by Tim Ellis
‘Somebody had to come prepared.’
‘I’m hardly prepared, am I?’
‘You’re the least prepared person I know in this room. So, are we going in, or do we stand out here like spare . . . ?’
‘I think we’ll go in, but seeing as you’ve got the torch I’ll let you go first.’
‘Very generous.’
Bronwyn pushed past her, found the light switch and flicked it on. ‘Right, let’s see what brought us both here.’
The lock-up was about twenty feet deep and fifteen feet wide, and resembled a hobby room with tables, wall boards, hard-back chairs, shelving and angle-poise lights.
Jerry closed the door.
Bronwyn stared at her.
‘We don’t want anyone surprising us,’ Jerry said.
‘Unless, of course, they’re already in here to surprise us.’
‘I hadn’t thought of that.’
‘Which proves my point.’ Bronwyn reached in her rucksack and pulled out a Glock pistol. ‘That’s why I brought this.’
‘God, is that a gun?’
‘You’re gonna go far in your legal career. It’s just something I picked up on my travels.’
‘I hope it’s not going to go off by mistake?’
‘Don’t worry, I know exactly how to use it.’
‘It smells funny,’ Jerry said.
Bronwyn sniffed. ‘Yeah, and not funny ha-ha, either.’
They moved further inside and began looking at what was in the lock-up.
‘Jesus!’ Bronwyn said.
‘What?’
‘Don’t touch anything. Have you got a pair of gloves?’
‘No. Why?’
Bronwyn took two pairs of plastic gloves out of her rucksack, and passed a pair to Jerry. ‘Here, put these on.’
‘Is there anything you don’t have in that bag?’
‘Not much. Look . . .’ she said, pointing to a map of Britain attached to a large cork board on the left-hand wall. There were coloured map pins with matching string connecting a location on the map to a photograph and a card with the details of a child at the side of the map. Pinned next to many of the photographs was a clear plastic envelope with a lock of hair inside. If it had been a school project it would have earned the student an A-star at the very least for its neatness and detail, but it wasn’t a school project – it was a lot more sinister than that.
‘I don’t understand,’ Jerry said.
‘If a photograph of one of your children and a lock of their hair was stuck up there, I’m sure you’d understand a lot quicker.’
‘My God! You don’t mean . . . ?’
‘Yes, I do mean exactly what you’re thinking. Your Mr Bertrand Birmingham was a serious fucking paedophile.’
Jerry counted the pins stuck in the map and connected to the photograph of a child. ‘There’s twenty-seven children here. No wonder Mrs Birmingham called him a monster.’
‘He was that, all right,’ Bronwyn said, leaning closer to read what was on one of the cards. ‘Listen to this:
John Gipson
Aged 8
47 Alexandra Road,
Colwyn Bay
May 17, 1982
7/10
‘Seven out of ten!’ Jerry said. ‘Seven out of ten for what?’
‘I don’t think we need to dwell too much on that.’
‘That’s evil.’
‘It is, isn’t it?’
Beneath the cork board there was a wooden table. Neatly stacked on the table were boxes of different coloured pins, balls of different coloured string, small plastic envelopes, square white cards, scissors, paper clips, pens and pencils . . . There was also seven photograph albums, and each album had a different coloured cover.
‘He liked to keep records, didn’t he?’ Bronwyn said, picking up the top photograph album. She opened it up, found pictures of boys and girls in sexual poses with old men and snapped it shut again.
‘What?’
‘Don’t ask.’
Jerry took out her phone. ‘I need to call Ray.’
Bronwyn closed her hand over Jerry’s. ‘We need to think about it before we do anything stupid.’
‘What’s to think about?’
‘Didn’t you promise the old lady you’d go back and talk to her before speaking to anyone else?’
‘Yes, but . . .’
‘Let’s look around some more before we make a decision. This has remained a secret for many years, a couple more hours won’t make any difference.’
‘Okay. I suppose it can’t hurt.’
They found an old television, a VHS video player/recorder connected to it and probably a hundred videotapes.
‘We’re not going to look at them, are we?’ Jerry said.
‘Not unless you want to, but I’d advise against it.’
‘I certainly do not.’
There was a rack of shelves on the wall opposite the door. The top two shelves were separated into small sections, and had items on them such as duct tape, rags, chloroform, a video camera, a normal camera, rolls of film, cotton bags, torches, batteries, condoms and a host of other useful knick-knacks. The lower shelves had large plastic boxes on them.
Bronwyn began looking in the boxes. ‘Children’s clothes,’ she said, holding up a green t-shirt and a pair of denim dungarees. ‘If the clothes are here, where are the children?’
‘Surely . . .’
‘Let’s not go there,’ Bronwyn said, shaking her head.
On the floor, in the left-hand corner, was a heavy-duty grey-coloured safe with a numbered dial on the front. It was two-feet tall, eighteen inches wide, and the same again in depth. They looked around, but there was no obvious combination number to be found.
‘I wonder what he kept in there?’ Jerry said.
Bronwyn didn’t seem to be interested in the safe anymore, her attention had returned to the shelving unit on the end wall. The far right-hand section appeared to be on a hinge and was held in place by a hook through a wall ring. She unhooked it, and swung the section towards her. It folded back onto the next section. ‘Never mind the safe,’ she said. ‘I’m wondering what’s behind the green door.‘
Standing next to her Jerry stared at the steel dark green painted door and said, ‘You’ll only find out if you open it.’
‘I don’t know what I’d do without you.’ Bronwyn tried pushing the handle down, but the door was locked and the handle wouldn’t move. ‘Pass me the key.’
Jerry took the key-ring out of her bag and passed it to her.
Bronwyn inserted the mortice key into the lock and tried turning it anti-clockwise, but it wouldn’t budge.
‘Try turning it the other way,’ Jerry said.
‘Such helpful advice. You should have your own TV show.’
‘I’ve often thought about it.’
‘This key is not the one that fits this door.’
‘I guess we’ll never find out what’s behind the green door then.’
The corner of Bronwyn’s mouth creased upwards. ‘You give up too easily.’
Chapter Seven
She completed a second quality assurance pass of DI Thorne Moore’s questionnaire relating to the series of rapes in Hertford, and took considerably longer studying each section than she should have done, but still found nothing of any import.
Next, she began inputting the data into ViCLAS, and once she’d done that she ran a dozen queries, which threw up links to two sexual assaults in Hoddesdon.
‘Do you think I should deal with this one?’ she asked Sally Prentice.
‘Why?’
‘I’ve found two similar rapes in Hoddesdon.’
‘Do you deal with rape cases?’
‘No – they go to Vice.’
‘Are you familiar with those particular cases?’
‘No.’
‘Do you know any of the detectives working in Vice?’
‘Not really. I mean, I’ve heard some of their names mentioned: DI Judy Driscoll, DC Aaron
Schwab and DC Paul Pilkington, and I might have passed one or two of them in a corridor in the station, but I don’t know them.’
Sally shrugged. ‘No conflict of interest that I can see then. Run with it. If it begins to look like there might be an issue, we’ll re-assign the case.’
‘Okay.’
The dates of the two rapes in Hoddesdon were prior to the five recorded in Hertford, which suggested that the rapists had begun their reign of terror in Hoddesdon and then moved further afield.
Other than the link, she found nothing else, so she sent the information to both DI Thorne Moore and DI Judy Driscoll with a suggestion that they might like to talk to one another.
It was five to five when she finished, and she decided not to pluck another file out of her intray. She knew that if she did, she’d want to stay to work on it.
‘Ready to go?’ Sally Prentice said.
‘Yes.’
‘Are you going into the town tonight?’
‘No. I’m not a going out type of person.’
She met some more people in the dining room. A man with a hairy mole on his top lip called Leslie Carr tried to get her to go out with him, but she declined. After the bland evening meal, she made her way back to her room. It had been a long day and she was tired. An early night beckoned, so she took a shower and brushed her teeth.
As she came out of the bathroom semi-naked with a towel wrapped around the top of her head, and another one around her breasts, her phone vibrated.
‘Mary Richards,’ she said, without first looking at the display to find out who it was.
‘That’s what you’re calling yourself these days, is it?’ Parish said. ‘What happened to the DC prefix?’
She laughed, glad to hear a friendly voice, and sat on the bed. ‘Are you missing me?’
‘More to the point – are you missing me?’
‘I feel as though I’ve been here for six months already.’
‘How’s it going?’
‘It’s interesting seeing what happens to the ViCLAS questionnaires once we send them off. I couldn’t be an analyst forever though, but I’m sure I’ll learn a lot during the three months they’re keeping me locked up here.’
‘You make it sound like a punishment.’
‘It is. I understand why I’m here, but I’ll be glad to get back there. Three months seems like a lifetime.’
‘It’ll soon pass. So, have you solved any cases yet?’
‘Funnily enough – the first one I did.’
‘They’ll promote you to senior analyst next week. The week after that you’ll be the head of the National Crime Agency.’
Laughing she said, ‘And I’ll deserve it as well.’
She heard a woman’s voice blaring through the phone: “This is the last call for Flight Number BA2984 to New York.”
‘What’s that? Where are you?’
‘Gatwick.’
‘GATWICK?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you going on holiday without me?’
‘No.’
‘NO! Are mum and the children with you?’
‘No.’
‘NO?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Why are you at Gatwick then? And why aren’t mum and the children with you?’
‘I’m going to Newcastle.’
‘NEWCASTLE?’
‘Will you stop doing that?’
‘Why are you going to . . . You’re investigating The Family Man murders, aren’t you?’
It went quiet at the other end.
‘Well . . . aren’t you?’
‘Somebody has to. Epping have moved Carrie’s murder to the “pending” pile.’
‘I’m coming back. I’m already getting dressed and packing my case.’
‘No, you’re not.’
‘You can’t stop me.’
‘I think you’ll find that I can. Assistant Chief Constable Erica Hewitt and I are old friends. I’ll call her and advise her that chaining you to your desk would be in her best interests.’
‘You don’t know her.’
‘She’s an old flame.’
‘Don’t talk rubbish. She’s a hundred and ninety-seven years old.’
‘I like old-aged pensioners. I married your mother, didn’t I?’
She gave a strangled laugh. ‘Ah! Wait ‘till I tell her what you said.’
‘And you’re more useful to me where you are, anyway.’
‘I’ll resign.’
‘And then you won’t be able to help me in any capacity.’
‘How come the Chief is letting you go to Newcastle?’
‘He doesn’t know. I’ve taken two weeks’ leave.’
‘They’ll find out. You’ll lose your job. They’ll give me a new partner.’
‘A new partner will be good for you.’
‘I don’t want a new partner.’
‘You want to make up your mind, Little Miss Troublemaker.’
‘You knew, didn’t you? You knew you were going to investigate Carrie’s murder as soon as I was out of the picture.’
‘Out of the picture? Are you watching the Crime Channel in Hampshire?’
‘Can you believe that they don’t have it here?’
‘No, I can’t believe that. You’ll get withdrawal symptoms.’
‘I know. Anyway, answer the question: You did it on purpose, didn’t you?’
‘Yes. If I’d told you what I was planning to do, you wouldn’t have gone on your secondment.’
‘That’s right. And I can still come back.’
‘As I’ve said, you’re more use to me there.’
‘In what way?’
‘Doc Riley has agreed to take a look at the three post mortem reports. Toadstone is reviewing the crime scene reports. You can take another look at the questionnaire French and Garnham from Epping sent to SCAS, and also interrogate ViCLAS again.’
‘I’m not allowed to do personal stuff. Did you hear about those two officers who’ve been suspended and are facing charges under the Data Protection Act?’
‘Just make sure you don’t get caught then.’
‘You’re not satisfied with losing your own job, you want to take everybody else down with you, don’t you?’
‘Another drama queen. Toadstone was just as bad.’
‘That’s because we want to keep our jobs.’
‘So do I. Stop panicking, no one will ever find out.’
‘They sound like famous last words.’
‘I’ve got to go. They’re calling the good-looking and intelligent people to the boarding gate.’
‘You’ll be last on the plane then.’
‘If I stay here talking to you – I will be.’
‘Why are you going to Newcastle anyway?’
‘I know you’re an analyst now, but cast your mind back to when you were a detective . . . it’s what detectives do on barely lukewarm cold cases – remember. They visit the crime scenes, interview witnesses, talk to investigating officers, rattle cages and turn over stones to make sure no one missed anything the first time around. We’re also attacking it from a different perspective. Newcastle was where he murdered his first family, and the investigation was approached from that perspective, but he’s murdered three families now, and we need to re-examine what went before with that in mind.’
‘Is the game afoot?’
He grunted. ‘Yes Richards, the game’s afoot.’
The line went dead.
***
Yes, the game was afoot. Although, families being murdered by a psychopath was hardly a game.
He passed the pretty flight attendant his boarding pass and smiled like a regular passenger.
‘Seat number 27B,’ she said. ‘Down on the left.’
He smiled a “thank you”, and thought, I can read.
It was a middle seat. There was a Newcastle United supporter and a half wearing a team shirt sitting in the seat next to the window. Parish had no doubt that the name on the back of the sh
irt would be SHEARER, and he wondered how they were ever going to get the man out of the seat.
‘Way aye man.’
‘Hello.’
‘Which team?’
‘Chelsea mainly.’
‘Aye! They’re top o’ league all right, but we’re coming up behind ‘em at a rate o’ knots.’
‘They’re certainly putting a run of games together.’
The man snorted. ‘You a Pardew fan?’
‘He seems to have got it right at the moment.’
‘Aye! For the moment. We’ll see,’ he mused, staring out of the window. ‘We’ll see.’
In the aisle seat was an old woman with a pair of knitting needles and a huge ball of wool on her lap.
‘Do you knit?’ she enquired.
‘I’m sorry – no.’
‘You don’t know what you’re missing, young man. My mother had me knitting as soon as I was knee-high to a grasshopper and could hold a pair of knitting needles – been doing it ever since. Fully-fledged member of the Knitting Circle, and I have my own blog called ‘Stitch ‘N Bitch’. What do you do then? No, don’t tell me – let me guess . . . Insurance?’
‘No.’
‘Mmmm! Food safety?’
‘No.’
‘Women’s fashion?’
‘No. I think I’d better tell you.’
‘Go on then.’
‘I’m a police inspector, I investigate murders in Essex.’
‘Well I never. Any famous ones?’
He didn’t want to get into a conversation about all the murders he and Richards had solved, so he said, ‘Not really.’
‘Has there been a murder in Newcastle?’
Nor did he want to talk about Mottram. ‘An old one.’
‘Oh well! I suppose I’d better get my knitting out. I’m going to visit my sister. How she ended up in the north-east is beyond me – we’re both from Brighton.’
Eventually, the Newcastle supporter who went by the name of “Edders”, which apparently was short for Edgar, but also oozed football and violence; and Mrs Nancy Jardine – click-clacking her needles – settled down, and he was left alone with his thoughts.
The flight time was an hour and a half. Once they’d taken off and were cruising at 30,000-feet, he closed his eyes and ran through what he planned to do.