No.’
‘Is the woman standing still, or walking?’
‘She’s walking.’
‘Towards or away from you?’
‘Towards me.’
‘What is she wearing?’
‘A low-cut top that shows most of her chest, a short denim skirt with black fishnet stockings and red high heels.’
‘Can you describe what she looks like?’
Flack licked his lips and wiped the palms of his hands on the thighs of his trousers. ‘She has dark wavy brown hair to her shoulders, bright red lipstick and nail varnish, lots of mascara and blue eye-shadow. She looks thin and gaunt, and she’s smoking a cigarette.’
‘Why is she out so late at night?’
‘I know why she’s out at this time of night.’
‘Does she speak to you?’
‘Oh yeah, she fucking speaks to me all right.’
Stick glanced at Xena.
She shrugged and screwed up her face.
‘What does she say?’
‘Hey Mister, twenty-five pounds for a blow-job.’
‘And what do you say in reply?’
‘I don’t say anything. My tongue is swollen I can’t seem to speak. I have an erection, and I can feel the handle of the knife in my hand.’
‘What do you do next?’
‘She unzips me and puts me in her mouth . . . oh, it’s so good. She has the mouth of an angel.’ Flack grips the table and begins slowly thrusting his hips backwards and forwards. ‘Oh God, I think . . .’ He shudders in front of them.
‘Mr Flack.’
‘Yes?’
‘What happens next?’
‘I put myself away. She stands up. She’s wiping her mouth with a tissue. I know she wants her money. I have the money in my wallet, but I’m not going to fucking pay her. I pull out the knife and I stab her.’
‘In the heart?’
‘Yes – in the heart.’ Tears begins to streak down his face. ‘And I keep stabbing the disgusting fucking whore. Did you see what she made me do? Women shouldn’t do things like that. I feel sick to my stomach. I stab her, and stab her, and stab her. My arm begins to ache. The knife goes into her filthy body so easily – right up to the hilt. Oh God! There’s blood everywhere. I hadn’t noticed before, but it’s raining. The water is washing the blood into the ground between the cobbles. I watch as the alley turns blood red . . .’
‘What do you do with the woman?’
‘I leave her lying there and quickly walk away.’
Xena’s phone vibrated.
‘Interview suspended at twenty-three minutes past three,’ Stick said for the benefit of the tape, and switched the recorder off. He turned to Constable Arnopp. ‘Can you take Mr Flack back to his cell please, Constable?’
She nodded and escorted Flack from the room.
‘DI Blake,’ Xena said into the phone.
‘It’s forensic officer Wendy Steele, Ma’am.’
‘And?’
‘I’m at Mr Flack’s house.’
‘Are you going to get to the point, Steele?’
‘Sorry, Ma’am. Herbert Flack has mental health problems.’
‘I think we were gradually coming to that conclusion.’
‘His mother is here. She says he has bipolar disorder and he hasn’t taken his medication for two days.’
‘Thanks, Steele.’
‘Do you want us to carry on with a forensic analysis of the house, Ma’am?’
‘No. It appears that my DS has got everything wrong again. Go back to your day job. Is his mother able to come to the station?’
‘Just a minute . . . Yes, Ma’am.’
‘There’s a squad car there, isn’t there?’
‘Yes.’
‘Ask them to convey Mrs Flack back here.’
‘Will do, Ma’am.’
She ended the call. ‘You’re a numpty,’ she said to Stick. ‘Didn’t I tell you he wasn’t the killer?’
‘Of course you did.’
She glanced at Struthers. ‘Seems your client is a nut-job, Miss Struthers. We won’t be pursuing any further lines of enquiry concerning Mr Flack. If I were you, I’d take the rest of the day off.’
‘You’re going to release him?’
‘Didn’t I just say that? His mother’s on her way here with his medication, and he’ll be back to normal and free to go.’
‘You’re not going to charge him with wasting police time?’
‘What would be the point?’ She glared at Stick. ‘Some people regularly waste police time with impunity.’
***
The railway arches were approximately fifteen feet high at the centre point. In 1970, developers had bricked them up, fitted a steel roller-door in the middle for access by vehicles, with a small swing-door for walk-in access, run in electricity cables from the local sub-station and sold the arches on as lock-ups for a massive profit.
In ot
her places, railway arches had been converted into boxing clubs, restaurants, nightclubs, shops . . . there seemed to be no end to the innovative uses that they could be put to. In Snaresbrook the arches were used as garages, for storage and graffiti.
‘Hey, there’s some neat artwork on those walls,’ Bronwyn said.
‘Do you think any of them are by Banksy?’
Bronwyn laughed. ‘I know Banksy is a man of the people, a hero to the working class, political activist, social commentator . . .’
Jerry glanced at her.
‘. . . Anyway, he’s hardly likely to be seen dead with a stencil in his hand in Snaresbrook, is he?’
Jerry looked around at the drab surroundings. ‘I suppose not.’
‘Well, are you going to open the door, or not?’
She ripped the envelope across one end, and a key-ring with three keys on it slid out into the palm of her hand. Two of the keys were for cylinder locks and the third key fitted a mortice lock. One of the two cylinder keys had “Union” stamped on it, so it wasn’t difficult to determine which key fitted the Union cylinder lock in the pedestrian swing-door. She inserted the key and turned it anti-clockwise.
The door swung inwards.
It was pitch black inside.
They looked at each other.
Jerry stepped over the steel bar at the bottom of the roller-door and went inside. ‘I hope there’s a light,’ she whispered.
‘In the absence of any light,’ Bronwyn said. ‘I’ll use my torch.’
‘You’ve brought a torch?’